Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10413357.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Natsume_Yuujinchou_|_Natsume's_Book_of_Friends
  Relationship:
      Matoba_Seiji/Natsume_Takashi
  Character:
      Matoba_Seiji, Natsume_Takashi
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-03-23 Words: 5741
****** the heat inside your hidden heart ******
by warsfeil
Summary
     Natsume joins the Matoba clan. It goes about the way you'd expect.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
There is a bird somewhere outside the window, and the song it sings is too
irregular to use as a way to mark the passage of time, but Natsume listens
anyway. He listens because it's easy to incline his head, to tilt his ear
towards the sweet sound and listen. It's much easier than focusing on the other
sensory input available: the smell of old cloth and brewing tea, the metallic
clink of a kettle being placed back on the stove, the sound of socked feet
meeting tatami.
"Do you need anything?"
"No," Natsume says, but it takes him a long second to look away from the
garden, to drag his attention from the bird outside back onto the man that sits
across the kotatsu. He takes his teacup, automatically, but he doesn't drink.
He doesn't really want to be having this conversation. He doesn't really want
to be here.
"I'm surprised you're here alone." Matoba's voice is pleasant and
conversational. It's easy to listen to the sounds each syllable makes, to
concentrate on each one individually instead of their sum.
"I meant to come alone." Natsume left Nyanko-sensei behind on purpose, left him
at the sake spring in the mountains -- Natsume is a good liar, when he has to
be, too used to making sure that his emotions don't show on his face. It's
easy, when you keep telling yourself over and over that you're unwanted, that
you're a burden, that this is for the best. He's sure that Nyanko-sensei won't
be distracted forever, and that's fine. By the time he wakes up, it'll be too
late.
Matoba takes a sip of his tea, as calm as anything, and Natsume curls his hand
around his own cup. It's spring, but it's still cold outside. The warmth of the
kotatsu isn't enough to break through the chill in Natsume's limbs, but then,
he didn't really expect that it would.
"I've decided to join the Matoba clan."
Matoba's expression doesn't change, serene and understanding. If Natsume didn't
know him, he might think that he was kind. If Matoba is surprised by his words,
he doesn't show it. Natsume imagines that Matoba has known why he was here
since he first called.
"What finally convinced you?"
"Don't you already know?" Natsume's voice is harsh. He doesn't want to discuss
this. He doesn't to relive it. Once was enough. He could barely manage the most
vague of explanations when he woke up in the hospital, when Tanuma and Taki
were there. It wasn't a good enough explanation for either of them, but they
were too polite to push.
He’d kept the omamori that Taki had left him, boxed it up with the rest of his
belongings, filed it away at the bottom with the picture of his parents and
everything else too painful to look at.
"I'd like to hear it from you," Matoba says, and the tone of his voice is
gentle, like he's coaxing a kitten out from underneath a piece of furniture.
Natsume knows it isn't a request.
He's too tired to fight it.
He grips the teacup with his good hand, stares down into the liquid like it
might give him a better solution to his life than the one he's already decided
on.
"A youkai attacked where I was living," Natsume explains, finally. His voice is
mechanical and brittle, and he does his best to keep any emotion out of his
tone. He doesn't know how well he does. "The family that I was staying with was
hurt."
"So were you," Matoba observes, eye glancing down to the sling around Natsume's
right arm, to the long line of bandages that ensconce most of his torso,
visible above the collar of his shirt.
"I'm tired of putting everyone in danger."
"How badly were they hurt?"
Natsume doesn't answer that immediately, either. It takes him a second, takes
him a moment to gather his emotions and to discard them as forcefully as he can
manage, to make sure that when he blinks there are no tears in his eyes. He
wraps himself in his own guilt until he's numb, and tells himself that this is
necessary.
"A heart attack. A broken ankle."
"I see," Matoba says, and he takes a sip of his tea, completely unphased. "And
your guardian cat?"
"They created a diversion. He wasn't home."
Natsume thinks that even Nyanko-sensei feels guilt over it -- if not for the
Fujiwaras, then for Natsume. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet the entire
time that Natsume was in the hospital, a silent guard at the window who barely
even complained about the lack of food.
Matoba finishes his tea, sets the cup down and doesn't pour another. The smile
on his face hasn't changed, doesn't change as he looks at Natsume, steady and
impassive. He stands, slowly, stepping around the kotatsu to look down at
Natsume. He's a formidable figure, and Natsume feels helpless.
"I won't allow you to back out if you regret your decision."
"I won't regret it." Natsume will, he knows he will, he regrets it even as he
says it.
"You won't," Matoba replies: an assurance, a comfort. He reaches out and slides
his fingers under Natsume's chin, pulls up until Natsume is focused entirely on
Matoba's face. Desperately, Natsume tries to hear the bird song, but there's
only silence. "I won't allow you to."
Natsume opens his mouth, but he can't make sound come out, throat as silent as
the bird outside.
"I'll place protections around their home, in case anything goes looking for
you there," Matoba says, his voice an easy reassurance. There's nothing else
for Natsume to focus on but the sound of it, the words he says, the warm
fingers on his chin. "I'll teach you how to handle your own power."
Natsume doesn't care about his power. He doesn't care about any of that, except
keeping people safe. He doesn't ever want to hear that note of fear in Touko's
voice again, when something she couldn't hear was roaring loud enough to
shatter every window in the house, when her husband was being held down by a
paw neither of them could see.
"They'll all be safe," Matoba reassures him, and Natsume wants so badly to
believe him. He closes his eyes, Matoba's voice and fingers like bright
pinpricks of light in the sudden darkness.
"If they aren't, I'll leave," Natsume threatens, but it's an empty threat: he
knows that he's already come too far to go back. He's already told everyone
that he was leaving. Touko had barely replied to him, and her disappointment
felt worse than anything else. Natsume had left the house to distract the
youkai, to lead it away -- to her, it must have looked like he was simply
leaving when she needed him the most.
"I won't allow you to," Matoba repeats again.
"You can't stop me."
Matoba's fingers slide down Natsume's neck until his thumb is pressing against
the hollow of Natsume's throat, a steady pressure that makes Natsume's breath
come quicker.
"You don't understand. I don't need to stop you," Matoba says, tenderly, like
he's explaining something delicate to a small child. "You won't have a reason
to leave. Those that you care about will be safe, and you'll be safe, and all
the things that you find so distasteful about the Matoba will slowly become
less and less important to you. You won't have to do anything you find
abhorrent. It's going to be much easier than you think."
Natsume knows not to trust Matoba. Natsume wants to trust Matoba. He's been so
cold since the youkai attacked, a deep chill that settled in his bones and left
him shivering in the hospital. It's so easy to lean into Matoba's touch, the
hand at his throat warmer than anything else he's found.
It feels like hope, but Natsume isn't sure he believes in hope, anymore. He
opens his mouth, but the thumb at his throat is just strong enough to make
speaking uncomfortable, and he closes it again.
"Say that you want to join me," Matoba orders in that tone that sounds so
pleasant. It isn't even a question. He leaves Natsume no room for escape. The
pressure at Natsume's throat vanishes, moves further down to stroke heat across
the bandages. He can feel it even through the gauze.
"I want to join you," Natsume says, and there's power in those words. He can
feel it. He can't control it, doesn't know the first thing about it, doesn't
know when Matoba might have started to cast a spell or how much of himself he's
binding into it just by speaking. "I want to join the Matoba."
There's the dizzying light of power, and Natsume feels something solid wrap
around him, sink into his skin like he's made of water and settle, almost
painfully hot, around his heart. Matoba is still looking at him, watching as
Natsume lets out a startled gasp and sinks further down until he’s barely
upright, pressing a hand over his chest. He's certain that whatever Matoba just
did is, at the very least, unethical -- Natori is going to kill him, Nyanko-
sensei is going to kill him -- but it doesn't matter, not if it'll keep
everyone safe. He can be bound to Matoba, he can be bound to the family, he can
be a servant in a way that he's almost positive humans aren't meant to be to
other humans, not like youkai are -- he doesn't care.
It's fine.
"It's warm," Natsume says, because he's still so startled by the feeling he
doesn't think to stop himself. Matoba's hand is over his, suddenly, pushing him
backwards across the cushions on the floor. There's heat from inside Natsume's
chest and heat from Matoba's hand and Natsume feels hopelessly trapped between
them, eyes wide as Matoba moves over him, looks down at him with a dark eye.
"I can make you warmer." Matoba's voice is heavy when it falls over him;
something has changed between them, and Natsume is too inexperienced to know
what. His breath is coming faster, from the adrenaline rush of feeling Matoba's
power wrap around him and from the domineering sight of Matoba over him.
"I," Natsume starts, because he doesn't know what to say. He's counting on his
mind to supply him with something else, and it doesn't, it's blanking in favor
of taking in all the sensory input it can manage, mulling it over back and
forth to make sense of it. Matoba's robes are falling like a dark curtain
around Natsume, he’s leaning in closer, and when Matoba's lips press against
Natsume's, he can hear the bird singing again.
Matoba's hand is back, pressing heat against Natsume's ribs even through the
fabric of his shirt, and Natsume marvels at the way Matoba is skilled enough to
kiss him and keep the seal over his eye from getting in the way. It's a soft
crinkle in the background, mixing with the birdsong and the rustle of old silk.
Matoba's lips are hot against his, and the heat is almost unbearable, Natsume
wants to open his mouth to try and breathe better -- but it only lets Matoba's
tongue inside, only makes the heat hotter.
Natsume reaches out with his uninjured hand, tries to press it against Matoba's
chest. He isn't sure if he wants to pull him closer or push him further away,
but the decision turns out to be completely unnecessary when Matoba's hand
slides up, the sensation of fingers on Natsume's bare wrist seeming more
intimate than Natsume was prepared for. Matoba takes hold of Natsume's wrist,
brings it up and pins it down to the tatami above Natsume's head, leaves
Natsume spread out and unguarded.
Matoba draws back, eye half-lidded as he looks down at Natsume, and it's
suddenly so cold without his presence that Natsume shivers. There's not much he
can do, pinned down like this with Matoba over him, one leg resting easily on
either side of Natsume's hips. His other arm is still broken in the sling, and
there's still no sign of Nyanko-sensei -- and what could he do now, anyway,
when Natsume has so clearly signed himself over to Matoba, has let Matoba write
his name all over Natsume's soul?
"Why?" is all Natsume can think to ask, a stand-in for the dozen and a half
questions flooding through his mind before he can even get a grip on them
individually.
"Because," Matoba says, a darkly possessive tone in his voice as he lets his
other hand wander down to Natsume's throat, trace down to press hard over his
heart. "Now, you're mine."
Natsume can't think to complain against it when Matoba leans in to kiss him
again; Matoba's lips are hot, but Natsume's whole body is heating up to the
point where he barely even notices, can barely do anything to try and resist.
If he's honest, he doesn't want to resist -- Matoba's declaration of ownership
has left a searing heat through Natsume's veins, settling in his stomach.
It's undoing all the coldness that set in when he woke up in the hospital, and
it feels almost like a betrayal.
He kisses back.
Matoba's kiss is hungrier, this time; Natsume almost feels like he's being
devoured, piece by piece, like Matoba is a starving youkai and this is how he's
graining Natsume's power. Even if it was, Natsume wouldn't stop him now, not
when he's finally warm, when every bit of skin that Matoba touches feels like
it's being electrified. Natsume's lips are already swollen, and if he didn't
know a thing about kissing before, he's learning now, learning rapidly. Not
quickly enough to keep up, though, a point Matoba drives across to him when he
tilts his kisses down, angles them across the line of Natsume's jaw and down to
his neck. Natsume drags in a startled gasp when Matoba bites at his neck, above
the line of the bandages, the blossom of pain slowly nullified when Matoba
licks at it, sucks gently enough that it's a teasing feeling, a wet noise that
sounds lewd in Natsume's ears.
"Matoba--"
"Seiji," Matoba says, pulling his lips away from Natsume's reddened skin
without moving his head. His hair is a dark, ticklish sensation against
Natsume's exposed skin. "We're both Matoba, now."
Natsume considers protesting -- he's still Natsume, he'll always be Natsume,
his name is one of the few things that he can claim as his own -- but his mind
is a scratched record, starting over again each time at the implied intimacy of
Matoba's first name.
"Seiji--"
But Natsume doesn't know what he was trying to say in the first place. A plea
to stop, maybe, but maybe this falls into the same lines as joining the clan.
Matoba said that he wouldn't let Natsume back out, but that Natsume wouldn't
regret it, either. It's too easy to believe him, it's too easy to let Natsume's
vision focus in entirely on Matoba to the exclusion of everything else,
blocking out the erratic birdsong in favor of just feeling Matoba's hands on
him, how swollen his lips are, how hard his cock already is--
The situation only worsens when Matoba's hands both slip down to start steadily
removing the sling housing Natsume’s arm. He’s gentle, more than Natsume would
have expected and more than Natsume thinks he deserves when he pushes the sling
aside to start working on the buttons of Natsume’s shirt. Natsume's hand
twitches, the idea of trying to stop Matoba fleeting through his consciousness,
but the urge dies when Matoba looks at him, the look in Matoba's eye like that
of a predator.
"Don't move," Matoba says, and Natsume doesn't. He leaves his wrist right where
it is, stretched awkwardly above his head, and tries to steady his breathing as
his chest quakes under Matoba's hands. Matoba doesn't bother taking the shirt
off, and Natsume is grateful, because the sling is more complicated than he'd
like, in this specific moment. Matoba seems to know it without Natsume even
voicing the opinion, brushing his fingers across the cast, across the bruised
flesh that peeks out from the top, and Natsume lets out a soft groan of
displeasure at the sensation.
It feels like Matoba is steadily removing every bit of Natsume that the youkai
touched, sliding away all the parts that were tainted and frozen and replacing
it with the fire that Natsume never imagined was lurking inside Matoba. Natsume
is out of his depth in this, because he's never imagined any of this - not
running to Matoba, not joining the clan, not so easily finding himself under
Matoba without the urge to leave.
Natsume wants to feel safe, and he never thought he'd feel that way, with
Matoba.
"Shh," Matoba says, dragging his fingers down Natsume's exposed chest. There's
bandages covering a good portion of it, the faint stain of blood across his
chest where he'd been clawed, the multicolored bruising shining through where
his ribs are slowly knitting themselves back together. Matoba presses gently on
the bruising, looking almost delighted when Natsume lets out a pained noise,
arches up into it despite himself.
If pain is what it takes to keep everyone safe, Natsume will gladly accept it,
especially when the pain is accompanied by warmth, a burst of pleasure that
Natsume can't begin to unravel.
"Stop thinking," Matoba instructs him, and Natsume squeezes his eyes closed,
does his best to obey. He shouldn't be obeying Matoba so easily, without
hesitation, but he is. He doesn't think he can stop.
He'll hate himself later, maybe. He's no longer sure he'll regret it.
"Please," Natsume says, his good hand jerking again as he starts to lift it
only to drop it back down to the tatami again. "Please--"
Truthfully, he isn't sure what he's asking for, but it doesn't seem to matter.
Matoba seems to know, because when he leans back down, presses his lips to the
bandages over Natsume's heart, it feels like exactly what Natsume didn't know
how to ask for. Matoba drags his lips down, drags his teeth down like a threat,
skipping over all the obstacles of Natsume’s arm and the bandages on his body
until he meets the edge of Natsume's pants, long hair slipping across Natsume's
exposed skin.
Matoba looks at the bulge in Natsume's jeans and Natsume flushes,
automatically, turning his head to the side. He moves his hand, finally, flings
his arm across his face in an attempt to block Matoba from view, or maybe to
stop Matoba from viewing him.
"Stop--"
Of course, Matoba doesn't stop. He just surges up like a wave spilling across
Natsume, dragging his arm back off of his face and pinning it down again.
Natsume is at a disadvantage, one arm to Matoba's two, inexperience in the face
of someone older and clearly more well-learned, and Natsume feels like even his
token resistance is useless.
"I won't," Matoba says, simply, and then: "You don't want me to."
"I--" Natsume starts to object, but then Matoba's other hand is going down, his
palm pressing against the heat of Natsume's cock, and it's all Natsume can do
to try not to cry out so loudly that he can be heard through every wall in the
area. Matoba leaves his hand there, a steady pressure, unmoving, and Natsume
tries to squirm against it. He wants more, he wants friction and pressure and
all the heat that Matoba can give him, but Matoba is stronger than he is, and
it's easy for Matoba to reach down and hold Natsume's hips in place.
"Tell me that you don't want me to stop."
Natsume doesn't object to this any more than he’d objected to the order to say
that he wanted to join the Matoba. It's easy to repeat what Matoba tells him
to, it's easy to follow the direction when it lines up so easily with what
Natsume wants. What he shouldn't want, but does.
"I don't want you to stop," Natsume says, and his voice doesn't waver.
The kiss is a reward, when it happens, Natsume knows that much. He lets himself
sink back into it, but the feeling of his cock trapped against his pants is a
distraction, and when his hips start moving again, minute shifts as he tries to
gain more sensation, Matoba laughs against his lips, dark and assured and easy.
Matoba's other hand moves down to join the first, but not to press against
Natsume's cock, this time, they go for the button of his jeans, popping it
loose and dragging the fabric down his hips. It hurts to lift his hips enough
to get them off, to put all the weight on his bruised ribs for a second, but
Natsume does it, moves his body and strips the jeans off his legs with the
single-minded efficiency born of arousal. His underwear goes with them, and it
isn't until they're off and he has nothing to focus on that he realizes he's
naked from the waist down, hot and aroused in front of Matoba, the flush as
visible in his cock as it is in his cheeks.
"Don't look," Natsume blurts, tries not to think about the situation. Matoba
had told him to stop thinking, but it's a hard command to follow when there's
still so much to think about. Nyanko-sensei could come back at any time,
someone from the clan could come in to check on them, what is Natori going to
say when he finds out, what is--
"I told you to stop thinking so much," Matoba replies instead, punctuates the
end of his sentence by wrapping his fingers around Natsume's cock and tugging.
Natsume arches up off the cushion, and if his back protests the movement, he
can't even tell, because it feels so good that he can't think about anything
else, which was probably Matoba's exact intention.
"Ma-- Seiji--" Natsume starts, corrects himself, finishes.
Matoba's hand on his cock moves at a leisurely pace, something that feels like
it's meant to be teasing but is still so heart-stoppingly good that Natsume
can't think about anything else. Matoba's thumb smears itself across the head
of Natsume's cock, fingers already sticky with precum, and Natsume would be
embarrassed if he wasn't already so overwhelmed.
"Please," Natsume pleads, high-pitched and keening.
"Please what?"
"Let me-- let me touch you, too--"
Matoba moves up and Natsume doesn't wait for permission, he just raises his
hand, reaches up and tangles his fingers into Matoba's hair. It's even softer
than he had imagined. It takes the barest bit of pressure to undo the hair tie,
to let the hair spill messily over Matoba's shoulders. It makes Matoba look
even more otherworldly than usual; it makes him like like he's a youkai
himself, with the ward over his eye and the weight of traditional clothing on
his body.
"Do you want more?"
The words are barely out of Matoba's mouth before Natsume gasps yes, because if
Matoba wants him to stop thinking, then that's exactly what he should do. Every
time Matoba's hand shifts on Natsume's cock, his mind blanks out and he doesn't
think about anything except the touch. He wants more. He wants to stop
thinking.
Matoba really is making everything so easy.
Matoba's hand leaves Natsume's cock, and Natsume can't help but whine in
protest. It's embarrassing to be this needy when everything that he is is so
carefully calculated to not be a burden on anyone, to not make anything harder
for anyone -- but this is what Matoba is doing to him. This must be what Matoba
wants, and as much as Natsume would like to protest, he can't bring himself to
think about anything except the heat in his body, the pleasure curling through
his stomach.
Natsume lifts his leg obediently when Matoba starts to move it, and Matoba
laughs again, a soft sound that sounds so loud in Natsume's ears, blocking out
anything else that he could possibly hear. Matoba trails kisses from Natsume's
thigh all the way down to his knee, little red marks that feel almost more
embarrassing than Natsume's obvious arousal. Then Matoba moves right back up, a
bite over every place he’d laid a kiss, each one hard and quick and leaving
Natsume to jerk helplessly with each one.
"It hurts--"
"Good."
Natsume's fingers scrabble against the tatami, trying to get away from the pain
but unwilling to actually move. He's so preoccupied with it that he loses track
of what Matoba is doing for a split second, and it turns out to be long enough
for Matoba to tilt Natsume's hips up, lean down, and lick a long stripe across
the line of Natsume's ass.
"Stop--" Natsume wails, because it feels wrong, oversensitive flesh that has
never been exposed to anyone else before. He thinks there might be tears in the
corners of his eyes from the sheer overload, the sheer sensation of feeling.
He's never felt so thoroughly undone before in his life, never felt so
helpless; he's nothing more than a ship lost at sea, and Matoba is the
relentless pounding of waves crashing down on him.
Matoba doesn't even bother to correct him, this time, he just leans in again,
tongue slipping across Natsume's hole. Natsume jerks away, lets out another
keening noise, presses his nails against the tatami and tries not to think
about what Matoba must look like right now, pressed against Natsume's ass.
It only takes a second for Matoba to pull away, and Natsume isn't sure if he's
grateful or not. He doesn't have time to decide, because in the next moment,
Matoba's hand is moving down to replace his tongue, a finger slipping inside of
Natsume and making him jerk. This time, his protest is wordless and incoherent,
just noise layered on top of sensation. His objections aren't worth anything,
here, now, and it feels pointless to even try. He's already agreed to be
Matoba's, and even if that's all this is, it's overloading every nerve in
Natsume's body.
A second finger rapidly joins the first, and Natsume practically mewls at the
feeling, the stretch already feeling unbearable. He twists, trying to get away
from the feeling, and Matoba presses Natsume's hips down, keeps him in place as
he fingers him open. There’s something sticky on Matoba’s fingers, inside of
Natsume, and Natsume doesn’t know when Matoba coated his fingers in the
substance, but it makes it easy for Matoba to press his fingers in and fuck
Natsume open in slick, easy movements that throb straight down to Natsume’s
cock.
"Please," Natsume begs, and he still isn't sure what it is he's begging for,
why all he can say is the same thing over and over again. "Please--"
Matoba kisses away the pleas until they're just muffled noises, Natsume jerking
helplessly against Matoba's vice-grip, against the feeling of his fingers
inside of him. He doesn't know what he wants -- more, less, everything,
nothing. He wants to be back at the Fujiwara house listening to Nyanko-sensei
snore with the knowledge that everything is fine, that no one has been hurt
because of him, that he hasn't let anyone down, that he was finally enough--
Natsume squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a noise that's muffled against
Matoba's lips. Matoba's fingers withdraw, and Natsume doesn't open his eyes
even when Matoba pulls back. His hand is still on Natsume's hip, holding him in
place, and Natsume tries desperately not to think about anything at all.
It's a task made much easier when he realizes why it is Matoba withdrew, when
he feels the head of Matoba's cock pressing against his ass, and there's barely
time enough for Natsume to register that it's happening before Matoba is
pushing in. It's one slick movement, and the stretch and the burn of it are
combining into something that's as unique as it is oppressive. Natsume can't
hear anything but the pounding of his own heart in his ears, he can't feel
anything but exactly what Matoba (Seiji, his mind manages to supply) wants him
to.
Matoba Seiji stops moving. He's buried inside of Natsume and Natsume can't
think about anything but the feeling, thick and hot. It's the closest he's ever
come to feeling impaled, and his breath stutters in his chest as he grasps at
the tatami, at anything he can get ahold of. The hand that's still splayed
across his chest flexes enough that his wrist and his arm ache in protest, but
he can't focus on any lesser sensation of pain when Matoba Seiji's dick is
inside of him.
Seiji leans down to lick a warm stripe like a supernova against Natsume's neck.
It doesn't help Natsume's breathing regulate any; he breaks on every
exhalation, fails at holding himself together. He reaches up almost blindly,
grabs onto Seiji's clothing where it's loose around his shoulders. The fabric
slips underneath his grip, and he just adjusts his fingers over and over again
until he meets skin, the warm edge of Seiji's shoulder.
"Move," Natsume says, and it's as much a beg as it is a command. He's a Matoba
now -- isn't that right? It might not be correct to order the head of the
family around, to demand to be fucked senseless, to pretend like he has any
control over the situation, but Seiji told him not to think, and Natsume is
going to do his best to follow that order right now.
Thinking is the last thing he wants to do right now.
Seiji only laughs, a breath of amusement still at the bandages on Natsume's
throat, and moves.
If Natsume were thinking, he'd think about how loud the sound he makes must be
in Seiji's ears. He would think about the sight that he must make, because
Seiji's gaze is a physical weight on him, as dark and caressing as the man's
voice. He would think about the repercussions of what he's doing right now, of
giving himself to Seiji and then promptly letting Seiji take everything that's
left.
He isn't thinking, though, because the snap of Seiji's hips is a lazy pace.
Natsume isn't experienced enough with anything besides his own hand to know how
good it is, he only knows what his body is telling him, that he's harder than
he's ever been before in his entire life. He shifts back against Seiji with
every thrust, the motion makeing pain spike up through his ribs and he doesn't
care in the slightest. He can't care in the slightest.
Natsume is trapped, physically, between Seiji's body and the tatami, but he's
trapped in this moment, too, wrung out and helpless for as long as Seiji wants.
Is he begging? It's hard to tell, it's hard to focus on anything. He thinks
he's saying something. Words, or just endless vowel sounds; repetitions of
pleas and he can't tell what he’s even trying to communicate. There's something
wet under his fingernails and he realizes dully that he's managed to break the
skin on Seiji's shoulder, and there's something satisfying about that, too,
that they're both going to come out of this encounter marked and scarred and
somehow indelibly changed.
"Takashi," Seiji says, and the name brings Natsume too close back to reality.
He doesn't want to think about his name being used, he doesn't want to think.
"Shut up--"
Then Seiji is touching him again, a hand moving down to wrap around Natsume's
cock at the same time that the pace goes from lazy to rapid, and all of
Natsume's attempts at rudeness or coherency fly out of the window. Natsume's
mouth forms a syllable for Seiji's name and drops it before it can get all the
way out; he's barely able to breathe. He feels more like he's dying now than he
did when he was being attacked by the youkai. If death felt like this, he might
not have protested it so much.
When he comes, all he can hear is white noise in his ears, the vague echo of
his own yell refracted back at him. He can't see anything for a long moment,
and it takes him awhile to realize it's because his eyes are still closed. His
skin is still tingling, and he isn't sure when Seiji (Matoba, he viciously
corrects himself, burning through the haze of the afterglow) came, but the
proof is in the stickiness between his thighs.
Matoba's lips are on his, and Natsume is too tired to do anything but kiss
back. All the pain in his body is secondary, now; it feels like the energy
expended in chasing after his own orgasm has managed to be both a painkiller
and a sleep aid.
"Are you warmer now?" Matoba asks, and it takes Natsume's mind a moment to
catch up. It's like thinking through gauze; it's like everything has a few
seconds delay.
"Yes," Natsume says, finally, and he's surprised by how strong his voice still
sounds. Stronger than when he was talking to Taki, certainly.
Matoba shifts up, effortlessly; it's easier for him to shrug the layers of his
wrinkled robes back on than it is for Natsume to button his shirt back up.
Natsume only has one hand to work with, even if the pain when he struggles to
sit is dulled around the edges. He grabs for the sling but doesn’t try to
immediately put it back on, holds his bad arm with his good for a long second.
Matoba offers him a hand, and Natsume looks at it for a long moment before
raising his gaze to meet Matoba's eye.
"You'll need a bath, after that." Matoba's voice is as gentle as ever. There's
an undercurrent in it, a cat that's successfully trapped an elusive bird and
ended its days of singing, and it makes Natsume's stomach twist, makes his
chest ache. “And some help, from the looks of things.”
He looks at the window for a long moment. There is no bird song; there isn't
even the familiar sound of a cat's footsteps. He can hear his own breathing,
the rustle of cloth when Matoba moves. He still doesn't know how long it's been
that he's been in the room -- long enough for him to become Matoba's, but short
enough that no one else has caught on.
Natsume reaches up and takes Matoba's hand to pull him back down.
End Notes
     merry christmas four months late, moff! i watched all of natsume for
     you and it destroyed my life, please give me a refund.
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