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syneilesis · 7 months

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[fic] A Summer Affair

A Summer Affair

Ikemen Genjiden | Kitsuji Sueharu x f!Reader | E | 6k words

ao3 link (registered users only)

Or: five encounters with the man who calls you ohime-sama.

A/N: Shoutout to @midnightmiscreant for giving me inspiration to write this fic! My first legit full-length smut fic. Please be gentle with me lmao. I stopped reading Sueharu's route at chapter 5-6 so I can't guarantee the accuracy of his characterization (and the accuracy of anything in this fic full stop). Horny first before in-character-ness.

Tagging @m-mmiy @aquagirl1978 @altairring @thewitchofbooks ! Hope you enjoy this lmao and sorry in advance 😂

Content tags/warnings: honorifics/title kink, cunnilingus, PIV sex, creampie, competence kink (vague, from Sueharu's side), sexual tension, resolved sexual tension, possible OOC, excessive use of em dash

Your father brings you to one of his most important negotiations to date. Observe, he had said, sliding his critical eye over you to make sure you're listening, which you were, restraining the urge to grab your yukata tight—from nerves and from the responsibility.

The place he's going to is a shop that sells different kinds of things. There are clothes displayed, colorful yukata and obi that steal the attention of passers-by, an undeniable allure that seduces customers to whip out their purse and purchase their chosen temptation. Other aisles, there are medicinal ingredients, brushes and ink, and many more that you wonder how this store has not crushed other competitors yet. It makes you wonder, then, about the owner of this establishment.

“Please come in here,” the shopkeeper who's welcomed you earlier says, gesturing to a passageway that leads to a backroom. Away from other perusing customers, whose voices gradually fade into the walls, and your footsteps remain, soft and quiet against the floor.

When the corridor reveals another room—darker in color scheme, more apropos for business negotiations—you spot a man lounging about behind a table. He lifts his head at your father's arrival, a ready smile in place. Then he sweeps his gaze at the people trailing your father—you at the end of the line. He raises a brow—and you know how you look among the stern-faced men who entered first—but nonetheless his lips remain in an upward curve—and if your eyes don't deceive you, it even stretches further.

“Kitsuji-dono,” your father begins, bowing lightly from where he stands. The action pushes your own eyebrows up; you know your father to be firm and imperious. Respect only comes when he has gauged a person's worth through their deeds and conviction. And to see this respect directed towards a younger man surprises you, somewhat.

Kitsuji waves his hand, his movements light and—you sense—deliberately aimed to make people feel at ease. “There is no need for formalities. Come sit.” He gestures across the table, and your father follows. His assistants remain standing a few steps behind, and you maintain another step behind them.

Then it starts. The assistants murmur among themselves about some supply or other. You try your best to keep up, but there is still a long way to go before you can stand proudly right next to your father.

Observe: you concentrate on the main negotiators' facial expressions. Your father with his ever-craggy countenance, designed to intimidate; Kitsuji's, however, is loose, relaxed, with a lace of challenge underneath that lazy smirk. He's very different from your father—negotiation style different—but perhaps that is why he's won your father's respect.

In the middle of their argument, you catch Kitsuji flit his gaze to you. A quick, fleeting thing, easily missed. It's as if it didn't happen at all, but you know it did, because you can't deny the skip of your heartbeat when his eye—sharp, shrewd—finds yours in spite of the important discussion. There's no reason for his attention to wander.

The negotiations prolong enough for Kitsuji to suggest a break. A shopkeeper appears, serving tea for him and your father, who accepts the offer most graciously. The assistants excuse themselves to evaluate the progress so far, and you follow them outside.

They don't stay inside the shop, wary of Kitsuji's men who could overhear. But you decide to remain, instead browsing among the products sold. One of the yukata captures your interest, its intricate patterns reminding you of your hometown. It draws your fingers in to trace the patterns, a reminiscent slowness that has your memories of childhood resurfacing.

So occupied with the yukata that you fail to sense the approaching man.

“Do you like it?” a low, warm voice says almost next to your ear. The sleeves of your yukata brush against his.

It's a blessing that you don't shriek and jump, but it's an almost thing.

Beside you, Kitsuji offers an inviting smile. “They tell me that you're the daughter of my esteemed guest. An honor to grace the meeting with your radiant presence, ohime-sama.”

Ohime-sama. A spark jolts at your spine, hot and strange that has you squirming in your place and averting your eyes.

You part your lips for a reply, but nothing comes out. Bewildered, speechless, you just shrug, mumbling some collection of sounds that mean nothing at all.

Kitsuji's smile persists, as if knowing his effect on you. And that smarts your pride. Part of being a good negotiator is being able to withstand external force in any shape or form. Grace under pressure. A little flirting shouldn't affect you like this.

Just as you have finally mustered enough nerves to shoot him a decent comeback, Kitsuji continues: “It's very admirable to see someone's daughter inheriting the family business. Does this mean I will get to see you more in the future?”

Your jaws click shut. He's good at this. So very good, in fact, that you're left answering with complete honesty.

“I suppose,” you answer helplessly. “I only wish to be helpful to my father. He's the only one I have left.”

That takes Kitsuji slightly aback, if the little flinch is an indication. Too much sincerity, perhaps? Can this be considered a victory?

You never get to find out his reply, because this is when your father calls your name, signaling of your abrupt departure. You look to Kitsuji, wide-eyed and questioning, and he just grins, silently mouthing your name, testing the syllables for himself.

“Well, then,” he says. “It seems like the negotiation has concluded.”

“But—how?”

Another call of your name. You turn to go to your father.

And then—Kitsuji says, “I'll see you soon?”

You pause, giving it serious thought.

“If fate allows it. Good day, Kitsuji-dono.”

“Sueharu.”

“Pardon?”

The smile Kitsuji presents you now is roguishly charming, his eye dancing with amusement.

“Call me Sueharu.”

You have no appropriate reply to that, so all you can answer him is an aborted smile and the galloping of your heart.

In a few days it will be your father's birthday, and you're darting around the market, searching for the perfect gift.

It's almost mid-summer, the sun high up and challenging your tolerance for heat and humidity. Everywhere you go there are people sweating and people fanning themselves in the heat. If you could, you would, too, but a little sweat won't deter you from acquiring a worthy present for the father who has raised you since you were little.

A kimono? A wakizashi? A sumptuous meal? There are plenty of choices, but you feel, this time, that they are not fit enough for the smoky, dignified air that permeates around him.

A writing set—that may be a better choice. You've heard him once complain about the state of his current one. Perhaps it's time to replace it, and what could be a better occasion than on his birthday?

“Ohime-sama,” a voice—low and silver—breathes on your temple, and the way your spine tingles, you know whose voice it belongs to.

“Kitsuji-dono,” you acknowledge, stubbornly looking at the wares in front of you and ignoring the proximity between your hand and his sleeve.

“Ah, didn't I say that you can call me Sueharu?” he says, amusement lilting his words.

“I must give respect to those whom my father respects.”

“And you must respect my desires, as one whom you give respect to.”

Your eyebrows scrunch. Such a sly man. But still.

“... Kitsuji-san,” you allow.

Next to you, Kitsuji lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “A compromise? Fine, I'll accept.” And that's when you decide to turn around. In your movement your hand accidentally brushes his. He's adorning that crooked smirk, as though there's something he finds entertaining, almost hedonistic and indulgent in the geometry of his lips. “What are you looking for?”

“A gift.”

His smirk widens even further. “For who? For me?”

“For my father.”

“Ah.” He leans back, and makes a show of thinking, a loose fist on his chin, eye drawing closed. “What do you have in mind?”

You've only seen him once or twice, and to reveal something to him that's personal hinders your openness towards him. And Kitsuji senses that reluctance, that wariness, because he opens his eye again and sheds the loftiness that layers his movements, his expression. The smile he presents you now is subdued, but nevertheless generous.

“I may be able to help, ohime-sama.”

“You can start by not calling me that.”

“Oh, but you like it, don't you?” he says, boldly. And that takes you by surprise—the way he just tells you directly, confidence wrapped in a sly gaze, a canted hip. A precise, pitched tone. “And you are, you know,” he adds. “A princess. A precious one, at that.”

You don't know what to reply to that, so you just answer his previous question. “A writing set—I'm looking for a writing set.”

He nods in understanding. “Ah, an excellent choice of gift. I know exactly what your father would like.”

And you know exactly what he'll say next, so you beat him to the punch.

“And what is the catch?”

“Hm?”

“The catch,” you repeat, monitoring his reaction. “You can't offer me something like that without getting something in return. There's a reason you told me that, right?”

“Clever girl,” he says, his eye narrowing in delight. “I can give you a high quality writing set if ... you and I have a lovely dinner together.”

“Dinner?”

And Kitsuji's expression melts into something soft, almost fond.

“I'm not that easy,” you say.

“I know. That's why I'm making an effort.”

“And I'm finding your effort lacking.”

Kitsuji laughs. He laughs like the summer sun. Then that tender look is back again.

“Then I'll get serious,” he says. “Get ready to negotiate.”

On the way to your hometown, you're attacked by bandits.

You only have your one bodyguard with you, and you're both astride a single horse. He wraps one arm around you as a shield, the other brandishing his sword.

“Hold on tight, ojou-sama.”

You close your eyes and cling to his torso. The twisting of his body—the slashes and the sound of clanging steel that accompany it—makes your breaths shallow, the unruly combination of dread and panic taking hold of your muscles and your lungs. A stray swipe cuts the ends of your yukata, and you whip your legs closer to your body.

It doesn't help that the horse is spooked whenever a blade lunges in your direction. Your bodyguard decides to face them on foot, handing you the reins.

“Ojou-sama, go!”

“But what about you, Endou-san?”

Endou fights off a couple of bandits with a huge sweep of his blade. “I'll be fine—now go!”

You trust his skill with the sword, so you take off.

You don't manage to get too far: an arrow embeds itself in front of your path, and the horse rears back in fright, throwing you off.

A bandit emerges from the shrubs, weapon poised above him, ready to strike.

Far to your right, a shout of your name.

There's no time—you take one step back, place your weight on your feet, and pull out your tanto that’s hidden expertly under your obi.

Distantly you hear your name again, distraught.

The bandit gets closer, roaring. His sword swoops down—

—and you meet it with your own, both hands straining against the handle of your tanto.

Your father had foreseen such events like this. A shrewd businessman like him, who had named you as his successor, would anticipate such things to happen. Threats to his family's lives—yours specifically—are part and parcel of his reality. And he has long ago accepted the fact that he can't be with you all the time; hence: Endou.

But even Endou can't be with you at all hours.

You're not adept with the blade, but you know how to defend yourself in times of emergencies. Like this one. Your father made you wake up early in the morning during your youth, had you practice stances by a skilled teacher, and seared into your mind the ways of warding off opponents—honorably and otherwise.

And that otherwise is what gives you victory.

Without warning you shift your weight to lift your foot and drive an angry kick to his crotch.

He goes down like a sack of rice.

Not giving him any opportunity to recover, you slam the butt of your tanto onto the back of his head, knocking him out. Exhaling a heavy breath, you drop onto the ground, suddenly exhausted.

Another call of your name, and you look up to find Kitsuji panting heavily, expression slack with wide-eyed shock.

“Kitsuji-san?” you begin, wobbling towards him. “How are you here—”

You don't finish your inquiry; he strides towards you and scoops you into his frantic arms.

“Um?”

He kicks the unconscious bandit farther away, then tightens his embrace.

“Kitsuji-san?”

He finally releases you—hands still on your shoulders—but his gaze roams over your body, searching for any wound or injury. When he finds none, he sighs in deep relief.

“Really,” you insist, “what are you doing here?”

“I was just in the area,” he dodges. “But you—”

His hands glide down your arms, and then gently cradles the hand holding the tanto.

“You fought a bandit.”

“I—yes?”

“On your own.”

“I had to.”

“And you kicked him”—a glance at the bandit's lower body—“there.”

“I'm not strong enough to parry his attacks.”

“I know,” he says, looking torn. But after a few beats, it seems that he has decided upon something, and his mood becomes serious. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

You bite your lip, and his gaze follows.

It's not as if you're blind to the signs. It's also not as if you're giving him mixed signals, because you know, as well as he, that the effect that he has on you scorches the very marrow of your bones—a dark and heavy longing that needs to be devoured, empty spaces desperately yearning to be filled. The stolen glances, the accidental brush of fingers, the distance—or the near-lack of it. In there all the answers to the questions are given, with a clandestine touch.

You give him a smile and an “Oka—”

You can't even finish the word and he's already on you. Kitsuji—no, Sueharu kisses like a man starved, as if he has restrained his desire for you for so long, chained it so close to him that it's threatened to burst. And now it has. The shuddering gasps he makes as he angles his head to take your kiss deeper and deeper send heat into your head, and all you can do is shut your eyes tight and return the enthusiasm as much as you can.

The tanto falls from your loosened grasp, and Sueharu migrates his hands to your waist and pulls you flush against him. His body is all muscle—broad, firm, and hot—and you rest your hands on his chest, where you can feel his rapidly beating heart. From nerves or thirst or a mix of both.

Before things can escalate, you pull away. His mouth chases after you and lands on the corner of your mouth. You tap his chest to catch his attention.

“Kitsuji-san,” you start, words warbled by his insistent kisses. “I have to go back to Endou-san.”

He freezes, and reluctantly retreats. The want still burns underneath that sunset eye, but he listens to your plea.

He steps back. “Your traveling companion?”

“Yes. He told me to leave him but—”

A rustle of leaves, and you whip around in caution, Sueharu positioning himself between you and the oncoming danger.

To your relief, it's Endou, and you cry in joy upon seeing him.

Endou nods at Sueharu. “Kitsuji-sama, thank you for protecting ojou-sama.”

“I actually didn't make it,” Sueharu replies, grinning. “When I reached her, ohime-sama already knocked the bandit out. It was such a show.”

You blush, but Endou looks proud of that.

Endou's arrival signals that things are over, and that you have to leave for your hometown soon. Sueharu volunteers to take care of the fallen bandits for you, and before you can refuse Endou accepts the offer. Once Endou herds your horse, it's time to say goodbye to Sueharu.

“Don't worry, ohime-sama.” His tone is assuring. “I'll see you again. And maybe—” He bows down to whisper in your ear: “Maybe we can continue where we left off.”

You return to your hometown with that promise on your mind, burning.

There's an inn at the outskirts of your town, operating for longer than your father's life. It's run by a large family headed by an old woman, a sprightly wickered shrub of a grandma, whose idea of a pastime is to poke her nose into her customers' businesses, much to her family's dismay.

But you get along with her, having been a constant conversation partner in your youth, when you'd been so fed up with your father's awkward attempts at parenting. Distance had been a good way to cool off, moreso with grandma's stories. It also helped that on some occasions, she'd drill you life advice that even now you follow like the word of god.

“Oho!” she shrieks in delight at the sight of you entering the inn, Sueharu in tow.

“As usual, obaa-san,” you tell her without pausing on your strides. Instead of the reception, you make your way towards the hallway at the far end of the lobby.

The interaction puzzles Sueharu. “No reservations?”

“I practically have a room with my name on it.” It sounds strange, when you say it aloud. “I've been a frequent customer here that the owner practically adopted me.”

Sueharu hums. “A story for another time.”

When you enter the room, it's as if a bubble has burst: your hands can't keep off each other, mouths latched onto one another, tongues twirling and twining.

When you part, Sueharu's gaze roams all over you, his breaths ragged and loud, matching yours, the want so palpable between you, unable to stay hidden.

“Bed,” he says—demands.

He continues to touch you even as you prepare the futon, and you laugh at his impatience. Once it's done, Sueharu pounces, and you both tumble into the futon, pawing at your clothes, mad with the desire for bare skin.

“Ohime-sama,” he teases, and your breath catches. He smirks at your reaction. Brings down his lips to your ear, whispers: “O-hi-me-sa-ma.”

“You don't play fair at all.” His kimono is pushed back to his elbows, exposing his torso. Beneath him, you look and look and look—he's all you can see. In return, Sueharu watches you have your fill, before he palms one of your clothed breasts.

“Kitsu—” You moan when he squeezes, then caresses downwards until his fingers brush over your nipple. You jerk against the touch, arching your back.

“So cute,” he murmurs, untying your obi—string, belt, sash—the whip-slide of fabric against fabric resonating loudly in the room. Once free, your yukata falls off your shoulders, revealing your chest, and the sight of it elicits a groan out of him. Sueharu licks his lips. “So cute.”

And his mouth descends.

You can't stop the whine that escapes your throat. His mouth is hot, wet, and his tongue does something with your nipple that has you bucking up. His hands fly to your waist to control your movements. Aligns your hips to his, and something brushes there—hard and huge—

“Kitsuji—”

His mouth releases you with a pop. Looks at you, your flushed face, with his hazy gaze.

“Yes, ohime-sama?”

“Mm—” Every time. Every time he says it, it does something inside you, a spark that tingles between your legs, crawling outwards, pinpricks that bring pleasure to your flesh.

There must've been something unfolding in your expression, because Sueharu moves so he's eye-level with you.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Don't worry, ohime-sama,” he says against your skin, “I'll take care of you.”

He gets up, and takes the warmth with him. There's shuffling, and you feel your legs being lifted and arranged in a way so he's kneeling between them, your inner thighs snug against his sides.

He leans forward, and begins kissing the skin under your jaw. This close to your ear, you can hear and feel him inhaling deeply then sighing, the spot warming. You're aware that in this non-existent space between you, he can sense the flush spreading from your cheeks to the tips of your ears, to your neck and nape, and then to your chest. But he doesn't mention it—instead, he's intent on bruising your skin with the weight of his kisses, the sucking and licking that alternate with the act.

He wanders downward, sucks particularly loudly at the column of your neck, and you grab at the back of his head, his silky hair between your trembling fingers, not tugging, not yet. He grunts at that, however, and responds by dragging his tongue at the length of your collarbone and punctuating the end with a bite.

“Kitsuji-san,” you whimper, your free hand tapping at his shoulder, “I want to kiss you.”

Sueharu surges and meets your open mouth. Sighs into the kiss, his tongue caressing the roof of your mouth before entangling with yours. His left hand cups your jaw, guiding you by tilting your head for deeper access, as if he wants to melt within you. His right hand is braced at the side, minor tremors belying his unspooling control. Sweat gathers in the crevices of your bodies, and your breasts brush against his, causing both of you to moan, voices mingling, your legs tightening their hold around him.

“Did you know,” he murmurs, once you've separated, your breaths hot and one and Sueharu's stare is half-mast and lust-drunk. He proceeds to play with your ear (nip and kiss and lick and suck—the shell of your ear, the lobe, the contours), in between saying, “that I've decided to allow myself to want you—ngh—since the moment you took care of the bandit trying to hurt you?”

You groan at that—and not in the sexy way.

“Kitsuji-san—”

“You make it so easy,” he continues, raining kisses down your chin, your neck (the pristine parts, and one on the angry-red mark he gave earlier), your sternum, where he slides his hands down—a ghost of a touch, leaving goose pimples on their way—to settle below your ribs. His hands are big, spanning the width of your side, and it feels safe somehow, under those hands.

“Easy?”

“When I met you the first time, you looked so serious and it was so cute.” He pauses in reminiscence. “I wanted to tease you, ohime-sama.” He chuckles, and at your light slap on his chest, he captures the hand and kisses your palm. “But you're very dedicated and smart and brave—so I had to resist surrendering to my ...”

He trails off, exhaling heavily, and then shows you a wicked smile, the grip on your hand tightening a fraction.

“I'm going to enjoy you so much tonight. There will be no sleeping between the two of us.”

And so he resumes his ministrations.

Out of your clothes, you lay back, as Sueharu gives you a long once-over. Shame vibrates in your skin, but you swallow the urge to cover yourself with your hands. The feverish ardor present in Sueharu's gaze burns your nerves, and that—in a way—makes you brave with what you're about to do next.

You sit up, snake your hands around Sueharu's torso, press yourself up against him. Skin to skin—heat, flesh, the rapid beats of his heart, yours, the snag of his breath. You tug off his belt, pull his kimono down, until he, too, is completely bare before you. There are no words exchanged, just the intent of each act, the shiver of bodies at every touch.

“Ohime-sama,” he begins. When you look down, his cock is flushed, hard, straining. You want to know how it feels inside your mouth, its weight, its size. The quality of his voice gains a tinge of desperation, almost broken with yearning. “Let me have a taste of you, please.”

And it's the please that has you lying back on the futon again. Sueharu starts by kissing you on the lips, then down and down and down—your navel, then below it, then the line of your pubes, and then, finally—

He kisses your cunt once, and then goes for it.

“Ahn—Kitsuji-sa—” Your hips buck up, which presses further into his tongue, and it's like your whole body lights up. He takes this opportunity to draw a line down your slit, before parting your folds to delve inside.

The last reddish glow of the sky peeks through the slightly open windows, awashing the room with a burnished red hue, two shades darker than his kimono that's now splayed on the floor several paces away from the futon. In a fleeting moment of silliness, you wonder if the open windows would carry your cries outside, where people could hear your molten desire for Sueharu's tongue. But when he moves on to lap at your clit, the thought dissipates, replaced by the mindless urge to roll your hips against his face and keen at the pleasure.

The sounds of his deft mouth on you—so thirsty—and his garbled words against your sensitive skin: “—so sweet, delicious, ngh, how are you this—ohime-sama—”

“Kitsuji-san,” you gasp, shuffling your legs because you don't know how to handle the sensations bombarding you. Without looking up, Sueharu grabs your legs and spreads them wider. Then one hand lets go and migrates downward. As his mouth continues to pour attention to your clit, a finger slides inside you. You let out an embarrassed whine, and that inspires a smirk on his face—the muscles of his cheeks pressing against the junctions of your thighs.

When he lifts his head to check up on you, his face glistens with your slick, and you swallow the heavy, unbearable want crawling out of your throat.

His eye is hooded, dark with lust, and without your conscious prompting your hand hovers over his eyepatch. You trace the design with your index finger, almost tentative, afraid that he'd turn away from it. But he doesn't. Instead, he cants his head so his lips touch your finger. One quick kiss, before he brings it inside his mouth.

His tongue swirls around your finger, moans around it, and you watch, mesmerized. Gets it wet, saliva trickling down his chin, his implacable gaze refusing to leave you.

He curls the finger inside you, your thighs twitch.

Sueharu chuckles, silvery rich and low. He glances down. Says, “Sorry. Got a little distracted there.”

And he's back to your cunt, with more intent than before. He's slurping and sucking and lapping as if you're the most delicious meal he's ever tasted, and it's driving you to the edge. He inserts another finger and pumps them, a relentless assault that amplifies all the sensations you’re experiencing. It’s too much, it’s not enough. You grab at his hair again—tighten it into a firm fist this time and maneuver him so his mouth can get to the angles that send firebursts across your entire body.

“I'm going to—” you pant, rolling your hips against Sueharu's greedy face. Another finger enters. The squelch of his gestures adds to the sounds of his thirst. You're leaking between your thighs—your slick and his saliva—and it pools on your futon. At the back of your mind—the tiny part that's still stubbornly clinging for awareness of your surroundings—you think, This is going to be messy.

You don't want grandma to find out.

“Don't think of anything else but me,” Sueharu warns, somehow sensing your drifting away. He lightly drags his teeth at your clit and does something with his fingers as punishment, and you jerk from a shot of pleasure, which has you crying out in surprise. You yank his hair in revenge, and that affords you a glimpse of Sueharu's roguish grin. “You're almost there—focus on me. Only me.”

So you do.

And he's so good at what he does: his mouth, his tongue, his voice, his fingers—every part of him born in service to you. So when he brings you to your climax, everything fractures, shatters, white-heat burning every nerve, every muscle in your body. You're vaguely aware that you're wailing—

“Kitsuji-san—Kitsuji-san—Sueharu—a-ahh—”

—and Sueharu rides out your orgasm, still licking and lapping at your cunt, pumping his fingers in you, as if he can't get enough of it. When you go limp, he finally lets go, moving above you, slurping your slick off his fingers, observing your blissed-out expression. His own expression is smug, and without warning he kisses you.

You taste yourself in his mouth.

When you part for air, a string of saliva stretching between your lips, he shuffles until his lower body is lined up with yours. His cock presses hot and hard against your slit.

Sueharu brushes away a lock of hair clinging to your sweat-drenched temple. His touch is light and gentle, a contrast to his harsh breaths and tense posture.

“I want to be inside you.” The words are uttered breathlessly, the last syllables pinched into an anticipatory smile. As if he can’t wait to have all of you. “May I?”

Sueharu and his silver voice and his sunset eye and the glister of his sweat-coated skin. The tremble of his limbs, ruddy with need and hunger. There’s a palpable moment when everything feels suspended in time, and all you can do is commit this image into memory.

And then: you nod.

He releases a shuttered exhale and swallows. The head of his cock nudges at your cunt, entering slowly, carefully, inside—

He starts moaning.

“Ohime-sama,” he begins, as his cock slides in, pausing every now and then, gauging your reaction, and the cries that clamor to escape remain stuck in your throat. He's big, overwhelming, crowding everything, all your senses, and you squirm, trying to accommodate him. He groans at your little shifts; shivers and braces himself to avoid collapsing on top of you, the veins of his forearms stark in the periphery of your vision.

“Ohime-sama,” he repeats, rasping, when he pushes deeper, and you whimper in response. Hands encircle his shoulders and pull him down to you, and you can feel his staccato heartbeat. He pushes and pushes in, until he bottoms out.

He stills—then chokes a sigh.

“Sueharu,” you whisper, your thinned voice still carrying into his ear. His nose is buried on the crook of your neck, and he shudders when you call his name. His cock throbs inside you.

“You're so tight, so hot, you completely took me in. Such a good girl. So perfect,” he murmurs into your skin, then drags his tongue to taste your sweat. He gets up again to slide out of you until the head of his cock remains, and slams back inside.

Sueharu fucks like he's made for you. The way he pants in time with his thrusts—the sounds that come straight from the back of his throat like it can't wait to escape his mouth. In his drunken pleasure he slurs your name—hot and saccharine-thick between his lips—that melts into an indulgent moan, wanton and pure and sensual, his head thrown back, neck exposed and glistening.

You long to taste it—so you do.

“Haa—ohime-sama,” he rasps, and you feel the vibration in your mouth. “So bold, so lewd, so—” He twists so he’s sat on the futon and you're astride his lap and riding his cock, his hands gripping your waist tight, pounding into you as you suck bruises on his neck.

The new angle hits something inside you—and you sob, a different flavor of pleasure quaking your body. Sueharu watches you with half-lidded gaze, and hits it again. You cry and cry and cry until your body can't contain the tightness anymore—it explodes, wracking your body with unbearable pleasure, shaking you to the core.

Sueharu swallows your second orgasm with a hungry kiss, growling as he conquers your mouth with his desire.

“I want to come inside you,” he pleads against your mouth, “I want to—to—come—”

What else can your answer be when he begs that way?

“Yes—yes. Come for me, Sueharu. Come.”

“Ohime-sama,” he pants, his voice increasingly low and increasingly wet and increasingly broken. “Ohime-sama, ohime-sama—ohime—sa—ma—”

He comes with a long, loud, cascading open-mouthed groan that reverberates throughout the room, filling you up inside in thick, hot spurts. You cling to him throughout his climax, meeting his lips and his tongue in the last moments of his peak. He reciprocates with as much fervor as you grant him.

In the aftermath, only both your breaths break into the quiet. Sueharu leans his head on your chest, still panting. His hair tickles your skin, and you lift a hand to stroke the back of his head. You feel more than hear a purr. Sueharu hasn't extricated himself from you.

Nobody moves beyond your caress and his smoothened breathing. But when he finally raises his face to look at you—kiss-bitten lips, lingering hints of flushed cheeks, eyepatch askew—his expression still holds a glint of something wicked—

And it reveals itself through his sharpening gaze and his wide, insatiable grin.

“You know that this isn't enough, don't you?” he says. “That we're not finished. And the night is still young.”

He presses a kiss on your chest, directly where your heart is.

“We'll enjoy ourselves until we can't anymore—or when morning arrives. Whichever comes first.”

Autumn starts to creep in before you know it, the beginnings of the season's chill snaking below and crawling upwards. It isn't apparent yet, but you can see the shift in the people's glow, the tighter movement of their limbs.

Inside the establishment you're currently at, the interior remains clinging to summer. Brighter colors, verdant and inviting of energy.

The assistant shopkeeper serves you tea, and you thank him, the faint smile on your lips eliciting a flush across his young, innocent face. It's the first time you're seeing him, which makes you conclude that he's probably new.

“Kiyowara, help out in front, will you?” a voice snaps, and Kiyowara startles into an apology, scurrying back outside with his head bowed, a mouse running away from a tetchy wildcat.

The owner of the voice sits across you, settling down his own cup, and you offer to pour him one.

Sueharu smiles indulgently.

“What a jealous man,” you say, teasing.

He waves it off, seemingly unbothered. “I merely wanted to start the negotiations right away.”

“Of course.”

He thanks you for the tea and, sipping, observes you with a pointed gaze.

“I can't believe your old man let you go here by yourself to negotiate on his behalf.”

“What can I say?” You grin. “I'm a quick study, and I'm eager to master this.”

The lips around the rim of the cup widen and curve. Sueharu closes his eye as if savoring the tea.

“An excellent decision on his part.”

Beyond the walls of the backroom, the chatter of people: customers asking and haggling for the prices of products, and shopkeepers trying to maintain their retail price. Summensftr is leaving, but you welcome autumn with the open embrace of a lover with a newfound romance. You smile as you sip your own tea.

“Well, then,” you declare, and Sueharu leans forward, “let us begin the negotiations.”

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