all teeth, but not smiling (
shikomizue) wrote in
nysalogs2018-04-11 08:58 pm
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. all you have's your axe to grind . closed
Who: Takasugi Shinsuke (
shikomizue) & "Friends" | Closed
What: Catch All For April-May-June
When: Over April / May / June
Where: Mostly Wyver, some Thesa and Olympia
Warning(s): alcohol + graphic violence + bang + will edit as needed
[ closed starters in the comments ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
What: Catch All For April-May-June
When: Over April / May / June
Where: Mostly Wyver, some Thesa and Olympia
Warning(s): alcohol + graphic violence + bang + will edit as needed
no subject
It feels like far longer than an hour, but Takasugi approaches him sooner than that. He offers him a look of feigned unexpectedness. Oh, so you remembered.........]
It's fortunate you aren't, then.
[Says the guy whose wanted nothing but to leave asap.]
Did you finally lose?
no subject
They'd probably be more romantic in their inebriated flirting than Takasugi.
Not that this is a date.
The only advances made here are on one another's patience.
Takasugi slides into the chair at Solomon's side, sliding silver to the bartender to purchase another bottle of the drink he'd shared among his circle of derelicts. He settles, leaning head propped in hand near enough to the other man for the fabric of their sleeves to brush.
His breath only smells a little bit like alcohol.] Aa. After I ended up betting all we had.
But I think your suit will look good on him- [He nods towards the sweatiest of the bunch.] Don't you?
[He won, thank you, but given the situation he'd just conjured, he almost regrets it.]
no subject
[A quick accusation, not at all a question. A demand to undo the past's written somewhere between the vowels. He doesn't even spare the sweaty man a proper look -- nothing past initial clarification. He's had this suit tailored, this is the first time it's seen the light of -- err, seen Wyver's evening glow? He's not prepared to donate it. Not because he can't afford another, but because it's of Takasugi's doing. He didn't consent to this-- And then it occurs to him that the samurai's completely dressed and that if did bet all they'd had, he'd be in a much sorrier state.]
...Aren't you clever.
[The belated, obvious answer to his question: No. No It Would Not.]
What did you win, then? Enough for another bottle of anise mixed with excrement?
[The two worst things to simultaneously ingest. And he was just getting along so well with the tender...]
no subject
Though, had he gotten into dire straights, Takasugi would have absolutely bet Solomon's outfit.
And his body too tbh]Aa. Enough to buy you something else, if you hate it.
[A suspiciously kind gesture, really. Takasugi wraps his fingers around the brim of the second glass and lifts it, reaching all up in Solomon's business to put it in front of him. Scooting the drink across the bar about 5 inches would have sufficed but
it wouldn't have been obnoxious enough.] Drink.
To our terrible company. [Mutual derision is the nicest he gets.]
no subject
He must be drunk already.
He'll take the cup that's practically being forced unto him, lest it spill over the seat of his pants.]
To our revolting company...
[He'll sniff it before tasting it. Barely a sip -- he's skeptical of whatever drink Takasugi may offer him, if only because he has questionable taste. In general. It's strong, but not undrinkable. He'll help himself to a second sip before setting it safely atop the bar. His body won't allow him to reach a state of intoxication at an ordinary level, but his taste-buds have limits.]
At least you're aware.
[Of the shit company. They've agreed on something, so he's gotta stretch that convo a bit.]
no subject
Solomon can balk at the taste of the liquor, and Takasugi at the essence of his companion.
What happens when they're both inebriated? If, indeed, this creature at his side can even get drunk, though Takasugi would like to think Solomon doesn't lead such a gloomy life, stuck a normal idiot, instead of sometimes a drunken one.
Takasugi, at least, feels warmer. Not a pleasant sensation, in a poorly ventilated den - sweat begins to prick his hairline, clumping in the already greasy strands.
He straightens, shrugs; his yukata shifts, dipping open to his navel and barely hanging from his shoulders.
Were it not for the humidity, maybe he would lean closer, an effort to share some of that heat... and to give Solomon the gift of something to complain about. But he's not drunk enough for sticky skin against sticky skin.
Another glass poured for himself, it is.] Want to drink until you can enjoy it?
no subject
A scoff provides a fleeting placeholder.]
Do you think that's possible?
[Not to be a stick in the mud, but he has to maintain his position in being as antagonistic as possible without making an enemy out of Takasugi. Strangely enough, abrasive conversations notwithstanding, the man to his side is one of the few people occupying this bizarre planet who really understand him.
Even though they've only scratched the surface.
A finger taps the rim of his glass, pensive. His other hand settles lightly atop the samurai's thigh. There's a grip to be had, but it's all very flimsy.
Don't mind him.......]
no subject
When he smiles, he nearly laughs, his shoulders folding just slightly.] I think...
[Solomon isn't patient enough to find out.
Warmth on his thigh suggests an entirely different method of enjoying a night out. Takasugi prefers a simple round of gambling followed by drinks in hostile silence, but he isn't opposed to feeling the man's frustrations physically.
Though the grip now is as disappointingly wilting as everything else about the man. Takasugi leans back, allowing whatever it is Solomon would like to do with this newfound position.
He doesn't expect anything to come of it.] ...you should finish your drink.
[But if Solomon does nut up and slide his hand from cloth to flesh, Takasugi will be ready. (To leave.
With or without him.)]no subject
You have the worst taste in alcohol.
[On one hand, he can continue being monotonous in complaining about Takasugi's tastes in alcohol simply for the sake of doing so. On the other hand, he could down the drink just to get it out of the way. He's exercised both methods before. In the past, the latter's earned a refill.
The former's an awfully boring option, still.
Seeming to favor the material against his fingers rather than his skin, he'll go ahead and single-handedly tip the glass against his lips. He'll ascertain that advice as a challenge for the sake of it all -- the asininity of the evening. Worse has stung his throat and made him feel like upchucking.
When the glass finds a spot atop the counter, it's void of liquid.
And his face is scrunched up distastefully. Tast like NyQuil.]
no subject
Solomon has about as much follow through as a dead body, at least.
Amusing, Takasugi chuckles to himself, an apparent response to Solomon's dismissal of his taste.
Fixing his gaze to watch the man drink, rather than looking only at the light framing him, is laborious, hardly worth it - but Takasugi lifts his glass to his lips as well. They drink together, both cups emptied.
But there's more in the bottle.
Solomon gets that damn refill, Takasugi serving them both the last of his selection.] Do you want to pick something better? [Or does Solomon want to leave - which little act of petulance will he choose?]
no subject
It's all about booze with you.
[He'll keep his whims subtle, though the jump from leg to waistband shouldn't be so for his victim -- 'victim'. To be fair, it isn't all about booze, hasn't been, but they've shared drinks often enough to gripe about it.
He'll be tugging that fabric a bit looser in the meantime, Takasugi's become sloppy enough between his weird game and now where it's not much of a task.]
Aren't you bored of it?
no subject
Being refreshed in such a dank parlor is impossible, but Takasugi feels something close to that.
Boredom mentioned. Now fix it.
And it seems like Solomon is setting to remind Takasugi why he invites the eyesore anywhere. He feels the rush of air on his stomach - perhaps that's where the pleasant sensation had come from - and slips forward from his seat.
His arms rise to rest on Solomon's shoulders, hips swaying into the man's leg. Too close for a hand to travel between their flushed bodies without being glaringly obvious.
It isn't so much of a protest as it is a challenge. He lets his weight lean into the blonde, his head lulling towards the man's shoulder.] ...it's all boring.
[Woah.
Honesty.]
no subject
He'll go to take his drink in the second it takes for Takasugi to draw himself close. It isn't consumed; he's readily distracted by that closeness. The once-intrusive hand winds its way around his companion's middle, brows tense with ambivalence.]
Ah.
[For a moment, he thought to offer the drink to Takasugi, but he appears to be all set. It finds a place at that bar once more, and his newly freed hand sinks into the back of his nasty, greasy hair.]
Shall I bring you home?
no subject
His furrowed brow is obscured by hair mussed across his face.
And he chuckles, shoulders shaking into Solomon's chest.
How the hell would you take him home, idiot? Do you even know where it is-
Takasugi's laugh dies into a hum; he keens his head to the side, tugging against a grip he knows will relent.
Choose your own adventure:
1) His arms melt away, brushing down Solomon's chest as he disconnects. There's no rush of comfortable, cool air, only a renewed feeling of wetness as the humidity seeps into the widening space between them. Wordlessly, Takasugi turns from the bar and ambles towards the door. Out, and into Wyver's winding streets.
It's a defining characteristic of the city, for every path through it to include enough turns to make any foreigner think they're following the wandering of a lost man. Takasugi knows his way, but he doesn't make it fast. And he never checks to see if Solomon is following.
He won't acknowledge the man until he's opening the door (warped wood, with moss overtaking it) to a small, multi-story hovel. Apartments, in a way, though running water is scant and an actual bedframe is unheard of. He turns, stares.
Gonna come upstairs?
2) The tag ended way up there sorry. Its ur turn now.]
no subject
The joak goes overhead. He is, however, prompt in rising to his feet, shooting that refilled glass a look of burden before it's entirely disregarded. He's sliding off that stool to trail after Takasugi. Whether or not he's capable of taking himself home remains to be seen.
There are several instances where he's fairly certain Takasugi has no clue where he is to begin with and may very well end up face-planting. Most of their march isn't paved, after all. Even so, he doesn't end up having to intervene, though the journey wanes his patience. He's about to give in, lead the leader elsewhere, toward the nearest hotel, but apparently he lives in this grotto before them.
Its appearance has him testing the back of his head for grime. A response he's yet to experience. Very good.]
...You can't be serious.
[Honestly, this is entirely predictable. If Takasugi were to lead him to a sprawling estate, he'd be shocked. This is perfect for him. Perfect as much as unappealing in every way.
It suits him.]
That primitive tavern was more charming than this.
[Let him complain for a lil bit...]
no subject
Aa.
It's terrible.
[There's no pride to be taken in stairs made of rejected pieces of firewood, vines knotted over them making for an unsteady climb to his third story abode.
He has a key, but from the way dirt falls from the lock when he wrenches the deadbolt open, there's probably little need for it. One solid gust of wind and the door might fall in.
Inside there's one large room, a wooden table set with several candles the largest piece of furniture. A pair of mismatched chairs accompany it, implying he ever has visitors (he doesn't). The 'kitchen' space is just a counter and a hot plate that looks like it could burn the whole place down.
The rest is sparse, two windowsills deep set enough to sit in, with drapes that bear a rich pattern too fine for the rest of the hovel.
Takasugi passes through all of it, through an open doorway blocked only by another set of drapes. Inside is a futon, several blankets unkempt on it, with a low, one drawer bedside table off kilter near its head.
There's plenty to complain about. Is this heaven for you, Solomon?] Come here- [Wherever Solomon is, maybe stunned into silence by disgust, Takasugi will beckon for him with a lazily raised hand, fingers curling once.]
no subject
This then becomes a difficult thing to keep up when they've reached an agreement.
He'll hum in response, proceed onward. His quarters are unexpectedly shitty, unfit for even a barn animal. It nearly makes him feel bad. They may've reached the same conclusion, but at the same time, Takasugi probably enjoys living in squalor.
He's abnormal. Perhaps as much as he himself. Maybe even more.
Still following, he'll brush the drapes aside with the back of a hand -- the same one testing his hair for grime. Being formally beckoned is what has him finally hesitating, if only for a beat. While this is the most basic of basic bedrooms, he's aware of where this may lead. Takasugi doesn't come off as someone who requires a bodily comfort to ease into sleep.
And still, he goes.]
This isn't a place for anyone to live.
[A compelling statement. Again, it's hard to score an argument when the host's already agreed. When he's near enough, he'll curl a hand over the back of Takasugi's beckoning finger -- the knuckles of that hand, to be more specific and less awkward. Romantique.]
no subject
Here, he has nothing more than the way the misty Wyver sun splays over the grime of his windows, painting pictures in shadow that gouges deep into the floorboards. Everything is still, the dusty too heavy to disrupt as he passes through.
Not comfortable.
Not uncomfortable.
Adrift.
Having another share that space with him doesn't imbue him with any purpose, it doesn't make the hovel open up into some quaint dwelling to be shared.
But he isn't bored.
Solomon's complaining sounds suspiciously dulled. If he's on the cusp of sympathy, Takasugi doesn't want it. He'll spit in the face of anything other than inane criticisms, and questions that are on the brink of understanding something.
Teetering on the precipice of knowing each other, but not-
Annoying.
Everything about the bastard is annoying.
There's life in hatred, even the most diluted sort.
Takasugi's arm twitches, instinct to jerk away quelled by alcohol or by a desire he doesn't care to recognize. He curls his grip into the man's, pulling him closer, bringing their linked hands to his lips.
He bites more than he kisses, dragging teeth and lip over knuckles.]
It's good enough for fucking. [Romancé.]
no subject
A vain effort if that sash is holding fast.]
Is that your expectation for the evening?
[Maybe it's because he's not drunk enough, but while that might've been some offhand bullshit comment, Solomon's brain's gone as far as to debate the probability of Takasugi owning anything condom-like. Less about disease (though that'd be worrisome for a minute), more about access.
Like, a smooth entry.
Anyway. Neither here nor there. Takasugi hasn't provided the most enchanting of keywords (legitimately) to lead into intimacy, but he'll bow his head forward and purse his lips against the crook of his neck, smearing over the spot he'd punctured previously. This time it's all lip, in a trail that ends just behind his earlobe.
Or, the base of his jaw.]
We could have kept it simpler if we stayed back there.
[Not that the nasty tavern was any better than his hovel. They're kinda equal. Both have insurmountable cons, for example.]
no subject
Hopefully that's not vomit waiting to happen.There's no need for anything especially rare to allow their whim of physicality to meander as it pleases. A small bottle of oil, meant for massages but certainly crafted with other uses in mind, is among the clutter in his drawer. Takasugi will reach for it if necessary, though he's not thinking about anything so specific.
Only the sensation of hands wandering his body. Takasugi's sash melts away, jostled enough to fall open with ease. His posture folds in the same manner, swaying closer to Solomon just as he had in the bar.
But this time he's not stifled with whatever reservations his companion had been gripped by. Lips find his neck and Takasugi sighs; if Solomon won't taste his blood, he can at least feel the coursing of his breath.
Like that, he enjoys what superficial satisfaction Solomon's grazing touch can give him. Until the man opens his mouth not to press red into his skin, but to speak.
He groans, body stiffening not against Solomon's heat but his words. Does the man want simplicity? Is he capable of it? An odd thing to wonder, when Takasugi is usually left questioning if the man has any real depth.
His petulance has left him unsteady.
Simplicity had become a lost cause long ago. When the last of it eroded, Takasugi can't pinpoint. Each shared night of drinking had simply tasted worse, and left him more intoxicated, than the last.
A hand travels up poised spine, nestling fingers into damp hair. His grip twists, he pulls as if he intends to rip a chunk out of the man. The violence is diluted, like every other damn thing between them, but Takasugi can't stop himself from trying to rend more.
As he always does, it's just more blatant in his inebriation.]
I don't care about simple. [Shoulders crested forward, he shifts and positions his mouth against Solomon's neck. As if ready to sink his teeth in, and show the man just how to tear out a throat.] Don't hold back.
[A demand given in earnest.]
no subject
That's all it is, really.
The abuse isn't something he likes. It's happening, endurable, maybe slightly intriguing; it isn't everyday someone simply manhandles him (not to say their situation is a simple one) in even the barest of ways. He'll grunt initially, angle into the hand to reduce the strain -- it isn't the first time he's felt such a warmth, a threat so precarious, but he's entirely fine with it for the most part. Takasugi may not be a beast that thrives off another's blood, but that's only fact for him because he's a creature of Giorgio A. Tsoukalos' brain. He thrives on it in other ways, but something about the safety net of immortality prevents him from interfering.
On the other hand (literally) he'll encourage the edges of fabric from the samurai's shoulders -- a decidedly tender motion, something to contest his rampant, immediate needs.]
I wasn't aware of how starved you are.
[A jibe, while at the same time, a suspicious heat rises rigid between them, he doesn't mind it.]
I won't hear your complaints afterwards.
[Even in his would-be stalling.]
no subject
Takasugi's teeth brush the skin of Solomon's neck, a pause in his advance to consider the accusation. There's an ache in him, perhaps it could be called hunger, that can only be satisfied by spreading his jaws.
Sinking into something until tendons quiver, swelling under the force of him until they burst.
And he's left with only something ruined. Something mangled and bloody.
It's been so long since he's taken such an indulgence to the extreme.
And never so literally. But if there's a creature worth suffering the taste of, it's the one lingering against him. Not writhing, not clawing for more - meandering, touches setting skin alight with anticipation that grows cold, extinguished, in a moment.
Shoulder shrug, letting his yukata fall to hang from his elbows. Left bare are swaths of skin rigid with scars, even the unmarred expanses left rough by sun.
It's enough to capture a gentle hand, tempting to roam; he's felt many soft fingers run pressure along paths they think lead to intimacy. Not one of them left an impression, all faces he can't remember. What he can recall are the details of the ones who carved their marks into his body.
Will he remember this, in the morning?
He has complaints now, but even without Solomon's stipulation, Takasugi wouldn't voice them. He'll put an end to the tepid approach himself. There's heat welling between them, a connection he pursues with a grind of his hips.
Heavy though his body is against Solomon's, the motion is quickly overtaken. Takasugi spreads his jaw, a brush of teeth and lip against the man's neck before he clenches down. There's no finesse, no attempt at saccharine pain, only force intending to bruise, pierce, and gorge.]
no subject
Yet, I'm the monster.
[Low, soft -- nothing more than a tease. He can't recall in recent years, someone rending him just for the sake of doing so -- battles and such aside. Like a high of some sort, a means to embellish an already-significant(ish) rendezvous. A hand chases the yukata as it falls, indiscriminately tracing over scars with some tenderness, admiration.]
Still, I expect you to replace what you've taken.
[Not now, but at some point. His exploration bumps the cloth of his cottony undergarment just as his opposite moves to seize Takasugi by the chin. If he's finished gorging on him, he'll be leaning in for a kiss, manually trying to create the proper accommodations. Of course, it won't be so simple as peck; teeth are involved, raking at his fuller lip and indulging in his own blood -- he's not being firm enough to pierce the samurai's lip. Not quite, deliberately so.]
no subject
The whole endeavor leaves his mouth smeared with red.
He'll acquiesce to being the bigger monster amongst them with a low groan. Another roll of his hips, one that keeps them pressed together so each little shift in position grinds friction - hot and uncomfortable - between them.
Solomon's hand is met by Takasugi's, sliding into their shared heat to unwrap his fundoshi before two fingers curl over the elastic of Solomon's underwear. He's left exposed, and it isn't long before he pushes the fabric opposite him down to reveal the head of the other's erection.
It gets no attention other than a mindless shift of his hips. Takasugi's attention is quickly stolen by the kiss. His jaw tenses in Solomon's hold, not eager to be torn away from the bloody mess he'd made, but interrupted in a breath for air that ends up filled with teeth.
He replies in kind, gentler than he'd been moments ago, but no less assertive. His tongue darts forward, into Solomon's mouth to force his own blood back into it. Replacing what he's taken... right?]
no subject
But not awkward. There's an eventual kiss and he's still busy elsewhere, after all. They've both been adequately exposed and blindly, his fingers move to handle Takasugi's heat. They wrap around his length in a warm, automatic fist, pumping tentatively comes next. As if he requires further cajolery. Assuming he's find with a little handy j, his hips angle closer -- enough so that he can extend his thumb and pin his cock beneath it. Ultimately, he's doing some doublefisting with a single hand, grinding their cocks together with slow friction provided by his palm.
A lilting noise makes its way into their bloody liplock, decidedly unbothered by the taste of his own blood. That muscles flicks up, rolls in turn -- inviting him in, more or less. He wikes it.]
(no subject)
look at all those typos i do at 8am
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