There was a plastic bowl in the shower, holding another block of soap and a washcloth—perfect.

He ditched the soap, kept the washcloth, and filled the bowl with hot water. Grabbed the lube and a condom on the way out, and returned the bedside, where Ryouma had turned his head to watch curiously. Raidou set the bottle and the little foil packet aside, and sat on the bed, making it dip.

Ryouma eyed the bowl. “I showered earlier today. Before the bar.”

“Me, too,” said Raidou, and squeezed the washcloth out, letting a thrum of chakra build in his fingers to keep the wet cloth warm. He set it to Ryouma’s tense shoulders and dragged it down his spine, leaving a gleaming streak over tanned skin and the complex blackwork tattoo.

Slowly, Ryouma dropped his face back against the pillow and mumbled, “That feels really good.”

“Good,” said Raidou, pleased, and repeated the stroke.

He worked over the entire length of Ryouma’s back, shoulderblades to hips, and even went over the tightly held arms, shoulders to fingertips, until Ryouma had entirely relaxed, urgent lust guttered down to a slow-burning ember. It was a lot like tending to a sleek predator— No, scratch that, it was exactly like tending to a sleek predator. Strange service turned into a selfish privilege, to have all that power and grace laid out in front of him, with free reign to touch wherever he wanted.

He followed each wet stroke with chakra-warmed hands, heating the water away before it could cool and chill. Muscles unwound beneath his touch like pulled taffy.

Ryouma’s breathing was deep and even by the time Raidou got down to his hips, and it barely hitched when Raidou slid the cloth over his ass, tracing two crescent sweeps, and down the long, lean muscles of his thighs.

“Missing the good stuff, there,” Ryouma murmured, sounding half-asleep.

Raidou chuckled. “Patience is not actually one of your virtues, is it?” he said, despite a little evidence to the contrary. He re-wetted the cloth and slid it up Ryouma’s inner thigh, over the cross-hatchings of old scars, until he reached the join of Ryouma's legs and the exceptionally sensitive skin between them.

Ryouma's breath shivered between his teeth.

The cloth was rough and warm. Raidou dragged it over the perineum and back up the crack of Ryouma's ass, intimate and careful-handed. Ryouma's fingers clenched on the back of his own neck.

Raidou leaned forward and exhaled gently over a thin silver scar set just to the left of Ryouma's tailbone, where a quick dodge had prevented a life of paralysis. “Tell me,” he said, and gave into his impulse to bite the tempting curve of Ryouma’s ass, making Ryouma twitch. “Have you ever been rimmed?”