Three Strikes
"Yoruichi-sama," the voice comes heated, like white iron and red glass. The words are deferential and yet demanding, and Yoruichi finds she cannot say no. The words are strained and soft, just soft enough to power through the last of Yoruichi's restraint.
Yoruichi is kissing her now, across the pale, thin skin over and down her throat, fastening her hands in her midnight hair, pushing her down, crawling over her, and all she could do is whimper against the sheets. Her fingers scramble to find purchase on her thighs, to lay flush against the flat planes of muscle. Then she yanks her up roughly, ravenous mouth open to catch the fluttering pulse between her teeth.
Suddenly, there is a flurry of motion. Then, it is nothing but legs and lips and thin white limbs, wielding a sudden and surprising power. The goddess, the mistress, is suddenly on her back with a small surprised gasp. A small body hovers above her and firm gentle fingers skim over her belly, up the plains and crooks of her ribs, down to the darkness between her thighs, destroying thought, ruining almost everything.
Strike one.
The grunt rushing through the gritted cage of Yoruichi's teeth sounds odd, almost pained, but they tumble again, over and through, and she quiets when she reclaims her position, mouth set against the curve of pale skin, hands rubbing, pinching, pulling, pumping. Still, even from beneath, the woman tastes her, consumes her. She revels in the torn edge of her panting against her throat, enjoys the jagged edge of her teeth scraping, scratching against her skin. Soon, the teeth are driving harder, deeper, and she is about to break through.
Strike two.
Yoruichi jerks away, so she is asked if anything is wrong. Yoruichi doesn't answer; she couldn't. Instead she maps the distance from the temple to the breast with the warmth her mouth, feeling the curve of her jaw, the line of her neck, the dip of the hollow. But she doesn't stop; anything to keep the words from coming. Soon, the kisses trail further and she is lower on her and deeper into her; her tongue flicks and her tongue tastes, but everything is bitter. So she changes things around, lifts her body but not her gaze, drops her hips but not her guard. They are sex to sex, mouth to mouth, and the colors of the world are blurring.
"Yoruichi!" her raw voice tore through the night, dropping the suffix as if she had every right to.
Strike three.
Hearing her name spoken so plainly makes the princess' heart beat its wings against her ribs, stilling the fragile fingers of her breath. It is panic more than it is pleasure but she embraces it, just for now, just because she needs it. She rocks slowly to the rhythm until it isn't enough; then she races with it and soon it is her heart and her seizing body that are struggling to catch up.
She huffs out heavily, repeatedly, forcing the embers to cool and the waves to calm, willing the filth out with her breath. She finds her limp long fingers in the woman's damp midnight hair; she lets them fall away, no, pulls them away.
Who is this woman who would dare dominate me, mark me, strip down my name?
Three strikes, three mistakes she can't forgive. And it doesn't matter that it had all started with one of hers. Once those gray eyes close, drawing a dream world Yoruichi doesn't know, doesn't care about, it's not just Yoruichi's fingers that slip away.
Without their sakura-scented moon, her night is too dark, and so is her conscience. But the gems at the corner of her eyes are bright, pure, and real because this is always the point when she lies awake and wonders.
What will Sui Feng be like when I finally come home?