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

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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 ]

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[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.]

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