nysalogs | . all you have's your axe to grind . closed

[Solomon can infer that if Takasugi isn't intoxicated at the moment -- or even slightly tipsy, that ought to change in a moment. Cues for another adaptation of fun linger between them -- emanate from Takasugi, really. He's sliding out of his yukata, talking suggestively enough for his gay ass brain to fill in the blanks according to his line of thought.

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.......]

[His surroundings haven't blurred - though perhaps the dim light doesn't look so faint anymore - but Takasugi's skull has grown heavy. He rests his chin on his palm, propped against the bar with no illusion of stability.

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.~~)]

[That pause is an awfully long one. His head tilts closer to Takasugi's, ignoring how questionable he seems overall. The movement around his hand has him looking over once more, brows slightly furrowed -- contemplative but without concern.]

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.]

[Blonde hair, wavy - Takasugi always notices that feature - shifts in the light. Reflects it, the dimness of their accommodations becoming somehow less lively when it inundates the man at his side. Like he's looking at the peaceful sway of a corpse's hair.

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?]

[He's impressed at his dexterity in refilling their glasses, though he's probably had enough practice. He'll hold his cup steady throughout, in spite of not really wanting..anymore...of it....]

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?

[It's never been about the alcohol - and Solomon knows that. Or, he doesn't, and he's a bigger idiot than Takasugi had given him credit for. That sort of upheaval leaves a tart taste in Takasugi's mouth (maybe it's the weird liquor tho), and he swallows the last of his drink with lips pressed thin.

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.]

[At first, he's not sure if Takasugi's object to the whole thing. If so, he's not gonna force it. Nevermind that they're in public, at a bar, and many factors play into countering any sort of controversial touch.

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?

[Being steadied isn't what Takasugi was after, wrapping himself around Solomon's shoulders. He'd wanted the proximity, the scent of the man cutting through the rankness of the parlor, but not the intimacy. A hand dragging down his chest and deeper means nothing more than their argument (over... what? nothing he can remember) switching courts.

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) Solomon lets go:

2) Solomon doesn't let go:

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.]

Edited 2018-05-07 23:55 (UTC)

[Gonna have to go with option 2 here since u put so much effort into it...

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...]

Edited (i keep forgetting to pick an icon) 2018-05-08 02:21 (UTC)

[He's entirely serious, and not gratifying that question with any sort of response. Takasugi leans into the door, a hand resting across wood with gouges deeper than splinters flecked all over its surface. His balance isn't off, but the shade of the indoors is a welcome coolness, even in its muskiness.]

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.]

[Funny enough, Solomon's never been one to make a big deal out of aesthetics. Physically or otherwise. Contrary to his posh behavior, most of his vapid discordance regarding EVERYTHING that has to do with Takasugi is simply because of that; it's related to him. Somewhere along the lines, being contrary to everything he enjoys became normal.

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.]

[If he was truly living in squalor, maybe Takasugi would regard his conditions with more familiarity. Sleeping in a row of bodies, some of which turn to corpses in the night, he'd been calmer. More exhausted, falling dreamless and waking to frantic movement so common the urgency had drained from it; there's life in that existence.

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.]

[He's surprised enough at the tender gesture -- what follows doesn't quell that any. It's not as gentle as one may expect, but there's a veneer of something decidedly charming beneath the drag of teeth. He may be bracing himself for something more violent, expectations that follow having bitten into the very same person's neck once before. His free hand lifts and tucks into his flagrantly-opened top, fingertips grazing along his hip, finding eventual purchase while using his wrist to loosen his yukata all the more.

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.]

[With eye locked on Solomon, too focused for the amount he can actually see in the darkness, and a smile toying on his lips, Takasugi appears lucid. In some regard, he is, his senses cross-wired between dull and alight, culminating as a sharp churning in his gut.

~~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.]

Edited 2018-06-08 16:25 (UTC)

[Solomon's doing what he can to keep his focus reigned in -- on Takasugi. Their accommodations may offer more than what meets the eye, but he isn't interested. Come what may, something like that. He doesn't even have to be inebriated to think so irresponsibly. At the end of the day, the attention proves worth it.

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.]

[Starved?

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.]

[He doesn't shy away from the mauling; it's subtle -- not an unfamiliar feeling to him, though it somehow stings and carries more of a harshness in comparison to a bite from Diva. Her fangs are sharper, she isn't so focused on the wound itself as much as nourishment. His flesh already begins healing around that initial point of breakage -- not entirely, as he's being worked to bleed, it's a kneejerk automatic occurrence.]

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.]

[Inebriation makes itself known when Solomon's skin begins to mend. Were he sober, Takasugi may have drawn away to watch the flesh knit together until only trails of blood remained. As he is, he lashes out with his tongue to weave it between the closing wounds. Teeth drag along after, deepening the gash where he can.

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?]

Edited (gomen) 2018-06-29 12:45 (UTC)

[There's something strangely fine, okay, vaguely appealing in letting Takasugi 'feed' from him even as it offers no benefits and could very easily be seen as a slight against him. As it were, there's only pleasure to be found between them. He can smell the blood on his lips before he sees it, a stillness lingers between their faces for a moment that feels incredibly long.

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.]

[A drop falls from the corner of Takasugi's mouth. Blood and spit stirred together by their tongues, it leaves a red trail before dripping from his chin. Invited or not, his tongue continues to press against Solomon's, weaving more sanguine drool between them, speckled with flesh that he'd sucked into his mouth.

From the way the man acquiesces to the kiss, his voice a faint song drowned by the blood forced down his throat, Takasugi assumes he's enjoying it.

That, more than the hand working its way around his cock or the tongue rubbing against his, is satisfying enough to coax a groan from his throat, one that ends as a tapered laugh, his lips stretched thin to leave the kiss nothing more than teeth and tongue.

Solomon's hand busy between them, Takasugi's are free to roam. They drop to weave around the small of the man's back, delving below his hem to cup and grope his ass. He pulls roughly, spreading cheeks as if he's intent on pressing deeper.

He isn't, but if Solomon likes this too, he might indulge him.]

[Their augmented kiss is exciting, though he's left feeling somewhat selfish for adding red, it seems like Takasugi's enjoying it just as well. He hasn't recoiled yet, for example. He's a willing participant and though this is much more involved than the first time he'd tried to take blood from the samurai, he's apparently fine with it.

All in the technique...

Speaking of, four fingers favor Takasugi's cock as he falls into a simple pattern of back and fourth, up and down. It's timed with his hips haphazardly bumping forward which proves to be too much goddamn work all at once. He'll abandon his own warmth, thumb curving to properly grip the more unfamiliar cock. His grip pauses at the crowned tip, swirling that shorter digit over his spherical end. The slit of it isn't entirely neglected either; weight finds it, a teasing pressure.

Though he does draw away at the attention to his rear; it isn't unpleasant, just surprising. Apparently so even within this context. His mouth's messy, bloodstained and drippy, his teeth match with a tapered crimson.]

Is that what you want?

[He'll abandon his grip, only to spit into his palm -- bloodstained but applicable. A slicker hold rides his length, as if coaxing him into saying something later regrettable, hm hm hm.]

[Chest tight, Takasugi sucks in a sharp breath before he realizes why. His inhale flecks the back of his throat with thick saliva, a wet gasp that aggravates the ache beneath his ribs.

It's the first time he's lost in how he's feeling, rather than aimlessly wandering Solomon's body in search of the next shiver he can send down the man's spine.

Solomon's grip around his cock is the source of the shift. Takasugi recognizes the sensation belatedly, after his hips shake and his breath shudders. Their kiss broken, he lets his head lull - watching the hand work around his arousal with his forehead balanced against Solomon's shoulder.

He'd been pursuing something, though it isn't until Solomon offers paltry lubrication and poses a question that he remembers.

Rather than answer immediately, he pulls a hand back between them. Fingers wrap around Solomon's cock, though the attention he gives it isn't anything so deliberately pleasurable as what he's receiving. A rough pace, thumb and forefinger squeezing the tip when he reaches it.

All he wants is for Solomon to feel him. Pleasure or pain - together they're a singularity that guarantees him the man's unbroken focus. A fixation he intends to cultivate mutually.]

Are you offering...? [The hand still on Solomon's ass squeezes again, fingers sliding closer to his hole.]

[Fingers lazily ruffle the hair at the back of his head, his other hand continuing their efforts, adding a slight twist of the wrist with his downstrokes. It's a firm hold, but not to firm it should hurt. There's an added incentive in being watched through his handiwork, apparently.

On the other hand, Takasugi's hold is deliberately -- it isn't painful enough for him to withdraw, but an uncertain breath's drawn, he's shifting his weight from foot to foot as if to accommodate his hold better. Though it's most sensitive of all, the repeated attention to his crown has him lifting his hips, fucking his hand...slowly. A pace his own servicing hand matches unintentionally.

It's a downgrade.]

H, hah? [Obviously the mystery of his words isn't mystery for long; right. There's a touch sliding closer to his entrance and he's not 100% sure how to feel about it. That being said, he's not 100% sure about any of this.

Except that it sounds like Takasugi would like to indulge, and Solomon hasn't a reason to decline, other than to be contrary for the sake of doing so. He won't immediately surrender to that whim; there's no response beyond that query, head bowing forward to nuzzle (NUZZLE) a line of hair with his nose.]

[A breathy, dazed vocalization is more enamoring a response than a yes or no. He doesn't receive approval, nor something to combat; he hears Solomon's unabashed indulgence. Takasugi's voice lilts in response, wordless but hardly unintelligible.

Between the abating friction around his cock, and Solomon's spit cooling enough to approach uncomfortable, Takasugi doesn't hesitate to transition.

Even without the decline in quality of Solomon's handy, Takasugi would have changed course. He'd give up anything, to hear that wheezing confusion in the man's voice again. To plunge them both into a thrall they can't begin to navigate, much less escape.

After a shrug into what paltry affection Solomon offers (it's still too much), Takasugi nudges the man back. Disconnected, he abandons the more intimate touches he'd been lingering on to press his hands into the man's chest.

Guide him roughly back into the wall, make quick work of his belt, button, and zipper. It's on Solomon to completely strip from his pants; Takasugi breaks away long enough to grab an aromatic oil from his bedside table and pour it over his fingers.

They slide easily over Solomon's ass when he returns, tip encircling the ring of muscle only once before curling inside. Hardly deep enough to bring any real sense of pleasure, but no matter how brutish Takasugi is, he can't dismiss the necessity for some measure of delicacy in this endeavor.]

[For all that they've been up to, being pressed in reverse is something he hardly fights. He'll move with the gesture, the wall offering some fake sense of structure in his muddled brain. Gravity handles his trousers, the rest is a manual act. As much as he detests the (necessary) separation, it's a bit like coming up for air.

And it doesn't last nearly long enough for him to catch his breath. He's naturally taught against that finger, and while it's a single digit, it's enough to prompt an overreaction; it's the whole thing, being touched there, probed. He's clinging to Takasugi, his own fingers favoring his shoulders once more, biting in with all ten digits and bowing his head forward, angling it against that dark mop.

He'd comment on how surprising it is, thoughtful of him to even consider any measure of preparation (between the lube, opting to finger him) but he isn't quite in the mood for provocation. Not anymore. In lieu of words, he'll offer up a leg, making a point of dragging his knee up until it's about level with Takasugi's hip. It's an offer -- concession to proceed. He'd like not for this to drag on too long. Desperation is an embarrassing thing. He's treading a line of impatience as is.]

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look at all those typos i do at 8am

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