#ratxum

He has no idea how it started; but then again, Draxum realizes, that is the case for basically all of their arguments. One of them starts – it really doesn’t matter who it is and what they argue about (but it mostly is Splinter and his movies) – and the other retorts. There’s a sort of rhythm in their arguments by now and they always end the same: stopped by one of their boys who interject.

It feels the same today, starting with a minor thing they probably both don’t remember anymore, anyway. But there is something different, and direly so – the boys are not present. A roadtrip, they had called it, one that would last for several days; so there was no one in the Lair to stop them from actually…well, arguing. And more. Although they both don’t exactly know what this more truly is, because they boys have always kept them from it…so when Splinter snarls “Alright, Draxum, that’s it. Let’s go.” Draxum doesn’t continue to argue. He just closes his hands to fists and falls into the battle-stance that is almost as familiar to him as breathing.

For a second there’s silence; anticipation lines the air between them, the crackle of adrenaline about to be released – they never really have fought ever since the Shredder. The thought is…exciting.

At first, there’s restraint; almost as if testing the waters, as if expecting the boys to barge in any second.

But they don’t, so their blows – almost playful in their weakness – get stronger. More serious. More powerful.

Draxum is a warrior – has been for almost his entire, long, long, life; his blows are fierce, if he wants them to be. He strikes with a purpose; his fist finds it’s mark and his adversary falls; that’s how it’s always been. Not today, though. Despite his size, there’s still somuch of Lou Jitsu in Splinter, he’s cunning and fast, and—strong. There’s a warrior inside that rat, violence hidden beneath that tiny frame. They’re equals here. And Draxum, for his part, loves it.

He has no idea how it came to pass, only that, at one point, Splinter pins him to the ground, hand on his wrists in a grip that seems impossible to resist. And then – perhaps to whisper something – Splinter leans down, just as Draxum strains against this hold, that was just so—so deliciously strong— –and suddenly their lips touch.

He doesn’t know if that really is what happened – only that when it did, his first thought was not to stop it. Quite the contrary.

Splinter, once he realizes what he's doing, draws back, startled. Maybe even horrified, afraid, he can’t tell— Draxum uses that momentum to topple him over, pins his wrists to the ground with his sheer might and weight. It works. The rat hits the ground so hard, all air leaves his lungs with a sharp gasp. Maroon hair tumbles into Splinter's face, grazing his whiskers that are flicking restlessly, quick like the pulse beating inside Splinter's wrists, right into Draxum’s palms, he sees him breathing hard-- Out of excitement? Fear? …Or something else entirely?

Draxum is so close he sees his own face in the rat's eyes. Sees the look of astonishment on his own features, of wonder; if he were less of a scientist, he would not be able to ignore the sudden heat he felt in his face, but pushing the emotional component aside was easy enough for him; but what he sees, that is indisputable.

He likes this, strangely enough. And the rat…doesn’t seem as adversed to this as he would have guessed.

Splinter's mouth opens, so close to him that he hears his lips part. Judging by his face, he will probably apologize -- for something Draxum doesn't want him to apologize. So he silences him, by covering his mouth with his'.

After they part again, there's surprise on Splinter's face, something in his eyes Draxum can’t make out, but it is not anger, or hate, or even disgust…he knows that look, would recognize it. This is anything but – if he were to put a label on it, it looked like the opposite entirely; so clear, so vivid and honestly confused it makes Draxum smirk and lean even closer. He doesn't fully understand this, how it could come to this. But he cannot deny how hard his heart beats with excitement, how right it feels in this very moment. This…whatever this is, is good.

Neither speak a word, just stare at each other. Say it now, if you want me to stop, Draxum says with his eyes, waits. He gets his answer immediately, for Splinter strains against his grip and chases him into another kiss.

It is unfamiliar as they tangle now on so different a ground, as hands slip beneath already dishevelled and loosened clothing, touching places they most certainly never thought - albeit silently hoped, perhaps? - they'd reach.

Splinter moves with uncertain confidence – as if the knowledge of appropriate movements is still there, just…buried – and Draxum imitates him, adding what he thinks feels right. The former movie star is experienced where the alchemist is not; they both move slow for different reasons none of them care about.

Suddenly, their restraint has returned; is welcomed, by both and feels right.

It feels right to sneak a hand under a yukata to sweep it off of a grey-furred shoulder, just as it feels right to have fingers loosen the knot around a cloth barring a fuchsia abdomen from prying eyes.

Claws tangle themselves in white hair, a tail wraps around an ankle followed by a small palm sliding up a reddish muscular thigh – all framed by the duel now carried out by their lips.

They wrestle with each other, now on completely different terms, and not at all as competitors, until both of them are bare to the other's admiring eyes; encompassed by a tension inside them that is all too sweet and growing ever sweeter with every lingering touch.

The first intimate touch is gentle, executed by Splinter who slowly regains his boldness with every further move they make. Draxum gasps involuntarily, followed by a scoff when he sees the rat grin in his face. He looks so much like Lou Jitsu in this moment it almost hurts; it doesn't, not in any way that matters right now; but it does throw him off balance and he can't help but stare. Splinter takes this as a sign to continue. A well placed stroke brings Draxum from hands down to forearms, forehead pressed against that of his former foe-now friend-now coparent-now...lover?

The word is so unfamiliar, so far off from everything he knows he inhales sharply. This is territory unknown to him, the warrior alchemist who has only ever known the fields of battle, his laboratory and seldom anything that kept him from either of the two. There's fluctuation here, all is in motion, feelings, sensations, movements and everything stays and sways all at once - the only thing constant is the man-turned-rat beneath him, one hand on his waist, the other on his length-- He can't stop when he raises his mouth to his' again, urging, needing to say, to name that constant that is the only thing holding him right now. Not Lou Jitsu, not 'rat', not Hamato Yoshi-- "Splinter", he sighs in a whisper.

The very first time he has said that name. And Splinter chuckles beneath him, uses their closeness to kiss him again and does, until the alchemist is well and truly breathless. He directs him to a sitting position, guides his hands until they find their way on their own, never letting go of him; until a well-placed stroke makes the former action start shiver in excitement, too. And Draxum, scientist that he is, quickly learns the flow of what comes next.

It is a blur from then on. Fur getting moist with sweat, slicked fingers stretching places, giving way to other, even more desired intrusions that beckon more noises, more shivers, more of that delicious, delicious tension--

Rhythm, that is not easy to find, but manageable, for they both have more than a thing to learn from the other. Until they move in unison and the restraint, welcome before, becomes utterly unwanted and is left behind like their clothing, long discarded. Sharp canines drag over a tense neck wracked by harsh noises, claws hook into flesh, leave marks red as fire, gleaming in fuchsia and grey fur alike. Grips turn harder, movements sharper, getting more reckless along their ever-fastening descent into completion; nibbles turn to bites, soft kisses to exchanges so hard they almost bruise and the gasps turn into occasional laughter, exhilarated because they match, they fit and even now they spar on equal grounds. Gloves off, no holding back, because they know the other will endure.

--until the tension reaches its peak, they push each other too far and it ends like every good battle does; in a slick mess, in utter exhaustion-- and bliss.

Draxum still doesn’t quite understand how that had happened – but damn, he sure enjoyed it; that is the thought most dominant in his head after it stops spinning. And when he looks over to Splinter, who flopped to the ground beside him, his brows furrow immediately.

"Oh. Oh no." He saw the rat's face. Knew the crinkle of his lips, the subtle flick of whiskers when he was about to say something absolutely, scandalously off-putting. And Draxum knows exactly, /exactly/ what it was going to be. So, naturally, just as Splinter opens his mouth, he lunges to cover his lips with his hands- only to stumble midway because, by the titan’s eternal essence, he is shaking. “That was some…”, Splinter begins and leans over to him, small hands framing his face, the power in that seemingly innocent grip holding him in place as he nears Draxum's ear and with great satisfaction and no small amount of mirth whispers: "…hot soup."

Draxum kicks him.

(In the face, tho. Not between the legs. He still needs that part functioning. For, y’know. Future experimentation.)