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

Entry tags:

. 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 ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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.]

[With nails pressing crescents into his skin and the weight of a head against his, there's nothing to see. Takasugi's eye closes, black swirling against his eyelid. Visioned darkened, every other sensation grows more severe.

Burns.

The heat around his finger draws him in. Stringing Solomon's desperation along may be an amusing endeavor, but Takasugi can't discern it from his own. He welcomes that knee with a hand quickly wrapping around thigh, holding the limb in position. Tugging it closer, as if crashing together could break them both open.

Not a connection, but an equal exchange of blood-

His finger hooks, tugs a bit too roughly at the ring of muscle before exiting. Too cold, he leans into Solomon's cheek, seeking warmth over anything else.

Two fingers replace the first, curling, focused, on quick preparation over bringing pleasure. All in all, it's a tease for them both. Wrenching his jaw against Solomon's head to nudge himself into the crook of the man's neck, Takasugi drags his teeth over already worried flesh.

An anchor, though the most precarious sort, as he feels his balance waver.

He stills, a moment spent inert before dragging he drags his hand slowly out and away from Solomon's ass. Along the thigh that hadn't been offered, to lift that too.

Between his strength and levying Solomon's weight against the wall, the man is suspended, left to coil legs around his partner if he wishes. Regardless of how steady this new position is, Takasugi presses on. Drags his finger up thigh, over taint, and back to ass. Not to insert, but to spread.

Pressing in takes a few tries, cock slipping over oiled skin before he finds the entrance and guides himself inside. A slow roll of his hips introduces fullness, a sensation that leaves his throat strained, silent, and his thumb drawing a mindless caress on the thigh he's still holding.]

[Half-moons litter his skin a his fingers ever-adjust, a grunt marks that questionable exit. It isn't off-putting in any way, but on the other hand, leaves him desiring more. More attention, more than a nuzzle, but he'll turn into that warmth and smear his lips over Takasugi's cheek. A stifled exhale finds his jaw as he adjusts, accommodates to the sensation of double digits. He's drawn tight against those appendages once more -- a fleeting assault he could get off to if need be.

However,the need is absent. It's all in the name of groundwork, but precum smears against Takasugi in appreciation. Similarly apparent is his apprehension in trusting him to keep himself balanced...but that leg ultimately lifts bc he's feeling amorous and needy -- whorish. It isn't done without reward; his head tilts back against that wall (audibly...rip), a muted sound marks that fuller insertion while a hand trades skin for hair, digging into the back of his scalp without regard for it. It's a rush of adrenaline, a rare sense of controlled pain mixed with solace...

He's already murmuring his name. The abuse to his hair shouldn't outright intervene with the marring at his throat; he's wrenching at his hair, but keeping him close in the same motion, digging his heels into the small of his back. Crashing together, as it were....]

[All heat, the only jolt of coolness the precum that's quickly drying on his stomach. Takasugi's eye squints open to the audible crack of Solomon's head against the wall, greedily searching the dim scene for a curl of lip or a quiver of breath.

If Solomon had been looking, he'd see such betrayals of pleasure on Takasugi's face. Hands coiled in his hair, beads of sweat run down his neck. Scalp damp, the clumping of his hair is a rush of relief he can't bring himself to tug against.

The man pressed between him and the wall has totally surrendered, bodily curling into Takasugi so fervently it's violent.

Smooth pricks of pain still cascade over his shoulders, numerous enough to throb in unison. It registers as warmth that rolls off of him with the thrum of his heart. He can feel it pulsing over his back, and all too easily that forms his rhythm.

There's no loud smack of skin on skin. What does connect sticks together, both of them covered in a thin, sheer layer of sweat that clings to anything it touches. Takasugi's hips peel away from Solomon's, rub against his thighs, as he arches himself deeper into the man.

And then precariously close to falling out - again and again, never buried all the way, but never removing himself.

His name a quiet howl on pale lips shouldn't be thrilling. In any intimate exchange, names are muttered like a mantra, the final bargaining of a dying man, it's nothing special.

But hearing that soft voice garble the syllables of his name pulls a smile across Takasugi's face. Sharpens his biting, elicits a groan in his throat that's deeper, more raw - unrestrained.

It precludes a shudder that wracks his spine, culminating in a pause to his rhythm. The edge isn't far, and it's something he'll approach gradually, resuming pace just the same as before.]

[As things progress, Solomon isn't so tight-lipped, not that remaining neutral had ever been a real goal. Pain, pleasure, any variation of effect can be fleeting, insufficient. Through all of Nysa's tricks, he's yet to feel so fulfilled in this context. Not to suggest he hasn't dabbled...

It's a simple motion and he's happy to be stretched out at his mercy as proven by the unabashed slips, outright whining as he retreats, arching away from that wall, squirming as if to stimulate more of that fullness somehow -- harder, faster, something like that. Words don't work as well as the vowels roll off his tongue, not when he's fully immersing himself into Takasugi's efforts.

Otherwise he'd humbly request a handjob. He can't do it himself; a hand does move, but only to brace himself against that wall, fingertips boring into it like the grips on a bowling ball. Half-lidded, he'll regard Takasugi with some vague look of glazed-over fondness and his grip eases up -- relaxes without release, urging him closer for something that was meant to be a kiss, but he's not sure if he can spare the breath. His lips spread open-mouthed, hot n' breathy affection across his jaw and while he hasn't a grip to spare on himself...

He will sort of. Roll his hips forward on occasion, sometimes to meet his, primarily so he can rub his dick against Takasugi's stomach. It isn't much, but any friction is good friction....]

[A voice typically so even cut to shreds, Solomon's lilting sighs are satisfying little things. Takasugi isn't looking to embarrass the man, isn't trying to render him a pathetic, whining mess - he likes to make Solomon suffer, but more subtly.

Being overwhelmed can be tormenting, even if the feeling is simply intense pleasure.

Not from a particularly skilled fuck, but the satisfaction of a yearning sated. Even if only a fleeting desire - they're both so rarely fulfilled.

Takasugi can tell what Solomon wants even without the hips bucking against his abdomen. For the man to come just from getting fucked would be embarrassing, and low as Takasugi's opinion of him can be, it isn't quite so derisive.

Not that Solomon needs to know that.

He doesn't indulge the man any additional friction. Practically, if he lets go the blonde may slip from the wall. More petulantly, he likes to feel Solomon's shuddering writhing compete with his steady motion.

That placid, unfocused stare - uncomfortably close to affection - needs to be be wiped from his face. He'd rather see the expression that mars those gentle features when he comes without regard for his partner's pleasure.

It isn't long until Takasugi reaches his climax. There's no warning, a grunt more shuddered than vocalized, and then the warm sensation of something wet coating the inside of Solomon's ass. He rides it out, slower and slower with each sway until he pulls out entirely.

Has the decency to lower Solomon gently, at least.]

[His pursuit goes unrewarded -- what do you mean Takasugi hasn't a hand to cater to him? Once or twice he strikes him in a way that refutes any desire to add more friction to the mix; it doesn't end up being quite enough, which isn't much of a disappointment in the end. It wouldn't be the first time he didn't come in a situation such as this.

One main difference is that he's actually enjoying it regardless, whether it's Takasugi himself or his skillset is up for debate, but he's content enough to ride him out, through to his climax...which merits some withering breaths. Audible enough but not overtly embarrassing by comparison. His mouth has idled against the skin just in front of an ear by that point, tousling the choppy hair there with his breath.

He'll lower, finally. One foot and then the other. He's immediately unsteady, red-faced and disheveled -- more-so than he'd ever allowed himself to be in front of his company before. There's ejaculate dripping down his legs ffs. In spite of an abrupt desire to clean himself up, he remains close, dropping that hand to cross his shoulders. The other abandons his vandalism on that wall to span the small of his back, embracing him in pandering to whatever post-coital bliss he may be experiencing.

See, Solomon's not all terrible.................he could be jerking himself off right now, for example. That's an uncouth affair to undertake, even in his arousal. It should pass, as most things do.]

[Saliva and sweat have long become indistinguishable - Takasugi's skin is wet, the humidity casting a layer of sheen across every visible swath of tan on him. Solomon's lips brush against a salty, earthy taste. Hair sticks to them as well as it plasters against his neck.

A prickling sensation he notices only in passing.

Solomon's breathing makes a more significant impression. Takasugi's heartbeat seems to slow to match those quivering gasps, or maybe Solomon's unconsciously fallen in pace with him.

He doesn't know. For a moment his head is empty, and when he returns, he's being held tenderly.

A gesture he balks against, shoulders stretching to dislodge the arms wrapped around him. He catches sight of the other's freshly fucked countenance; his genuine elation seeing the man so thoroughly disheveled made obvious by an eye narrowed to see through the dim, dusty space between them.

Too rough to be affectionate, Takasugi brings his hand to grip Solomon's jaw. Hold his head so the light hits him just right. Feel the heat throbbing in his cheeks. A touch that drifts away after a silent moment.

Takasugi crouches, abrupt in his shift of attention. He takes hold of Solomon's cock as crudely as he had his face, his tongue slipping from his mouth to encircle the head like it's a chore.

Because it is. But he's a glutton for Solomon's gradual discomposure.]

[Solomon's impartial; he doesn't need to embrace Takasugi anymore than he needs to be serviced. What's done is done, and it'd been a thrilling tryst. At the end of the day, here's where the bulk of his expectations lie. Beyond personal whims, nothing is particularly trifling. Passion can only be found in the most asinine of things.

So he settles heavily against that wall, forearms bracing him in place when his jaw's taken so gracelessly, a gesture that conflicts with his Stepford embrace. He's regarded curiously, innocently -- as if he wasn't housing something demoniac in his bones. Like the dilophosaurus before spitting acid into Nedry's eyes.

He's anticipating a kiss, maybe something curt. He doesn't expect Takasugi to sink onto his knees and proceed to handle him in such a way, method notwithstanding.]

You don't-- haa...

[Have to. Have to deal with it, whatever. Not important. A hand balls up into a fist while his other fingers through Takasugi's hair, rests heavily atop it. His thumb flexes against decidedly moist locks while his fingers curl into that wetness, willing himself to remain pinned against the wall like the floor's fucking lava. He's only just begun, but a few more ha's join the first and he's squirming in place, shifting his weight from foot to foot, repressing himself pretty well overall...]

[At his vantage, Takasugi catches the cloudy trail running down Solomon's leg from his periphery. The amount isn't anything irregular, but with lines of sweat already mapping the man's body, it travels quickly.

Lewd.

Not a result of passion, but of something purely physical.

An exchange bred from greed; avarice as a substitute for violence will never settle their restlessness, but beasts don't spare thoughts for the function of their consumption.

They simply take.

It sounds like Takasugi's stolen Solomon's words. His breath.

His lips curl around the man's cock, teeth left to brush (mostly) gently up and down the shaft once before he returns softness to the gesture. Pressure against his skull isn't entirely welcome - a few awkward angles of dick against cheek suffered to try to twist his way into a lighter hold.

Regardless of how that goes, Takasugi resumes his slow pace with an audible slurp. There's nothing incredibly enticing about the way he works Solomon over. No deep throat, no shoving his tongue into the slit.

Just a steady motion, engulfing head and whatever else fits comfortably into his mouth again and again. Waiting for a warning, even if it only comes in the twitch of fingers or a particularly hiccuped breath.]

[Fortunately, it doesn't take fancy parlor tricks to get him off. Just enough attention, the right amount of it applied here and there. His hips lift from the wall in an effort to meet Takasugi's lips, thrusting inward just a bit, equal parts desperate and impatient. His grip does slacken some as Takasugi finds some sort of rhythm, not because he's made note of that protest (it's the opposite...), but retaining that grip becomes something of a chore when immersing himself in his first beejer of the 20th century.

For now.

The teeth cue some softer (pathetic) assertions. They don't hurt -- he's fine, par for the course. Any manner of discipline had begun to fray the second Takasugi's breath found his cock. He offers no formal announcement when he's about to unload; that lilting reaches a certain pitch and he's winding further against the wall, head tilted up. When he does reach his peak, he does so in several spurts. Too many fucking spurts.

Somebody was backed up.

Throughout, his fingers reinforce their grip, twisting at his hair while the fingers of his opposite pierce his own palm poised somewhere overhead.

It's. A lot.]

[Solomon's cock only brushes the back of Takasugi's tongue once before he braces himself against that overeager sway of hips. Molars threatening the sensitive swell of head in his mouth, Takasugi raises his hands to plant them firmly on jutting hip bone.

Like that he holds the man in place under his dominion, his attention continuing pointedly uninterrupted.

When he chokes, it's entirely a result of gasping down some of his own spit in staggered breath, rather than anything Solomon's done. The coughing only tightens his cheeks against the other's cock, tongue pressing into it, a facsimile of intent pressure.

Before the motions resume, as usual - a constant build to climax.

One Takasugi expects, but not the way it comes (ay).

He hears the man's voice tittering, pitch heightened as his arousal comes to a precipice. One he'd intended on abandoning entirely, not one to wear a string of come across his face, nor taste another guy's ejaculate.

Solomon's strength doesn't permit the escape he'd wanted. Fluid spills into his mouth; startling, an immediate hiss of air pulling it into the back of his throat.

More choking, accompanied by the feeling of some rising in his sinuses to sting his nose.

By the time Solomon's emptied his entire load, Takasugi's calmed. Settled into glaring up at the man between fingers and rustled hair.

He pulls away the moment he can, falling gracelessly to the side to spit what remains in his mouth to the ground. (Towards Solomon's clothing, absolutely on purpose.) There's no afterglow, no tender touches offered - he can only think to get up and stab the bastard.

But when he actually tries to, his body sways and falls. Back into his shitty mattress, where he woefully settles. Rather than grope around for his threadbare blanket, he grabs his discarded yukata, pulling it half on top of him.

The liquor in his veins tugs at his eye, threatens sleep, but he can't rest. Not when the object of his ire is so close.]

[Once he's on E and Takasugi's been appropriately choked, he sinks against that wall, sentimental tingles running throughout, but he won't pursue the fleeing man. He's not one to apologize, but the quick start of one finds a place between strained breaths. He's focused on his company all the while -- vision occasionally going dark, eyes closing as if it'd help regain some composure.

It happens eventually, naturally. He unwinds after...close to a minute; still disheveled, regarding Takasugi with much less contempt. Not love, reverence....omitting how he'd just made a sincere attempt to taint his clothes just moments ago.

Speaking of, he'll make himself decent as soon as the thought occurs to him. His undies are drawn up first, pants, making quick work to dock them at his waist. He should, uh, probably leave, but the gay starry-eyed loser inside wants to. Join him. On his shitty destitute mattress. His back would surely be sore come morning, but it'd be worth it. All fifteen seconds of enduring that pain.

He'll step nearer, mopping at his forehead with a forearm, testing the concept. Takasugi's regarding him the same way a lion may observe a zebra, he hasn't not noticed as much...but....

But.]

[Shadows swirl in Takasugi's vision, unblinking glare levied upon Solomon as if it could force an artery to burst. His focus is sharp, despite how heavily his entire body sinks into the mattress. The nape of the blonde's neck receives his utmost contempt; it's too pristine.

Next time, he'll leave blossoms of purple and black in a ring, so deeply sown into muscle they aren't healed until morning.

The thought doesn't pacify him, but it's an enamoring enough fantasy to move him. Only inches, shoulders hunched under his makeshift blanket and jaw nestled into pillow. From his vantage, he sees the man above with a truly confounding countenance.

Like he wants something? Like he's lonely...?

There's a shrug, subtle and dismissive, before he adjusts more blatantly. That his shifting has opened up more space on the mattress is 'purely coincidental'. He's turned away, a final icy glance over the shoulder spared before he burrows in for sleep.]

[Maybe he is lonely, it isn't something he'd ever discuss. Being an immortal weirdo doesn't exactly pave the way for interpersonal relationships. It isn't something he'd ever discuss aloud, unless compelled to by some unseen force (thank you nysa). While post-coital tristesse is a compelling thing...

He shan't be making a big deal of this. The arrangement's more like an uncertain cat trying to figure out how to rest alongside a pitbull. He'll sink into the offered space eventually, not exchanging a single word as his back presses to Takasugi, facing outward, away just as well. He's still warm from reaching his peak, otherwise he may hazard a grip in reverse, urging him to share.

For now, he's content to lie in sleepy silence, mopping his hairline with an open palm, slicking his bangs back with sweat in an uncharacteristically disgusting display.

This whole scene is gross.]

[Warmth flush against his back, Takasugi lays motionless, as if the grip of sleep had already coiled around him. He's awake, eye open and unfocused, consolidating himself against the spine coiled with his.

He'd expected an arm draped over his waist - perhaps some idle caress invading his space far more than an eager cock or trembling lips had.

Without a sigh, he closes his eye. Not disappointed, but their inertia has plateaued - the evening fades into a haze, culminating behind his eyes not three hours later. A strong enough swell to rouse him. Takasugi sits up to meet a shiver; the cool, dark room is still.

But for the gentle sway of a few stray strands of blonde hair at his side. In the dim moonlight, they almost appear white - he stares until the ache becomes unbearable. Slowly, not out of consideration for the other's slumber, but his own misery, Takasugi rises.

Seeks a windowsill, folding his yukata loosely around himself and gathering pipe and a small bottle of alcohol on his way. Perched there, he'll spend the remainder of the night nursing his hangover with liquor and smoke, watching the night through cracks in the grime covered window.]

[For someone with an inclination for luxury and comfort, Solomon's fast asleep without a single bid to cuddle and review their feelings. Maybe he'd rather not know, maybe he doesn't give a shit. Whatever the case may be, it isn't compelling enough to keep him awake.

And sleep he does. He's passed out through Takasugi's movements, the cold absence of a body within reach does nothing for him. Bidness as usual.

What does have him stirring is that smell. Smoke, fire, it's immediately foreboding. His nostrils twitch at first, then he's rolling flat unto his back. Just as his eyelids pry themselves apart, he's distinctly aware of how comparable the scent is to Takasugi in general on any given day.

It's still dark, but there's a silhouette by the window, one that's easily identifiable as both his companion and the culprit. It's another moment or so before he's pulling himself up post-stretch -- not nearly rested enough, but he'd like not to be the only person in the room laid out so vulnerably.

He'll make an inward note about Takasugi stinking up the room with his crappy tobacco while sitting by a window that looks perfectly functional -- openable, disturbing his sleep after effing him in the butt. Rude.

Blindly, he'll shuffle his fingers through his hair, try to make himself look decent for a pending walk of shame. He won't ask to use his bathroom, his shower specifically. Not before, not now, probably won't in the future either. He won't spare a word, tasking himself with trying to stretch himself far enough to reach his shirt without actually getting up from that shitty mattress. It's an eventual success, the garment lies open across his shoulders.

Awkwaaardd....he's just finna keep getting dressed.]

[Bottle of alcohol hanging in his hand, the rim once cool now warm against his lip, Takasugi had fallen into something of a trance. Between waking and sleeping, he stares through the warped windows at nothing but shapes, colors, seeing there memories rather than abstract beauty.

People milling about a village on a rainy day, he smells fresh fallen droplets in dirt rather than the burning of his tobacco.

Motion breaks the haze, at once he's thrust from nostalgia to the darkness of his room.

Spitefully, he doesn't spare the roused man a glance.

With the amount of shuffling, broken by pauses where breath hitches, tumbling forward in a sigh, Takasugi assumes he's planning on staying awake. Leaving, likely...

There's nothing he has to say to a man on his way out the door.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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look at all those typos i do at 8am

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