[ a reply like a predator, elated his prey has decided to give another circle around the enclosure. if Satoru gets it, then he'll proceed, dunking back the rest of his sake in short order so as not to fall behind. he doesn't cough or fluster... if anything, it tastes so clean and fresh in comparison to the curses he swallows every day. he leaves him to his exploring and pawing as he pours them two more cups, abandoning them at the table's edge and swatting Gojou's hand away if he goes for it. ]
[ instead, he rearranges himself. it'll be a while before their food comes, the middle of dinner rush with something precise and fragile like sashimi; he straddles Satoru's lap and pushes him back, a hand on his chest until he's pinned to the tatami. Getou's raking fingers push up his shirt: a counterweight that sets the shape of his lap grinding over the fly of Gojou's jeans. when he tucks the shirt up at Gojou's armpits, he stills again, reaching back for the tokkuri. ]
[ cold sake on a warm night. the porcelain of the bottle is frigid, condensation beading low and dripping down; Getou rolls the bottom curve of it against one of Gojou's nipples, shocking it into hard, perked, and flushed, gaze flickering up at him from under dark and heavy lashes. ]
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[ a reply like a predator, elated his prey has decided to give another circle around the enclosure. if Satoru gets it, then he'll proceed, dunking back the rest of his sake in short order so as not to fall behind. he doesn't cough or fluster... if anything, it tastes so clean and fresh in comparison to the curses he swallows every day. he leaves him to his exploring and pawing as he pours them two more cups, abandoning them at the table's edge and swatting Gojou's hand away if he goes for it. ]
[ instead, he rearranges himself. it'll be a while before their food comes, the middle of dinner rush with something precise and fragile like sashimi; he straddles Satoru's lap and pushes him back, a hand on his chest until he's pinned to the tatami. Getou's raking fingers push up his shirt: a counterweight that sets the shape of his lap grinding over the fly of Gojou's jeans. when he tucks the shirt up at Gojou's armpits, he stills again, reaching back for the tokkuri. ]
[ cold sake on a warm night. the porcelain of the bottle is frigid, condensation beading low and dripping down; Getou rolls the bottom curve of it against one of Gojou's nipples, shocking it into hard, perked, and flushed, gaze flickering up at him from under dark and heavy lashes. ]