DISCLAIMER: Not mine, don't sue.
A/N: (This can be read as a stand-alone fic, but readers of my main UraYoru story Mono no Aware, should consider this canon within the story's universe.)
The latest developments in the manga and the coming of Valentine's Day made me itch to take a short break from my assignments. It's been ages since I've written pure, plotless, shameless sexy-tiemz (but with feeeeelings), so please forgive this trial flexing of my atrophied smut muscles. I hope you enjoy it all the same.
This one-shot takes place at some point early on in the relationship between Kisuke and Yoruichi, while they're still in Soul Society. I might add parts of it in when the story reaches that point, but for now, enjoy it as an early gift, a happy respite from all the crap I'm putting those two through.
By the way, this is being posted very close to the in-universe anniversary of the first time they met (February 17th), no joke. A happy coincidence that tells me the universe clearly wants this to happen. Get on it, Kubo, I believe in you 3
Cultural notes:
Jazz: Kubo himself has lampshaded in a volume sketch that jazz didn't exist yet during the TBTP arc (i.e. late 1800s to 1900). However, since he left it in all the same, I'm following his lead.
Yukata: A slim robe similar to a kimono, meant to be worn outside in the summer. It can also serve as home wear during the colder months.
Chabudai: A short-legged table used as a study table, dinner table or what have you.
Rosa Rubicundior, Lilio Candidior
.
By all rights, she should have fallen asleep by now. Warm and inviting, the futon beneath her is encouraging her to surrender, the crackling of the fire pit a companion to the soft jazz that permeates the dimly lit room.
The vermillion, lotus-embroidered yukata feels light on her body, the fabric careworn by age and usage. Yoruichi bunches the overlong sleeves around her loose fists, burying her nose in them and inhales deeply: plain soap, a hint of fresh parchment, and Kisuke's own particular brand of musk. He hasn't officially owned the damn thing in ages, and yet it still carries his scent; it always has.
Many decades ago, she had unceremoniously claimed the yukata as hers with little resistance from the original owner. And so the slim robe would always be waiting for her, draped over the cabinet by his living room, for those days when she had felt adventurous enough to shed her feline skin. Over time, she has come to favor it over an older yukata he had also relinquished to her; this one always smells like him. It hadn't taken her long to figure out the logistics, but she had never brought it up, and neither had he.
In retrospect, she can't believe it took them that long to give in, playing as they had with fire one time too many.
Kisuke sits only a short distance away at the edge of the futon, back leaning against the cabinet behind him. Clad in midnight blue and deeply engrossed in a book, he is toying with the flaxen lock that falls between his eyes, his long fingers fondling the slightly damp hair. Occasionally, he pauses to either flash her a soft smile, or take a sip off the lukewarm tea laid out on the chabudai beside him.
Yoruichi's gaze has been locked upon him for the better part of half an hour, ever since he joined her in the living room after his bath. Her eyes keep travelling from the sheen on his lips, to the sliver of chest visible between the lapels of his loosely draped yukata. He smells clean and inviting, looking relaxed after a long day, and every now and then, he absent-mindedly hums in tune with the music.
The audio-playing device is the newest installment in their –his, HIS- home, a gift from Hirako, and it came with a small, well-stocked crate of records. Gift is perhaps not the most well-chosen of words. Hirako had all but threatened Kisuke to accept it in the name of their budding friendship, in which the former was doing his utmost to –as he put it- educate Kisuke in the finer aspects of life: music and fashion.
Eager to witness the impending disaster first-hand, Yoruichi had observed their interactions with the hungry eyes of a predator in wait, wondering how long it would take Hirako to finally crack. The first time he had questioned Kisuke on what he'd thought of the records, Kisuke had simply smiled at him and said: "It was nice."
She remembered feeling immensely grateful for Hirako's ensuing rage –"The fuck d'ya mean, NICE? WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO THAT TRUMPET SOLO IT WAS FUCKING GENIUS—" If not for it, in between tears of mirth, she might've told Kisuke she loved him on the spot.
And therein lies the crux of the issue, the little parasite that has wormed its way into her mind and keeps feasting upon her insecurities.
The relationship is fresh enough that there are still novelties to stumble upon, but long enough to have allowed them to reach an equilibrium between the old and the new. It is only recently that the frenzy of the first few months has cooled, somewhat. Every now and then, passion takes a backseat to quieter nights of reflection, such as tonight. Whether enjoying a book before bed, or working on some late-night paperwork, their bodies seek each other out one way or another. The easy, comfortable silences that have always existed between them now carry within an added layer of intimacy, of hands that don't always roam with purpose, but instead drift casually over dips and curves, reassuring themselves of the other's presence.
Passion is something she has always understood.
The shift from friend to lover was all too easy for her, a long-awaited release for the accrued sexual tension of more than a century. The first few days of the relationship have merged as one in her mind, days and nights bleeding into one another without a single moment she can accurately pinpoint in time, save for the very beginning. But she remembers it all. She remembers the hungry kisses; the laughter; the languid, post-coital conversations; their shared fantasy of a romp in the hot springs crumbling before their very eyes –turns out sex and water are natural enemies.
Most notably, she remembers that one risky, impromptu tryst in his office, in which she quite literally fucked his brains out, a feat she is immensely proud of, given the brains in question. The recollection of him cancelling his entire schedule for no reason other than to recover never fails to bring a smirk on her lips.
Even now, they still fight for dominance in bed, and it is a fight she does not mind occasionally losing. Defeat has never tasted so good than it does from his lips in those late night hours, when her hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, and his firm body, slick and corded with lean muscle, keeps her pinned down against the futon.
Yes, passion comes easily for her, for them. It is what lies on the other end of the spectrum that well and truly terrifies her.
He has been a necessary element in her life from the day she met him, and she is by now unable to recall or imagine an existence without him in it. Caring for him is nothing new to her; she has long ago come to terms with the fact that she loves him. What she didn't expect, was the burning desire to speak the words out loud.
It is ridiculous to fear his reaction, or the future of their relationship should she speak up, she can understand as much. After all, it is not the fear of non-reciprocation that holds her back –he's been upfront about his own feelings after all- but rather fear of the unknown. She could confess… And then what? For now, their status as a couple is known to less than a handful of people. They both prefer it that way, more comfortable in the privacy the shadows afford them. The fact that she feels the growing need to step out of them is what scares her more than anything else ever has.
Feeling lust, and even love for him is par for the course. The confusing combination of lust and foolish sentimentality has never, ever been part of the plan.
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Kisuke picks up his cup, eyes still focused on the book in his hand. As he tilts the cup up to drain it, a thin rivulet of tea trickles off the corner of his lips. Yoruichi watches as it makes its way past his chin, down his neck, and into the crevice between his pectorals—
"Whatcha readin'?" she says, instantly hating the jarring, flagrantly girly tone of her voice.
Kisuke's left eyebrow curves upwards at her question, and she knows he has heard the tension in her words. His eyes roll up from the page, now boring into hers over the rim of the book. "Poetry."
Now that, she did not expect. "Poetry?" she says, her brow creasing. "I thought you hated poetry."
"I generally do," he says, stroking his chin as his eyes drift back toward the page. "It is the very definition of verbose, all coy with allusions, to the point where the reader will grow frustrated at the endless build-up to… whatever the blazes it is the poet is trying to say."
It takes every morsel of self-restraint in her not to point out the irony of that statement, coming from him of all people.
"However…" Kisuke says, trailing off. "Sometimes I can see the appeal. When the meaning is clear."
"Oh? So what's this one about, then?"
His fingers come to a halt and his eyes move to meet hers once more. He pauses, ever the show-off, and everything about him seems to darken: the grey of his irises is swallowed in shadow, his lips grow into a wicked curve, and his voice drops an octave. "You."
"Me?" Yoruichi says, barely managing to stifle a scoff. "The poet knew me personally?"
A chuckle rumbles out of Kisuke's throat. "Someone resembling you, I assume," he says. "Or at the very least, he was able to conjure up the image of someone like you, in which case he has my utmost respect for his imagination and spot-on prose."
This time, she pshaws openly at his brazen corniness, rolling her eyes at him for good measure.
"Do you want to hear?"
Her teeth bite into her lower lip at the suggestion. Corniness aside, the gentle throbbing between her thighs is begging to be tended to, and everything about him tonight, from his oh-so-casually loose yukata to his restless fingers is only serving to make matters worse. "All right," she says, making room for him on the futon.
Kisuke scoots over to her, resting his weight on one elbow, then flips the book open to the salient page, holding it up before her. Yoruichi inches closer to him, resting her chin on his shoulder. Breathing becomes a task the moment she can feel the heat of him, his smell –soap, parchment and musk- but she has always enjoyed a challenge and is determined to lure him into making the first move.
When she's made herself comfortable against him, Kisuke clears his throat gently and begins reading. "Red like blood, white like bone. Red like solitude, white like silence."
It takes her a while to focus on the poem, a little lost in appreciation for the timbre of his voice, but when she does, she is pleasantly surprised. There is beauty in the lines, but the poet has steered clear from entering mawkish territory. His chosen words, complimented by Kisuke's clear elocution, evoke power and an opulent, seductive savagery.
"Red like the beastly instinct, white like a god's heart. Red like thawing hatred, white like a frozen, pained cry. Red like the night's hungry shadows." Kisuke peels his eyes away from the book for the final line, which he whispers into her temple as he turns to face her. His voice is a silken caress, the bow that teases a wailing quiver out of a taut string. "White shines and red scatters, like sighs that shoot through the moon."
Oh, screw it.
In the blink of an eye, she has yanked the book out of his grasp and tossed it aside without a care, her lips slanting against his in a brief, open-mouthed kiss. There is no sophistication in the exchange, but at the moment, all she cares about is pushing all obstacles out of the way until she can feel him against her; she can worry about finesse later.
"No more poetry," she breathes against Kisuke's mouth as she straddles his lap. Right before she closes her eyes, diving in for another kiss, she swears she sees a fleeting, smug glint in his expression.
His arms form a clutch around her as she coaxes his lips apart again, her palms cradling his freshly shaven jaw. He tastes faintly of tobacco, cold tea and of Kisuke –my Kisuke- and when his steady, calloused hand cups her nape, she lets a sigh into his mouth that he reciprocates with equal fervor.
As her body grows accustomed to the frisson of lust that rips through it, the kiss slowly devolves from a tight seal of mouth against mouth, to a careless caress with no pattern, her teeth occasionally making their presence known by nipping at his lower lip. She drinks him in, his heat, his taste, his downy locks of hair tickling her cheek when they shift from angle to angle, noses brushing against one another.
Kisuke holds her flush against him, then curls one finger to tug at the lapel of her yukata. The garment slips down past her shoulder, and his warm hand comes up to cup her exposed breast. His thumb brushes over her nipple, and her sudden intake of breath forces her to pull away from the kiss. Kisuke closes the distance again, his mouth closing around the pulse point at her throat, his thumb pressing down around her peak in circles. He sucks hard enough to leave a mark she'll pretend to chastise him for tomorrow, and she can feel him begin to harden between her thighs once the moan he elicits out of her pierces through the air.
Yoruichi's eyes slip half-way open to stare at the ceiling, but everything around her has begun to swim out of focus. Her gaze drifts over to him, and he is solid, crisp, the center of the swirling vortex the room is slowly turning into. Splaying a hand against his pecs, she pushes him back. The yukata slips down to her elbows as she presses her chest against his, capturing his lips again. A tangle of limbs, and then it's her hands tugging at the belt of his robe, his own palms settling around her hips.
He has never been muscular. Lean and sinewy, his body is naturally gifted but also molded for stealth and speed, rather than raw power. But he has always had deliciously wide shoulders, the kind women ache to sink their nails into –which she does on any given opportunity- his chest tapering down into narrow, solid hips. Yoruichi's fingertips graze over the ridges on his abdomen, tracing the defined abs with a smirk as he looks upon her with naked desire, his lips swollen and parted, his pupils blown wide. She makes a brief stop at his hipbones, and his breath rolls out in a gasp, hot against her collarbone, when she ends the torture and wraps her hand around his cock.
Kisuke's head drops backwards, his hands slipping away to support his weight as he leans back slightly, closing his eyes. He grows even stiffer within her grasp, and Yoruichi leans forward to pepper his neck with pecks and licks, the muscles contracting beneath her tongue as he swallows hard. She has always taken great pleasure in watching him come undone, a man so always in control, that when it's her hand, her mouth, her touch that unravels him, she can't help but feel powerful. She strokes his length slowly, leisurely, thumb jutting out to catch the trickle of moisture that escapes the tip.
A knot of pleasure forms on his brow and he looks like he would prefer nothing more than to lie down and let her do with him what she willed, but he doesn't remain stationary for long. When her nipples brush against his bare chest as she continues to pump him, his eyes shoot open, heavy-lidded, and he grabs a fistful of her hair, drawing her into a bruising kiss.
She is tempted to have her mouth join in the ministrations of her hand once he pulls back, and on a different day, she might have given in to the impulse, eager to re-experience the way his hand gently urges her along, and the sheer, unabashed vulgarity that pours out of his mouth when her tongue snags upon a sensitive spot.
But not today.
Today she is feeling selfish, and since he seems so very eager to give, she surrenders all control and lets him set the pace.
In reflex, she reaches out to hold on to him as he curls one arm around her waist and lowers her down to the futon. She is still a little light-headed when he descends upon her, her lips a touch out of sync with his when he bestows a quick kiss on her, then starts to move lower.
This time, his free hand grasps at one breast, and his mouth closes upon the other, causing her entire back to arch up. She tries to reach out for him, but her arms catch at the sleeves of the yukata and she tries to slip them out with a frustrated huff. She can feel his grin against her breast when he reaches up to help her, and as soon as she out of the damn thing, she gives his hair a sharp tug in punishment, before she slips her fingers through it, massaging his scalp.
She loses all track of time as his tongue laves across the peaks of her mounds. He enlists fingers, lips and teeth to tease her to the edge of delirium, and however much she approves of his enthusiasm, she knows she needs to put an end to this soon.
"Kisuke… that's enough," she says in between pants. Her voice carries no rancor, but rather the firm, kind tone an instructor might employ to direct an overzealous student back on course.
In the past, she had always assumed his natural curiosity and attention to detail would make him an ideal lover. For the most part, she wasn't proven wrong. On nights like these, when they have the luxury of time to explore to their hearts' content, he enjoys lavishing her with attention. The only reason she doesn't always acquiesce, is past experience.
Eager to familiarize himself with every inch of her at first, learn what made her toes curl, he would launch into endless explorations of her body. He would slave over her in earnest, to the point that he would end up so focused on the endeavor itself, that his touches came to serve his own curiosity more than her growing arousal.
Experience, however, has also taught her that with gentle direction, the end result tends to be far more pleasant.
At the sound of her, Kisuke's attentions come to a pause, and he looks up to meet her gaze. His expression switches to one of endearing bashfulness just for a moment, and when she returns his crooked smile, his eyes glimmer with the promise of what's to come.
Never breaking eye-contact, he begins to kiss a trail along the seam of flesh that runs down her middle. His broad shoulders force her legs open wide –not that she needed any encouragement- and he stops right at the juncture of her hips. When he lays a playful peck at the cusp of her pelvis, teasing her curls, her body involuntarily jerks once at the sudden, intimate touch. Kisuke flicks his tongue over his lower lip, and the sight of him is somehow even more arousing than the actual kiss itself. His grin broadens as he presses a soft kiss at the quivering muscle on her inner thigh, then turns his head just a hint to the side. Moving out of their own accord, Yoruichi's hips cant up to meet his impish tongue. In response, Kisuke slings one of her legs over his shoulder, reaching around her thighs to hold her squirming pelvis in place, then his lips form a hot, wet seal over her cunt.
He has a talented mouth in every sense of the word; it is not long before she is writhing, his tongue the kindling that nourishes the slowly burning embers of her arousal into full-blown, raging flame. Her back breaks out in sweat, nails digging into the futon, while his roaming hands grasp at any and every part of her he can reach. When his focus shifts to the bundle of nerves at her apex, she thinks she may have driven her heel hard enough along his spine to bruise, but he doesn't seem to care, and quite frankly, neither does she.
It is only when she's clutching at his damp hair, desperately pressing him against her, that she feels him slip two fingers inside her, curling them up to hit the spot he knows will drive her to the edge. Her entire body bucks then, her thighs tightening around him in a chokehold, and she convulses around his long, dexterous fingers. The sound that escapes her lips originates deep within her gut, and the flash of heat that blooms out of their point of contact travels up her belly to her limbs, suffusing her every pore.
When last few, violent ripples of pleasure have ebbed away, the world comes rushing back. Heart still thrumming in her chest, Yoruichi's legs slump down, numb and gelatinous, and she ventures a look at Kisuke through slanted eyes. With a soft, wet kiss on her inner thigh, he rids himself of his yukata completely and comes to hover above her. He wears a crooked smirk and looks so unbearably full of himself that her hand seems to grow a mind of its own, and lands on his cheek with a playful slap.
Kisuke laughs alongside her, turning his face to shower the length of her arm with kisses, from her lingering palm, to her wrist, all the way down to her bicep. He settles by her side, cheek propped up against his fist, and drapes one arm over her belly as he waits for her to catch her breath and regain her capacities in full.
Yoruichi lets out a sigh and stretches. Her body glistens with a sheen of sweat, and though she still revels in the small aftershocks of her climax, she is nowhere near sated. Kisuke continues to draw lazy patterns on her stomach, and she rolls her head to the side to meet his gaze. There is a hint of impatience in his eyes, but they visibly soften when she peers up at him. In response, he bends down to capture her mouth in a feather-light kiss that makes her knees grow weak in a way no orgasm, no matter how earth-shattering, ever could.
With that one, simple gesture, she feels –there is no other word for it- loved.
Kisuke's knuckles brush against her cheek when he draws back. His eyes are so very grey at that moment, so very limpid when he smiles at her softly, and the memory of the first time he ever looked at her this way comes to her, unbidden. She would never admit this to anyone, not to Kisuke himself, not even Kūkaku, but she thinks she learned the difference between sex and love-making that night, despite how much she'd scoffed at the notion of a distinction in the past.
The words flare up in her stomach, but grind up into a screeching halt at the roadblock in her throat.
In the end, she is too much of a coward to speak up, and makes a hasty attempt to spoil the mood, her languid smile turning into a smirk. "Well," she says, letting out a sigh and giving Kisuke's thigh a condescending pat. "Thanks for that. Good night!"
The ruse works for a fraction of a second, and she manages to see his eyes shoot wide open before she turns her back at him. When his arms cinch around her waist and he pulls her flush against him, she laughs, and Kisuke can't help but join her, even though he's making a concerted effort to look affronted.
"You are funny," he says through gritted teeth, biting down on her shoulder. "So very, very amusing."
"So you keep telling me," she says, craning her neck to meet his eye and giggle at him.
Kisuke purses his lips, his face a comical amalgamation of anger and amusement. Intent on coaxing a genuine smile out of him again, Yoruichi makes a move to shift in his embrace, to turn around and face him. Before she can do so, however, she finds herself pushed back and flipped over until she's lying prone against the futon, a yelp squeaking its way out of her throat.
"Oh, you wish," he growls into her ear as he drapes himself above her, his cock pressing up against the small of her back, forearms flanking her on either side. He digs his teeth into the fleshy part of her nape once, then seeks her eyes. There is an unspoken question in his dark eyes as he peers down at her, hair framing his angular face. It's a brief respite from the sudden spike of aggression, and she knows he is waiting for her cue, making sure she's comfortable moving forward.
Warmth already pooled in her abdomen, Yoruichi meets his smoldering gaze over her shoulder and matches it, then pushes her hips back, her still damp nether lips brushing up against his shaft.
It is all the permission he needs. Breathing in through his nose, he slips one thigh between her legs, parting them wider without a modicum of resistance, and then settles behind her, freeing one hand to grasp at her hip.
As if the sheer weight of him on top of her isn't already enough to get her body going again, his tongue follows the underside of her shoulderblade and he bites, hard, making her pelvis buck with impatience. His fingers dig into her hip and give her a firm tug in place, playfully chastising her for making this more difficult. Thighs shaking with anticipation, Yoruichi bites down on her lip and tries to stay still.
When she feels him enter her, slowly filling her up with hard, familiar heat, she grabs fistfuls of the futon as she buries her face in it, muffling her low moan. Only when he's up to the hilt, buried in her, does she expel the breath she unknowingly held in. But before she's had time to draw another, his hand has left her hip and come to clasp her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his lips. Her tongue laps at his hungrily, and as he splays his hand against her neck, he begins to move, not yet breaking the kiss.
When he releases her, she gasps for air, tension gathering in her shoulders as she presses her forehead down and spreads her legs a touch wider, her body still in the process of accommodating his length.
His rhythm is slow but firm, and for a while she makes no effort to reach for him, simply relishing in the feel of him as he rises up to his knees and rolls his hips into her. The music fades into the background, her ears full with nothing but her own gasps and the clap of their bodies meeting in steady cadence. She matches him thrust for thrust, pleased to hear his own groans enter the fray. Not that there's a particular art to it –he's a moaner- but they've slept together enough times to allow her to tell the difference between his round-of-the-mill vocalizations and the sounds of true pleasure. And right now, it's the latter.
Pushing her hips up a little higher when he ups the tempo, Yoruichi rakes her nails over the futon as she futilely searches for something to hold on to. Kisuke doesn't leave her hanging for long, lowering himself until his slick chest presses against her back. Clasping one of her hands, he threads his fingers between hers, and his free arm comes to wrap across her chest, pulling her closer to him. Between his hips now grinding into hers, the sight of the corded muscles in his forearm and the hand clutching at her breast, she is overwhelmed, her throat drying up as her lips remain ever-parted, gasping for air.
His breath is hot against her ear, and it's no surprise when he begins talking.
As much as she has always preferred silence during her sexual endeavors, she finds she never minds when he's the one breaking it. He is the proud owner of a supremely filthy mind, and he is creative enough to translate his more decadent thoughts into delectable words.
To her own constant shock, however, it is his more sentimental ramblings that tend to bring the deepest blushes settling on her cheeks. Sweet, barely coherent sentences that only make sense when her mind is equally ensnared in a lust-filled haze. Sex is the one waking moment when his mind takes a break, his higher mental functions giving way to instinct and truth. He is never more vulnerable than when they are at each other's mercy, and he is often prone to breathless little declarations of affection, much like the unwitting confession that tumbled out of his lips the first time they slept together.
Still, the sole, common attribute in both instances is his eloquence, which is why she is taken aback when tonight, he opts for something far more mundane:
"Let me, let me, let me come…"
She has every intention of telling him it had better be a little too early for that, but when he keeps talking, she realizes he is actually reciting, in a voice that is a little too practiced and confident, even for someone with such immense abilities of retention. And then the other shoe drops and it's all she can do not to push him away and sock him in the mouth.
"Oh, you jerk!" she says and plants her arms against the futon, bringing all movement to an end. It takes Kisuke a moment to register that she has stopped responding; he bumps against her back, looking jarred at the abrupt change of pace. "You didn't happen to be reading that poem; you were trying to seduce me."
It must've been his plan all along, from the moment he stepped out of that bath, with that dumb, loose-fitting yukata, the stupid poetry book, the teasing of his own hair because the jerk knows how much she likes his hands, and to top it all off, pretending to ignore her until she had cracked.
She can feel his laughter vibrate through his chest before it spills into her neck. "Trying?" he says, teeth nipping at her ear as he tentatively begins to move again.
…Touché.
Yoruichi resists at first, turning her cheek away from his wandering lips, keeping her pelvis firm and her arms steady. But then the bastard starts lavishing such care to the long column of her neck that she can't help but melt against him, her treacherous throat humming with soft moans.
But of course, he is physically incapable of taking a hint and keeping his damn mouth shut.
"Beautiful beyond compare, your complexion is so fair, eyes so knowingly aware, raven waves of silken hair…"
Yoruichi clenches her jaw, glaring at him over her shoulder. His words are starting to have an effect, dammit, and this was supposed to be a nice, rough tumble in the hay, not a session of schmaltzy love-making that could very well lead to a second close call like the one earlier.
"Your fetish for my hair is getting annoying; I am not growing it long again!" she growls at him.
Early on in the relationship, he had once –after a fair amount of sake- admitted to being partial to her longer hair. Expecting a properly depraved reason behind the preference, Yoruichi had pressed for an explanation, but he had laughed, pointing out that he could just as easily yank at her short hair if he so wished. Instead, he'd confessed it was a fantasy harkening back to their teenage years, one in which he slowly undressed her, then finally teased the combs and pins out of her updo, letting her hair tumble down her bare shoulders.
The fucking sap is doing this on purpose; she knows it.
"And fair complexion?" she piles on. "Who the hell are you even talking about?"
Kisuke's hands snake up to massage her breasts as he continues to pump into her slowly. "Fair in the sense of, ungh—" Thankfully, it seems his insistence to keep on moving is having a detrimental effect on his acuity. "—comely." He pauses briefly, and just when she thinks he's done being an idiot –Nope, NEVER- he carries on, now openly grinning at her irritation. "Roses have no red so bright, lilies never seemed so white—"
To her utter humiliation, she finds herself growing wetter the more he recites. "Stoooooop… It's not even doing anyth—"
Undeterred, he reaches down at the point of their juncture, and she can hear the smirk in his voice. "Isn't it?"
"Kisuke I SWEAR—"
"After all the work that went into setting this up, you want us to just fuck in silence?"
The look in her eyes is surely murderous as she grits her teeth at him. "I'll fuck you into silence if you don't stop."
There is a shift in his expression, all amorous activities now actively on pause, and he meets her gaze head-on. And she issues a clear warning –Don't you fucking DARE- she knows he can read it in her eyes, but she should've remembered that he's just as stubborn and unlikely to back away from a challenge. Grinning like the moron that he is, he inches closer, lips hovering a hair's breadth from her cheek and he employs his deepest, most sinister, seductive tone. "All else pales before your light, glory is in you tonight."
And she is furious, because, damn it, smugness shouldn't ever look so hot, but it does on him, and she can see what he's doing, and part of her wants to just kiss him and tell him, but she refuses to give a single inch when he's being so stubborn and intolerable.
With a jerk of her shoulder, she pushes him off her back and extricates herself from him, then turns around to shove him down on his ass and make good on her promise. When she straddles him, he exhibits no surprise, but merely loops his arms around her, still so very smug and infuriatingly sexy.
Yoruichi lowers herself onto him, both grateful and frustrated that the brief argument hasn't driven the hardness out of him one bit. She shuts him up with a kiss before he can so much as utter another word, then starts to gyrate her hips almost savagely against his, eager to reach her earlier level of arousal, before he had opened his stupid mouth and ruined it all. The more she feels his grin broaden against her lips, the deeper she plunges her nails into his neck, hating that he's enjoying this so much, but more importantly, hating how much she's enjoying it.
Eventually, the need to breathe becomes imperative. With a touch of wariness, Yoruichi pulls away and they hold each other's gaze for a moment. Miraculously, Kisuke seems to have run out of things to say; he has dropped the smugness altogether, concentrating on the here and now. Face flushed, tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead, he dips his head lower to suck on her breasts, his hands supporting her hips. He moves with delicious urgency, his chest rising and falling with heaving breaths, and just as she's starting to think she's managed to drive all manner of schemes out of his head for good, he goes in for the kill.
Silver-tongued though he is, relying on his words all too often to get what he wants, he knows full well where her true weakness lies.
And so he steers her lower onto his lap, then frees one hand to cup her face, forehead pressed against hers so they are chest to chest, eye to eye, heart to heart, their parted lips a fraction of an inch from touching, sharing the warm air between them. He says nothing, merely looks at her, his thumb brushing against her temple, and she feels something tighten within her, her body's one last feeble act of resistance before her heart swells.
Face contorted into a deep scowl, Yoruichi wraps her arms around his neck, starting to lose any semblance of rhythm as they move together, building toward their climax. Panting, she cants her hips down until she finds it, the angle that causes a low moan to tumble out of her mouth, and Kisuke secures her hips, keeping her steady.
"You're insufferable," she breathes against his lips.
He only has time to gasp out: "I know."
And then she is kissing him like she never has before, with no inhibition or reservation as the friction builds, sweat pooling in the valley between her breasts, and he groans into her mouth, spouting meaningless words when she draws away, things that are absolutely unintelligible, but she understands, and she alternates between kissing him on the mouth, the jaw, the eyelids, her fingers tugging at a fistful of his hair.
And when she comes, she pulls him in with her, and they ride it out together, wave after wave, his own name becoming a barely coherent chant, the only word she can remember as her mind blanks out.
She has no idea how long it takes before she becomes aware of her surroundings again, but they are still joined, and it's the drumming of his heartbeat, resonating against her chest that anchors her back to reality. She slumps against him, arms still wrapped around his neck, her legs hanging limply at their sides. Kisuke's fingertips drift across her spine, his mouth pressed against the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
"For future reference," she murmurs, resting her temple against his. "Hey I'm horny will suffice."
He laughs, pulling back to look at her. "Tsk, tsk… Whatever happened to embracing a little romance in our lives?"
"This, from the man who took my hand and placed it on his crotch when I first expressed surprise he had a single romantic bone in his body."
"Well, you asked."
Yoruichi shakes her head at him and sighs, bumping his forehead gently. When she opens her eyes, she peers down at him with as austere an expression as she can muster. "Don't do that again. It was ridiculous and corny," she says, even as her cheeks betray her and flush with color at the mere memory of his voice.
"As you wish, anata." He says the last word slowly, syllable by syllable, letting it sink, and sits back to watch the devastation it is about to wreak on her.
She doesn't know what makes her angrier: the fact that he caught onto her dilemma in the first place, the fact that he orchestrated all this to wrest a confession out of her, or the fact that, in the end, he was successful.
Nostrils flaring, Yoruichi purses her lips and her grip grows into a vise around his neck, her face now flaming up into pure, unadulterated red. "Like you don't already know!"
He admits to that much, at least, gracing her with a beaming smile. "I do," he says, tightening his embrace on her.
Yoruichi sinks against him once more, her blazing, tattle-tale cheek nuzzled into his neck as she looks away. "But you want to hear it?"
It's a while before he responds, and she can hear the strain it takes to string those particular words together, instead of what he truly means to say: "I wouldn't mind."
In the end, though she always assumed she would be unable to do this while looking at him, poring into his face, she has a feeling she'd be cheating herself out of something special if she doesn't.
She pulls back to face him, fingers framing his jaw, and she finds it takes no effort to inject emotion into her voice or her expression; it's all there already, pouring out of her in torrents the moment she meets his eyes.
"Idiot… Of course I love you. As if anyone else has ever really mattered."
.
A/N: The poem Kisuke reads out loud is Yoruichi's Volume 17 poem in the manga. The title of this story is the title of the respective volume, and it's an excerpt from the Veni, Veni, Venias poem of Carmina Burana (which was clearly the inspiration for Kubo's version). It translates into: redder than the rose, whiter than the lilies. Other excerpts of that poem (from a looser, more lyrical translation) wormed their way into the story as well, namely in Kisuke's *ahem* mid-coital dialogue.
If you look up anata (貴女) in a dictionary, you'll see that it is a personal pronoun that simply means you. Generally speaking, however, the Japanese will avoid using anata in conversation, addressing the other person by their name and honorific (if applicable), or using a different pronoun.
One of the most common (if a little old fashioned) uses of anata is that of a wife addressing her husband, and in that context, it can be loosely translated as dear. Anata goes hand-in-hand with omae (お前) as the husband's chosen word for the wife, but omae carries certain negative connotations, since it's usually a word meant for addressing an inferior. Basically, the anata/omae pair is seen as a relic of the past and something only very traditional couples use. In short, anata is only ever used by the wife, while the husband opts for the gruffer word, omae.
Here's the thing though… Kisuke's chosen personal pronoun after his exile is atashi, a pronoun almost exclusively used by girls who want to appear cute. It's part of the humble shopkeeper persona, but it does tell us that Kisuke doesn't give a toss about being perceived as less masculine in the traditional sense. So the way I see it, he would have zero problem using anata to refer to his beloved, despite (and perhaps because of) how unorthodox it is.
So there you have it: an overly long explanation as to why Yoruichi finally crumbled when he addressed her thus.
And one last note concerning the very end, something most of you probably already know. In Japanese, professing one's love, using the actual word love is very, very serious business, even between established couples. By far the most common word to do so is suki (好き) for a budding romance, or daisuki (大好き) for something stronger, more established. Yoruichi uses the real deal, aishiteru (愛してる).
Thank you for reading and don't be shy, drop me a line! :)