GP: INBOX

[swordhardy]

@swords

▶ TEXT

▶ AUDIO

▶ VIDEO

▶ ACTION

Comments

[swordhardy]

[ 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.

[worldbent]

[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.]

[swordhardy]

[ 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.