【 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. 💕
[ 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?
[Not hurried at all, is he? Rasp rattles out of Matoba's chest like an old bell. His body is still shivering with a series of aftershocks, the cascades of pleasure waves over him, equally calming as they were disturbances to the air around them. Rebounding off of something, too- in Kizuna's eyes, reflecting a dark deep pond, only the surface of which ripples.]
[Matoba's body is all laziness in its satisfaction, and yet despite humid flesh something else has been wound over he course of this encounter and never been let go. A bowstring pulled taut; it still waits, patient, for the right moment.]
Do you think you will not? [It's teasing, playful, warning. The eye on him, an ember burnt down to satisfaction, hardens again.] Do you think this place will let you escape?
[He only waits a moment to let that question sit between them before he leans forward, settling the weight of his position onto Kizuna's shoulders and finally freeing aching shoulders and neck from where they've been jammed, sweaty, into the corner of the confessional for the last several minutes. Matoba rolls his neck and brings a palm up to his nape to crack it slightly; he holds his gaze on Kizuna, thoughtful, and then answers again,]
I have no reason to avoid you, Kagami-san. [His words are matter-of-fact; his voice has the preciseness and calm of a director,] Are you the one who intends to avoid me?
[That phantom string vibrates, knocked with an arrow. Matoba's eye half-lids, his voice drops privately, silky between them.] I think you will find that I can make that very difficult for you.
[ What a terrible thrumming he feels. A thing not undone — freed from the first gambit and its act but not from the clutch of him, Kizuna realizes. He's not surprised, still feeling the downward drag of that dark pool, the gravitas of such attention from beneath its surface. He has to look up, to greet the other threat. Gazing upwards into the sight set on him with the knowledge that it exists, Kizuna smiles, gaze flourishing into brilliance in the dimness of the confessional. Rather than lean away, allowing Matoba the space to take a cleaner aim, Kizuna leans in, all sinew and audacity. ]
Aha, so scary. [ A hoarse laugh blooms in his throat. ] I'd never.
[ He cants his head, the elegant column of his neck exposed as he slides the crest of his cheek against Matoba's thigh. Damp bangs ruffle against skin in something of a nuzzle. ]
[A man who responds to danger by stroking it gently and inviting it closer. Matoba smiles, a thin but pleased thing, as he marvels; either an astounding level of blissful naivety, or the man's incredible lack of self-preservation. Which one?- he thinks he has a guess, their silent tug of war over the last several minutes too heady to let him think Kizuna had missed it. If he were a fool, then it was because he was a fool who stumbled into his misfortunes knowingly and willingly.]
[Ah.... What a familiar sensation.]
[Skin shivers and goosebumps under the gentleness of his damp affections, and Matoba reaches out to tousle fingertips idly in the curl of a dark bang, twisting it sweatslicked over his finger and releasing it again when drawing away.]
You have a taste for punishment, [He repeats again, quieter, affirming. His lips purse with amusement.] For denial.
[Propping his weight on his palms over the bench, his legs slide down off of Kizuna's shoulders, and drop to the floor in front of his knees. Without breaking eye contact with the man, the ball of one foot draws towards the hot centerpoint of his groin, and presses.]
[ Misfortune has a way of showing up whether it's invited or not — Kizuna's relationship with it is one of ebb and flow, which is why he supposes the force of the man above him is so influential already, like a pale slice of moon no less formidable for its dark state. But to be submerged is to feel every caress and bubble and bloom of the currents, an effect that there is no other way to become so intimately familiar with. Being able to swim is no guarantee against drowning, but it does even the odds.
Only outside factors, like hands plunging through the waters, can change the course. Lucky that Kizuna is also privy to intent, smile setting stubbornly into the lay of his expression. He's not ready to show his hand; only the intrusion of Matoba's foot makes a sharp inhale flood his chest, eyes fluttering. He laughs, throaty. ]
Cruel, aren't you?
[ There's a strange fondness in the observation. Reaching out to his side, Kizuna flicks the lock on the inside of the confessional. It clicks without resistance. ]
[Eye narrows into a bloody crescent, pleased, at the shudder he wrenches from the man. Tabi-clad toes stretch and caress a little longer over him before lifting away again, leaving him to drown.]
So many have said of me.
[Well, he offered a hand. If the man wants to tread his own water, let him.]
[Fingertips draw up fabric, properly sitting it over his bite-marked shoulders and crossing across his chest. An elegant sweep to stand in the space of the confessional, and Matoba turns outward towards its door, drawing himself tightly closed in the fold of his kimono, tying closed the juban and the outer over it, and threading the obi about his waist to knot it closed.]
[A flick of haori as he cracks open the door; golden light and sounds of the resort flood back into the confessional and consume what little of the quiet Kizuna was left to, and Matoba steps out into his sandals.]
I will feed your appetite, [He promises, a small smile back into their private space now emptied,] another time.
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peacockstop2024-02-10 11:29 am
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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?
no subject
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?
no subject
[Matoba's body is all laziness in its satisfaction, and yet despite humid flesh something else has been wound over he course of this encounter and never been let go. A bowstring pulled taut; it still waits, patient, for the right moment.]
Do you think you will not? [It's teasing, playful, warning. The eye on him, an ember burnt down to satisfaction, hardens again.] Do you think this place will let you escape?
[He only waits a moment to let that question sit between them before he leans forward, settling the weight of his position onto Kizuna's shoulders and finally freeing aching shoulders and neck from where they've been jammed, sweaty, into the corner of the confessional for the last several minutes. Matoba rolls his neck and brings a palm up to his nape to crack it slightly; he holds his gaze on Kizuna, thoughtful, and then answers again,]
I have no reason to avoid you, Kagami-san. [His words are matter-of-fact; his voice has the preciseness and calm of a director,] Are you the one who intends to avoid me?
[That phantom string vibrates, knocked with an arrow. Matoba's eye half-lids, his voice drops privately, silky between them.] I think you will find that I can make that very difficult for you.
no subject
Aha, so scary. [ A hoarse laugh blooms in his throat. ] I'd never.
[ He cants his head, the elegant column of his neck exposed as he slides the crest of his cheek against Matoba's thigh. Damp bangs ruffle against skin in something of a nuzzle. ]
I had fun.
no subject
[Ah.... What a familiar sensation.]
[Skin shivers and goosebumps under the gentleness of his damp affections, and Matoba reaches out to tousle fingertips idly in the curl of a dark bang, twisting it sweatslicked over his finger and releasing it again when drawing away.]
You have a taste for punishment, [He repeats again, quieter, affirming. His lips purse with amusement.] For denial.
[Propping his weight on his palms over the bench, his legs slide down off of Kizuna's shoulders, and drop to the floor in front of his knees. Without breaking eye contact with the man, the ball of one foot draws towards the hot centerpoint of his groin, and presses.]
Suit yourself.
no subject
Only outside factors, like hands plunging through the waters, can change the course. Lucky that Kizuna is also privy to intent, smile setting stubbornly into the lay of his expression. He's not ready to show his hand; only the intrusion of Matoba's foot makes a sharp inhale flood his chest, eyes fluttering. He laughs, throaty. ]
Cruel, aren't you?
[ There's a strange fondness in the observation. Reaching out to his side, Kizuna flicks the lock on the inside of the confessional. It clicks without resistance. ]
As for me, maybe so.
[ But that's for a second date. ]
no subject
So many have said of me.
[Well, he offered a hand. If the man wants to tread his own water, let him.]
[Fingertips draw up fabric, properly sitting it over his bite-marked shoulders and crossing across his chest. An elegant sweep to stand in the space of the confessional, and Matoba turns outward towards its door, drawing himself tightly closed in the fold of his kimono, tying closed the juban and the outer over it, and threading the obi about his waist to knot it closed.]
[A flick of haori as he cracks open the door; golden light and sounds of the resort flood back into the confessional and consume what little of the quiet Kizuna was left to, and Matoba steps out into his sandals.]
I will feed your appetite, [He promises, a small smile back into their private space now emptied,] another time.
[He whisks away into the crowd.]