swordhardy | GP: INBOX

Fufu, does it...?

[Eye half-lidded with heat, the real feline has never been in question, sly and watching Rokurou through dark lashes. Matoba keeps his seat with palms perched over Ro's navel, nails scratching lightly over the pale gray of his Clubs suit like a kneading cat. That perch allows him to roll over his cock in a generous pump, working him deep and sucking up to the tip again; the plush steadiness of the paws holding his hips and pushing him back down onto his cock is pleasant and just the right application of possessiveness from this man that flushes his veins with arousal and warmth. No matter how they may scratch and bite, they come back to one another like this.]

[Matoba works with the buck of his hips, plunging himself back down on the roll of his thrusts. Thighs splay on either side of his hips, deepening each bury, lips parting with quietly-breathed sounds of pleasure. His eyelid flutters at the stimulation of the soft paw stroking along his sensitive cock- an unexpected and strange sensation that nonetheless has him going stiff with pleasure, a new flush of pre dripping over the soft beans of his mitt and spreading over his cock and Ro's belly.]

[If there's any shame in this, it doesn't show. He's entirely committed to this feline fantasy that's been created for him. Rokurou's cock twitches in him every time he bucks, spurred by the plug that still grinds into him, forming an answering squeeze around him every time he plunges inside. Eagerly, Matoba bounces with him, slapping hips back down onto him and rocking to grind it against his prostate when he's buried deep. The rhythmic jingling of the bell in time with their movements is a pleasant metronome in the back of his mind; it spurs him to keep going, keep moving with almost ruthless dedication towards making the man under him come again. It's as if he barely notices when he himself clenches around the cock buried inside of him and spills, another messy, wet orgasm that covers Ro's paw mitt, a deep, almost painful throb that has him go quivering and tight.]

[It's not often that he moans aloud but it spills thoughtlessly from his lips this time, deep from his chest, mingled with a soft whisper of Rokurou's name.]

[ He doesn’t answer. Eyes narrowed with pleasure, words stopper up as Rokurou shivers beneath Matoba’s weight, heat pooling from his groin and outward. The exorcist knows how to move, body flexing and squeezing around his shaft sweetly. It’s a milking clench that Rokurou responds to on an instinctual level. Wanting, carnally, to spill his speed inside. Knowing where it belongs. Craving to claim the inside and out.

Matoba Seiji has become an addiction. One Rokurou loves and hates, one destined to be temporary regardless of how he feels about it. It must be obsession, because for what other reason would he tolerate the absurdity of fucking this man in a belled collar and paw mittens? A mitten he comes into, sticky white cum smearing into faux fur, with pretty face flush from pleasure. An expression that pricks something in Rokurou’s heart, making it itch. Ah… he really likes Seiji. So much that he wants to kill him as much as kiss him, because in that way, he would really belong to him forever. To Rokurou, it’s a deeply romantic urge that those outside of the Rangetsu clan wouldn’t understand.

Rokurou flicks the dirty glove off. Then, grabs Matoba’s thigh with his bare hand, fucking into him with urgency. The emotion cottoning up his chest only grows heavier when Matoba groans his name like that. His hole screws up, gripping Rokurou’s cock tight—a few more pumps and the daemon climaxes, cockhead buried deep when he ejaculates inside.

Rokurou’s head falls back. Lips parted, he pants, riding the shock and honeynumb sweep of afterglow. ]

[Boneless and throbbing, Matoba sways and reels over the buck of Rokurou's lap as he grips down and pistons to his end, allowing him the pleasure without restraint. He can imagine how every upward thrust must clench his ass over the toy still buried in him, feeling the twitches ricochet back through his cock where it buries. It's satisfying. His tongue traces his lips, dried from his breaths, when he finally empties and his hips sink back down onto the bed, bringing Matoba with him.]

[Ro doesn't get a lot of time to catch his breath, because before he knows it, Matoba is leaning down, the movement sliding his hole up half-way over his spent cock, to kiss him. Deep and slow, he savors the plush of their lips and the slide of tongue, greedy again for contact that barely gives him a moment to rest. He's taunted Matoba time and time again that he can't keep his hands off of him, but the accusation isn't inaccurate. It's a hunger that feels as though it can't even be satiated, in moments like these- the hunger for affection. For connection.]

[His lips pull away slowly when he can't kiss anymore, cheek settling in against a thick shoulder and nuzzling in against neck. He breathes in the scent of sex and salt and feels his hole slide off from Ro's cock, dripping spend, and settles over him with a shivered sigh.]

A bath doesn't seem a bad idea, [He murmurs, lips brushing masculine jaw and throat and lightly disturbing the collar's bell again before he sits up, resting on his weight back on his arms, the languid, satisfied cat between them.] Shall I pamper you, my pet?

[ It’s such sweet and indulgent treatment that, as their lips meet, Rokurou can’t help but to wonder what the catch is. Then, remembers that he’s already paid the fee. Doubly penetrated and coerced into fucking while wearing cat mittens, he’s earned a few rewards. So, Rokurou leans into it, enjoying the sensation as his body cools, not one to leave a mile when given an inch. It’s a closeness that he too craves, an instinctual desire that he respond to without really understanding what it means. Only that he likes it, it feels good, and that he wants more.

His ears perk up when Matoba mentions pampering. It’s rare for him to offer, being the spoiled young master that he is. Rokurou stretches, eyes bright with excitement and anticipation, grinning wide as he leans forward to chase after Matoba’s languid figure. ]

Yeah, pamper me.

[ He is quick to pull the plug out of his ass and toss it aside before scooping Matoba up into his arms, wasting no time in padding off toward the luxury bathroom before the exorcist changes his mind.

Bath! Bath! Bath!

Fast forward to them both in a huge tub, water steaming, with Rokurou struggling to keep the tears from dripping down his face as Matoba “pampers” him. That’s right, he’s a spoiled young master… ]

Why is your hair so... tangled.

[The mutter as Matoba combs through Rokurou's hair with the stubborn dedication of one who has set out to a task, a task which is being undertaken with less and less tenderness as time and frustration goes on. The similarities in the blood of their clans may be many, but the differences are laid bare in this moment: unlike the silky, fine hair of the Matoba, the Rangetsu were blessed (or cursed?) with course hair that gave Ro his distinctive, wildly spiked style. And that hair is not as easy to comb out as Seiji's own.]

[But he's giving it the ol' college try!! Ro will just have to suffer the learning curve. He's currently stuck in a chunk of hair behind his left ear, matted wet and sticking to his hands and the comb as frustration mounts. He had the patience to tease out a few strands at a time at first, but as he gets to the heart of the tangle, he's feeling he might just have to break off the rest of the tangle.]

[YANK.]

...Ah. That did it. [And only lost a few hairs in the process!! Praise him.] Maybe it would be better to let your hair dry first before brushing? I will wash your back instead.

I never had a problem before...

[ He can't even complain properly, so suffering is he. Matoba's too rough, and in this moment, Rokurou finally understands why real cats avoid him like the plague. They can probably sense how heavy-handed and unskilled Matoba is. It's smarter to stay away.

That final yank gets a YELP. Rokurou can feel the hair torn from his scalp. Tears burn in his human eye, matting into his eyelashes as he winces through the pain. Ouuuuuchhhh... why is he so rough, such a brute... ]

Just—be gentle, alright? Rub slowly... don't use your nails...

Are you certain? Even with all of your-- rolling about??

[For all he calls Rokurou a brute... In any case, Matoba is happy to be done with the struggle, and fingercombs through the remaining tussles of Ro's hair with-- well. Relative ease. He might have hit a few more snags, in his attempts to stroke away the pain and soothe his scalp.]

[He turns to deposit the comb on the side of the tub and pick up the loofah instead, pouring soap over it before turning back with a dismissive click of his tongue.] I'm washing, not scratching, [He says as if it were obvious. He only uses his nails when Ro is digging into him just as viciously! Mostly. In any case, surely washing his back can't be nearly as difficult.]

[He settles in behind Ro, thighs splaying behind his seat and pressing warm against his hips. Comfortable, cozy.... This is supposed to be about intimacy, isn't it?? So he takes a deep breath and presses the sponge to the middle of the daemon's back, beginning to scrub in circles, watching as suds and water rivulet down the dip of his spine. Attractive... His eyes follow down to his narrow waist and then back up to his strong shoulderblades, wet and glistening under the water, and he crosses the loofah over to those too, following the jut of bone.]

Better? [He asks placidly.]

[ For how rough Matoba had been with the comb, Rokurou had genuinely expected the man to start beating him with the loofah while claiming that's the best way to rub someone clean. But to his immense relief the loofah moves slowly, gently, and it's paired with the warmth of Matoba pressed close behind him. He hums in pleasure of it, eyes lidding as sensation builds. The texture of the sponge is rough but in a way that feels quite good when gliding over skin. ]

Much.

[ One of Rokurou's hands falls into the water and rests atop one of Matoba's thighs. Fingers slide, lightly gripping the meat of it. Not to hurt, or even to pin him in place—it's an affectionate squeeze. Sweat washes away with suds and water, and he sighs. Though he never really minds getting dirty, there's something satisfying about getting clean.

He leans back a little, nuzzling into the spoon of Matoba's arm when it slides forward to clean along his gutter of his hip. When he isn't being a savage... Matoba's touch feels quite nice. ]

[The hand that grips over his thigh sparks just a little bit of warmth, a strange feeling in Matoba's chest. Normally, a gesture like this would be exciting, sexual, entirely possessive- but here it takes on a different tone between them, with Matoba the one performing service and Ro inert. He ponders it as he circles the loofah up to his nape and shoulders, warm water dripping over the crest and down the fronts of his shoulders and chest.]

[When he washes away that spot with clean water, the sight of Ro's nape glistening tanned and warm for some reason sparks a different want, and he pauses for a moment, then leans in to press a soft, wet kiss against it. Lingering, Matoba realizes that his face has gone schooled in an automatic way, and both considers and does not wonder why that is while turning to press his bare cheek against the same spot. His eye flutters shut.]

[His hand slows where it was making vague circles lower by Ro's hip, for a moment just pressed against him where Ro is pressing back, with his face draped against him. It's fine... As long as they stay like this, looking away and not openly acknowledging anything, they both know it's fine. After a moment of repeating that to himself, his hand continues its circles between Ro's lower back.]

[ The warmth of lips lingers over his nape. Rokurou closes his eyes, breathing slow. It's a sensation that warms him in foreign way. Not his groin, not his cock. It's his heart that thuds, aching, bearing the weight of rippling emotion that he's tried so hard to bury. All it takes is one intimate touch from this exorcist and that work is undone, the skein unwound and twine tossed free. The line they tread is thin; as long as they don't say anything, don't acknowledge it, Rokurou can pick up the thread and begin winding it again.

Don't look. Don't move. Because then, you'll will want to reach for him. Will want to kiss him. Will want to study the hue of his eye, trace the curve of his mouth, comb fingers through his silky hair. That's something that Rokurou tells himself as well, but when Matoba's hand continues to move and wash, his chest aches with a new feeling. Emptiness, as if the loss of quiet intimacy has left him hollow, craving more of it to fill the gaps.

Rokurou exhales. Eyelashes flicker. Betraying those earlier thoughts, his hand moves, reaching for Matoba's wrist and guiding his hand around to rest against his chest. Over where his heart thuds. His own remains, pressing Matoba's palm against muscle, interlocking their fingers with a flimsy excuse, ]

... don't forget to wash here.

[He knows how easy it is to shatter this man's defenses. That has been the crux of this entire crusade, his dedication to tearing away the safety blanket that this man has created for himself, the shell that he calls malevolence. The human heart corrupted so easily. But that in itself does not mean it ceases to be human.]

[Matoba assumes that the moment passes, lodging something in them both but not disturbing it, until Rokurou reaches for him and draws him around his waist. Pressed there, his hand is very still, just feeling the sensation of the beating heart beneath.]

[Human. As he surely knows, and feels. Human, but under many, many layers- layers which Rokurou himself built over it.]

Even I cannot wipe that away.

[A quiet admission with a little mirth to it; his smirk curls against the warm of Rokurou's shoulder. Well. He could, perhaps, wipe everything away. That's always been the threat hanging over the daemon's neck. One wrong move from either of them and the blade comes down, mutually.]

[Even if he did, the layers that Rokurou built there didn't seem to be the influence of any other ayakashi; they were a mold that spoiled him from within. Learning to clear that away was something that he must do by himself- but Matoba, stubbornly, would support him.]

[ Rokurou hums in response. So there's something even the great Matoba can't do? Yet he knows more than anyone else how deeply saturated his heart is with malevolence. Ah, well. He's never expected to be purified anyway. Being like this, a creature that walks the edge, is something that suits him better. It's not like he would have been a proper exorcist that could stand alongside Matoba in the light. Their worlds, even then, would be too different.

So he sighs and rolls his head back, using Matoba's shoulder as a pillow. ]

I'm in the mood for sakura anmitsu. Let's order some.

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