The first time, Sen is undeniably frightened.

Contrary to her expectations, delaying her wedding night only makes her more and more uneasy as the days wear on. She never wanted to marry into the Kazama clan, so she did the only thing she could think to do, and ran from her responsibilities almost as soon as their union was confirmed. Consequently, she has spent the first several days of her reluctant marriage in almost complete seclusion, requesting Kiku's advice. Or, to put matters less delicately, help.

Sen keeps largely to her confidante's company for two days, learning all she can, often asking the same questions over and over again… until finally the third morning. Then, Kiku tells Sen that she has no further suggestions to offer, with the sad and gentle certainty that always underlines her half-disguised admonitions. Seduction, so she explains, is more easily done than said—so Sen, sensible of her situation, swears to herself as well as her husband that she will delay the inevitable no longer and visit Kazama tonight.

Sen has always had pride in her ability to set aside her personal feelings and do what is best for her people, and she did so admirably when she first made her proposal. However, now that she has been effectively cornered by her position and by Kazama's insistence, she finds herself… afraid. Her circumstances are no longer under her control, and therefore she is no longer safe. The reality of the situation is that Sen no longer has any choice in her allegedly chosen course.

She spends the rest of the last day in isolation, first gathering her wits, and then her courage. She tells herself many things over those endless hours, but only one thought calms her down for any length of time: that even had they followed her original plan, she would still have had to bed Kazama to carry it out. Still, despite the inevitability, she would have far preferred keeping her independence. She dislikes the idea of belonging to Kazama in any sense, and it was bad enough that she had to volunteer her body alone without being forced to proffer her entire self like this.

Sen supposes she could have rejected him outright, but such a choice would have been her downfall. All her people are as dear to her as any blood relatives could be, and her advisors have made it abundantly clear over the years that she needs to marry well for their sake. And besides, Kazama's added incentives were irrefutably generous. In exchange for Sen's hand in marriage, he would use the favors he and his attendants earned with the Satsuma to keep Yase and its people out of human matters. All that was required of her in return was that their firstborn be heir to the Kazama clan and not to her own line.

Such an offer, however, appeared far more magnanimous than the true spirit in which it was intended. After all, earlier the very same meeting, Kazama flatly refused to honor Sen's previous proposal upon making his own. Only after overhearing Kiku's report of continued covert imperial investigation of Yase did Kazama offer a solution—reminding Sen more than a little mockingly how much more she had to lose than he.

Backed into a corner by more forces than she could hope to confront at once, not the least of which was their councils' first unanimous agreement, she had little choice but to accept the engagement. Even though the thought of maintaining a lasting connection to such a beast still makes her sick at heart.

(Yet there is something undefined about Kazama that intrigues Sen, too, and that intimidates her almost more than the man himself. A certain sensitivity, a keenness of mind, a depth of feeling and genuine empathy rarely shown. These glimmers of goodness are enough to make her wonder whether his severity is nothing more than an extremely convincing mask, but she does not dare try to pry it off.)

All too soon, the fateful hour comes. As soon as the autumnal sun dips below the horizon, Kiku returns to bathe Sen, but neither of them speak, before or during or after. As she cleanses her lady before she must be defiled, both of them find that there is nothing left for them to say. Not until Kiku finishes securing Sen's robe and starts helping her into another layer. The fabric might be beautiful on another evening, but the colors seem to hurt her eyes, even in the dim golden glow of lantern-light.

"There is no need," says Sen quietly, her voice dull and foreign to her own ears after having spent so long in silent solitude. "It will come off soon enough."

She wants more than anything else to add that Kazama does not deserve the satisfaction of seeing her dressed and made up, but can say no more. Having relied on Kiku for the past few days, she must be strong, even if it means feigning strength. To admit that her doubts have still not been assuaged would be unthinkable after the lengths to which her confidante has gone to reassure her.

"My lady," is Kiku's only, soft reply. It is obvious that she senses the discord within—but, as befits her station, she does not dare address it. Though she hesitates a moment longer, she bows her head respectfully and sets the next layer aside. Her sympathy is plain on her face, although her expression also holds a peculiar and perhaps misguided tinge of pride. Sen supposes this is a rite of passage, however unpleasant it may be.

"Whatever his attitude, you could not ask for a more attractive first partner," says Kiku eventually, kissing Sen's forehead like a fretting sister. "And that matters more than you may think. Have faith in yourself, Princess." She gives a warm and bittersweet smile, and turns away. "You know that knowledge is power, and after all I've told you, I shouldn't be surprised if you know much more than he does."

Sen lets her go… and then, when she is alone again, reaches into her robe to remove her undergarment. Flinging it angrily aside, she flinches as it hits the wall, struggling mightily between her anger and her helplessness and shame. She knows she has neither reason nor right to be so vindictive, but she can't help but think the more steps they can skip, the better.

Heavy-hearted and lightheaded, Sen snaps the door shut behind her, trying not to think of how she will be missing a part of herself the next time she walks through it. She moves very slowly, staring at her shadow passing through the fading light, and feels that if she lengthens her strides in the slightest, she might leave herself behind altogether. As she passes an open door, a gentle breeze drifts through the hall, still more summer than fall, and beckons her to the courtyard.

Pausing, Sen takes a moment to glance longingly outside at the familiar scene, comforting in this moment of uncertainty. Even if she had to marry Kazama, at least she has not had to leave her home again, especially since she and her people already had to evacuate once during the war. Now, there is no trace of such strife, although there is something despondent about the atmosphere.

Night has set in swiftly, stars pricking at the twilit heavens like tears. Leaves sway in the restless wind, blushing scarlet as they whisper among themselves. Perhaps, thinks Sen, they are talking of her destination and her duty. But, letting out a short and almost painful sigh, she reluctantly continues on her way. The sooner she fulfills her mission, the sooner she can return to watch the moonrise.

It seems so childish to think of needing such a reward for her own necessary forbearance, but then again, it is fitting given her lingering innocence. Only after tonight will Sen truly be able to call herself a woman and not a girl. In that sense, at least, Kazama has something more than his lineage to offer her after all.

Her steps feel more purposeful now, although she has arrived at no conscious conclusion, and they carry her to Kazama's door more quickly than she would like. Sen opens her mouth to announce her presence, but her footfalls are evidently enough to do that for her. "Enter," says Kazama, and in his voice is irritation and triumph, apprehension and excitement—a concoction of conflicting emotions, alarmingly similar to Sen's own.

Steeling herself, Sen takes a deep breath and slides the door open, stepping inside and closing it behind her before she gives herself the chance to back down. By sealing the exit, she seals her own fate, and by doing so prevents Kazama from trapping her himself. This is her will, and she will not be cornered.

Sen opens her mouth to greet him, but she and Kazama turn to face one another at the same time, and she can say nothing.

His yukata puts her pristine white robe to shame. It glitters bloodred, darker than his eyes, but not as dark as the soul she sees behind them. Yet Sen wonders how much of this is her own bitter anxiety, blackening all she sees. The glints of gold and silver, and the pale blossoms bursting here and there, may be just as symbolic of his temperament, and consequently bright enough to save him.

"You came," says Kazama, and his voice is not as emotionless as she expects. "I had been wondering if I would have to pay you a visit instead."

Sen swallows, but cannot think how to respond. Under his unrelenting gaze, she already feels exposed and vulnerable. Sen had always accounted for the possibility that this situation might feel like a nightmare, but until now, she had not realized that it was more terrifying still for it to feel real. As if to test her, Kazama takes a step forward, and it takes more self-control than Sen anticipates to stand her ground.

Kiku has often said, in proud admiration, that Sen is possessed of a rare and precious attractiveness, but she has never believed it until this moment. As Kazama advances slowly, the desire in his eyes cannot be either mistaken or ignored.

"I," begins Sen, but Kazama raises his hand to caress her face, and she scarcely avoids the urge to recoil from his touch. So bewildering is his proximity—his appearance—the circumstances surrounding this conversation—that in the moment, Sen cannot think of anything to say. But Kazama does not give her time to do so, curving his hand around to the back of her neck.

Before she can fully register the motion, he brings her forward. Sen stumbles, but he holds her firmly, steadying her. Sen's breath catches at the feel of Kazama's oppressive strength gripping her shoulders, and both of them hesitate; it isn't just her. That recognition, fleeting though it may be, is an oddly soothing one.

Kazama is, unsurprisingly, the one to stir first, leaning in the last few inches before their lips meet. His are softer than Sen expects, strangely gentle as they move momentarily against hers. Yet he pulls back again almost immediately, assessing her expression through feathery blond lashes that soften the threatening crimson of his eyes.

Sen feels her brow twitch into a slight frown, but it seems separate from herself and out of her control, and she feels no connection to whatever emotion provokes it. As Kazama studies her face, a faint smile plays on his lips, but she cannot interpret its meaning before he draws her closer still and presses his smirking mouth once more to hers.

As he does so, Sen notices a thousand things at once: the damp sheen of his recently washed hair; the heat of his clean skin through his yukata; the fact that though his scent is pleasant and faintly musky, he tastes of nothing at all. By the time Kazama breaks away again, Sen's head feels simultaneously heavy and light, spinning with observations. Among them is that his supple fingers have slipped from her shoulders to curl delicately around her wrist, one by one.

Grinning at her thinly, eyes half-closed like those of a contented cat, Kazama leads Sen to his bed with barely contained eagerness, startling her with the motion. Why is it so easy for her to follow? She expected to have to fight herself every moment, but she finds instead that in the midst of her shock, it is alarmingly easy to let Kazama have his way, to kneel as one with him atop his futon, even to let him kiss her again.

Perhaps that realization, and the fear that comes flooding back because of it, is what jolts Sen back to her senses.

A burst of strength fills her limbs as she recognizes that she has already lost what little control she has. Kazama's kiss is deeper now, more insistent, and he has started to brush Sen's garment off her shoulders so that it parts slightly in front. Half-blind in sudden panic, she pulls away and readjusts her robe hastily. "N-not… yet," manages Sen lamely, her first words to him a refusal.

Kazama's eyes spark in irritation, but Sen cannot meet them, having no more articulate excuse than her lack of readiness. Her husband sits back, his breathing heavier already, but still almost inaudible. "I would see you uncovered," he says, his stare scorching. "If you wish to unclothe yourself, then by all means, do so. Only take care that you do so."

Sen moistens her lips. Kazama's gaze is cruel and unrelenting, and she fears giving him the satisfaction of seeing her unnerved, to say nothing of seeing her unclothed. "Would you…" she begins, bowing her head as much to compose herself as to ask a favor. "Could you… close your eyes, Kazama… san?" She speaks haltingly, employing a suitable epithet for the first time, and raises her eyes to his at last. "Can I trust you not to look at me?"

Kazama frowns, but he seems more confused than disapproving at first. "I would see you uncovered," he repeats, narrowing his eyes icily, and Sen shivers at his dangerous expression. "Did I not make myself clear?"

"You did," Sen assures him, knowing that much is true, whether she likes it or not. "But… no one has ever… seen me like this, before. So… it would be more comfortable for me if…" She trails off, shaking her head in agitation, and speaks more quickly to stabilize herself. "I-if you have decided to be my partner in this life, and not merely the father of my child, then you must learn to respect my wishes and accommodate… m-my decisions."

A convulsive swallow almost cuts her off, and Sen's voice is tremulous, but she does not look away from Kazama's eyes lest he take it as a sign of weakness. After all, he seems to be searching for conviction in her countenance.

Once he finally finds it, Kazama heaves a somewhat exaggerated sigh. "I am not a patient man, especially not after the past few days," he growls, closing his eyes, and readjusts his position to sit seiza before her. "Do not keep me waiting longer than you must."

As soon as she is certain that Kazama's eyes are in fact closed, Sen lets out a long breath, smiling faintly in relief. She undoes her obi carefully, relaxing in spite of herself. Now that her husband has finally taken his ravenous eyes off her, however unwillingly, she feels a little less like a prey animal.

Letting her robe fall softly behind her, Sen takes a moment to clear her head and remember Kiku's advice and training. Having returned to herself, she may as well try to make the most of it. A memory prods at her regained consciousness, and Sen takes a deep breath. If you make up your mind not to feel anything, then I'll defer to your decision, echoes Kazama's warning, given on the evening their arrangement was first agreed upon. But I've already resolved to make the best of the situation, and it's only right that I help you do the same.

Sen has not made up her mind in any such counterproductive way, and she intends to prove it. Her resolution solidifying, she crawls over to Kazama, leaning toward him on all fours. Though his eyes flicker and flutter, they do not open, and his breathing comes shallower as it mingles with hers. His nostrils flare, his ears twitching, as if he means to take her in with all his other senses.

"Don't look at me, Kazama-san," whispers Sen, either a gentle reminder or a harsh temptation. And this time, she is the one to kiss him.

Though Kazama at first seems at a loss for what to do with his hands, his inhibitions melt away as soon as he rests them on her shoulderblades. She can feel him tense an instant before he presses on her back to draw her closer, closer, into his lap. Sen has no time to turn aside, so she stretches out her legs on either side of him, perched precariously on his thighs to avoid coming in contact with—

Kazama breaks the kiss, and Sen's focus is drawn abruptly back to herself and her own body. Still his eyes are closed as his hands wander, oddly tender and tentative, tracing the whole length of her back with light touch. He nestles his face in the crook of her neck, breathing into her, kissing her skin as he embraces her more tightly, and Sen shudders as his fingernails press into her skin.

This, then, is the carnal intoxication of which Kiku spoke.

Sen had her doubts that the body and soul could be so easily separated, but savoring the sensation Kazama offers suddenly seems so much more important than his identity. How many terrible things has he done with the very hands that now grasp her hips, that hoist her higher up in his lap to rub against him? It no longer seems to matter as he shifts in place to create the barest hint of friction between them, swinging his legs out to bend up and support her back.

Hungry kisses trail down her clavicle, independent of his agency and his identity. All that matters in the moment is the feel of lips on skin, tongue on skin. Sen gasps as Kazama nibbles her breast, then stops breathing altogether as his mouth—coy yet demanding—finds her nipple. She has just enough of her wits about her to think that he is not seeking to please her, but rather to remind her of her duty to mother his child, in his own twisted way.

But regardless of his intent, Sen cannot stop a faint mewl from escaping her lips at a flick of his tongue. The telltale prickle of arousal spreads through her being and pools below like liquid lightning, exacerbated by the pressure from his own body, clearly yearning for more. Kazama hesitates as if he had been going to withdraw, but evidently thinks better of it, and presses his mouth even more intently against her skin.

One of Sen's hands moves as if of its own volition to knot itself in the base of Kazama's hair, and he gives a soft vocalization in the back of his throat, pain or pleasure. She shudders at the catch in his breath, the warm wetness of his mouth, his dextrous fingers kneading her other breast. She echoes the motions, massaging the back of his neck, although the hand that grips his shoulder does so only weakly. The rippling of his tongue, the faint scratch of his fingernails, the lightest touches of his teeth tease her, tempt her, too much for her to focus.

Sinking into a sensuous reverie, measured only in labored breaths and quick pulses in more than one place, Sen only notices that Kazama's hand has settled in the curve of her waist as he withdraws it. Leaning back to distance himself briefly, he lets go of her to undo his obi. Sen takes the opportunity to catch her breath, and check to see if his eyes have opened yet.

But, true to his word, they have not. Sen almost finds herself frustrated with his obedience, his restraint. But all thoughts flee her mind as Kazama tugs his yukata from underneath her and parts it in front. It is his only layer, just like hers. Sen stares helplessly for a moment, then jerks her head aside, feeling herself flush as his garment falls away altogether.

"Are you afraid?" laughs Kazama, his chuckle deep and rich and not unpleasant, but the note of arrogance in the sound serves as an uncomfortable reminder of her position. Still, the realization seems shallower than last time, less enduring, and her oath to prove herself a worthy adversary tonight is fresher in her mind.

Rather than respond in words, Sen rests her hands lightly on Kazama's upper chest in the guise of a shy caress or an amorous half-embrace, careful to give no hint of her true objective. As he leans forward, ostensibly for another kiss, she shoves him back with all her limited strength, pulling back her legs to stabilize herself and increase her momentum.

Ordinarily, Kazama could and would overpower Sen effortlessly—but the suddenness of the motion, or perhaps the jarring shift in mood, disarms him. He hits the floor before his body even tenses. Regaining her bearings just as swiftly, she arches over him, her palms pressing into his shoulders to pin him down. For a moment, neither of them stir, but for the rapid shallow movements of his chest… and the black of his pupils expanding to swallow the red.

"Are you afraid?" murmurs Sen, a feverish rush spreading through her body, shortening her breaths and clouding her thoughts with giddy liberation. Kazama once told her that he sees no charm in command, but if this sweet and savage energy racing through her limbs is how it feels, then he must have been lying. Perhaps he has never known true command. After all, Sen has found that the few falsehoods he ever lets pass his lips are those he believes to be truth.

Kazama's lips part slightly, but he does not—or perhaps cannot—respond. Just as Sen could say nothing until he led her to his bed, so has he lost the ability to speak now that she has pushed him onto it. The strength of his shock is unexpected, but understandable. Kazama, as indomitable in his own eyes as in all others, has been dominated.

Yet Sen knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she has only a moment before all his astonishment turns to anger. She slides her hands down his chest to press into his lungs, lowering her haunches until…

They both jump at the first electric contact between them, and Kazama inhales sharply. Biting her lip in concentration, Sen moves her hips just as Kiku taught her: forward and back, forward and back, employing only the lightest touch. Deep breaths, as much to calm herself as to establish a rhythm, her eyes fixed firmly on the center of his chest. Moisture, barely contained, now seeping down. Resisting the impulse to press her legs together out of shame, Sen concentrates on lowering herself cautiously instead.

Not quickly enough for Kazama. "More," he rumbles, his muscles tensing as he begins to sit up, placing his hands on her hips as if to pull her down. But Sen presses her palms further into him, unwilling to surrender her position of power so soon after taking it. Relishing the wariness in his expression as he reluctantly relaxes beneath her, she eases herself onto him… slowly, slowly… until Kazama, the insurmountable, is mounted.

There is a moment of still silence as Sen feels the heat of him inside her, and then she shudders back to life. Her motions become elliptical, almost lemniscates, rising and falling like her breaths. The fit is tight and far from comfortable, let alone pleasurable, but Sen must and will endure it. After the euphoria Kazama could offer just by kissing her in the right places, without insisting on immediate gratification, tolerating him inside her is the least she can do in return.

As Sen gradually gets used to the sensation, her movements become less halting, lither, more fluid. As Kazama's hand slips to rest on her thigh, palm slightly damp, Sen starts. Her eyes jump to his face in search of a reason, but she is far from prepared for the expression she sees. Kazama's countenance is one of awe, as though he is gazing at the night sky for the first time—experiencing something shining and vast and incomprehensible. His eyes are half-closed in the beginnings of pleasure, and for once, there is no trace of hostility or conceit or even impatience behind them.

In that moment, Sen recognizes on his face the same thing she felt for herself as he kissed her chest, and realizes for the first time that the two of them are not so different after all. Demons, like humans, are creatures of the senses. Through these allegedly shallow pleasures, there is a hidden connection, deeper than any other. As this truth passes wordlessly through her mind, her body, her very being, she recognizes for the first time why they call it making love.

Perhaps that is why she weakens, sinking further down. A pinprick and a dull throb; a gasp more of surprise than pain; a wound even her demon blood can never heal—and Kazama finally stands in her to the hilt.

Sensing the break, his eyes widen slightly, and he frowns as if stirred from some dream, focusing on her with apparent difficulty. "Sen," he says huskily, and she stops her movements. Has he ever called her by name before? "Was that…?"

Sen nods, feeling the heat flood even faster to her cheeks, and can think of nothing else to do but start moving again. Kazama props himself up on his elbows, but makes no move to interrupt her. He only stares, a slow but obvious flush spreading across his face as well. Sen closes her eyes for the sake of concentration, and pretends his are closed too, although she can still feel his gaze scorching her body.

Circles, now, starting slowly, and under the lingering ache, she thinks she might even feel something. Not enjoyable enough to be called pleasure, but any sensation is better than the half-numb sense of over-fullness to which she is by now accustomed. She expected Kazama to fight her for dominance, but he seems to be in a trance, unbreakable, motionless but for the rise and fall of his chest—irregular at times, or strangled, before he remembers to clear it again.

His hand begins to burn on her thigh, and Sen moves it for the sake of her comfort. However, as the pressure of her wrist collides with her own forward motion, she gasps as heat blossoms in front—a spark, unprecedented and exciting. Cautiously, she moves again, arranging Kazama's hand just so, grateful for the darkness of her closed eyes to conceal the impropriety of such an act.

Yes. Each of her motions brings with it a better sensation now, and Sen picks up her pace unconsciously, confident in her eagerness to chase those tiny pulses. But just as she establishes her newest rhythm, Kazama presses his thumb into her harder, and Sen falters, her breath hitching. As Kazama gives a brief exhalation a little like a chuckle, she dares to open her eyes once more to find him smirking.

Adjusting to his new position, Sen keeps her eyes half-open to make sure Kazama behaves himself. Senses sharper than ever, she notices an eventual twitch of his fingers, a spasm in his torso, a glance at the wall, and senses his intentions as clear as day. He means to flip her over, as though he could do any better for her on top.

"Don't you dare," hisses Sen, bucking her hips more aggressively to prove a point, and Kazama's attention snaps abruptly back to her. "You took over—my entire life—by marrying me. If I cannot—stay in control of—that, I will take charge of—this."

Kazama narrows his eyes in displeasure. "You have no right," he says, although his statement is made slightly less firm by his inhalation at the end, as Sen digs her fingernails into his chest by way of warning. She has just as much right as he, if not more, and they both know it… so she elects to ignore him.

"Isn't this what you—told me to do?" asks Sen, with a shrug of her shoulders and a toss of her hair. "Make the most of—my situation?" She rolls her hips, leaning forward to push Kazama flat against the futon, her motions becoming small and quick. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she repeats his wedding-day words back to him. "I only took the initiative and claimed what I want. One way or another, I expect you to deal with it."

Kazama's eyes blaze, and he opens his mouth furiously to argue, but only for a moment. Sen snaps back and starts in again before he has the chance, and his argument dissolves into a curse instead. His hand has moved from its proper place, so she makes to move it back, but rather than permit her to do so, Kazama grasps both her wrists and pulls her down again, strength belying the vulnerability of his position.

"Your mouth is pretty," murmurs Kazama, gaze flicking down to Sen's lips and back up to her eyes again. "A pity it's so impertine—imperti—fuck!" He jerks his head aside, grip slackening, as she places all her weight abruptly on her hindquarters to force him deeper into her.

She takes advantage of his distraction to sit up and move freely, forgetting about herself for the time being. All that matters now is to finish Kazama before he thinks to use all his abundant power to take control. "I will not allow—!" he begins ferociously, seizing her waist as if meaning to throw her off, but Sen trails her fingernails down his chest, and his words become a labored gasp and then a groan.

Her legs and feet cramp with the effort of keeping up the pace, her knees ache, and her pulse races in two places, warning her to slow down lest she exhaust herself entirely, but she ignores them. All discomfort is irrelevant. There can be no greater satisfaction for her than forcing Kazama to lose his carefully maintained control.

A few more motions, intense and persistent, and their fit becomes tighter still, Kazama's grip on her hips growing simultaneously tenser and more tremulous. "Sen," he growls, bestial in his urgency, eyes burning. Flickering gold, now, as his hair washes white. "Let me—!" His voice cracks, and he abandons all attempt at speech as Sen grasps his newly manifested outer horns, using them to stabilize herself as she keeps moving. She has no breath to respond, anyway, and actions speak louder than—

"No," hisses Kazama, straining against something invisible, and one hand drops to his side to clutch at the futon. His head tosses as if in the midst of a fever-dream. Scowling and squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain or tremendous effort, he lets out an incoherent vocalization through bared teeth, edged with a sound almost like a whine or a whimper—equal parts frustration and euphoria. Sen stills to accommodate his climax, something shifting subtly inside her moments before a rapid pulsation she had not noticed ebbs away.

Sen takes some time to catch her breath, although Kazama's breathing evens more quickly than hers. His hair turns gradually blond again, and when he finally opens his eyes, Sen finds them red and unfocused as he glares at her, but when she only offers a smile in return, his lip twitches into a halfhearted snarl, and he turns his face away as if unable to hold the expression for long.

Caught up in studying Kazama's face, Sen realizes with a jolt that she is still sitting atop him, and clambers off hastily to stretch out her legs. After so long together, the emptiness inside her feels strange. Though she misses the little sparks of pleasure, to expand them into something so overwhelming feels like more trouble than it is worth.

Sen only notices that she is staring at the door when Kazama reaches out for her wrist. "Sen," he says, his grip shaky and somewhat damp, but just as strong as his voice. "Your obligation is not yet fulfilled."

"I… what?" asks Sen faintly, nonplussed and more than a little alarmed. She still cannot think straight; what more is there to offer him now? Sleeping in Kazama's bed is not part of their arrangement…

Kazama smiles thinly. "Surely you don't think you can just leave after what you did?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, and continues very slowly, as if spelling a simple thing out for her. "I mean to do the same for you." The somewhat cruel amusement in his tone tells Sen that his motivation for finishing her is no more pure than hers was. He only wishes to see her as vulnerable as he was in her eyes, to force her to lose control.

"I assume my consent has no place in this," mutters Sen, half to herself, and knows she assumes correctly when Kazama's only reply is to pull her back by the wrist and throw her back down on his futon.

For a moment, he simply looks down at her—probably more pleased with his position over her than with her appearance—and Sen finds herself admiring him despite herself. The way his hair hangs down to frame his face, the slight sheen of perspiration on his skin and the ripple of his muscles beneath… Truly, he is a handsome man. And besides that, the part of her so recently awakened does call for completion.

"Kazama-san," breathes Sen, even before she realizes she has spoken, and something flashes across his face too quickly for her to see. Pride, perhaps, or even ardor. "Kiss me again. H-here." She lays her hand delicately upon her breast, though modesty still forbids her to be any more explicit than that.

Kazama tilts his head slightly, and Sen half thinks he might refuse, but then he bows it to obey without a word. Sen relaxes into the sensation despite herself, closing her eyes and focusing on her other senses. His mouth is clumsier now, less coordinated in his afterglow, but the pleasure he offers is just as sweet. And it is only amplified after his fingers find her below. They skim the surface at first in an echo of her own teasing, then push slowly further, exploratory, inquisitive.

Learning her own patterns and reactions alongside him, Sen eventually fumbles for his hand to guide him in the right direction, although even after all Kiku's careful description, she herself remembers little in the moment about exactly which way that is. Still, with her help, she can tell that Kazama is getting closer—always closer—and that it's just a matter of time, and patience, and his tongue on her skin.

And then, as he curls his fingers experimentally forward, she spasms and gasps, eyes flying open to take in Kazama looking just as surprised as she, lifting his head from her chest. He halts for a second, glancing down as though unsure whether he could really have elicited such a clear reaction, and repeats the motion. Again Sen shudders, and this time, Kazama smiles a strangely genuine smile, lowering himself still further over her. She can feel the heat rolling off his body in waves, although his breath on her damp skin cools her down immediately.

Over and over, Kazama moves his fingers in just the right spot, and she rocks her hips to create a rhythm, wanting to tell him to do it faster. But she can't seem to form coherent words, so she decides it is better for her dignity not to try. If indeed she can decide anything in a state like this—there are no thoughts anymore—only the purest bodily desire to reach the height of—

Finally, she convulses, writhes beneath Kazama, inhales so sharply she almost chokes, and lets out a brief panting cry as much in surprise as ecstasy. A tide of fire washes over her in waves, sparkling and undulating, now more intense, now less, until it dissipates into exhausted satisfaction.

Kazama's fingers twitch slightly as he withdraws them slowly, and she jerks out of sensitivity, then frowns as she notices hazily that he looks almost disappointed. "You didn't…" he begins, wiping his fingers dispassionately on his discarded yukata, but does not finish the sentence. He only sits back on his haunches, heaves a sigh, and stares sullenly at the nearest wall. Sen thinks she knows what he means. However intense the pleasure rushing through her may have been, it was still not enough to encourage her to embrace her true form.

"Kazama-san," murmurs Sen, stirring, and nudges his arm with her foot none too gently to deter him from sulking. "You have always had a quicker temper. That's all." Had she been truly angry with him, as he had been with her, Sen might have allowed her true form to consume her without a second thought… although now that she knows how much it means to him, she will put forth the extra effort to ensure it never surfaces.

Kazama's gaze swivels over to her in some surprise, and Sen marvels at the ease with which she can endure it now, considering her initial self-consciousness. "Are you thinking of all the unnecessary work you just did?" she asks quietly, pushing herself gingerly into a sitting position, and meets his eyes far more easily than she ever could have dreamed. "Did you gain nothing from—?"

"No," says Kazama, with all the confident immediacy of truth, although he looks away from her as he speaks. His embarrassment is well-disguised as contemplation, but he cannot prevent his cheeks from flushing. "I was thinking… how beautiful your true form must be. That's all." It is the closest thing to a genuine compliment he has ever offered, and Sen cannot help but smile in response.

There is a long and oddly comfortable silence before Sen finally breaks it. "I… want to watch the moonrise," she says, the words springing unbidden to her lips. Why does she say the words that might condemn her to his company still longer? Why does she not simply walk away, leaving Kazama to his futon alone? He seems just as disarmed by her tacit and half-unintentional offer, and merely looks at her for a moment. Guardedly, as though he expects her to lure him into the path of an assassin.

His answer, mercifully, is not the one Sen expects. "Go, then," says Kazama, lying back. Just for a moment, he rests his hand on the flat of her belly, perhaps unconsciously thinking of the child he will put there someday. "And don't come back again tonight. I have… some things… I'd like to commit to memory."

Sen smiles at Kazama hesitantly, grateful despite herself. Climax has put him in a remarkably lenient mood; she will have to remember this for later. "As you wish, Kazama-san," she says, half-sweet, half-sarcastic, and retrieves her robe from the floor a little distance away. He frowns at her as she throws it on and ties her obi, but says nothing, only gestures vaguely to his door. Almost carelessly.

Moving on quick feet, Sen pauses to glance back at him, only to find him staring fixedly at the ceiling, unseeing. There is the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, but something about it seems melancholy, or bitter. It was easy, in the heat of the moment, for them to forget themselves and each other. Sen has no doubt that, cooling down, Kazama is trying to reconcile the moment they shared with the dislike and disdain he has so often before made clear. And later tonight, she will have to do the same.

Perhaps, thinks Sen, closing the door behind her with a strange sense of sympathy, they are not so different after all.