【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-Star Resort and Casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to unprecedented high demand we are temporarily unable to check you in to your reserved room. We apologize for the inconvenience. We have arranged for a temporary room while we work on processing your reservation as quickly as possible. We appreciate your understanding.
As a special wedding gift from us, we have arranged for you and your new spouse to stay in one of our junior penthouses while you wait. Congratulations on your new marriage. We are so pleased you have chosen our resort for your honeymoon.
You will be notified as soon as your official reservation has been processed. Your comfort and happiness are our utmost priority. We hope you enjoy the provided amenities and lose yourself in marital bliss. 】
EVENS
EVENS: NEW CHARACTERS
Music plays. Instrumental, the tune gentle enough not to disturb peaceful rest. The sudden insistent beep of the Watch is a cutting cacophony across an otherwise sweet lullaby. Upon opening their eyes, new arrivals will quickly discover that something is wrong. The quilt snug across their body is weighty. Crystals glint in a weave of embroidery and cotton shimmers with threads of silver. Dozens of decorative pillows surround the bed. The gauzy curtains of the canopied bed are drawn, obscuring the rest of the room.
Extravagant for a kidnapping. Too extravagent. What’s more, these new guests will find something even stranger than this new diamond-studded suite tucked into bed beside them. Someone else. Who are they, what are they wearing? What happened last night?!
Guests are encouraged to explore the resort from here! There are paper maps available for those who would like and staff are happy to recommend locations if they have any preferences. Enjoy your honeymoon, you lovebirds!
ODDS
ODDS: SPECIAL RE-ARRIVAL
Never trust a hallway in the Golden peacock.
Cross the wrong threshold and time begins to slow. A short hallway becomes long, sheds its doors, only leading to turns without end. Guests too eager to explore the resort have gotten lost before. For how long always varies, dependent upon capriciousness of the resort. Hours? Yes. Years? Yes. Every guest caught in the winding hallways has reported the same thing: time is different there and too difficult to discern.
Some wayward guests have been caught in the endless hallways since the FIRST TDM. Weeks pass before a single doorway appears in the distance. It creaks upon opening before everything goes topsy-turvy. These guests have been let out of a trap door in the depths of Crane's Respite.
All water corridors will eventually lead back to the populated areas of Crane's Respite. The waters are warm, the scent of bath salts returns, and staff are wild with joy at finally finding all of you. They have been beside themselves searching ever since you vanished!
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Because we love all of the new characters premiering on this TDM, we kindly request that our Evens prompt be top level exclusive for new characters. Current characters are encouraged to tag in to these prompts with the caveat that they’ve been picked up from their assigned suite (or wherever else they were before) and dumped into the new arrival’s bed. We would like for new characters to have this prompt unique to their top level comments!
▶ Players are welcome to have their current character riff off of these prompts in the log community with the exclusion of the new arrival element. This request is just for TDM top levels.
▶ Current characters and new characters are both welcome to freely mess around with the Odds prompt with the exclusion of the arrival element. For new characters, players may participate with the idea that their character is exploring Crane’s Respite after their unique arrival in the Evens prompt. The Odds arrival element may also be utilized by current player characters who may have been on an unofficial hiatus in January and did not tag as much as they would have liked, to explain any long IC absence.
▶ Octopi may be killed. If a character decides to eat one of the octopi they may find themselves taking on some of its traits. Which traits are up to player discretion.
ELEVATORS
ELEVATORS
The house has recently ordered a full changeout of art in all high traffic areas. The elevators in particular have received special attention with many different famous artworks and portraits studded to the walls for guests to admire. These artworks are treasures of the modern world that one would typically see behind glass at a museum. Guests may even find works from their own world hanging in the elevators. Even famous works that maybe have been lost to time. So this is where they ended up. Is that Vermeer's The Concert?
Guests may find their elevator suddenly stopping without warning. The portraits on the wall stir, curiously studying them, but there are three main portraits calling the shots. The portrait that controls that particular elevator will make their demands known with the threat that, if they are not obeyed, you will be trapped forever.
Elevators will function after the portrait's demands are met. Guests that hold out and refuse may find themselves trapped upwards of twelve hours. Guests with the ability to do so may crawl out of the top emergency door, free to go wherever they want from there.
GREAT TIT!
GREAT TIT!
Great Tit! is the Golden Peacock’s popular dessert bar and cafe. With its bright pops of color and whimsical treats, guests simply can’t resist stopping in for a butt shaped cookie and hazelnut coffee. After catching wind that the resort has decided to celebrate a dessert shop's most lucrative holiday, Great Tit! is ready to impress the masses. Advertisements for limited edition drinks and desserts rain the main lobby; one can’t go three steps without slipping on a neon pink coupon for 10 percent off nipple buns. Guests that decide to pass by the cafe will find themselves assaulted with confetti cannons and eager employees ushering them inside.
Guests will find a temporary communal shower room upon exiting Great Tit! where they can wash off after a fun day of rolling around in sugar. All guests will be gifted a tee branded with a, CHOCOLATE IS MY LOVER logo.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ This portraits prompt has been triggered by several characters expressing interest in and investigating the lore of the resort paintings. This is just dipping a beginning toe in, but congrats to all for poking around!
▶ Portraits in the elevator should not be destroyed, purely for continuity’s sake. If a character would go far enough to attack one of the portraits, the portrait will slap them back with ghostly power.
▶ Characters may also figure other ways out of the elevator if they have specific abilities to do so. While the portraits can control the elevators, they cannot control your character(s). Any destruction to the elevator itself is liable to result in a rush of security dragging the culprit(s) away to the Iron Net.
▶ Great Tit! is running a massive sale! Even characters who are on the broke end of the spectrum will be able to afford to join in on the fun and indulge in sugar at these prices.
▶ Players are encouraged to make up any other elements for the Hall of Chocolate. If it’s a dessert and edible, it’s there. Enjoy your sugar coma!
▶ While the chocolate boxes are ICly limited due to Alessandro’s skills as a chocolatier, this is only an IC mechanic. There is no OOC limitation on this prompt as far as chocolate rarity goes.
THE NEST
ALICE AND THE PARROTS
Fashion boutiques are a dime a dozen in the Nest. The shopping hub is massive, lined with stores all trying to aggressively appeal to guests. A challenge in itself — but the guests of the Golden Peacock are no ordinary people. Used to being pampered and fed excitement, if these boutiques don’t bust their bottoms to appeal to the fickle nature of their patrons, they won’t be in business for much longer! One particular boutique, Alice and the Parrots, is riding winds of romantic thrill and churning out a couple of brand new fashion lines sure to draw in loads of chips.
Guests are welcome to try on clothes in Alice and the Parrots' dressing rooms. These dressing rooms are small and can only accommodate two people sharing at a time. Such is the life of a small boutique store. Sharing is no big deal, right? And there’s no way you can buy clothing this expensive without giving it a test first.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Players are encouraged to make up whatever cute outfits they would like for this prompt.
▶ Wedding clothes do not have to be cute and frilly; this section accommodates tastes of everyone.
▶ Alice and the Parrots is more expensive than Love Dove. Their clothing quality is excellent but their price tags are high. Staff may watch low ranks extra diligently to cut off any stealing. Thieves will be chased by NPC security! Anyone caught gets a day in the Iron Net.
CASINO CHAPEL
CASINO FLOOR
A Pop up Chapel has appeared in the Phoenix Casino. Guests are delighting in playing out weddings and pretending to get married — and a few guests are even tying the knot for real. They aren't worried about the sanctity of marriage; they can divorce tomorrow if they get bored of each other. And everyone knows that getting married doesn't mean you can't fuck whoever you want!
Since the resort isn't keeping track of how many marriages a guest has, all guests are encouraged to marry as many people as they would like. The more the merrier!
Wild wedding events will continue all throughout the month of February, until the guests find it's gotten stale. A divorce rush will round out the fun at the end of the month.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Weddings are not legally binding. Birdvis is not registered as a real officiant, but he does have an excellent beak and pompadour.
▶ Prizes from easy mode slot machines are automatic and do not require mod thumbs up to claim.
▶ Chip prize from difficult mode slot machines is automatic. The special prize is 5 reward points to add to your bank on rewards. Players who wish to claim the special prize should link the finished thread (the kink in question has been completed) under their rewards header with the header, Wedding Slot Machine. If you do any combination of 6/6 (finger hand lol) we ask you somehow make this sexy or involve a climax in order to claim the points.
BLANKET CW: Aphrodisiac; Compulsion; Costumes; Dubcon; Entrapment; Foodplay; Gambling; Lingerie; Matrimony; Tentacles; NSFW Images and Language; NTR; Nudity; Roleplay; Sacrilegious Themes
▶ All new characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. The house is still observing and deciding. As rank and suits are assigned upon acceptance your new character's suit will not manifest until they are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's February event.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Please make sure to review the arrival prompt notes! Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are priority and receive attention!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with the prompts on this TDM please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort.
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread anyway!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Thank you for spending Valentine's Day with us! You're our sweetheart this year. 💕
[ To Kizuna, this is easier than a more overt battle of wills, easier in the way a bad habit is: to supplant dominance with revelry. The first taste of a kiss has Kizuna chasing it, jaw tipping in pursuit. It's with that same heat and looseness that he kisses Matoba in earnest, leaning down into his space and pushing back on that icy static, that darkness that threatens to rise up into his throat, up, up, over his head —
A smile cracks open on his lips as nimble hands smooth beneath the opened hems of his kimono. He doesn't venture too deep with his kisses, not yet, preferring a slow dapple of touches, breath coming in measured plumes. He is a lover naturally, but it's also the siren's call of the resort, its concentration here in the chapel. ]
I was feeling a little impatient... [ Palms travel over collarbones, contemplative. ] But I could take my time with this part too.
[ Kizuna trails a flagrant touch down over the other man's chest beneath fabric, easing at the skin, teasing over nipples. It takes some effort to relent and remove one, sliding an arm down around his waist. With more space it would carry the implications of an embrace. ]
[The real first test is the first ingress, contact, and feeling skin to skin how they'll react. Eagerness is a good thing; regardless if Kizuna is just trying to escape from the oppression of Matoba's presence, it gets him where he wants him.]
[Matoba's lips grind back, just as pleased to engage. Tongue flickers in invitation, and runs along bottom lip; he could take it, and invade his mouth as he presses further against the corner of the confessional where Matoba's body has propped up. Or, Matoba would be happy to be the one to cross lines first, and instead flicker into his. If he were to open his eyes at any point during the kissing, and risk it, he'll find that Matoba's good eye is open- watching.]
[With his body pressed back against that corner of the bench, he's trapped there, and ripe for hands to explore. They're warm, touching every inch. Matoba's body was slender overall and largely soft, but there was evidence of training to it. It was very specific; his shoulders, his upper arms, the muscles at the top of his back. All areas that would be toned by upper strength training, holding a particular tension. There were marks, too, that seemed like evidence of past carnal encounters- now nearly-faded, there were the remnants of pink bitemarks across his shoulders.]
[He smiles, laughing softly against his lips.] Why rush? I don't have a schedule today.
[As Kizuna's hands travel, Matoba leans to them, and his back bows to the arm that slides behind it to steady him. He doesn't mind being pampered and bowed to his touches- so long as he was getting what he wanted. And speaking of that, why not start now? One of Matoba's hands slides itself up into the other man's hair, fingers sifting, then clenching- a tight hold that continues that thread of dominance he'd started with his grip on the slot machine, and keeps the man close to him. His other palms explores up an inner thigh, pausing, cradling, just short of his groin. It was easy to reach everything he wanted in this cramped space.]
After all, the machine didn't tell us we couldn't do anything else along the way.
[ The divot of Matoba's back makes Kizuna want to carve into him with a severity that doesn't feel quite his own for a moment. He doesn't have to open his own eyes to feel it, the imprint of that sanguine eye bearing down on him. Brows knitting, Kizuna shivers, pleasure and fear enmeshed where his soul meets his skin. Then there is the third thing, the movement of hands on him, seeking. That grip tightening feverishly at the back of his skull blooms into light shapes on the backs of his eyes, almost paring him open more than the hand on his thigh does. That muscle ripples too, warming.
Even if he could hide it, he likely wouldn't. Kizuna is sensitive to all of it. ]
Mmm... [ He hums in agreement despite himself, fingers raking back upwards to slide over the muscle of Matoba's shoulder and ease the material of his kimono off it. His fingertips brush the faded marks, noting the imprints with open and idle curiosity. ] True. Taking our freedom where we can get it...?
[ Behind him, his fingers slip into the loosened knot of the obi, plying at the fabric with a sensuous focus that he hopes the other man will feel as it unravels. Kizuna presses a longer kiss to his mouth as he works, lips parting to accept his tongue, his teeth. Quietly, the belt's tension gives and Kizuna pulls it from his waist with a pointed slowness, pooling it on the other end of the already-cramped bench. ]
[It's a curious thing, this man's reactions. Was he affected by an aphrodisiac? Matoba had observed similar behavior from those who had been made touch-sensitive by the resort's influence, but no, he decides. The tell-tale physical signs, the flushed skin and the breakout sweat, were absent. Then, was it something connected to this strange sensation he'd perceived from the other man? Matoba, so sure of himself, does not consider that his heart has been compromised. Too closed off, too entrenched in the lies that even he himself has come to believe about his own capacity for feeling.]
[All this absorbed in the moments between dragging lips and the suckle of tongue. Matoba's shoulder slopes downward with a flex to help the fabric slip off and pool at his elbows, bent upward while hands are reached out to touch Kizuna's body. It forms a flag across his back, revealing to Kizuna's fngertips the upper portions of relatively unmarked skin, and the sharper juts of muscled bone between his shoulderblades.]
[His eye, still watching, twitches alight with a spark at that word.] Freedom, [Matoba repeats, as if delighted.] Is that what this is? [For you? For us? He doesn't specify.]
[He likes that this man knows how to undress him. He had become accustomed to stripping himself, in no small part thanks to an early encounter with a certain ill-behaved dog early on in the resort. But it's a pleasant sensation that blends with the drag of teeth and the meeting of tongues, a tactile preview of what will come. With his kimono loosened, Matoba's lap parts without delay, an invitation as fabric slips open and reveals one thigh, equally as pale as the rest of him, the other draped in the hem of his kimono as it sags open. Underneath, plain black boxer briefs stretch across a lazy erection and hide a new smattering of old bruises and bites over hipbones. It would be so easy to slide the rest of the fabric aside, and take hold of those hips, to peel free what he's been promised.]
Don't let me stop you-- [He smiles and pulls back from the kisses to gently bump the back of his head against the corner of the confessional with a dull wooden thud. His lips glisten as his smile widens, and his eye dares- the grip in Kizuna's hair no less firm, but eager to follow him downward.] --from taking what you want.
[ Freedom. Want. Each word shrouds his heart and tightens, squeezing. Passionate and mercurial, it's difficult to imagine him as someone who naturally lacks freedom. But Kizuna so rarely allows others to peer into his heart to see how it's been crowded to the point of darkness, overrun and invaded. These choices, intense and lurid as they are, make him feel as though he's not as in danger as he actually is. To put the monsters in front of him where he can see and touch and taste... to know an outline is to make it less fearsome, even in the dark.
To illuminate it would simply set it all aflame, and so Kizuna allows his kisses to break with soft, heated amiability. His golden eyes are liquid-bright in this lighting, flicking over the new sights presented. He doesn't answer to the question, only because he's aware that Matoba knows the answer. ]
I'd never. [ A quiet huff, as if he's perishing the thought. ] Not when you look like that.
[ There's a certain decorum he carries into encounters like this, head canting beneath Matoba's grip to kiss chin, jaw, the pulse point crowning the column of his neck. Then that trajectory shifts downwards to shoulder, clavicle, his long fingers smoothing back the hems of the kimono to bare his chest and leave flashes of tongue across warm skin. There's just enough room in this little box for Kizuna to sink to his knees if he bows his back enough, making his brow drag lightly across the other man's belly. ]
I'll have to move you eventually. But while we're taking liberties, I'd like to enjoy this too...
[ His hands rove over the muscle of Matoba's thighs as he scrapes his teeth along his erection through the material of his underwear, all friction and dampness. ]
[It would almost be worth it to Matoba to open his heart to this man and let him drown in its twisting webs and dark plunges, purely in order to be able to get a glimpse of the same; to have all that equally mirrored to him and all that it would mean to destroy him. Mutually assured destruction; nothing was more exciting, more pleasing. To see glimpses of your own mania in another was intoxicating. That was why everything remained withheld carefully, tightly wound behind scarred layers of mantras and justifications. For the head of Matoba, such revelations were tantamount to destruction.]
[It makes this place, this resort, a danger unlike any other. But in order to conquer it, sacrifices were necessary. And he, himself, was a born sacrifice.]
[Compliments delivered from a place of dominance; Matoba could laugh at the flattery, but it's fun when they're both self aware, isn't it? It makes the gentle lashes of tongue, the trace of Kizuna's lips, all the more pleasing. The grip in his hair shifts to allow changes of angle and Matoba's fingertips stroke over the shell of an ear, an affectionate tease like the stroke of a pet; but never does he let up his grip completely. Pulse flutters under his touches as he travels downward, Matoba's skin soft and relatively unmarked; a blank canvas for him to leave his own save the occasional stray white of a scar at the ribs or sides that looks like a cat's claw caught him once. A very large cat, that must have been.]
[Matoba does not lean towards the mouth that traces over his cock, content to let the pleasure come to him, but the scrape of teeth muted by fabric was an appealing sensation. Beneath the fabric, a lazy pulse shifts muscle under his mouth, enticed towards further promise of immersion. Digging his shoulders back into the cramped corner of the bench, Matoba's thighs part graciously to allow him further entry.]
How would you like me? [Matoba's voice is warmed by physicality, but never loses any of its pristine exactness; he always sounds as though he could switch from indulgence to punishment at a moment. His free hand, not twisted against the nape of Kizuna's skull, traces the line of his cheekbone with a knuckle towards the point of his own arousal and then hooks a thumb under his waistband in offering.] Lower? Do you want to watch my face as you swallow?
[ Caught between sensations, Kizuna is all too aware that a gentle hand is the one most easily used against him. A gentle hand can cause more harm when the time comes to employ it than any number of other cruelties. Awareness is what gives him focus even if he feels like he could drown, pressing each new open swath of heated skin into his memory. Just for safekeeping, for the inevitable. Twinges of phantoms long gone spark across his skin beneath his suit, teaching him the location of the scars his mouth hasn't yet found. He presses a smile against the fabric, into the growing definition of hard flesh beneath it, teeth disappearing behind lips and an equally phantom fondness. ]
Let me save your knees some trouble for now. [ A promise neatly tucked away just like his teeth are, the nerves of them aching with his own pulse. ] Until I'm closer to done with you.
[ He's just gotten on his, after all, and he eases back when presented with the breadth of his groin as if he wants to witness the current result of their time in the confessional so far. He likes this — the unhurried pitch of the air as the temperature rises, the state of undress. There's only so much space he has between Matoba's knees and he still commands it with enough finesse to reach up and smooth his hair back away from his brow. With his other hand he crooks his fingers, beckoning for Matoba to finish the motion, to remove that final barrier. At least part of the way, because he'll handle the rest.
Kizuna looks up at him with an uninhibited view now, unwavering gold eyes, long lashes. The crests of his cheeks have barely colored as he considers something; he's not been driven to a blush just yet. ]
You might never be able to stay away from me after this. Are you okay with that?
[Some tools need a heavy hand; the ones who are accustomed to use, who don't know any other way of being. It's in reading this man's demeanor that Matoba chooses the route of temptation over the route of authority, but it's a switch that could flip at any moment. His skin twitches with the possibility of it. A man who was a wound spring, a knocked bow, ready to deliver hurt with the slightest provocation.]
[And yet, despite his capacity for destruction, he is laid bare and prone willingly. The promise of service eases him into this position, not without his own selfish indulgences. A man who can be conquered, a man who desires to be used, is a man Matoba finds most indulgent of all.]
You might never be done with me, making promises like that. [His mouth curves, an expression that can't really be called a smile in any honesty.] Most men are the ones trying to escape. Does that mean you leash yourself willingly?
Are you eager to be-- [Matoba's hand curls around from Kizuna's nape, and brushes elegant fingertips up the column of his throat, nails-first.] --owned?
[With his other hand, he stretches the fabric forward the rest of the way. The elasticity of the fabric finally gives and slips forward over the curves of his hips and thighs, bunching under the cleft of his ass and revealing all at once to Kizuna a lazy erection that rests in wait for him. Between pale, exposed thighs pepped with the fading bruises of past teeth, the promise of entry awaits, the original promise.]
[Matoba's thumb releases from the loose roll of fabric and he sifts his fingers through Kizuna's hair once more, from his bangs to the back of his skull, a grip that is neither soft nor harsh but holds potential for both.]
[ Provocation is a language he's well-versed in. What form it takes is something he would almost rather never leave to chance. It's why Kizuna prefers this: proneness meted out with a price. And he pays in pounds of soft flesh and rushing blood, a pretty noise rolled throw in his throat as Matoba's nails scrape across it. As if he could tear into the thud of his Adam's apple and force everything within to come pouring out. He has that capacity, Kizuna thinks, the nature of his wants capitulating only to his own eagerness to give.
Having his words turned back on him makes him smile and he measures out his reaction with physicality, picking up where the other man left off by reaching up and smoothing his underwear down the rest of the way. The way he guides his legs to move is assured and lulling, almost as if it's second-nature. ]
Leash myself to you? [ He drops the fabric in a careless pool beside him, leaning in to press a kiss to the inside of one thigh. ] Or to this place?
[ In this position, does it make a difference? For Matoba, he's sure it does. Fingers spread across the back of his skull like fire, carving through his thoughts. He notes the bruises, notes that he's not the first here and finds that unsurprising. Ducking his shoulders between a light dappling of kisses, he eases Matoba's knees over them, one hand kneading up the outside of a thigh and the other splaying across his belly. ]
Either way... [ With a pointed flutter of his lashes low over his cheeks, Kizuna finally presses his lips to the base of his cock. He sucks lightly at the velvet skin there, releasing only to drag the flat of his tongue up against the underside. Reaching the crown of it, he takes the tip into his mouth, molding tongue across it and laving it away just as quickly, punctuating the gesture with a cheeky kiss. ] You'll get everything I've promised you.
[Matoba's unkind smile tilts to that response; for a moment he seems to be considering it, choosing to relish in the physical first. Disrobed, he gives himself over to this man to see where he will be taken. In this, at least, he feels little need to control or direct.]
[He's very sure that Kizuna will, certainly, give everything that has been promised. What comes after will be the true game.]
This place....? [A chuckle bubbles forth from his, soft under his breath. Goosebumps spread in the wake of his lips, across the skin that Kizuna's palm spreads over, muscles tightening and flexing strong against his shoulders. His fingertips curl a lock of hair over them, haughty amusement putting him in a kinder mood.] You think you will be given a choice by it?
[As though he himself were the sort to give choices freely; but then, he could be led to reason. He was, in the end, human- not like whatever likely ruled this place, some unknowable consciousness with a comprehension of reality beyond mortal understanding. Were they to discover it, would their meager pleas even mean anything?]
[Being paid tribute, Matoba's eye half-lids like a cat stroked over the back. His cock's lazy thrum underneath the press of mouth wakes it from lazy interest to active arousal; between his lips, the taste of sweat and pre mingle onto his tongue. Hips shift back against the motions, and when he leaves away again, a soft sound like a sigh escapes his lips. An imperious tilt of the head conveys a pang of impatience, but he doesn't go chasing after the mouth that pulls back again. He knows he does not need to chase; he has already won the battle that keeps his prey close.]
[Fingertips tap at the back of Kizuna's skull like a code, with nails perched; playful, ready to reciprocate any pleasure, any pain. He can choose his own flavor.]
[ Kizuna doesn't answer, but it shows on his face: he wonders about that. Choice and the illusions it wears to mask a dearth of end results. Humans need that illusion to foster hope. It's always been his talent to see between the lines, to push through the fissures.
Some instances are just more overt than others. This is one such time, the ease of physicality superseding the tangled mystery of this place, enshrined in glamor and gold. Tapping on the sensitive part of his skull entices him forward, eager to be accepted and gripped in a way that feels more human despite the danger. Sucking in a breath that tightens in the cage of his chest where all that he feels paces like an animal with no hearth, Kizuna obliges.
Matoba's taste sparks on his tongue when he fastens his lips over his cock again, knowing it's just a prelude. The pads of his fingers press into the outside of his thigh, shoulders still relaxed as nice nails whisper against muscle. Kizuna pushes in and takes him into his mouth in earnest, tasting at him inch by sensuous inch with the focus of a lover rather than a stranger. He pauses only to give his cock a slow slide in and out of the wet, jewel-like slick of his mouth.
His breath unfurls to set that rhythm, exploring Matoba's shape and length, a low noise slipping loose from his throat, pleased. ]
[In order to hold hope, one must believe in a future. One's own future. The potential future of others. Matoba was a lot more of the latter than the former; it drove every aspect of his being, every decision, every sense of worth. But it was a precarious balance. What this place might require of him, what it may strip him of- so long as the promise at the end held true, no sacrifice was unnecessary.]
[Sex or sexless. Himself, or others. This man, but one of many he has made. Will make.]
[He feels Kizuna ready himself before the warm shiver that engulfs him, the muscle in his hip flexing his cock against the man's tongue as it slides down the underside and rests against the bed. When heat fully consumes him, he twitches against the suction that tugs back. Body answers, not voice; Matoba is strangely silent as he's taken, save for the quiet shivers of breath drawn in and slowly leaked from barely parted lips; in an enclosed space, every sound was a loud echo.]
[Hips shift subtly, to apply a slight pressure against this or that push of lips or cradling tongue, and the grip of nails that massage against the back of Kizuna's skull move slow circles, contemplative. Taken completely, the grip tightens; drawn back, it loosens again. A knead, like a cat. Matoba's pupil, slit likewise, blows half-way in the darkness, but a glimmer of light catching through the slats in the confessional set it ablaze.]
[The crook of his mouth is slight, but telling.]
Good, [He comments, praise from any other than this man who seems possibly incapable of holding enough empathy to justify that word.] Do you like to be fucked? Shall I move with you?
[As little he can in their current, cramped configuration, at least.]
[ So silent in his initial efforts, the sound of Matoba's voice rings in his ears as if caressed upon the thud of his pulse, his heated blood. He's not at the point where the line is so blurred that all he can focus on is glutting himself on his taste, the willing skin coiled over a soul so inscrutable that the piercing focus of his eye is almost preferable. Then again, Kizuna has never been opposed to that plunge, that blade-like whisper. It's one of his greatest faults, dressed up and set loose on the world as generosity.
His cheeks hollow as he sucks with pointed softness against Matoba's cock, lips sliding back to momentarily release him. Breath spills from his wetted lips, emptying out of his chest in a fortifying wave. Not stayed from his wants, the enjoyment he's getting in chasing those minuscule shivers of Matoba's throat and lungs, his mouth strays to stamp irreverent kisses to his balls. ]
Mmn. How would it feel to fuck my mouth?
[ He wonders aloud for the thrill of it, already knowing the answer. Another kiss to his base and a lave of tongue upwards, flat against its underside. ]
Better, right?
[ With the initial sensation of sucking him off already imprinted on his mouth, Kizuna resumes, taking him in with a renewed fullness. His fingers flex and palms apply pressure to his thigh and belly, urging Matoba closer, forward and into the willing clutch of him. ]
[Watching Kizuna take to his task like a man starved, he wonders again what this man's desire may be. Not a simple dog like many he's toyed with here, but neither did he seem to have the scent of magic about him, the telltale stench of a wicked spirit. Matoba's thumb stretches and strokes against a curl of hair at his temple as the hinge of his jaw works over his cock, feeling the slide of bone under skin.]
[To use, or to be used. Which was it?]
[His cock left to the air after moments of warmth, a shiver flushes goosebumps up thighs, over the skin under Kizuna's fingertips and lips, listening to the timbre of his voice as he muses over the question.]
[Not the question Matoba asked, though. The exorcist's eye sharpens with the attention to that detail as he answers graciously, his smile quivering as it tugs upward, but he does not call the man on his avoidance.]
[That's not a kindness. It's letting him impale himself on the gleaming point of his focus. To use or be used? To desire or be desired? He's getting a sense for this man.]
[But, it's still an answer- one to which Matoba responds immediately when he's engulfed again and urged onward. He doesn't need any further encouragement, fingers tightening their grasp at Kizuna's nape to hold fast when thighs tense up, the readying of muscle to force his hips forward with a rough fuck forward. There's a practiced ride to the movement of Matoba's hips, unrelenting, grinding the head of his cock in long strokes over the bed of Kizuna's tongue before burying. Once granted, he takes no quarter, every movement precise and purpose-driven, mechanical and harsh.]
[Under his movements, the bench creaks quietly, regularly, and the sounds of his breathing pick up; still, there is no softness of a moan, no warmth of voice that escapes him- pleasure remains something harsh and repressed in the shallow rise and fall of his chest, as though it were merely the inconvenient byproduct of the act.]
[ Kizuna knows better than to seek kindness and a gentle touch from men like Matoba, even if the thumb cresting over the flex of his jaw could be misconstrued as such. To understand has never meant that the softness of his empathy would be mirrored, however ironic he knows that is. One of the only things Kizuna has ever felt to be unfair is exactly that, even if he can't juxtapose that feeling with this situation. This place won't let him, its deep-reaching and influential newness giving him all the motivation to play the game as intended, no matter the cost. Those two points close in on him like a vice, the sheer physicality of this encounter and the glaring in-between of the way he answers without answering.
Just like he doesn't seek gentleness, he doesn't seek to undo Matoba either. That would be an ambition misplaced among the other man's internal static. Unable to see to the bottom, he's left to accept what's presented for now. Only the initial pivot to thrusting his cock into the well of his mouth makes him tense, breath halting at the sensation.
He is stubborn and selflessly unwilling to be bested — it doesn't take long to adjust to the utilitarian movement, the way the pleasure taken from him is pleasure only in the strictest sense of the word. It's only by the overwhelming grace of the casino's atmosphere that Kizuna doesn't succumb to that aspect of this encounter, instead content to lavish him with the best of his freely-given affections.
Only the knit of Kizuna's brow gives away the amount of concentration it's taking to match his pace; his cock crowns the tender back of his throat, eliciting a vulgar moan deep in its hollow. His heart pounds and his skin heats, nails pressing into the muscle of his thigh. He wonders as his breath comes short against his groin the farther he takes him in if this is preferable to those who came before him, the ones responsible for the bruises and bitemarks. ]
[Men who deny themselves. Matoba knows a thing or two about that, an ascetic who has stripped himself of all the unnecessarily human qualities he could in order to sharpen himself into a fine-pointed tool, crafted for purpose. But to be human was imperfection at its core; however he might bury his selfhood, the burnt-down embers of a man remain there, buried beneath the oilslick and the deep, dark static. There is a ghost of warmth. But only just.]
[He is beginning to understand. To deny oneself and instead pour oneself into the mold of others and become the shape they desire: a liar. Kizuna was of a different breed, he thinks, but one Matoba knew almost just as well. Rather than the deep dark, he was the bright-bright; falsehoods piled atop pretty, glimmering falsehoods, veneers of perfection plastering over something incomplete.]
[If it turns out that they are alike, Matoba thinks to himself with the single twinge of irritation he'll allow to bubble up, he'd be better served cutting this man off and never seeing him again. He won't be able to help himself fixing him.]
[Well. If the man dislikes it, he's a talented liar, at least. The moan is a crack through the quiet in their shared space and sends a shiver of delight curling up Matoba's spine, a different kind of enjoyment to be sure from that he'd derived from the anger that bore the marks all up his skin. Controlling a man physically and controlling a man by twisting his desires were two different vices, but ones he enjoyed all the same. Brutality and duplicity, two sides of the same coin.]
[Bitterness wells on the back of Kizuna's tongue as cock grinds over it, slit leaking the first taste of pleasure that courses through his blood. Starving for it, he'd said. It'd be cruel to let him go hungry.]
A taste for use, and a taste for punishment, [Matoba quietly observes through the slight effort of his breaths. Heat has gathered in the intimate space. Sweat drips down his body, pooling in creases by his thighs and groin, where Kizuna's fingers leave indents in soft skin. His cock throbs in a slow drag from between his lips and then pushes back, buried whole again.] In that case, perhaps I refuse you this.
[His nails tense on the back of Kizuna's neck, threatening to twist him back like a dog's scruff. Or, more precisely, downward.]
[ Kizuna is never entirely without expectation in these situations and Matoba still manages to take him off his guard. It's an affliction to be ensconced in a thin veil of Matoba's annoyance, tapped from a well of familiarity that Kizuna hadn't even been aiming for. Was it remembrance? Pretense? That feeling molds itself to him and then disappears against him as if melted, like sugar or salt burned back by wetness and heat. All of it drips down the same way, the ghosts of warmth altered by corruption: black and acrid. That same curl of delight supersedes Kizuna's ability to dwell on it, sparked and then dulled again by Matoba's denial of him just when he'd gotten a taste of what he's been desiring.
A thick gasp marks the infliction of nails against his nape, making him release the other man. The words drift in, third to the sensation of it, which in itself comes second to exacting the promise he'd made. Kizuna breathes heavily for a moment, orienting himself in his grasp and licking his lips, if only in the interest of pressing a cleaner kiss to the inside of Matoba's thigh. Even that action seems well-charted, lascivious as it looks. ]
Is it punishment if I haven't forgotten?
[ His tongue clicks, a soft tsk whispered against damp skin. Duty is quite the word to use and he notes that in the over-full backdrop of his mind, not using the casino's exercise to forget any of his predilections. If only he could so easily wipe it all from his nerves, that tendency for juxtaposition...
But well. It's not that easy. ]
This way.
[ Kizuna coaxes him forward to meet that downward angle he vies for, shrugging his shoulders to better support the other man in the steep confines of the confessional. His nails crescent thighs, grip stronger and more robust than it might seem as he pushes in to take what he was chanced to: face burying into the cleft of his ass to lave his tongue against the tight muscle there. ]
[What burned once is gone just as soon as it came, a whiff of smoke that disappears again, lost in the static. If Kizuna's notice of it is apparent to Matoba, he doesn't show it; in this clash perhaps, he's come away with a victory.]
[One battle, but the war goes on. Determination not to give what is desired. Hunger and excitement from a man who he presumes equally seeks proof of total domination, of victory- one that he will be denied. For now, anyway; Matoba Seiji will not give up that proof so easily. A simple man, being shown such humble service, would rush forth towards that plateau, greedily take the crest and tumble right over it into satisfaction. But as a man who views even his casual conquests three steps ahead, who already sees the vantage point from which he might further control his quarry, Matoba has patience. Where it counts, anyway.]
[His cock released on its thrumming precipice, it nestles flush and glazed wet against his hip as Kizuna's careful touches move him into position, crushing him further against the hardwood of the confessional bench. It's not unbearable, and so he bears it; joints and neck will ache after this, but it will be satisfying; it will be the reminder when he has this man in his palm.]
[The lash of tongue that finally meets him has his stomach fluttering even in its crushed position, his breaths flaring shallow with anticipation. Matoba has seen use, recently enough even, to suggest that penetration would not be difficult. Not recently enough for a taste to remain on Kizuna's tongue when he draws it in for the first taste, not even the deeper he eventually finds himself; but the muscle is tender and with enough soaking, and enough encouragement, will give way eagerly to intrusion. It's welcome, even, with the way that muscle flutters and softens to his tongue, as though it has come to expect it. A body not free of want, and accustomed to the kindnesses that precede use.]
[Perhaps a honeytrap in itself, subtly coaxing Kizuna into considering that very use. The deeper he falls. Matoba's hands, slipping slowly free from where they steady his position, take up hold at the tops of his thighs and spread himself further open, a silent invitation.]
[ That is a favored reaction, pressurized as it is by the gravitas of his attentions. The saturation of what pleasure he derives from this is enough, even on its well-crafted surface — more than control and domination, Kizuna seeks something given even less frequently. To brush his fingertips across a terrifying glimpse of something he doesn't understand is enough to get him here, on his knees in a chapel like he's seeking salvation deep within someone else's body. Like he can pry that darkness out gut-first.
Laying into Matoba's body with the energy of a man possessed by the starvation he proffered earlier, he traces the heated topology of earlier encounters, finding no lingering emotions or tastes to swallow back other than what Matoba gives him. What he shows him. Finely-tuned even in this position, isn't he — he doesn't expect that'll change. And yet Kizuna still digs his fingertips into flesh as he fastens his lips over his asshole, burying the flat of his tongue against its pucker to test its willingness to cleave to him. What work he makes of it is still attentive regardless of its heightened pace; a muffled groan resounds against skin, held prettily and breathlessly in his throat.
It's beginning to ache for him too: there's a white-hot sensation pressed into the angle of his jaw, sweat on his temples and snaking down his lower back. His focus is one that could leave him dizzy if not for for that mysterious anchor he's seemed to cast into the other man, one that moors him even in the musky, resinous skin-scent of the confessional, the rocking of his own pulse low in his body.
With each new swath of skin presented, licked up, and swallowed, he gets the idea of where Matoba wants to lead him. But his focus never strays, its insistence on this, the final spit-soaked press of his tongue inward, his sole want. ]
[There is a certain kind of man that Matoba knows he can attract. He isn't particularly vain, nor fixated upon his own looks, but he is aware of the natural allure gifted to him, something that he can use to pull in those he sets it upon and tug their strings the right way: a corrupt beauty, mystery, aloofness, the temptation of that which is just-out-of-reach. His heart, much like the idea of his body to those outside this resort, was a black box. The appeal was in the idea of tearing it open, and discovering what lay in wait inside.]
[Let Kizuna try. That was the game, Matoba equally gratified by the idea of the wager, the danger. This casino landscape was a place where every interaction was just that, and stood the chance to gain or lose everything.]
[Fingers dug into skin feel good. Possession as a vice was appealing, any man who could be twisted by want was a toy he wanted to play with. Lips seal over his hole and his breaths shudder with satisfaction, muscle flickering and rolling under the pressure of a kind tongue, softly giving under insistent knead. His cock throbs with the threat of it each time it nearly breaches, a strong flex that signals hunger the deeper an intrusion Kizuna ventures. A wet dribble beads down from the slit, and slowly follows the line of a vein as it travels to the base of his cock.]
[With the other man's nails biting into soft under-thigh skin, Matoba's own slide away first to hold back under his knees, then one eventually leaves to sift through hair again until it finds its previous cradle, needle-like nails against nape that tense and tap against his brain. Kizuna can press him open all the way and spear him on the tip of his tongue, and Matoba's eye will find him when he meets it again- glazed over clouded dull, its message silent but clear: What are you waiting for? Give in. Fuck.]
[ Moving in tandem, Kizuna scrapes his grip down the other man's thigh, pressing at its underside to keep it held high when he makes a bid for his skull again. The scratch of nails makes him shiver, even if the hair at the nape of his neck is damp with sweat. Gratification has weight to it, coalesced and thrown into the turbulent waters of his soul — left to sink, to root, to flourish into something else. Even if Kizuna hadn't caught sight of Matoba's gaze as it bears down on him, cat-eyed garnet on molten gold, he would sense its effect, the fact that this man might be more familiar with its metamorphosis than Kizuna is. He's placed it there himself, after all.
But that interest eases back against the surge of Matoba's provocation that's anything but silent in his mind's eye. There's an art to guiding, but there's also an art to being guided: to fulfill an expectation, an ideal, a wager. Intimacy is his playing card, his understanding allow him to wedge himself between the teeth of the chasm and hope he's compelling enough whole to not be shattered. Only time will tell, he supposes, the heat haze of his position between Matoba's legs pushing those thoughts farther to the inky peripherals of his mind.
It's all oil in the end, dripping, iridescent, and dark. The gift of empathy makes what belongs to who indistinguishable in the moment that he's compelled to obey.
Salt-scent sparks against his senses when he plunges his tongue into the well of his ass, twisting and pumping against yielding muscle. With his pulse hammering in his ears, Kizuna chases that flex of muscle up the centers of his thighs, in his hips, his belly, neck craning to tongue-fuck his asshole like he's besotted enough to devour him whole. And there's nothing about his actions that implicate otherwise, even in this bet between strangers — his breath plumes shallow and humid against skin, soft moans cresting each drive forward that shakes the bench of the confessional a little harder and faster each time. ]
[Kneading, and twisting curls of sweat-damp hair over his fingertips, Matoba's massage at the base of Kizuna's brain continues, a reflection of his likes and his desires while his hole is probed. The speckle into Kizuna's consciousness, flecks of gold amongst the deep deep blackness, carefully allowed. Despite an opacity that was so closely held as to be unconscious, there were the things that he didn't mind displaying. He wasn't so petty so as to deny the simplest of surface pleasures.]
[Soaked to the point that intrusion was simple, the muscle in his groin flexes with each lapping dip inward, the push leaving a well of saliva behind each time. It fills and it drips downward, rivulets down the back of his tailbone and creating a messy pool under the curve of his seat. Well-worked, lips that crush against him learn the flex and struggle of muscle beneath them with each movement, gripping back hungrily. Tongue wasn't so filling as cock, but it filled and reached in other ways that were inimitable, hips rocking gentle gyrations back against its pressure to guide it, to return that rhythm in time, following the lead of his benefactor. Each vibration of his throat, every delighted moan, reverberates through the soft flesh of his thighs and his cock throbs.]
[The environment created by this "game" could be used for a number of things; fucking only one of them. Matoba's breath purrs with not just his present state, but with the thoughts of what he might do next. Already two steps ahead of the moment, a clouded eye seeing the future, he wants to capture Kizuna in totality; to offer him something equal. His body was a token, a betting chip in itself. He must pay out.]
[Thumb rubs against a sweaty pulse, tensing in the other man's neck with the effort of his fucking. The lifeline that told the state of him. All this time, hidden below the crest of Matoba's lap, below the cramped confessional seat. Could he even resist, after this?]
Just how hungry? [He questions, breathless, the tensing of his pelvis imminent. To take the prize he has earned, to finish what he has started and plunge his mouth inward or to abandon his quarry to devour whole- that was Kizuna's prerogative.]
[ That choice coils down through his body like a presence ready to strike, the heat of its ambitions so intent on being ahead of him that he finds it dizzying to think about pursuing. But he'd said it himself at the beginning of this meeting, when his hair was nicely-kempt and his tie was knotted properly: he is starving for it still, the hot flush of nerves that washes over his body filling him with purpose, a need to answer beyond the consideration of limits.
So he chooses abandonment, tongue slipping from its spot nestled against Matoba's ass in a quiet suck of breath and saliva both. His lips shine with it, reddened by his incessant pressures, even as his lungs adjust to the sudden (and ultimately short-lived) freedom. ]
Aha. I told you.
[ Huffed warm and rasped low in his throat. It's not much more movement to slide his hand away from the underside of Matoba's damp thigh, cramping its angle close to his own body to poise long index and middle fingers at the soaked-soft pucker of muscle that was just occupying his mouth. In a flicker of gluttony, he plunges them in and lets them sit within the tensed harbor of his body, barely curled. Like this, he can feel the pressure fluttering through the other man, flickers away from releasing. Kizuna holds it, unwilling to drive and flick them loose just yet. He has other plans for his mouth, spoken to existence by an earlier wonder — Kizuna would like to watch his face as he swallows. It seems a waste to deny anything given to him, so he takes, licking the rivulet of precum from the underside of his cock in his path to take him in his mouth again.
There's a vicious ease with which he's able to fit the length of him in his mouth again, hotter and wetter and showier in his undoing. He sucks, slides, and with this thumb poised at the innermost cleft of his ass, pumps his fingers towards this final rhythm. ]
You did, [Matoba agrees, breathy,] but not what for.
[And an answer is as good as self-destruction, admitting to any form of desire a signal to obedience. Whether it was drunkenness on Matoba's, or craving his own- his choice would be reflective of his truth. And the one he has chosen has the exorcist's lips curling in a cattish smile.]
[Fingers breach with ease, the coaxing of his mouth having done much to open him, and the frequency of his activities within the resort taking care of the rest. The effect is immediate and obvious. Gazes locked, thin eyelid flutters, lips draw a breath. Toes curl beside him. Under the slow trace of his tongue, Matoba's cock throbs and then is engulfed, and muscle tightens, tender, cradling his fingers.]
[A generous rhythm takes him apart. Matoba's hips can barely move in his perch on the bench, but they try, nails a noose around the back of Kizuna's skull that scrape and scream, all the noise that doesn't escape from where it remains trapped in his chest. The man does not moan, even despite the forceful shudders of breath that pump heat through his body, sweat a trickle over a shallow chest that barely swells as he comes. The flinch and shudder of thigh muscles; fucked to completion, fingers are sucked in and held by a body too selfish to let them go just yet. Bitter release crashes over Kizuna's tongue in hot waves, feeding his hunger all too eagerly. The tremble not leaving for a few moments yet, the knife-edge of Matoba's pupil never leaves him, taking in the sight of the man's subservience through it all, seeing his promise fulfilled.]
[The slow, lazy undulation of hips under his jaw only slows, rather than stops- not until heat and fullness have left him. It's a greedy movement, milking hot mouth for all that it is worth, as though the one the prize was to be claimed from was not himself but the man kneeling before him.]
And? Is that the end to your hunger? [His eye never leaves- not even to draw it down to the hot point of arousal that's remained forgotten in all of this.] Are you truly satisfied?
[ There's more than one way to burn a man to lowlight, to embers. It'd be a disservice to extinguish him so long as he can be rekindled. Knowing that, Kizuna doesn't answer. Words hollow in his ears, overrun by blood hurtling through bodies, pulses thrumming too close to the surface of his skin, flooding nerves. There's no hitch or protest to his body in the wake of Matoba's finish so desperately extracted — there's only the art of such desperation, a rhythm matched with unusual, extraordinary ease. Kizuna plays into the greed, swallowing with all that hunger he'd professed to have, "honest" down to the glut of it on his tongue.
Kizuna shivers, a chest-first reaction that radiates as the bitterness slips down the back of his throat, hot all the way to the pit of his belly. His jaw aches and his skin roars hot beneath the shine of sweat, the friction of his shirt's collar; only when he feels flesh soften into the cup of his tongue does he slip back and release the other man to the open hair. He takes in a breath, a slow gasp, fingers pulling from his asshole in the same moment so he can steady his hand against the damp skin of Matoba's thigh.
Words again, arcing overhead like bells or arrows, a signal and a warning shot both — Kizuna hums, the noise thick in his throat. Brushing his bangs back from his brow, he shifts on his knees, bringing pain to three points now. But it's simply not a focus for him, a cant of his head giving him enough room to plant a kiss against his inner thigh. Lashes flutter there for a moment before he looks up, all human. His tongue pokes out of his mouth. ]
I wonder. If I say yes, what are the chances of seeing you again?
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peacockstop2024-02-10 11:29 am
no subject
A smile cracks open on his lips as nimble hands smooth beneath the opened hems of his kimono. He doesn't venture too deep with his kisses, not yet, preferring a slow dapple of touches, breath coming in measured plumes. He is a lover naturally, but it's also the siren's call of the resort, its concentration here in the chapel. ]
I was feeling a little impatient... [ Palms travel over collarbones, contemplative. ] But I could take my time with this part too.
[ Kizuna trails a flagrant touch down over the other man's chest beneath fabric, easing at the skin, teasing over nipples. It takes some effort to relent and remove one, sliding an arm down around his waist. With more space it would carry the implications of an embrace. ]
no subject
[Matoba's lips grind back, just as pleased to engage. Tongue flickers in invitation, and runs along bottom lip; he could take it, and invade his mouth as he presses further against the corner of the confessional where Matoba's body has propped up. Or, Matoba would be happy to be the one to cross lines first, and instead flicker into his. If he were to open his eyes at any point during the kissing, and risk it, he'll find that Matoba's good eye is open- watching.]
[With his body pressed back against that corner of the bench, he's trapped there, and ripe for hands to explore. They're warm, touching every inch. Matoba's body was slender overall and largely soft, but there was evidence of training to it. It was very specific; his shoulders, his upper arms, the muscles at the top of his back. All areas that would be toned by upper strength training, holding a particular tension. There were marks, too, that seemed like evidence of past carnal encounters- now nearly-faded, there were the remnants of pink bitemarks across his shoulders.]
[He smiles, laughing softly against his lips.] Why rush? I don't have a schedule today.
[As Kizuna's hands travel, Matoba leans to them, and his back bows to the arm that slides behind it to steady him. He doesn't mind being pampered and bowed to his touches- so long as he was getting what he wanted. And speaking of that, why not start now? One of Matoba's hands slides itself up into the other man's hair, fingers sifting, then clenching- a tight hold that continues that thread of dominance he'd started with his grip on the slot machine, and keeps the man close to him. His other palms explores up an inner thigh, pausing, cradling, just short of his groin. It was easy to reach everything he wanted in this cramped space.]
After all, the machine didn't tell us we couldn't do anything else along the way.
no subject
Even if he could hide it, he likely wouldn't. Kizuna is sensitive to all of it. ]
Mmm... [ He hums in agreement despite himself, fingers raking back upwards to slide over the muscle of Matoba's shoulder and ease the material of his kimono off it. His fingertips brush the faded marks, noting the imprints with open and idle curiosity. ] True. Taking our freedom where we can get it...?
[ Behind him, his fingers slip into the loosened knot of the obi, plying at the fabric with a sensuous focus that he hopes the other man will feel as it unravels. Kizuna presses a longer kiss to his mouth as he works, lips parting to accept his tongue, his teeth. Quietly, the belt's tension gives and Kizuna pulls it from his waist with a pointed slowness, pooling it on the other end of the already-cramped bench. ]
no subject
[All this absorbed in the moments between dragging lips and the suckle of tongue. Matoba's shoulder slopes downward with a flex to help the fabric slip off and pool at his elbows, bent upward while hands are reached out to touch Kizuna's body. It forms a flag across his back, revealing to Kizuna's fngertips the upper portions of relatively unmarked skin, and the sharper juts of muscled bone between his shoulderblades.]
[His eye, still watching, twitches alight with a spark at that word.] Freedom, [Matoba repeats, as if delighted.] Is that what this is? [For you? For us? He doesn't specify.]
[He likes that this man knows how to undress him. He had become accustomed to stripping himself, in no small part thanks to an early encounter with a certain ill-behaved dog early on in the resort. But it's a pleasant sensation that blends with the drag of teeth and the meeting of tongues, a tactile preview of what will come. With his kimono loosened, Matoba's lap parts without delay, an invitation as fabric slips open and reveals one thigh, equally as pale as the rest of him, the other draped in the hem of his kimono as it sags open. Underneath, plain black boxer briefs stretch across a lazy erection and hide a new smattering of old bruises and bites over hipbones. It would be so easy to slide the rest of the fabric aside, and take hold of those hips, to peel free what he's been promised.]
Don't let me stop you-- [He smiles and pulls back from the kisses to gently bump the back of his head against the corner of the confessional with a dull wooden thud. His lips glisten as his smile widens, and his eye dares- the grip in Kizuna's hair no less firm, but eager to follow him downward.] --from taking what you want.
no subject
To illuminate it would simply set it all aflame, and so Kizuna allows his kisses to break with soft, heated amiability. His golden eyes are liquid-bright in this lighting, flicking over the new sights presented. He doesn't answer to the question, only because he's aware that Matoba knows the answer. ]
I'd never. [ A quiet huff, as if he's perishing the thought. ] Not when you look like that.
[ There's a certain decorum he carries into encounters like this, head canting beneath Matoba's grip to kiss chin, jaw, the pulse point crowning the column of his neck. Then that trajectory shifts downwards to shoulder, clavicle, his long fingers smoothing back the hems of the kimono to bare his chest and leave flashes of tongue across warm skin. There's just enough room in this little box for Kizuna to sink to his knees if he bows his back enough, making his brow drag lightly across the other man's belly. ]
I'll have to move you eventually. But while we're taking liberties, I'd like to enjoy this too...
[ His hands rove over the muscle of Matoba's thighs as he scrapes his teeth along his erection through the material of his underwear, all friction and dampness. ]
no subject
[It makes this place, this resort, a danger unlike any other. But in order to conquer it, sacrifices were necessary. And he, himself, was a born sacrifice.]
[Compliments delivered from a place of dominance; Matoba could laugh at the flattery, but it's fun when they're both self aware, isn't it? It makes the gentle lashes of tongue, the trace of Kizuna's lips, all the more pleasing. The grip in his hair shifts to allow changes of angle and Matoba's fingertips stroke over the shell of an ear, an affectionate tease like the stroke of a pet; but never does he let up his grip completely. Pulse flutters under his touches as he travels downward, Matoba's skin soft and relatively unmarked; a blank canvas for him to leave his own save the occasional stray white of a scar at the ribs or sides that looks like a cat's claw caught him once. A very large cat, that must have been.]
[Matoba does not lean towards the mouth that traces over his cock, content to let the pleasure come to him, but the scrape of teeth muted by fabric was an appealing sensation. Beneath the fabric, a lazy pulse shifts muscle under his mouth, enticed towards further promise of immersion. Digging his shoulders back into the cramped corner of the bench, Matoba's thighs part graciously to allow him further entry.]
How would you like me? [Matoba's voice is warmed by physicality, but never loses any of its pristine exactness; he always sounds as though he could switch from indulgence to punishment at a moment. His free hand, not twisted against the nape of Kizuna's skull, traces the line of his cheekbone with a knuckle towards the point of his own arousal and then hooks a thumb under his waistband in offering.] Lower? Do you want to watch my face as you swallow?
[His eye flickers, a dozen ideas blooming.]
Shall I kneel and present myself, instead?
no subject
Let me save your knees some trouble for now. [ A promise neatly tucked away just like his teeth are, the nerves of them aching with his own pulse. ] Until I'm closer to done with you.
[ He's just gotten on his, after all, and he eases back when presented with the breadth of his groin as if he wants to witness the current result of their time in the confessional so far. He likes this — the unhurried pitch of the air as the temperature rises, the state of undress. There's only so much space he has between Matoba's knees and he still commands it with enough finesse to reach up and smooth his hair back away from his brow. With his other hand he crooks his fingers, beckoning for Matoba to finish the motion, to remove that final barrier. At least part of the way, because he'll handle the rest.
Kizuna looks up at him with an uninhibited view now, unwavering gold eyes, long lashes. The crests of his cheeks have barely colored as he considers something; he's not been driven to a blush just yet. ]
You might never be able to stay away from me after this. Are you okay with that?
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[And yet, despite his capacity for destruction, he is laid bare and prone willingly. The promise of service eases him into this position, not without his own selfish indulgences. A man who can be conquered, a man who desires to be used, is a man Matoba finds most indulgent of all.]
You might never be done with me, making promises like that. [His mouth curves, an expression that can't really be called a smile in any honesty.] Most men are the ones trying to escape. Does that mean you leash yourself willingly?
Are you eager to be-- [Matoba's hand curls around from Kizuna's nape, and brushes elegant fingertips up the column of his throat, nails-first.] --owned?
[With his other hand, he stretches the fabric forward the rest of the way. The elasticity of the fabric finally gives and slips forward over the curves of his hips and thighs, bunching under the cleft of his ass and revealing all at once to Kizuna a lazy erection that rests in wait for him. Between pale, exposed thighs pepped with the fading bruises of past teeth, the promise of entry awaits, the original promise.]
[Matoba's thumb releases from the loose roll of fabric and he sifts his fingers through Kizuna's hair once more, from his bangs to the back of his skull, a grip that is neither soft nor harsh but holds potential for both.]
You've yet to begin. Pace yourself.
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Having his words turned back on him makes him smile and he measures out his reaction with physicality, picking up where the other man left off by reaching up and smoothing his underwear down the rest of the way. The way he guides his legs to move is assured and lulling, almost as if it's second-nature. ]
Leash myself to you? [ He drops the fabric in a careless pool beside him, leaning in to press a kiss to the inside of one thigh. ] Or to this place?
[ In this position, does it make a difference? For Matoba, he's sure it does. Fingers spread across the back of his skull like fire, carving through his thoughts. He notes the bruises, notes that he's not the first here and finds that unsurprising. Ducking his shoulders between a light dappling of kisses, he eases Matoba's knees over them, one hand kneading up the outside of a thigh and the other splaying across his belly. ]
Either way... [ With a pointed flutter of his lashes low over his cheeks, Kizuna finally presses his lips to the base of his cock. He sucks lightly at the velvet skin there, releasing only to drag the flat of his tongue up against the underside. Reaching the crown of it, he takes the tip into his mouth, molding tongue across it and laving it away just as quickly, punctuating the gesture with a cheeky kiss. ] You'll get everything I've promised you.
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[He's very sure that Kizuna will, certainly, give everything that has been promised. What comes after will be the true game.]
This place....? [A chuckle bubbles forth from his, soft under his breath. Goosebumps spread in the wake of his lips, across the skin that Kizuna's palm spreads over, muscles tightening and flexing strong against his shoulders. His fingertips curl a lock of hair over them, haughty amusement putting him in a kinder mood.] You think you will be given a choice by it?
[As though he himself were the sort to give choices freely; but then, he could be led to reason. He was, in the end, human- not like whatever likely ruled this place, some unknowable consciousness with a comprehension of reality beyond mortal understanding. Were they to discover it, would their meager pleas even mean anything?]
[Being paid tribute, Matoba's eye half-lids like a cat stroked over the back. His cock's lazy thrum underneath the press of mouth wakes it from lazy interest to active arousal; between his lips, the taste of sweat and pre mingle onto his tongue. Hips shift back against the motions, and when he leaves away again, a soft sound like a sigh escapes his lips. An imperious tilt of the head conveys a pang of impatience, but he doesn't go chasing after the mouth that pulls back again. He knows he does not need to chase; he has already won the battle that keeps his prey close.]
[Fingertips tap at the back of Kizuna's skull like a code, with nails perched; playful, ready to reciprocate any pleasure, any pain. He can choose his own flavor.]
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Some instances are just more overt than others. This is one such time, the ease of physicality superseding the tangled mystery of this place, enshrined in glamor and gold. Tapping on the sensitive part of his skull entices him forward, eager to be accepted and gripped in a way that feels more human despite the danger. Sucking in a breath that tightens in the cage of his chest where all that he feels paces like an animal with no hearth, Kizuna obliges.
Matoba's taste sparks on his tongue when he fastens his lips over his cock again, knowing it's just a prelude. The pads of his fingers press into the outside of his thigh, shoulders still relaxed as nice nails whisper against muscle. Kizuna pushes in and takes him into his mouth in earnest, tasting at him inch by sensuous inch with the focus of a lover rather than a stranger. He pauses only to give his cock a slow slide in and out of the wet, jewel-like slick of his mouth.
His breath unfurls to set that rhythm, exploring Matoba's shape and length, a low noise slipping loose from his throat, pleased. ]
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[Sex or sexless. Himself, or others. This man, but one of many he has made. Will make.]
[He feels Kizuna ready himself before the warm shiver that engulfs him, the muscle in his hip flexing his cock against the man's tongue as it slides down the underside and rests against the bed. When heat fully consumes him, he twitches against the suction that tugs back. Body answers, not voice; Matoba is strangely silent as he's taken, save for the quiet shivers of breath drawn in and slowly leaked from barely parted lips; in an enclosed space, every sound was a loud echo.]
[Hips shift subtly, to apply a slight pressure against this or that push of lips or cradling tongue, and the grip of nails that massage against the back of Kizuna's skull move slow circles, contemplative. Taken completely, the grip tightens; drawn back, it loosens again. A knead, like a cat. Matoba's pupil, slit likewise, blows half-way in the darkness, but a glimmer of light catching through the slats in the confessional set it ablaze.]
[The crook of his mouth is slight, but telling.]
Good, [He comments, praise from any other than this man who seems possibly incapable of holding enough empathy to justify that word.] Do you like to be fucked? Shall I move with you?
[As little he can in their current, cramped configuration, at least.]
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His cheeks hollow as he sucks with pointed softness against Matoba's cock, lips sliding back to momentarily release him. Breath spills from his wetted lips, emptying out of his chest in a fortifying wave. Not stayed from his wants, the enjoyment he's getting in chasing those minuscule shivers of Matoba's throat and lungs, his mouth strays to stamp irreverent kisses to his balls. ]
Mmn. How would it feel to fuck my mouth?
[ He wonders aloud for the thrill of it, already knowing the answer. Another kiss to his base and a lave of tongue upwards, flat against its underside. ]
Better, right?
[ With the initial sensation of sucking him off already imprinted on his mouth, Kizuna resumes, taking him in with a renewed fullness. His fingers flex and palms apply pressure to his thigh and belly, urging Matoba closer, forward and into the willing clutch of him. ]
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[To use, or to be used. Which was it?]
[His cock left to the air after moments of warmth, a shiver flushes goosebumps up thighs, over the skin under Kizuna's fingertips and lips, listening to the timbre of his voice as he muses over the question.]
[Not the question Matoba asked, though. The exorcist's eye sharpens with the attention to that detail as he answers graciously, his smile quivering as it tugs upward, but he does not call the man on his avoidance.]
[That's not a kindness. It's letting him impale himself on the gleaming point of his focus. To use or be used? To desire or be desired? He's getting a sense for this man.]
[But, it's still an answer- one to which Matoba responds immediately when he's engulfed again and urged onward. He doesn't need any further encouragement, fingers tightening their grasp at Kizuna's nape to hold fast when thighs tense up, the readying of muscle to force his hips forward with a rough fuck forward. There's a practiced ride to the movement of Matoba's hips, unrelenting, grinding the head of his cock in long strokes over the bed of Kizuna's tongue before burying. Once granted, he takes no quarter, every movement precise and purpose-driven, mechanical and harsh.]
[Under his movements, the bench creaks quietly, regularly, and the sounds of his breathing pick up; still, there is no softness of a moan, no warmth of voice that escapes him- pleasure remains something harsh and repressed in the shallow rise and fall of his chest, as though it were merely the inconvenient byproduct of the act.]
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Just like he doesn't seek gentleness, he doesn't seek to undo Matoba either. That would be an ambition misplaced among the other man's internal static. Unable to see to the bottom, he's left to accept what's presented for now. Only the initial pivot to thrusting his cock into the well of his mouth makes him tense, breath halting at the sensation.
He is stubborn and selflessly unwilling to be bested — it doesn't take long to adjust to the utilitarian movement, the way the pleasure taken from him is pleasure only in the strictest sense of the word. It's only by the overwhelming grace of the casino's atmosphere that Kizuna doesn't succumb to that aspect of this encounter, instead content to lavish him with the best of his freely-given affections.
Only the knit of Kizuna's brow gives away the amount of concentration it's taking to match his pace; his cock crowns the tender back of his throat, eliciting a vulgar moan deep in its hollow. His heart pounds and his skin heats, nails pressing into the muscle of his thigh. He wonders as his breath comes short against his groin the farther he takes him in if this is preferable to those who came before him, the ones responsible for the bruises and bitemarks. ]
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[He is beginning to understand. To deny oneself and instead pour oneself into the mold of others and become the shape they desire: a liar. Kizuna was of a different breed, he thinks, but one Matoba knew almost just as well. Rather than the deep dark, he was the bright-bright; falsehoods piled atop pretty, glimmering falsehoods, veneers of perfection plastering over something incomplete.]
[If it turns out that they are alike, Matoba thinks to himself with the single twinge of irritation he'll allow to bubble up, he'd be better served cutting this man off and never seeing him again. He won't be able to help himself fixing him.]
[Well. If the man dislikes it, he's a talented liar, at least. The moan is a crack through the quiet in their shared space and sends a shiver of delight curling up Matoba's spine, a different kind of enjoyment to be sure from that he'd derived from the anger that bore the marks all up his skin. Controlling a man physically and controlling a man by twisting his desires were two different vices, but ones he enjoyed all the same. Brutality and duplicity, two sides of the same coin.]
[Bitterness wells on the back of Kizuna's tongue as cock grinds over it, slit leaking the first taste of pleasure that courses through his blood. Starving for it, he'd said. It'd be cruel to let him go hungry.]
A taste for use, and a taste for punishment, [Matoba quietly observes through the slight effort of his breaths. Heat has gathered in the intimate space. Sweat drips down his body, pooling in creases by his thighs and groin, where Kizuna's fingers leave indents in soft skin. His cock throbs in a slow drag from between his lips and then pushes back, buried whole again.] In that case, perhaps I refuse you this.
[His nails tense on the back of Kizuna's neck, threatening to twist him back like a dog's scruff. Or, more precisely, downward.]
Until you fulfill your duty to me?
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A thick gasp marks the infliction of nails against his nape, making him release the other man. The words drift in, third to the sensation of it, which in itself comes second to exacting the promise he'd made. Kizuna breathes heavily for a moment, orienting himself in his grasp and licking his lips, if only in the interest of pressing a cleaner kiss to the inside of Matoba's thigh. Even that action seems well-charted, lascivious as it looks. ]
Is it punishment if I haven't forgotten?
[ His tongue clicks, a soft tsk whispered against damp skin. Duty is quite the word to use and he notes that in the over-full backdrop of his mind, not using the casino's exercise to forget any of his predilections. If only he could so easily wipe it all from his nerves, that tendency for juxtaposition...
But well. It's not that easy. ]
This way.
[ Kizuna coaxes him forward to meet that downward angle he vies for, shrugging his shoulders to better support the other man in the steep confines of the confessional. His nails crescent thighs, grip stronger and more robust than it might seem as he pushes in to take what he was chanced to: face burying into the cleft of his ass to lave his tongue against the tight muscle there. ]
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[One battle, but the war goes on. Determination not to give what is desired. Hunger and excitement from a man who he presumes equally seeks proof of total domination, of victory- one that he will be denied. For now, anyway; Matoba Seiji will not give up that proof so easily. A simple man, being shown such humble service, would rush forth towards that plateau, greedily take the crest and tumble right over it into satisfaction. But as a man who views even his casual conquests three steps ahead, who already sees the vantage point from which he might further control his quarry, Matoba has patience. Where it counts, anyway.]
[His cock released on its thrumming precipice, it nestles flush and glazed wet against his hip as Kizuna's careful touches move him into position, crushing him further against the hardwood of the confessional bench. It's not unbearable, and so he bears it; joints and neck will ache after this, but it will be satisfying; it will be the reminder when he has this man in his palm.]
[The lash of tongue that finally meets him has his stomach fluttering even in its crushed position, his breaths flaring shallow with anticipation. Matoba has seen use, recently enough even, to suggest that penetration would not be difficult. Not recently enough for a taste to remain on Kizuna's tongue when he draws it in for the first taste, not even the deeper he eventually finds himself; but the muscle is tender and with enough soaking, and enough encouragement, will give way eagerly to intrusion. It's welcome, even, with the way that muscle flutters and softens to his tongue, as though it has come to expect it. A body not free of want, and accustomed to the kindnesses that precede use.]
[Perhaps a honeytrap in itself, subtly coaxing Kizuna into considering that very use. The deeper he falls. Matoba's hands, slipping slowly free from where they steady his position, take up hold at the tops of his thighs and spread himself further open, a silent invitation.]
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Laying into Matoba's body with the energy of a man possessed by the starvation he proffered earlier, he traces the heated topology of earlier encounters, finding no lingering emotions or tastes to swallow back other than what Matoba gives him. What he shows him. Finely-tuned even in this position, isn't he — he doesn't expect that'll change. And yet Kizuna still digs his fingertips into flesh as he fastens his lips over his asshole, burying the flat of his tongue against its pucker to test its willingness to cleave to him. What work he makes of it is still attentive regardless of its heightened pace; a muffled groan resounds against skin, held prettily and breathlessly in his throat.
It's beginning to ache for him too: there's a white-hot sensation pressed into the angle of his jaw, sweat on his temples and snaking down his lower back. His focus is one that could leave him dizzy if not for for that mysterious anchor he's seemed to cast into the other man, one that moors him even in the musky, resinous skin-scent of the confessional, the rocking of his own pulse low in his body.
With each new swath of skin presented, licked up, and swallowed, he gets the idea of where Matoba wants to lead him. But his focus never strays, its insistence on this, the final spit-soaked press of his tongue inward, his sole want. ]
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[Let Kizuna try. That was the game, Matoba equally gratified by the idea of the wager, the danger. This casino landscape was a place where every interaction was just that, and stood the chance to gain or lose everything.]
[Fingers dug into skin feel good. Possession as a vice was appealing, any man who could be twisted by want was a toy he wanted to play with. Lips seal over his hole and his breaths shudder with satisfaction, muscle flickering and rolling under the pressure of a kind tongue, softly giving under insistent knead. His cock throbs with the threat of it each time it nearly breaches, a strong flex that signals hunger the deeper an intrusion Kizuna ventures. A wet dribble beads down from the slit, and slowly follows the line of a vein as it travels to the base of his cock.]
[With the other man's nails biting into soft under-thigh skin, Matoba's own slide away first to hold back under his knees, then one eventually leaves to sift through hair again until it finds its previous cradle, needle-like nails against nape that tense and tap against his brain. Kizuna can press him open all the way and spear him on the tip of his tongue, and Matoba's eye will find him when he meets it again- glazed over clouded dull, its message silent but clear: What are you waiting for? Give in. Fuck.]
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But that interest eases back against the surge of Matoba's provocation that's anything but silent in his mind's eye. There's an art to guiding, but there's also an art to being guided: to fulfill an expectation, an ideal, a wager. Intimacy is his playing card, his understanding allow him to wedge himself between the teeth of the chasm and hope he's compelling enough whole to not be shattered. Only time will tell, he supposes, the heat haze of his position between Matoba's legs pushing those thoughts farther to the inky peripherals of his mind.
It's all oil in the end, dripping, iridescent, and dark. The gift of empathy makes what belongs to who indistinguishable in the moment that he's compelled to obey.
Salt-scent sparks against his senses when he plunges his tongue into the well of his ass, twisting and pumping against yielding muscle. With his pulse hammering in his ears, Kizuna chases that flex of muscle up the centers of his thighs, in his hips, his belly, neck craning to tongue-fuck his asshole like he's besotted enough to devour him whole. And there's nothing about his actions that implicate otherwise, even in this bet between strangers — his breath plumes shallow and humid against skin, soft moans cresting each drive forward that shakes the bench of the confessional a little harder and faster each time. ]
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[Soaked to the point that intrusion was simple, the muscle in his groin flexes with each lapping dip inward, the push leaving a well of saliva behind each time. It fills and it drips downward, rivulets down the back of his tailbone and creating a messy pool under the curve of his seat. Well-worked, lips that crush against him learn the flex and struggle of muscle beneath them with each movement, gripping back hungrily. Tongue wasn't so filling as cock, but it filled and reached in other ways that were inimitable, hips rocking gentle gyrations back against its pressure to guide it, to return that rhythm in time, following the lead of his benefactor. Each vibration of his throat, every delighted moan, reverberates through the soft flesh of his thighs and his cock throbs.]
[The environment created by this "game" could be used for a number of things; fucking only one of them. Matoba's breath purrs with not just his present state, but with the thoughts of what he might do next. Already two steps ahead of the moment, a clouded eye seeing the future, he wants to capture Kizuna in totality; to offer him something equal. His body was a token, a betting chip in itself. He must pay out.]
[Thumb rubs against a sweaty pulse, tensing in the other man's neck with the effort of his fucking. The lifeline that told the state of him. All this time, hidden below the crest of Matoba's lap, below the cramped confessional seat. Could he even resist, after this?]
Just how hungry? [He questions, breathless, the tensing of his pelvis imminent. To take the prize he has earned, to finish what he has started and plunge his mouth inward or to abandon his quarry to devour whole- that was Kizuna's prerogative.]
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So he chooses abandonment, tongue slipping from its spot nestled against Matoba's ass in a quiet suck of breath and saliva both. His lips shine with it, reddened by his incessant pressures, even as his lungs adjust to the sudden (and ultimately short-lived) freedom. ]
Aha. I told you.
[ Huffed warm and rasped low in his throat. It's not much more movement to slide his hand away from the underside of Matoba's damp thigh, cramping its angle close to his own body to poise long index and middle fingers at the soaked-soft pucker of muscle that was just occupying his mouth. In a flicker of gluttony, he plunges them in and lets them sit within the tensed harbor of his body, barely curled. Like this, he can feel the pressure fluttering through the other man, flickers away from releasing. Kizuna holds it, unwilling to drive and flick them loose just yet. He has other plans for his mouth, spoken to existence by an earlier wonder — Kizuna would like to watch his face as he swallows. It seems a waste to deny anything given to him, so he takes, licking the rivulet of precum from the underside of his cock in his path to take him in his mouth again.
There's a vicious ease with which he's able to fit the length of him in his mouth again, hotter and wetter and showier in his undoing. He sucks, slides, and with this thumb poised at the innermost cleft of his ass, pumps his fingers towards this final rhythm. ]
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[And an answer is as good as self-destruction, admitting to any form of desire a signal to obedience. Whether it was drunkenness on Matoba's, or craving his own- his choice would be reflective of his truth. And the one he has chosen has the exorcist's lips curling in a cattish smile.]
[Fingers breach with ease, the coaxing of his mouth having done much to open him, and the frequency of his activities within the resort taking care of the rest. The effect is immediate and obvious. Gazes locked, thin eyelid flutters, lips draw a breath. Toes curl beside him. Under the slow trace of his tongue, Matoba's cock throbs and then is engulfed, and muscle tightens, tender, cradling his fingers.]
[A generous rhythm takes him apart. Matoba's hips can barely move in his perch on the bench, but they try, nails a noose around the back of Kizuna's skull that scrape and scream, all the noise that doesn't escape from where it remains trapped in his chest. The man does not moan, even despite the forceful shudders of breath that pump heat through his body, sweat a trickle over a shallow chest that barely swells as he comes. The flinch and shudder of thigh muscles; fucked to completion, fingers are sucked in and held by a body too selfish to let them go just yet. Bitter release crashes over Kizuna's tongue in hot waves, feeding his hunger all too eagerly. The tremble not leaving for a few moments yet, the knife-edge of Matoba's pupil never leaves him, taking in the sight of the man's subservience through it all, seeing his promise fulfilled.]
[The slow, lazy undulation of hips under his jaw only slows, rather than stops- not until heat and fullness have left him. It's a greedy movement, milking hot mouth for all that it is worth, as though the one the prize was to be claimed from was not himself but the man kneeling before him.]
And? Is that the end to your hunger? [His eye never leaves- not even to draw it down to the hot point of arousal that's remained forgotten in all of this.] Are you truly satisfied?
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Kizuna shivers, a chest-first reaction that radiates as the bitterness slips down the back of his throat, hot all the way to the pit of his belly. His jaw aches and his skin roars hot beneath the shine of sweat, the friction of his shirt's collar; only when he feels flesh soften into the cup of his tongue does he slip back and release the other man to the open hair. He takes in a breath, a slow gasp, fingers pulling from his asshole in the same moment so he can steady his hand against the damp skin of Matoba's thigh.
Words again, arcing overhead like bells or arrows, a signal and a warning shot both — Kizuna hums, the noise thick in his throat. Brushing his bangs back from his brow, he shifts on his knees, bringing pain to three points now. But it's simply not a focus for him, a cant of his head giving him enough room to plant a kiss against his inner thigh. Lashes flutter there for a moment before he looks up, all human. His tongue pokes out of his mouth. ]
I wonder. If I say yes, what are the chances of seeing you again?
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