Crushed cans formed a moat around him, protecting the insanity within, keeping any reason out. What number was this one? It didn't really matter. Let's just forget? Right, that's all it was. Ugh, even thoughts didn't really seem to make sense. Why was anything really getting to him? It's not like he hadn't aggravated his partner before. Hell, him breathing let alone doing anything that might even warrant seemed to trigger off Mr. Always in a Fowl Mood. Rather tack on "When Speaking to Adachi". Ha. He treated everyone else better, fuck. Why couldn't the smell of his selected cheap beer keep his nose from breathing in the cancer sticks, that brand, only that brand? He began to love that smell, wait no, hate... No.. He cares about him too much... Wait, what? Since when. He's not some fag. Fucking thoughts shut up... He pinched the bridge of his nose, as that would bring him back.
Remarkably thoughts of future regret in the morning spilled in his head, probably the way his insides would the next day. He just laughed at the little joke in his head, all in his head. Isn't that the problem? No action, the way he feels is all in his head. He did fine with action on those two bitches, what kept him from doing so? Why him, though.. What's so remarkable about him? Wait, what is he even thinking about?
He stood, swaying, and kicked some of the cans in rage. His apartment, oh just a mess of one, just like him. His life. His past. His present. His mind. But it was home. It was his, and his alone. Unlike..
Why did that matter?
Grabbing the nearest thing. A locked box on the shelf. Well not any more. It's on the floor, probably helping with crushing the cans. A kick for good measure. Things shouldn't get to him like this. He had something no one else did, this power, this ability.
So why is it bothering him?
Eyes catch a familiar blue rectangular box, and he slips his hand under the clothes to grab it. Mild Seven. Right, he bought those once, to try them. Wanted to get as close as tasting as possible. A man isn't a man unless he smokes right? He pulls one out, the smell instantly hitting him hard. Doesn't even need to light it, and his head swims. Fumbling he searches for those matches he kept with emergency candles, and finds both. A simple strike and set, he's surprised he didn't burn himself in his own stupor, and takes a drag.
And begins a coughing fit.
His lungs are protesting, but he drags on, revelling in that bitter taste. Inhaling that dusty smell. A shiver down. Huh.. That feels odd. Oh. Can that really get to him so much? Oh god it can. Bringing the burning paper and herb, and hell knows what else, to his lips, hands reach down loosening the belt even more than it was. Fuck buttons. In once again rising anger he just tears off the bottom and attends the fly. Fingers hastily hook on the band of the black boxers hugging his hips. Huh. Damn alcohol. Hardly even up. But his mind says otherwise. Great even his own body is betraying what he wants.
A bitter, cold laugh drops the cigarette from his laugh. Oh how pathetic he must seem, ow shit. Pinching the top of the burning stick, he gets it off his thigh. Somehow the pain only gave him little rise. Never even knew that about himself all this time. His hand grasps himself, trying to coax it into life. No. Not having any of it. Great, now even his body is a bitch who won't put out. Another kick, what is he, a kid? His foot hits something. Oh that box... How did it get down there? A smile smirks at his own. Clawing at the dial, the combination is somehow right, and the cover lifts. A simple, standard pistol, same as the one on the force. Not even a bullet to call it live. Wrapping around the cold base, he lifts it up...
And puts it in his mouth. Metallic, grimy taste. He spits to the side, not thinking about where he is. On his knees he looks around the futon. Where is his mind going, what the hell is he doing? Ahha, there it is. Can't really believe he got this, what did he think was a good idea or something? He tears open the brown package. He can smell it. Strong. Who even thought about making coffee-flavored condoms in the first place, then again... He was the one who actually bought it.
As if it is the greatest solution, he pulls the rubber over the barrel. This would be the weirdest suicide to see. A man with his pants down, condom over a gun, apparently giving himself a bit of fun before he went. But it isn't even loaded, and he's not suicidal. Just pathetic. Shut up. You want this too. And his mind quieted.
It tasted as if it was creamed. Not strong enough, not black enough, but it'll do. His tongue swirled around the tip, then slid it in, sucking all the flavor he could. It tasted great, not like the stupid cigarette. Would he taste like this? He drank so much coffee, it wouldn't surprise him at the very least. He groaned as he closed his eyes, imagining as the metal heated up from the hot crevice it was placed in. His other hand found itself lower once more, tugging and squeezing. Didn't matter if it wouldn't stand, the mental idea.
And Adachi could hear him, grunting, breathing heavy and rumbling in pleasure as he was sucked as hard as he sucked on each cig when he was stressed. Rocking his hips into a greedy mouth, the mouth so eager to be there. Grabbing a fistful of hair, slamming him harder into his own barrel, sweating from pure pleasure. Telling him that of course he had to be this good, after all the talking he done. If only he learned sooner so he could shut up Adachi...
Adachi shuddered at his fantasy. His mast wouldn't get up, he needed pleasure in his body as well as in his imagination. He pulled out the barrel, frantically looking around, and grabbing the candle he remembered. Long, white, tapered. He put it in his mouth, saliva thick from hunger. His back slumped against the edge of the futon, feet planted on the dresser. Angled enough to expose himself to the tapered tip. All reason seemed to be gone, lost and drunk in more than just the alcohol.
It hurt. It wasn't slick enough. It stretched. The pain, a groan. Now it didn't matter. It was angled, then teasing. Over and over. Sloppy and rough, like how it would be. The barrel returned, he sucked on it hard and pushed it in time with the candle. Dojima...
His hardness plowing into him. A gun in his mouth, that voice telling him it wouldn't leave the moment. None of this would be spoken of again. Dojima... sounding feral and filled with lust. A Dojima he wanted to bring out, break him to violence.
He slammed it fast and harder into himself. Not as big as him, but fuck... So rough and dry... Nothing like being with a woman... Nothing like him being one.
His thoughts were enough. His breathing hitched, and choked himself pushing that barrel as far as it would go, stretching his mouth slightly to get more, defeated at the -
His insides enjoyed that stroking, that hitting on walls. The rings around the candle clenching and that...that burn... Faster and faster. He licked over the barrel, lapping at it, teeth chewing on the end of the latex, sucking the taste of the bitter liquid, plunging and rocking his hips hard.
His muscles were clenching down. He felt tightness in himself, all of a sudden he could just feel every centimeter of that candle, of the cock he imagined it to be. His legs trembled as he felt himself grow hotter and hotter. His breathing ragged, the gun now dropped and hand furiously working at himself. Tasting the sweat as it trickled over his lips, his mouth open and almost involuntarily growling out. "Dojima... fuck.. harder... faster... fuck." His breathing all but stopped as he tensed, hands abusing his stubborn member as his body began to shake softly... then grew harder and harder as he shut his eyes tight as the wave burst and flooded over him, strangling out a long groan as ever muscle in his body convulsed. Sucking inside in, he rammed in over and over, riding out his shaking self.
Gasping for air, he slumped more, feeling the candle slowly pushed outside, and inaudible plop as it exited, his asshole throbbing from the abuse... gasping just as much as he for rest. Hell, he didn't even cum... his fucking dick still half hard, with tiny bits of clear fluid sitting at the slit. He never experienced coming...without actually cumming... His eyes looked over the room, settling on the TV which reflected back his image. The light streaming from the blinds caused a glare that almost looked like his eyes were yellow, and there was a manic grin on his lips.
The alcohol tucked him into sleep.