pocketsfullof | (no subject)

It's rare that there's any sort of real privacy in Liminal Space, so when it decides to temporarily become a maze of run-down hotel corridors with rooms to match, Toshi actually feels almost cheerful for once. The rooms look clean, too, if old and careworn. There's a bland painting of a vase of flowers over the bed, although Toshi had to draw the curtains on the one window, because the almost cartoonish landscape outside with a purple sun and sky blue trees was making him feel motion sick. His jacket is already draped over the one chair in the room, and once the 'outside' is dealt with, he undoes the tie and shirt, too, leaving them on one edge of the bed. The lines of accumulated scars, new and old, are a pale web against his tanner skin. He's lucky - he doesn't scar badly, and he caught the worst of that explosion all those years ago with the arm shielding his face rather than his face itself.

Still, his line of work, past and present - it leaves marks. The newest is the clean line across his right bicep, still pinkish-red despite the magical healing, though he knows it will fade. The oldest is an almost-invisible patch of paler skin on one elbow, care of a sidewalk and childhood. Others, perhaps, were more obvious. His left shoulder was the worst of it, and probably always would be - a patchwork of surgical scars, skin grafts, and shrapnel pockmarks. The latter speckled his chest and face, too, though not nearly as badly. Then there were the ones he didn't like dwelling on - the thin, clean lines of the precise incisions he'd woken up with on Mobeius.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's more prepared for that sort of action than he was the last time, and instead of tensing up, he manages to stay relaxed and enjoy it, though he shifts, a little impatiently, not quite sure what to do next.

Souji shifting on his lap is the tipping point for Toshi's self-control. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, half pleasure and half frustration, and pushes back, rubbing up against Souji

Apparently that had been precisely the right thing to do. He was a little too distracted by Hijikata's response to feel pleased with himself, though, preoccupied by the sudden wave of heat that seemed to roll along his spine and compel him to answer Hijikata's movement with his own.

Toshi's hands drop down to Souji's lower back, pulling him closer as he shifts his hips up to grind against Souji. Any pretence of control or respectability has gone out the metaphorical window at this point, and while Toshi isn't loud, his breathing is harsh and punctuated with half-vocalized sounds of pleasure.

He gasps quietly and rolls his hips down, keeping that contact going and wondering, fleetingly, why he never thought to do this before. It was definitely a better alternative to shoving his feelings away and pretending they didn't exist.

Toshi has enough experience to find a decent rhythm without too much work, even if it does take a little bit of conscious control to not just go as fast and as hard as he can - he wants this to be good for both of them. The gasps he's drawing out of Souji are hot as hell, and he buries his own moans into Souji's shoulder.

It's not difficult to just follow along with the pace Hijikata sets--it's good, and it means he doesn't have to think too hard about any of this. He shifts a hand to Hijikata's shoulder, and there a moment before he remembers that he ought to be careful just how tightly he's holding on--he doesn't want to leave bruises, but it's all too easy to get lost in the moment.