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There’s a surprising sureness to Yatora’s touch. Yuka tries not to think about it too much.
And plus - there’s so much to focus on. The waves crashing outside, so close that Yuka can almost feel the salt in her mouth, swallowing up the cries of a lone seagull. The roughness of the tatami against her bare back, made even more sensitive by the cold chill coming through the open window. The icy tips of his fingers against Yuka’s skin, between her thighs, right where she feels like she’s on fire.
Yuka won’t open her eyes - surely it must be stubbornness, and not what she dares not name - but she can still see all the colors, pulsing and dripping on the back of her eyelids. The cherry wine red that must be dusting Yatora’s face, all the way down his neck and to his chest, the fine straw yellow of his hair and the speckles of gold in his eyes; the pinkish hue of his tenderness mixing with the surer red of desire, a desire for Yuka’s nakedness, a desire to pry her open like he’d do with an assignment, break her down gently, and put her back together. It’s vermillion, so violent and so bright. She can almost feel the smell of mercury in her nose.
She won’t open her eyes, so she feels around for something, anything to grab and scratch as her head falls back, her thighs quivering with the effort of keeping them in place on either side of Yatora’s hips, and finds that the expanse of Yatora’s back feels exceptionally fit to sink her nails into. When Yatora moans, Yuka feels it reverberate through her entire body.
“Ryuji.”
There’s a strange quality to be called that during this. To hear that name whispered with such desire by someone who’s never thought of calling her anything else. It’s strange, because usually it's Yuka, Yuka, Yuka, syrupy and bothered, and it rings so hollow in her ears. But this - it swirls inside her, like ink in clear water drops, slowly dying the entirety of her.
A shiver runs down her back.
Yatora’s cock is a hard weight where he’s rocking against her hip, yet his hands are so, so cold against Yuka’s own, and his callous touch is so delicate that it’s infuriating, so sure that Yuka can’t stop wondering where he’s learned, whether from touching himself or from someone else. It’s so good that Yuka wants to mess it up, because if they get it right this time there’s no guarantee it’ll happen again. She digs her fingers deeper into Yatora’s back and hopes the waves crashing on the shore outside will be loud enough to cover the cry that leaves Yatora’s lips, because she’s stubborn enough to refuse to swallow it up with her own.
Stubborn, yes. She’s stubborn enough to keep insisting that it’s stubbornness. She moans in turn when Yatora’s hand jerks in time with a particularly good rock of his hips, his fingers twisting just right to tease Yuka where she's most sensitive.
“Yatora,” is it really her voice, so breathy and rough? “Yatora, you…”
Please, the word she’s looking for is please. But much like anything she’s tried to say since they set their self portraits aside, it just won’t leave her mouth. She’d rather try to direct Yatora’s hand with her mind than say what she needs.
“Slow, Ryuji. Slow.”
Easy for him to say. Yatora’s eyes must be wide open, yet still he can’t see the white-hot pleasure dancing up her spine, the orange and the yellow and the red and the blue coiling in her stomach like embers of a forge.
“Easy-”
Yatora has always been slow when it came to color, Yuka remembers that. She wonders if he sees her body as blue. Does it smooth out the rough edges of her, does it glow differently under the grey light of morning? Does it make the sight of her under him something worth painting?
“Yatora, Yatora, Yatora…”
Yatora’s right on it this time. Yuka can feel his dick twitch against her leg as he rocks faster, uncoordinated, chasing his pleasure and trying to keep up the rhythm to stroke Yuka just that little bit faster that she needs, spreading the precum from her tip to make the glide of his hand smoother, and then -
When Yuka comes, her lips break loose. It’s an undignified sound, miles away from the nasal, high-pitched moan she plays up whenever she’s with someone else. It’s more of a groan, a stifled scream of sorts, and she jolts in surprise when Yatora doesn't move his hand and keeps stroking her as she rides the high of it. She has half a mind to swat his hand away, or just tell him to move, but finds she’s unable to let go of his back or stop the sounds pouring from her lips, now getting increasingly closer and closer to sobs. Yatora only lets go when it starts to tether the edge of being painful, snaking his hand between their bodies and barely managing to stroke himself once before he spills against Yuka’s thigh.
Behind her eyelids, Yuka sees black. She takes a deep breath, dabs at the stray tear that’s started to run down her cheek with the back of her hand, and feels a tinge of ice-cold azure when Yatora rolls off top of her and to her side.
From the open window, the sound of the sea hasn't changed. Yuka thinks back to what Yatora said about fearing that sound, and wishes that the world could end between the waves before the bliss in her gut has a chance to turn to dread.