Bathsheba: Bathsheba

“That damn fox,” Yomi hissed, his breath snarling between gritted teeth.
He should have expected something like this. Truly, it was the vulpine bastard’s modus operandi exactly, down to the last shake of those voluptuous hips. As long as Yomi had known him, Kurama’d loved to see the reluctance and confusion on his victim’s face as he seduced them with devisal and skill. Caught up in the game, he toyed with their emotions until they ascended to the utmost pinnacles of ardor, and then left them shattered and broken across the floor.
Yomi knew it was the same as it had always been. Kurama, human body or not, still enjoyed the feeling of bedding someone and leaving them, callously relieving the dupe of their dignity, composure, and virginity; and all without a thought in his mind. Yomi'd lost his innocence centuries ago, before he’d ever known that wily fox—but his composure and dignity were two things he'd sworn to himself he would always maintain, and the fact that he wasn’t sure he could keep that promise frightened him. He’d thought it entirely possible, with the beautiful fox a shadow of his former self; but now it was clear that Kurama had discovered the right method of bending the goat to his will, and Yomi could tell he was losing no time in doing so.
The problem was obvious, but insurmountable. Kurama was taking a bath. And not just a quick, impersonal soak, either, but a sumptuous, stimulating and arousing Pandora’s Box of licentious emotion. And Yomi could hear all of it. That was another piece of the crisis, that Yomi could hear every wisp of sound, every pleased breath that came from those painfully familiar lips. The sweet rasp of soft, fine cotton on smooth skin, translated for Yomi by the torrid water, was setting his nerves on fire. What minute parts of the clandestine bath hearing left to the imagination (and they were minute indeed) were carved out for him by the full paths of yoki and reiki this new human body possessed.
If they didn’t know him—if they were perhaps ningen, or vermin, scrounging around the edges of the three kingdoms with barely enough thought to survive—someone might not believe him when he said that mist makes a sound as it caresses objects, forming a taut outline of the object’s shape. They might believe him, if possible, even less if he told them that to those who knew how to listen, the gentle ripples of a bath and the current of the water can create an intimate and absolutely flawless picture of what was filling the tub. Of course, if anyone was to have questioned his assertions, they would be dead; but right now Yomi was too busy to kill anyone. The feeling of droplets of moisture rolling down exposed patches of skin, soothing them, fondling in place of hands, was one of the most sensual things in the world to Yomi now that his sight was gone, and Enma above if Kurama wasn’t utilizing that to the furthest extents of his abilities.
And Kurama knew exactly what he was doing. He was making a show of it—dragging the cloth along his nipples, bathing them with careful eroticism; allowing his skillful, feather-light touch to tease various parts of his supple body. He used the talents of the infamous Youko to augment pleasure in the inexperienced human body, and the virginal responses of a being unused to touch, coupled with the knowing, learned hands, drove Yomi wild with desire. He could feel the light film of water on Kurama’s lashes as his eyelids fluttered with newly awoken arousal. The bath swished, leaving Yomi no illusions of how that finger had dragged up that delicate cock, and the displacement of liquid shifting from the rising body temperature left equally little things to the imagination.
Yomi could feel himself salivating as that gentle hand suddenly reached up to tease the head of the cock. The thumb that rubbed over it sent electric shocks of pleasure through the muscles of Kurama's body, and Yomi felt every last one of them in the tremors the body showed. He heard the blood rush up and down Kurama, and the thumps as his heart sped up. He was acutely aware of Kurama's head tossing back, and the lascivious pop of his mouth opening in pleasure. Even after all these years, he could still imagine what the cock would look like, perfect from base to tip.
But even as the signs of lust mounted in his body, the sardonic curve of Kurama's lips as bits of steam caught on their edges ameliorated Yomi’s comfortable arousal and filled him instead with bitter regret. The bastard was doing this on purpose, and to Yomi, that was a capital crime.
A hand made soft sounds as it dragged through the mane of red hair, lathering it thoroughly with the swish of silk. Yomi found himself straining until he could feel the scent of the flower Kurama was using to moisturize his hair tease his sensitive nose. Yomi winced, knowing that wasn’t proper etiquette, and then realized he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
His subordinates had told him that Kurama’s locks were red as a rose, and he found that all he could think about was whether they were as soft as they sounded running through Kurama's fingers. As those lucky digits trailed along the silken strands, they occasionally met with the minute resistance of knots, which were instantly worked out with the utmost care. Kurama finally rose the bath, prompting Yomi to turn his ear in that direction, hooked on every soft, padding footstep that Kurama created as he walked over to the corner of the room, sidestepping obstacles which were barely formed in Yomi’s mind. The rush of water from the bucket Kurama hefted outlined him perfectly, and once more Yomi was struck with the beauty of this human body. Slim, graceful limbs, dainty hips, long legs, well-turned feet: he was an Adonis, a paragon of beauty.
And, as you may have guessed by now, Yomi wanted him. That was the third piece of this little dilemma, that Yomi's demon instincts were screaming at him to sashay down there and ravage Kurama, to break that young human body in, to show it all the ways of demonic lust.
And then, of course, the fourth and final piece: he couldn't. He absolutely couldn’t. To do so would be a breach of confidence, and, more than that, it would be to let the bastard win. It wasn’t his age, or his defenselessness against a good hard round of Makaian sex; it wasn’t even that he was once a friend and benefactor of Yomi’s. The truth was that fucking Kurama would tally up to a victory for the fox, and Yomi couldn’t stand that.
So he endured. He gripped the arms of his throne between clawed fingers, and snarled to himself about the promiscuity of those dreadful kitsune. He suffered through many things during the next hour, with Kurama’s unhindered eroticism breaking down barriers Yomi hadn’t even known he’d possessed, but nothing was so awful as the second at the end of the bath, when Kurama wrapped the towel around his sated form and began drying his hair. As he did, he turned so that he was looking up towards Yomi’s throne room, and said, “Did you enjoy that, you old goat?”
“God damn him. God damn him!” Yomi snarled under his breath, only barely satisfied that Kurama couldn’t hear him. Kurama, of course, heard every word (thanks to the seed he’d surreptitiously left in Yomi’s throne room the last time he was there). He noticed that Yomi wasn’t cursing anywhere near as much later that night, when he strode purposefully into Kurama’s bedroom and announced his intention to upgrade Kurama’s position from second-in-command to second-in-command and first royal concubine, a move that would doubtlessly strike fear in their collective enemies’ hearts, and which, though neither openly acknowledged it, would allow Yomi to retain his dignity despite the way he'd succumbed to temptation.
Such is the way of goats, Kurama thought, as his smirking lips were captured in a kiss. They have the well-founded reputation for being ornery and mean, but, no matter what, they always return to the same place, and the same people; make the same mistakes; and put their meager trust in the same simplistic things.
“You think you’re an exception to every rule, but you’re not, Yomi; in fact, no one is.” Kurama murmured, that irrepressible smirk still very much in place. Yomi said nothing, but pulled his ancient, nubile young lover close to him and over his pelvis, causing Kurama to straddle him lightly.
“You will pay dearly for this mess you’ve put me in, fox.”
Kurama chuckled as he leaned in, putting more pressure on their erogenous zones, and circling his hips teasingly. “Inari, I hope so.”


Fin.