As Derrik's strong, oil-slicked hands glided lower along Ryuga's spine, the detective felt the familiar tug of vulnerability he could never quite shake. The room's dim glow from a single paper lantern cast soft shadows across the walls, the incense smoke curling like forgotten secrets, and the rhythmic hum of distant city traffic faded into a distant murmur. Ryuga's breath steadied, his broad, hairy chest rising and falling with each deliberate press of Derrik's fingers, kneading away the knots that years of chasing shadows had etched into his muscles. He hadn't meant for this to become a ritual, but the young man's touch was a quiet balm, unraveling the tightly wound coil of grief and duty that defined his days. Derrik's own breath was warm against Ryuga's neck as he leaned in, his voice a low murmur that cut through the haze: "You're holding tension here, like always. Let it go, if you can."

Ryuga's mind wandered to the gold band on his finger, a silent witness to a life long buried, as Derrik's hands ventured to the small of his back, thumbs digging into the firm flesh with practiced precision. The detective's body responded unbidden, a low groan escaping his lips as heat pooled in his core, his cock stirring faintly beneath the thin fabric of his pants. It wasn't just the physical release; it was the way Derrik's presence filled the room, his muscular frame brushing against Ryuga's side, the dark hair on his arms mirroring the detective's own in a way that felt both comforting and dangerously intimate. As Derrik's fingers traced the curve of Ryuga's hips, the air thickened with unspoken desire, the scent of their shared warmth mingling with the oils. Ryuga turned his head slightly, catching Derrik's eye—those earnest, knowing eyes—and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. His heart raced, not from fear, but from the raw, unexpected pull of connection, as if this touch could bridge the chasm of his loneliness.

The massage shifted subtly, Derrik's hands lingering longer on Ryuga's thighs, his touch growing bolder, tracing the outlines of hardening muscle. Ryuga's body betrayed him further, his erection pressing insistently against the table, a flush creeping up his neck as Derrik's palm slid inward, brushing the sensitive skin near his groin. "It's okay," Derrik whispered, his voice laced with genuine care, his own arousal evident in the way his breath hitched. Ryuga's mind raced with conflict—the ring, the memories, the what-ifs—but the sensation of Derrik's fingers grazing the base of his cock shattered his defenses, a wave of electric pleasure coursing through him. He arched slightly, his large hands gripping the table's edge, the room spinning with the intensity of it all, as years of suppressed need clashed with the tender possibility of something new.

Neon Wolves: Detective Ryuga