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"Low relative wing load means slow flight, right? But the higher aspect ratio is balanced differently. I've got no metacarpal ratio to measure either. I've got antenna. Your zoology papers don't mention anything about that, but I think I could definitely fly that far," Akira decides. His fangs click together decisively.
Ryo stares his mouth, watching his tongue swipe over his lips and poke between his teeth. The edges scissor together like bone shears; he touches an old bruise on his collarbone, fading under blue charmeuse. They cut like one, too, upon request.
"I think you could," he supplies idly, tracing sigil patterns and numbers across the wrinkles in Akira's shirt.
"We should do it. I'll carry you," He sweeps a hand down Ryo's thigh and draws him closer, noses brushing, nuzzling on instinct, "and I'll show you the whole Nansei archipelago."
Ryo loops an arm around him, lounging in his lap and using his weight to press him back against the headboard. "Akira."
"I'm pretty sure I can lift ten times my body weight with the camber of my wings. Not that it would be hard. You're lightweight, anyway."
He's darling, but Ryo puts a finger to his lips. "Later," he says. Twirling a lock of hair around two fingers, he mumbles against the shell of his ear, and Akira nods, parting with a kiss.
When he returns Ryo waits on the edge of the bed, naked from the waist down. He uncrosses his legs and motions Akira forward.
Moonlight diffuses their room, window ajar and drawing in the winter's plum blossoms. Or perhaps it's one of Ryo's many perfumes scattered across the vanity, where his rose weathers the test of time despite cracked glass. Trinkets litter their shelves and Akira's ancient wardrobe, brought from Okinawa to the Makimura's to their shared home. Copper wires and driftwood carvings, sea shells and shotgun casings, tapes and trash, novelty mugs and picture frames.
Between them it's Ryo who insists they organize, but it's his books and stacks of yellowed research overflowing from the desk that Akira trips over. He catches himself gracefully enough — but wavers, expecting a tail to correct his balance, and ducks his head sheepishly. Ryo tugs him to the bedside by his towel, amused but heady with focus.
He kneels and rests his chin on Ryo's knee. His damp hair tickles and Ryo pets it back, swooping through in broad combs and scratching his scalp. He's taken to Ryo's soap but his hair is thick and luxurious with rice seed, earthy too with musk and dry geranium. "Showering clear your head?"
"A little," Akira hums, kisses once, twice, rubbing circles beneath the bow of his knee, meeting the weight of his stare.
His breath stirs the sensitive nerves of his thigh, ice cold against heat flushed skin. Ryo savors the sight, tracing the handsome bridge of his nose and over his eyelids until they flutter shut.
"Let's clear it all the way, then." He taps his face lightly, commands, "On the bed." It squeaks beneath their joint weight.
Akira gasps when Ryo twists, grabbing his hips to shove him down and laughing. Grunting, he kicks Ryo down with him; they wrestle playfully, fighting to pin one another, knocking foreheads and tangling arms and bracketing hips. There's a disadvantage with his shirt at first, Akira grasping the collar for leverage, but it slips without claws to catch and Ryo digs his heel in and rolls, pinning him with his knees. Less jutting hip bone and more well-fed muscle, he's filled out in recent years, stronger than his silhouette suggests. He preens on top.
Their shadows bleed into each other, settling into silver. From the bed they have a lovely view of the full moon, and he does not notice.
Within their private dark Ryo wants to crack open his ribs and swallow Akira whole. His diaphragm would be the nest; arteries the sky, blood the birdsong.
In lieu of that he slides his hands up Akira's neck, kissing his teeth and sucking the tip of his tongue into his mouth. It makes a filthy, wet sound, lewd in its tenderness, but it's Akira's whimper that shocks his blood. His cock stiffens and Akira rocks under him.
"Who's in charge tonight?" Ryo mumbles.
"You are, beautiful," Akira grins, nipping at his jaw. They've opted out of rope this time.
Ryo reconsiders the choice.
"You said you'd help me relax, yeah?" He adds in afterthought, reaching to trace the seam of where Ryo's thigh meets his groin. "I'll behave."
That's more like it.
"As well as a devil can, that is." Both fangs curl over his bottom lip, scrunch his eyes and reveal the laugh lines beneath perpetual dark circles and Amon's markings.
Ryo's heart squirms, stomach churning with hunger, desire, affection, a ripple in his ribcage, fondness twisting his face.
He cups Akira's chin. It fits perfectly in his palm. "I'll take care of you tonight, and you do exactly what I tell you. Alright?"
Akira leans heavily into his touch, sighing in contentment, counting the ladder of his ribs. His sideburns brush the fine gold across Ryo's knuckles. "Whatever you say."
"Good. Just like we talked about," Ryo slides two fingers past his fangs and presses on his tongue until his eyes water, "open your mouth." His cheek warms under Ryo's palm, but he obeys.
"Hm." He traces over his teeth, running down a row of premolars military grave straight and up the peak of a long canine. Saber sharp, a quarter inch across and well developed. They could spear through a heart, or bone. He presses closer, chest soft against his through the sheer charmeuse. He tilts his head to examine the carnassials reflective sheen.
Akira shivers, less from the whisper breeze and more the quickening of Ryo's heartbeat when he tests the point.
"Fascinating," he says, half to himself. "I suppose it comes with the transformation, but I'm still surprised that it changed your dental formula. Two, one, three, three...Huh. Aren't you amazing."
He puffs up at the praise, talking awkwardly around him, "They're like a bat's, I think."
"You think so? I always thought they were more canid."
"Mh, when I transform, sure. Otherwise it's like..."
"Like what? Come on, you're still thinking too much," Ryo murmurs. "More like nyctalus or diphylla ecaudata, you think?"
His forehead wrinkles, train of thought drifting and distant. "Not desmodontinae. Spectral, actually. Vampyrum spectrum. You were, um, close, though." Ryo scissors his fingers, testing how far back he can dip down his tongue, tendon flexing. "They're false," Akira stammers, "a false vampire bat."
"Ah, that makes sense, they're one of the only carnivorous species. They eat birds, mostly. Works out well for a devilman." He hooks a thumb under a canine, forces Akira's jaw open wide, stroking the crests that whet into crowns and alongside the cave of his cheek. "They suit you well, though."
"Hah, thanks. They make me look dangerous." Again he tries to grin around his fingers, dark gleam returned, spit softening his rasp; Ryo kisses his cheek to muffle a childish giggle.
"Deadly, are they?"
"Oh, very. I had to get used to them at first. I still have to be careful or I'll rip up my damn lip."
"Not so careful when you're ripping demons apart, though. Not that you're doing much of that right now." He pumps his fingers, spit welling, spilling.
"Mmh." Akira's tongue swipes between them and he sucks him deeper into his mouth, hands braced against his stomach while Ryo grinds their cocks together.
He toys with him for a while, not letting him close his mouth or lick the drool up, entranced by the porcelain texture of enamel against the pads of his fingers. Embarrassment tents his shoulders; he can't talk much, anyhow, but Ryo grabs his jaw and squeezes gentle as a rose, then caresses up to his ear, tucking a strand back, inspecting him with such adoration it burns like ice.
Feather light touches all over melt Akira's tension, bitten nails scratching over the lines of his wings, kneading over his shoulder, pulling Akira further into the thrusts. Splayed open and pliant as a rabbit on a dissection table, he twirls his tongue around the second knuckle, eager to take all he can, maybe more than that, even. He shudders, but mostly drools.
Palm sliding over his throat, thumb stroking over bone and cartilage, over his swallowing and quiet exhale, Ryo confesses, "I wish you could see how handsome you are. One time I stared at your back hoping that would be enough for me. You're always a marvel to me, no matter what."
Akira's heart skips a beat, lungs caught between pulse and Ryo's palm. They're both hard now but Ryo moves without haste, authority thawing into indulgence.
"Curious that a devilman would allow a human to treat him like this...that's it, there you go," he encourages, coaxing his fingers further, "you can take it. To be in a vulnerable position, making those sounds, allowing me to play with his teeth without spilling blood or biting, and to manhandle him around..."
"But you're my Akira, aren't you?" He slips down his throat until he finally gags, cupping the back of his neck, wet heat down to the knuckle. "Gentle, sweet Akira...I could use you however I want," he says, cocooned with devotion.
"Fuck, Ryo," Akira whines, throat full and strength lapsed.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes, goddamn, always."
Saliva trickles down Ryo's knuckles. It shimmers, fogged by moonlight. "You're not allowed to come yet, not until I have you in my mouth."
"I can do that, I think." Ryo splays his thighs, rocks hard against him and pins his ass back against the bedding, and whitefire sears his spine. "Yeah, yeah. I can do whatever you want."
"Good," Ryo says, marring a bruise over his adam's apple, "I'll make it worthwhile. First—" He removes his slick fingers, dragging slow against the blade of his teeth, lingering to watch the spit drip off his chin. "Lick it up," he demands, pupils blown dark.
Akira tries; really, he only drools over himself more lapping at Ryo's hand, eager to taste the lifeline in his palm and everything he has to offer, to give, to relinquish. It earns him another kiss, carnal and voracious, urgent in its intensity and wicking his breath away. He sucks his lip between his teeth, Akira fingers the hem of his shirt, and Ryo curses. Pearlescent buttons roll with spit as he struggles to remove it. Halfway unfastened he huffs, pushes it aside, and drags Akira down to his chest.
Reverent of the trust Ryo places in him — frightening at times, but rapturous, enthralling, unquestionable — Akira unbuttons the rest and paws it off to mouth at every inch of exposed skin. He inhales his scent, gentle in contrast to Ryo's rougher treatment, cheek cradled between his breasts. At the right angle his heartbeat lilts and trills in Akira's mouth, nipping love bites until they blemish. His left tit sags lower than the right, firm in his hand, and he laves his tongue over the nipple until it stiffens at the kiss of an incisor while Ryo fucks against him.
Ryo caresses up his arms, fondling his biceps and tangling his tousled hair to tug him to his other breast, heaving when fangs threaten to break skin. He wouldn't mind, really. The imprint would belong to them and them alone, the thread twining soul to stomach. Akira knows his own strength, though, bitten hickies all he leaves behind before sucking the bud between his teeth. His cock twitches and Ryo laughs, half frantic, "Not yet, don't come yet, hah. Let me, mh, use you. That's it, fuck you're hard. So good for me, huh? Yeah?"
Akira moans, vibration thrumming inside his ribs, moon pale to their ardour, sweating and rocking into one another. The slot of their bodies is as familiar as the furnace of breathing, living, dying, fucking.
"Ryo," Akira pleads against soft skin, dragging the flat of his tongue across his collarbone, Ryo's cock hot silk slipping between his thighs. "I'll be quiet, please, I promise, just—come on, please, your mouth? I'm close, I can't—"
He's granted little mercy. Ryo splays his hand over his chest, pinching his nipple before he shoves him back into the pillows and steadies himself. Now he ruts down proper, towering above Akira, mattress squeaking, blood howling, thighs burning. "Could listen to you, ah, beg for hours," he hisses.
Pre come slicks their cocks and he throbs, moaning shamelessly, tossing his hair back even as he trembles. For all his talk he never lasts long either, hunger impatient, desire feverish. Staring down at Akira he pants, then pries his mouth open, half starved, cells shrieking to be inside of him, a part of him, devouring him. He spits in his mouth and Akira swallows. "So handsome," he groans, "All mine, all—fuck, Akira—!"
Ryo keens, jolts, and arches into a fervid kiss as he comes, high-pitched cries dissolving into giggling and hot, shared breath. It stripes the sheets and across their thighs, Ryo quivering in the aftershock, Akira aching, and they lick into each other's mouths. When they part a string of saliva connects their lips, beaded like pearls.
"God, you're beautiful," Akira whispers, hoarse, and Ryo could crawl inside his heartbeat and live there.
He kisses down his chest and his stomach, nails scraping through coarse body hair, working his way between Akira's legs. He licks down his length and kisses the tip, rubs up the indent of his hip bone and presses hard, knuckles brushing against him and making him arch with a relieved sigh; he spreads Akira's thighs until he can nestle against toned muscle and bite down into his inner thigh. It's difficult to bruise his skin, but it always yields eventually.
Impatient, Akira strokes himself, wet with Ryo's come and bucking into his hand with a stifled whine. Ryo rakes under his thighs, watching, ravenous. A bit of drool remains on the corner of Akira's mouth and he stares, half lidded, at only Ryo and Ryo alone, the space between them paper thin. "Please."
He takes Akira into his mouth. Akira's hand sweeps into his hair, curling around the back of his neck, snaring but not directing. He sighs Ryo's name, bruised adam's apple bobbing.
Hilted to the burr of curls — Akira is not monstrous by any means, nearly matched with Ryo — he scrapes his teeth ever so careful up to the head, blood flushed and twitching, once worried of harming him but well rewarded by Akira's cry. Tip rested on his tongue he swirls and sucks, rubbing it along his lips and looking up into his eyes. Ryo drools, flushed too, knowing he's as debauched as he feels but too enamored to care.
When he swallows him once more Akira grunts and thrusts shallowly, forgetting himself.
Blunt human nails dig into the fat of his hips, embedding waning crescents, holding him firm. Ryo pops off with a lewd wetness that makes them both groan. "Don't forget who's in charge, Akira," he reminds him.
"I'll be good," he pants, promise desperate, "I'll be good, shit. I won't forget again."
He behaves well enough, slowing the cant of his hips though his whole body quivers, that Ryo wraps his spit slick hand around him. "That's it," he praises, glowing, "That's my Akira. Come on, just a little bit longer for me."
"I can take it," he affirms softly, shuddering.
For a few long, torturous minutes he strokes him from base to tip, teasing his slit with kitten licks, tugging lazily, halting when muscles tighten and murmuring soft nothings while Akira whimpers and begs, "Keep going." Not often patient, less often broken down so thoroughly; when dazed tears prick his lashes, Ryo hikes his leg over a shoulder and devours him.
He marvels at his savor, the heady spice of sex and sweat, the salt tang of his own come, how the back of his knee indents into firm stone but weakens at his touch, cord of sinew strung taut through his thigh.
To have him wrapped around his finger body and mind, unwrapping and unraveling him — Ryo moans around him, his own cock half soft and ruining the sheets beneath them. No monsters, no demons ripping him apart in brutal violence, just Ryo's adoring hands clawing his stomach. He fills his throat, as far down as he can to the dark bristle, and Akira chokes on another cry. "Can I—? Fuck, please?"
"Come for me," he groans, and Akira falls apart, shaking and shouting into his palm, biting until his fangs pierce through to smother himself. The muscles of his stomach tense and roll, the curtain flutters, and Ryo swallows until Akira gasps and feebly pushes him away.
Panting, Ryo wipes his mouth, licking a stray drop of come and sitting up. It beads between his breasts too and he grimaces, but Akira laps it up without having to be asked, and he can forgive his lack of coordination. Saliva is better than semen, he supposes, and they sway comfortably before Akira pulls him down chest to chest.
Their heartbeats drum together, balancing in sync. Akira exhales into Ryo's hair and clutches him close, shivers when they brush at the hip. The sheets stick to their entwined limbs. Ryo pets under his chin and down his neck, sweet, chaste pecks following. Akira massages down his shoulders, eyes closed, relaxing into the bed and the welcome embrace.
"Was that good?" Ryo asks after a while, twirling Akira's chest hair.
Akira hums contently in the back of his throat, drained of spittle, and kisses his forehead.
"Water?"
He nods and Ryo detangles himself. A bad habit of leaving half drunk glasses and water stains littered about comes in handy now and again. He cleans himself while Akira drinks, then turns to tend to him as well. They kiss briefly, and Akira keeps a hand on his forearm while Ryo sweeps the towel down his stomach and between his thighs.
Ryo had examined him with such zeal, spit welling under his tongue and fingers exploring every crook and grazing every nerve, but Akira melts at his concentrated wrinkle and the careful, delicate pivot of his wrist, like one wrong touch could harm him. He leans over and licks a line of sweat from Ryo's neck.
"You are really good at that, you know." He rasps a little, and Ryo laughs, passing the glass along. "Thank you."
"At what, sucking cock? Here, drink more."
Akira sputters. It's easy even after all this time. "Not that—I mean, very, yes, but ordering me around. Being bossy."
"Yeah?" He brushes back Akira's bangs. "You always listen well."
Ryo shrugs on a bathrobe and helps Akira stand, admiring the small of his back as he stumbles out onto the balcony. Winter winds nip, but he's satisfied the shaking in Akira's legs is due to him instead.
Night cools the perspiration on their necks. Sitting down with a yawn Akira looks out to the stars, serene and at ease. Ryo bends to kiss him, mumbles, "I'll be right back," and parts to tidy their mess.
When he returns his lighter flickers silver and he draws in a sweet mouthful of smoke, knee to knee with Akira in a pair of cheap plastic chairs. His face shines with the same inspecting light as he languidly looks him up and down.
His fang pokes over his lip, eyes heavy-lidded. Hair terribly mussed, sticking up like a crown of horns and curled funny. Lips bitten and swollen. Violet marks blooming, though it takes more strength than Ryo has yet to truly bruise his hips. He slumps back, no bones, no tension. He'll sleep well tonight, then.
"You relaxed?" Ryo teases.
"Mmhm," he rumbles back, "you wore me out."
"That easy? Usually you're insatiable."
"I'm easy for you," he snorts. "It's hard enough to think when you look at me like that, nevermind when your fingers are down my throat. How are you feeling?"
"Good. Really good, actually."
Akira finds his hand in the cricket hushed dark, threading their fingers together.
Cigarette ashing like snow, Ryo asks, "You really do think I'm beautiful?"
"Yes, of course." Akira leans until his head falls against his shoulder. Ryo's lavish perfume lingers through the tobacco and sweat, past sex and plum air, tacked to him now as well. "More than even in my dreams, when I do sleep."
His chapped lips part into a smile. "I thought you said it was an angel you saw in your dreams, or a demon. Unless you—" He notices, then, "Your hand, you're bleeding."
"Huh? Oh, yeah," Akira guffaws, showing off his fangs. "I tried not to wake the neighbors. Told you they were deadly. It'll be gone by the morning, though, don't worry."
"Still." He turns his palm over and kisses the wound. "Let me take care of it."
Akira thumbs the smear of blood on Ryo's lips, watching his mouth wrap around the stained end of his cigarette. "You don't have to," he says.
Ryo touches the back of his hand, turns to expel with the wind, and puts it between his teeth.
"I want to," he says simply. "Hold that for a minute."
He inhales, relishing his after taste, and holds it for Ryo while he bandages the punctures. It's a ritual they know well, familiar battle after battle.
The moon is high in the sky when Akira pipes up, "You know, they say vampire bats swap blood to strengthen their bond. We're kind of doing that."
Ryo throws his head back in gut deep laughter, Akira's favorite kind, throat bare and blemished. "It's mouthfuls they swap. I thought you said you were closest to a spectral bat, besides."
"I'm a lot of things, Ryo."
He knots the bandage, smiling. "Well, whatever you are, I'll take care of you, Akira."