Lessons in the Art [Rurouni Kenshin, Aoshi/Misao, M]
Title: Lessons in the Art
Author: Vastate
Rating: M
Warnings: An awful lot of dirty talking, and some sexing
Prompt: "May 31: - Rurouni Kenshin, Aoshi & Misao: Master of the Art - “Fight dirty. Talk dirtier.”"
Word Count: 2999
Summary: "Ssh. I'm teaching you to talk dirty." "I didn't know this is the kind of dirty talking we were discussing!"
“KANSATSU TOBIKUNAI!”
Three kunai land cleanly in the target’s sackcloth head; one slips by its ear, shearing the canvas before disappearing into the trees behind the dummy. The fifth misses entirely, burying itself in a tree trunk a foot off-target.
“Shoot!” Misao yells, punching the ground. “Stupid silly cloth-headed target dummy! You totally dodged that!”
“Your grip is off.”
Misao flushes crimson, tucks her chin as Aoshi emerges from the trees, her errant blade between his fingers. “A-aoshi-sama,” she mutters. “I didn’t see you back there.”
He pulls the knife from the tree, then the three from the target. “Never aim for the head,” he advises. “The head is a small, mobile target. The torso is just as vital, and a much broader target.” He tosses the handful of darts back to her. “Now show me your grip.”
She scowls down at her knives, curls them between the fingers of her left hand, holds her hand out obligingly.
Aoshi curls cool fingers around her wrist, turning her palm this way and that. “These three are fine,” he notes, tapping the blades held between her fingers. “Your thumb is the problem.”
“Hm?”
“Don’t curl it over your palm.” His hands envelop hers as he shifts the position of her thumb. Goosebumps rise on her arms and she resists the urge to wriggle. “Fold it straight back. Use the pressure between thumb and forefinger to hold the blade in place. You could hold ten blades steady this way.” He releases her hands, grips her shoulders, adjusts her until she stands square with the target.
“Deep breath,” he commands.
She inhales through her nose.
“Exhale.”
She breathes out through her mouth.
“Focus on the target.” She can feel his voice vibrating in his chest. His shirt brushes her braid when he breathes in. She shakes her head and glares at her target.
“Ten meters,” she intones dutifully. “Angle of zero degrees. Wind blowing left to right, but not with enough force to cause error.”
“Good,” he says. “Go.”
“Yes, sir!”
The kunai whistle through the air.
All five bury themselves in the target’s chest.
“YEEEEAAH!” Misao crows, leaps into the air. “All right! I am the greatest onmitsu who ever lived! Take that, stupid cloth-head target dummy!”
“Misao.” His voice breaks into her celebration, sobering her instantly.
“Yes, Aoshi-sama?”
“Your aim is fine. Work on your trash talk instead.”
She gapes up at him, eyes massive. He looks down, not smiling, but there’s an arch to his brow and a smoothness in his eyes that tells her he’s teasing.
Her mouth works silently until she blurts, “Aoshi-sama?”
“Fighting is psychological as much as physical,” he informs her. “If the best you can manage is ‘stupid cloth-head,’ your opponent will be amused, not discouraged. A well-placed word can be more damaging than a physical attack. You already know how to fight dirty. You need to learn to talk dirtier.”
She gawks. He stares back. Eventually, she swallows and manages, “You’re teasing me, Aoshi-sama.”
“I am not.” She almost believes him. Almost. But she knows the slight bend in his cheek and the tic in his eyebrow and the tremble in his lips and she grins in something near astonishment, something very like delight.
“Aoshi-sama! You’re teasing!”
“I never tease.”
“You totally are.”
He ripples. Her world spins, flips; she shrieks in delight, in terror, and lands on her back with an ‘oof!’
She grins up at him. He rises over her, blots out the sun with his back, his broad shoulders. He looms. She smiles.
“I do not tease,” he repeats. “And if I did, I would tease far better than that.”
Her giggle is high-pitched, giddy. “You’re totally the master of teasing.”
His face is dead serious. His voice is warm. “It is an art.”
She snickers, wiggles underneath him. “Ooh, Shinomori Aoshi-sama, master of the art of teasing, taunting, and talking dirty.”
His brows twitch. “I suppose Saitou could present a challenge in taunting.”
“Ugh. That stupid bamboo-face, beat you? Impossible, Aoshi-sama.”
“Bamboo-face,” he snorts, and when she focuses on him she realizes he’s leaning in closer. “That is the perfect example of why you need to learn to talk dirty.”
She arches up, pouts in his face. “Maybe you should teach me, O wise master.”
“Maybe I will.”
The world spins again.
When it stops, she is straddled across his thighs, and he is sitting upright, hands wrapped around her waist. His thumbs touch above her navel; his middle fingers brush each other on her back. He contains the sum of her in his hands.
She trembles.
One hand slips down, grips her thigh, pulls her closer. The other comes up to the back of her head, pushes her face into his shoulder, a gentle pressure. She is pressed against him, thighs to collarbone against his chest. He inhales; she feels it in the arching of her back has his chest expands. His exhale is a warmth against her ear, down her neck as he bows his head. His cheek is against her hair, his mouth against her ear; his words are no more than a whisper when he says:
“You’re a virgin.”
Her spine goes stiff. “Aoshi-sama?! Wh-why would you ask-”
“Ssh.” His hands move up and down her back with firm pressure, until she begins to relax against him again. “I’m teaching you to talk dirty.”
“I didn’t know this was the kind of dirty talking we were discussing,” she whines against his shoulder. He snorts. She swallows, tries to will the flush of blood out of her cheeks.
He strokes her back, her hair. “Good girl,” he rumbles. “Just listen.” She gulps in a breath, full of his scent, green tea and tempered steel. She exhales.
“You’re a virgin,” he begins again. “Far too young, and a virgin. I remind myself of that frequently. Normally it’s easy. You smile, and you laugh. And it’s easy to not want you. But sometimes...” The word is half groan, low in his throat. “Sometimes you cry out, or you moan, or you look at me with eyes that are far too wise, and then I want to take you in my arms and hold you until you shatter.”
She grips his arms, corded and hard, fingernails sinking into his flesh. Muscles flex beneath his skin. He tenses, relaxes.
“I imagine how you would taste, if I kissed you.” She inhales sharply, pushing her chest against the planes of his. “Your mouth, small and soft, and I’d have to teach you to kiss me, I’d have to sit with you for hours and do nothing but kiss that sweet small mouth, kiss you until your lips were swollen and chapped and tasted more of me than you.”
She swallows thickly. His fingers tighten on her back. Her mouth is dry, her breathing too loud.
His voice drops deeper, quieter. “I could take your clothes off, slowly, slowly. You would blush when I opened your shirt, when I knelt to kiss the skin between your breasts, and you would taste of under-ripe fruit and the lightest touch of sweat. But you would flush again, even brighter red, when I took off my own shirt.”
Her fingers curl into his collar, tug consideringly. He stills, waits for a moment, lets her take her time. She plays with the zipper at his throat, hesitates.
Slowly, tugs it down a few inches.
Her shaking fingertips slip inside to experience his throat, his collarbones, the fringe of hair at the back of his neck.
His stomach clenches. He starts, too suddenly, too hastily, to speak again. “I could stroke your breasts, kiss them - you would fit my hands, shapely and soft, it would be so perfect - but I won’t. Because you are far too young, and virgin, and I can’t.”
His zipper inches lower. One small hand flattens against his chest, explores the vast webbing of scars. His fingers aren’t trembling, aren’t hesitant as he begins to undo the knot of her sash.
The breath he draws in is shuddering, uneven. “Imagine how you would shriek, how you would turn bright red and try to hide yourself with your hands when I pulled your trousers away. You would shake, shake so hard I’d have to lay you down before your legs gave out. I would kneel with you, watch you tremble, watch you blush, and then I would spread your knees.”
She shifts against his hips. Pulls his zipper down to his navel, pushes his shirt open. He pulls his arms back, helps her push his shirt off his shoulders until it hangs limp around his waist. Her palms are flat against his pectorals, nails scraping over discoloration and markings in his flesh. He meets her eyes, unashamed; his scars are a retelling of his life, his pain, all that he had carried, all that he is. She swallows.
Her nails run down his chest. His eyes flutter, his head falls back slightly. His fingers clench against the skin of her back, slip around her waist, rise between them. He strokes her stomach, feels her skin tremble.
“You’re wet.” It is a statement.
Her legs feel weak. She sinks deeper against him, presses her weight into his lap. Feels pressure between her legs, firm and unyielding. She sucks in a sharp breath.
“You’re hard,” she gasps, manages not to stammer. His eyes widen slightly. A brow arches.
“You’re learning.” She giggles again, too high-pitched, almost hysterical. His hands travel down her sides, grip her hips, rock her against him. She whines, high in her throat. Her back arches.
“I would touch you,” he whispers. It grates in his throat, rumbles in his chest, in her palms, almost a growl. She shudders against him. His hands move, behind her hips, his palms putting the lightest of pressure on her buttocks. “I would touch you, and you are wet, so very wet, beneath my fingertips. Wet, and soft, and so very warm...” He looks up at her. Face solemn, he notes, “But not as warm as your cheeks are right now.”
She blushes deeper. Runs her hands up and down his chest in retaliation, lets her fingers dig into each of his ribs, watches his brow tighten and release every time her nails bite his flesh.
His hands rove, brush over her hips, the curves of her ass, the indent of her waist, the swell of her breasts.
“I want to touch you,” he tells her throat, lips against her pulse, nose deep in the hair behind her ear, the smell of her sweat and her hair almost overpowering.
She trembles.
“Ask me for it.” It is a command.
She gulps, nods against his shoulder. “Please,” she gasps, voice high and thin, her hands slipping around his back, nails digging into his spine. “Please, please.”
He breaks free of her arms, pulls her shirt over her head.
Puts one hand - his fingers nearly cover the span between her shoulders, nearly cover her whole chest - over her sternum. Presses her down, watches her arch into a backbend, small breasts round and exposed, and his throat is dry.
“You are,” he groans, and it sounds like thunder in his throat. “So very beautiful.”
He ducks his head, covers one nipple with his mouth. She tenses, draws tight against him as he sucks, inhales a shriek when he pinches with his teeth.
Her hands clench in his hair, pull it taut at the roots, and he tugs at her nipple every time she pulls harder, just to make her do it again. She whimpers and pants and moans shamelessly, a small miracle in his arms, a woman and a wonder.
His head rises from her chest.
She straightens slowly, shaking, hips shifting erratically against his, seeking friction, seeking pressure, seeking anything. She looks down at him. Takes in the green eyes, dark and knowing; the dark hair, twisted into messiness from her fingers; the straight, serious mouth.
Pushes her fingers into his hair, watches as he tilts his head back for her, allowing her this movement.
Carefully, slowly, presses a kiss to his mouth.
His breath fills her mouth, fills her head in a rush, and she is overwhelmed with him, tea and tempered steel, the sea breeze and the sea itself. He touches her, his fingers curling into her hair, her cheeks, her forehead; he directs her, the tilt of her head and the pressure of her lips. He teaches her; he guides her; he creates a path for her into the dark. He gives her his skill, this art of which he is master.
Then he breaks free, head jerking back with a gasp, and he looks up at her, and he burns like the ocean on fire.
“Stand up.”
Shakily, her legs wobbling beneath her, she rises. His hands curl around her thighs, supporting her carefully. She puts her hands on his shoulders for balance, finds it, stands straight. Smiles down at him, celebrating this minor victory.
“Take off your pants.”
She stares. He nods, once. Promises, “Trust me.”
Her fingers tremble as she undoes the tie at her waist, tugs the short pants from her body, and stands bare before him.
He rises up onto his knees, beckons her closer. Wraps his arms around her waist until she stands astride his legs, his face pressed to her stomach, her thighs across his shoulders.
His face turns to the side, his teeth carefully pinching the flesh of her thigh. She shivers. He looks at her, meets her eyes.
“I would like to touch you,” he tells her. The barest hint of a fingertip ghosts between her legs, skates over her, finds her damp and hot. He closes his eyes, groans into the inside of her thigh.
“I am going to make you come, Misao,” he informs her, and it sounds like an oath in her ears, as \ serious as any other he has sworn. “I am going to make you come, until you scream. Until you forget where you are. Who you are. What your name is. I am going to touch you, and touch you, and touch you, and touch you, until you forget everything except how to scream.”
He feels it in his palms when her thighs flex and tremble. “Would you like that, Misao?”
She swallows. “V-very much, Aoshi-sama.”
His mouth is hidden against the inside of her leg, but she feels it in the curve of his lips and sees it in the lightness of his brow when he smiles. “Thank you.”
He tugs her closer. Lowers himself to his knees, ducks his head.
His finger slides over her, opens her, spreads her dampness. He strokes her once, twice. A third time, with more pressure. A fourth time. Again.
His mouth closes over her.
She cries aloud. Her legs shake violently. His tongue strokes her, entrance to clit and back again, mimicking the motion his fingers had forsaken. The tip of his tongue swirls around her clit, presses firmly, and she almost weeps above him.
A slim fingertip tests her entrance, presses gently inside. She shrieks against the intrusion, rises up onto her toes. He hums against her, a soft vibration that eases her, his free hand rolling her back onto her heels, down onto his waiting fingers.
His teeth bump against her clit. She gasps, cannot find air. One finger swirls inside her, strokes slowly, steadily, an inescapable rhythm. She rocks with him, from her heels to her toes, her legs shaking almost too much to support her. He has an arm wrapped underneath her thighs, is probably supporting most of her weight, and she thinks of nothing but the beat of his fingers and teeth and tongue.
He sucks gently. She shrieks. He adds a second finger to the one stroking her insides, presses with more force. Pushes deep, fingertips searching, finding the unique texture of that secret spot inside of her. Pressing.
She cannot breathe, cannot stand. Clutches at his shoulders and his hair, at anything solid, and he is the most solid thing she knows. Her back arches. Her toes point, rising to a point as his fingers work inside of her, as his tongue works against her.
His mouth breaks free of her, his thumb coming to stroke her clit in the absence of his lips and tongue. He cranes his neck to watch her face, flushed red, raised to the sky, shining with sweat.
She is beautiful.
“Come, Misao.” He pushes inside of her, feels her muscles flutter against his fingers. “I want to watch you come apart. I’m right here. I’ve got you. Come apart, beautiful girl. I’m here to catch you.”
His fingers stroke the core of her, his thumb presses firmly on her clit and swirls, once, twice, three time and she snaps, a taut bowstring finally released. She screams, loud and unashamed and clear as a clarion call. Her thighs tense, tremble, clench around his shoulders. Her insides flutter around his fingers, so beautifully tight.
She falls into his arms and it is the most wondrous thing he has ever known.
He holds her close, her knees folded up between her body and his. He tugs the shirt from his waist and wraps it around her, smiles as it swallows her up in its folds. She gasps for breath in his arms, slowly finds it, and he kisses her brow as she returns to herself, strokes her hair and wipes the sweat from her cheeks.
Her sigh is worn, sleepy, content. He snorts, tucks her head under his chin and rocks her carefully, slowly.
“Oooh, Aoshi-sama,” she moans, smirks into his chest. He rolls his eyes, squeezes her gently. He lifts her boneless body, almost smiles when she winds trembling limbs around his waist and shoulders, clinging like a creeping vine. She hums into his shoulder, giggles giddily.
“Whatever will you teach me next, O master of the art.”
Author: Vastate
Rating: M
Warnings: An awful lot of dirty talking, and some sexing
Prompt: "May 31: - Rurouni Kenshin, Aoshi & Misao: Master of the Art - “Fight dirty. Talk dirtier.”"
Word Count: 2999
Summary: "Ssh. I'm teaching you to talk dirty." "I didn't know this is the kind of dirty talking we were discussing!"
“KANSATSU TOBIKUNAI!”
Three kunai land cleanly in the target’s sackcloth head; one slips by its ear, shearing the canvas before disappearing into the trees behind the dummy. The fifth misses entirely, burying itself in a tree trunk a foot off-target.
“Shoot!” Misao yells, punching the ground. “Stupid silly cloth-headed target dummy! You totally dodged that!”
“Your grip is off.”
Misao flushes crimson, tucks her chin as Aoshi emerges from the trees, her errant blade between his fingers. “A-aoshi-sama,” she mutters. “I didn’t see you back there.”
He pulls the knife from the tree, then the three from the target. “Never aim for the head,” he advises. “The head is a small, mobile target. The torso is just as vital, and a much broader target.” He tosses the handful of darts back to her. “Now show me your grip.”
She scowls down at her knives, curls them between the fingers of her left hand, holds her hand out obligingly.
Aoshi curls cool fingers around her wrist, turning her palm this way and that. “These three are fine,” he notes, tapping the blades held between her fingers. “Your thumb is the problem.”
“Hm?”
“Don’t curl it over your palm.” His hands envelop hers as he shifts the position of her thumb. Goosebumps rise on her arms and she resists the urge to wriggle. “Fold it straight back. Use the pressure between thumb and forefinger to hold the blade in place. You could hold ten blades steady this way.” He releases her hands, grips her shoulders, adjusts her until she stands square with the target.
“Deep breath,” he commands.
She inhales through her nose.
“Exhale.”
She breathes out through her mouth.
“Focus on the target.” She can feel his voice vibrating in his chest. His shirt brushes her braid when he breathes in. She shakes her head and glares at her target.
“Ten meters,” she intones dutifully. “Angle of zero degrees. Wind blowing left to right, but not with enough force to cause error.”
“Good,” he says. “Go.”
“Yes, sir!”
The kunai whistle through the air.
All five bury themselves in the target’s chest.
“YEEEEAAH!” Misao crows, leaps into the air. “All right! I am the greatest onmitsu who ever lived! Take that, stupid cloth-head target dummy!”
“Misao.” His voice breaks into her celebration, sobering her instantly.
“Yes, Aoshi-sama?”
“Your aim is fine. Work on your trash talk instead.”
She gapes up at him, eyes massive. He looks down, not smiling, but there’s an arch to his brow and a smoothness in his eyes that tells her he’s teasing.
Her mouth works silently until she blurts, “Aoshi-sama?”
“Fighting is psychological as much as physical,” he informs her. “If the best you can manage is ‘stupid cloth-head,’ your opponent will be amused, not discouraged. A well-placed word can be more damaging than a physical attack. You already know how to fight dirty. You need to learn to talk dirtier.”
She gawks. He stares back. Eventually, she swallows and manages, “You’re teasing me, Aoshi-sama.”
“I am not.” She almost believes him. Almost. But she knows the slight bend in his cheek and the tic in his eyebrow and the tremble in his lips and she grins in something near astonishment, something very like delight.
“Aoshi-sama! You’re teasing!”
“I never tease.”
“You totally are.”
He ripples. Her world spins, flips; she shrieks in delight, in terror, and lands on her back with an ‘oof!’
She grins up at him. He rises over her, blots out the sun with his back, his broad shoulders. He looms. She smiles.
“I do not tease,” he repeats. “And if I did, I would tease far better than that.”
Her giggle is high-pitched, giddy. “You’re totally the master of teasing.”
His face is dead serious. His voice is warm. “It is an art.”
She snickers, wiggles underneath him. “Ooh, Shinomori Aoshi-sama, master of the art of teasing, taunting, and talking dirty.”
His brows twitch. “I suppose Saitou could present a challenge in taunting.”
“Ugh. That stupid bamboo-face, beat you? Impossible, Aoshi-sama.”
“Bamboo-face,” he snorts, and when she focuses on him she realizes he’s leaning in closer. “That is the perfect example of why you need to learn to talk dirty.”
She arches up, pouts in his face. “Maybe you should teach me, O wise master.”
“Maybe I will.”
The world spins again.
When it stops, she is straddled across his thighs, and he is sitting upright, hands wrapped around her waist. His thumbs touch above her navel; his middle fingers brush each other on her back. He contains the sum of her in his hands.
She trembles.
One hand slips down, grips her thigh, pulls her closer. The other comes up to the back of her head, pushes her face into his shoulder, a gentle pressure. She is pressed against him, thighs to collarbone against his chest. He inhales; she feels it in the arching of her back has his chest expands. His exhale is a warmth against her ear, down her neck as he bows his head. His cheek is against her hair, his mouth against her ear; his words are no more than a whisper when he says:
“You’re a virgin.”
Her spine goes stiff. “Aoshi-sama?! Wh-why would you ask-”
“Ssh.” His hands move up and down her back with firm pressure, until she begins to relax against him again. “I’m teaching you to talk dirty.”
“I didn’t know this was the kind of dirty talking we were discussing,” she whines against his shoulder. He snorts. She swallows, tries to will the flush of blood out of her cheeks.
He strokes her back, her hair. “Good girl,” he rumbles. “Just listen.” She gulps in a breath, full of his scent, green tea and tempered steel. She exhales.
“You’re a virgin,” he begins again. “Far too young, and a virgin. I remind myself of that frequently. Normally it’s easy. You smile, and you laugh. And it’s easy to not want you. But sometimes...” The word is half groan, low in his throat. “Sometimes you cry out, or you moan, or you look at me with eyes that are far too wise, and then I want to take you in my arms and hold you until you shatter.”
She grips his arms, corded and hard, fingernails sinking into his flesh. Muscles flex beneath his skin. He tenses, relaxes.
“I imagine how you would taste, if I kissed you.” She inhales sharply, pushing her chest against the planes of his. “Your mouth, small and soft, and I’d have to teach you to kiss me, I’d have to sit with you for hours and do nothing but kiss that sweet small mouth, kiss you until your lips were swollen and chapped and tasted more of me than you.”
She swallows thickly. His fingers tighten on her back. Her mouth is dry, her breathing too loud.
His voice drops deeper, quieter. “I could take your clothes off, slowly, slowly. You would blush when I opened your shirt, when I knelt to kiss the skin between your breasts, and you would taste of under-ripe fruit and the lightest touch of sweat. But you would flush again, even brighter red, when I took off my own shirt.”
Her fingers curl into his collar, tug consideringly. He stills, waits for a moment, lets her take her time. She plays with the zipper at his throat, hesitates.
Slowly, tugs it down a few inches.
Her shaking fingertips slip inside to experience his throat, his collarbones, the fringe of hair at the back of his neck.
His stomach clenches. He starts, too suddenly, too hastily, to speak again. “I could stroke your breasts, kiss them - you would fit my hands, shapely and soft, it would be so perfect - but I won’t. Because you are far too young, and virgin, and I can’t.”
His zipper inches lower. One small hand flattens against his chest, explores the vast webbing of scars. His fingers aren’t trembling, aren’t hesitant as he begins to undo the knot of her sash.
The breath he draws in is shuddering, uneven. “Imagine how you would shriek, how you would turn bright red and try to hide yourself with your hands when I pulled your trousers away. You would shake, shake so hard I’d have to lay you down before your legs gave out. I would kneel with you, watch you tremble, watch you blush, and then I would spread your knees.”
She shifts against his hips. Pulls his zipper down to his navel, pushes his shirt open. He pulls his arms back, helps her push his shirt off his shoulders until it hangs limp around his waist. Her palms are flat against his pectorals, nails scraping over discoloration and markings in his flesh. He meets her eyes, unashamed; his scars are a retelling of his life, his pain, all that he had carried, all that he is. She swallows.
Her nails run down his chest. His eyes flutter, his head falls back slightly. His fingers clench against the skin of her back, slip around her waist, rise between them. He strokes her stomach, feels her skin tremble.
“You’re wet.” It is a statement.
Her legs feel weak. She sinks deeper against him, presses her weight into his lap. Feels pressure between her legs, firm and unyielding. She sucks in a sharp breath.
“You’re hard,” she gasps, manages not to stammer. His eyes widen slightly. A brow arches.
“You’re learning.” She giggles again, too high-pitched, almost hysterical. His hands travel down her sides, grip her hips, rock her against him. She whines, high in her throat. Her back arches.
“I would touch you,” he whispers. It grates in his throat, rumbles in his chest, in her palms, almost a growl. She shudders against him. His hands move, behind her hips, his palms putting the lightest of pressure on her buttocks. “I would touch you, and you are wet, so very wet, beneath my fingertips. Wet, and soft, and so very warm...” He looks up at her. Face solemn, he notes, “But not as warm as your cheeks are right now.”
She blushes deeper. Runs her hands up and down his chest in retaliation, lets her fingers dig into each of his ribs, watches his brow tighten and release every time her nails bite his flesh.
His hands rove, brush over her hips, the curves of her ass, the indent of her waist, the swell of her breasts.
“I want to touch you,” he tells her throat, lips against her pulse, nose deep in the hair behind her ear, the smell of her sweat and her hair almost overpowering.
She trembles.
“Ask me for it.” It is a command.
She gulps, nods against his shoulder. “Please,” she gasps, voice high and thin, her hands slipping around his back, nails digging into his spine. “Please, please.”
He breaks free of her arms, pulls her shirt over her head.
Puts one hand - his fingers nearly cover the span between her shoulders, nearly cover her whole chest - over her sternum. Presses her down, watches her arch into a backbend, small breasts round and exposed, and his throat is dry.
“You are,” he groans, and it sounds like thunder in his throat. “So very beautiful.”
He ducks his head, covers one nipple with his mouth. She tenses, draws tight against him as he sucks, inhales a shriek when he pinches with his teeth.
Her hands clench in his hair, pull it taut at the roots, and he tugs at her nipple every time she pulls harder, just to make her do it again. She whimpers and pants and moans shamelessly, a small miracle in his arms, a woman and a wonder.
His head rises from her chest.
She straightens slowly, shaking, hips shifting erratically against his, seeking friction, seeking pressure, seeking anything. She looks down at him. Takes in the green eyes, dark and knowing; the dark hair, twisted into messiness from her fingers; the straight, serious mouth.
Pushes her fingers into his hair, watches as he tilts his head back for her, allowing her this movement.
Carefully, slowly, presses a kiss to his mouth.
His breath fills her mouth, fills her head in a rush, and she is overwhelmed with him, tea and tempered steel, the sea breeze and the sea itself. He touches her, his fingers curling into her hair, her cheeks, her forehead; he directs her, the tilt of her head and the pressure of her lips. He teaches her; he guides her; he creates a path for her into the dark. He gives her his skill, this art of which he is master.
Then he breaks free, head jerking back with a gasp, and he looks up at her, and he burns like the ocean on fire.
“Stand up.”
Shakily, her legs wobbling beneath her, she rises. His hands curl around her thighs, supporting her carefully. She puts her hands on his shoulders for balance, finds it, stands straight. Smiles down at him, celebrating this minor victory.
“Take off your pants.”
She stares. He nods, once. Promises, “Trust me.”
Her fingers tremble as she undoes the tie at her waist, tugs the short pants from her body, and stands bare before him.
He rises up onto his knees, beckons her closer. Wraps his arms around her waist until she stands astride his legs, his face pressed to her stomach, her thighs across his shoulders.
His face turns to the side, his teeth carefully pinching the flesh of her thigh. She shivers. He looks at her, meets her eyes.
“I would like to touch you,” he tells her. The barest hint of a fingertip ghosts between her legs, skates over her, finds her damp and hot. He closes his eyes, groans into the inside of her thigh.
“I am going to make you come, Misao,” he informs her, and it sounds like an oath in her ears, as \ serious as any other he has sworn. “I am going to make you come, until you scream. Until you forget where you are. Who you are. What your name is. I am going to touch you, and touch you, and touch you, and touch you, until you forget everything except how to scream.”
He feels it in his palms when her thighs flex and tremble. “Would you like that, Misao?”
She swallows. “V-very much, Aoshi-sama.”
His mouth is hidden against the inside of her leg, but she feels it in the curve of his lips and sees it in the lightness of his brow when he smiles. “Thank you.”
He tugs her closer. Lowers himself to his knees, ducks his head.
His finger slides over her, opens her, spreads her dampness. He strokes her once, twice. A third time, with more pressure. A fourth time. Again.
His mouth closes over her.
She cries aloud. Her legs shake violently. His tongue strokes her, entrance to clit and back again, mimicking the motion his fingers had forsaken. The tip of his tongue swirls around her clit, presses firmly, and she almost weeps above him.
A slim fingertip tests her entrance, presses gently inside. She shrieks against the intrusion, rises up onto her toes. He hums against her, a soft vibration that eases her, his free hand rolling her back onto her heels, down onto his waiting fingers.
His teeth bump against her clit. She gasps, cannot find air. One finger swirls inside her, strokes slowly, steadily, an inescapable rhythm. She rocks with him, from her heels to her toes, her legs shaking almost too much to support her. He has an arm wrapped underneath her thighs, is probably supporting most of her weight, and she thinks of nothing but the beat of his fingers and teeth and tongue.
He sucks gently. She shrieks. He adds a second finger to the one stroking her insides, presses with more force. Pushes deep, fingertips searching, finding the unique texture of that secret spot inside of her. Pressing.
She cannot breathe, cannot stand. Clutches at his shoulders and his hair, at anything solid, and he is the most solid thing she knows. Her back arches. Her toes point, rising to a point as his fingers work inside of her, as his tongue works against her.
His mouth breaks free of her, his thumb coming to stroke her clit in the absence of his lips and tongue. He cranes his neck to watch her face, flushed red, raised to the sky, shining with sweat.
She is beautiful.
“Come, Misao.” He pushes inside of her, feels her muscles flutter against his fingers. “I want to watch you come apart. I’m right here. I’ve got you. Come apart, beautiful girl. I’m here to catch you.”
His fingers stroke the core of her, his thumb presses firmly on her clit and swirls, once, twice, three time and she snaps, a taut bowstring finally released. She screams, loud and unashamed and clear as a clarion call. Her thighs tense, tremble, clench around his shoulders. Her insides flutter around his fingers, so beautifully tight.
She falls into his arms and it is the most wondrous thing he has ever known.
He holds her close, her knees folded up between her body and his. He tugs the shirt from his waist and wraps it around her, smiles as it swallows her up in its folds. She gasps for breath in his arms, slowly finds it, and he kisses her brow as she returns to herself, strokes her hair and wipes the sweat from her cheeks.
Her sigh is worn, sleepy, content. He snorts, tucks her head under his chin and rocks her carefully, slowly.
“Oooh, Aoshi-sama,” she moans, smirks into his chest. He rolls his eyes, squeezes her gently. He lifts her boneless body, almost smiles when she winds trembling limbs around his waist and shoulders, clinging like a creeping vine. She hums into his shoulder, giggles giddily.
“Whatever will you teach me next, O master of the art.”