Chapter Text
Many people in this world are born for great destinies, but you're well aware that you aren't one of them. You aren't an achingly beautiful courtesan who men pay just to talk to, making them go home with good dreams that night simply because you afforded them a moment or two of eye contact. As far as you know, you aren't the daughter of an esteemed family or famed samurai, who would have a productive marriage already set for your future. And though you may not be baseborn, you nevertheless have to work, and work hard, just another aching body in the crowd of countless others in your position.
Though, truth be told, you wonder if you're more invisible than the rest. Sure, you may go around in public with your eyes cast downwards and your posture inconspicuous, but it's only common sense to not stand out in the crime-ridden streets of Kyoto. But the fact that you haven't so much as been jostled by one of the myriad faceless thugs has made you wonder if other people notice you exist at all. And whenever you realize that your closest companions seem to not be listening when you pour your heart out to them, you sometimes wonder if the moon -- loyally hanging over your head, always so much brighter in Kyoto, giving you soft encouragement to do wicked things -- is your only friend.
At least, that used to be the case.
Now you have a very special friend.
The moon is bright tonight, and you blame her for whispering in your ear, reminding you that this friend is free tonight, causing you to slip away early from the bathhouse to escape to your home while you can be sure it's empty. The chase is on. You can feel yourself being watched by some unseen force as your feet start moving quicker, your eyes darting towards every shadow, wondering where he might be hiding to ambush you before you make it to your destination. It's been a week since you've last been together, and you know that he must be relying on you losing your edge.
Not a chance. You like to win just as much as he does, and you quicken your pace as though he's bearing down on your heels. You're almost at a dead run by the time you make it back alone, but before you can feel both jubilant and disappointed that you managed to outfox him, you throw your door open to find that Okita Souji is already lounging there in your room.
Something about the sight and smell of you fresh from the bath turns him into an animal like nothing else. More than once -- before you'd made a competition of it -- he had snatched you while you were walking home alone, dragging you into a dark alley and pulling up the end of your robe until he could press his mouth against your cunt. Those days, a sense of self-control that even the most hardened samurai would admire is the only thing keeping you from alerting the entire neighborhood, one hand over your mouth and the other fisted in his hair as your entire body shakes at the sensation of his tongue massaging your folds, curving along your clit, sometimes even slipping inside of you. Equally impressive is how you manage to stay even somewhat upright during all of this as your spine bows and arches from the heavy weight of pleasure, your back shoved against the wall with one knee hooked over his shoulder, your sense of balance disconcerted each time you look down into his one eye to see that demonic gleam of pure hunger watching your face.
The same one is fixed on you right now.
There are no greetings shared, and even as little as each other's names go unsaid. Okita practically pounces on you, and you give him what you both love, struggling viciously against the inevitable in a futile attempt to get on top of him and take control. You writhe, push him, even slap him, but it's useless. He's strong, so strong, and in moments, his power and skill have you helplessly pinned. He has killed many men with the hands that restrain you, and he has pissed off even more with the mouth he now brings between your legs, and maybe one or both of these things should bother you if you want to call yourself a good woman; but as soon as pleasure blooms with savage intensity where his tongue works you over, you forget all about that and turn submissive in his grasp.
He doesn't often eat you out from behind, though when he does, you know it's because he's starved for you. You have no other word to describe his insatiability, the manic debauchery with which he eats you out, clit to ass, leaving nothing in-between untouched. Despite your obvious advantage, you can't even really be sure for whose benefit he's doing this, so rough are his ministrations as you feel one of his canines scrape against your clit and his fingers tighten on your thighs with enough force to leave bruises; yet he doesn't even touch himself. For all you know, he simply enjoys the thought of overstimulating you so thoroughly that you cannot even sit down without thinking of him and what he's done to you. The only one who can get you off. And get off you do, one orgasm rolling right into the second and then a third before you even have time to recover, your arms giving way to boneless exhaustion as you press your face into the floor and let it absorb your depraved moans.
Right when you're on the verge of totally collapsing, confident that one more orgasm will break you, he separates from you -- though only briefly. You're panting, sweaty palms sliding unhelpfully along the floor in a struggle to find purchase. But when he pulls you up by your shoulder until your back meets his bared chest, and you realize he is about to take you from behind.
"No fair," you whine, voice weak, wriggling in a hopeless attempt to try to break free. "You lost. You didn't catch me. That means I get to be on top. You know the game."
"Haw?" He sounds sincerely incredulous at that, if only because he takes this game as seriously as you do. "I beat ya here, girl. Sounds like winnin' to me."
"Only if you change the rules!" Frankly, you're not even sure your thighs have the structural integrity to ride him after what he's just done to you, but the mere denial of the vague rules has left you indignant on principle. "You cheated!"
"Hmm." He presses his chest against your back so that you can feel his muscles, his galloping heartbeat, and the unbridled impatience that is rocketing through his bloodstream like lightning, demanding that he get what he wants, and soon. This physical reminder of his power, of his desire, sends a dagger-thrust of heat between your legs, and you expect him to take you like an animal; but he's affectionate when he leans down to nuzzle the back of your ear. His voice is low, the way it always gets when you know he's serious, when he tells you, "Maybe I just missed ya that bad. A whole week without my girl. Needed to make sure I could get ya somewhere where I could hear how much you've been missin' me, too."
That's all it take for you to give in, spreading your thighs for him as you've done countless times before, and will do countless times again. It has been a week, after all, which might as well be a dog's year with the frenetic intensity of your affair thus far. You're already wet from him eating you out, and your needy anticipation of his cock has him sliding inside of you without the slightest bit of resistance. He's had a lot on his plate, so it's a relief to you to hear his breath catch at the sensation, arms trembling for just a moment, adjusting to the sensation of being inside you. One of his hands moves to cover your own, a soft squeeze that thrums straight to your heart; then his hips snap roughly against yours, and the debauchery returns.
It's sick, just sick the way he fucks you like a dog, like you're both animals copulating face-down in the dirt. He ruts and ruts against you with insatiable determination, teeth trailing bites down your shoulders, your back, your neck, anywhere they can reach, and it must be fortunate that you are practically invisible, or else someone at the bathhouse would wonder with horror what beast has attacked you so viciously. There's no mercy in the way he pounds your cunt, no relief nor opportunity to catch your breath. Rather, he seems to disdain the very idea, reaching down to roughly tug one of your nipples or pull at your damp hair to make you gasp right whenever it seems you've finally gotten your bearings.
Your relationship is a secret, but if your friends knew, they would first surely become nauseous with envy -- he's in the Shinsengumi, and a captain at that, a celebrity in his own, notorious right -- but then they would rally, outraged, on your behalf, or worse, pity you. You are made of good things, and if you were to embark on an unwise affair, you at least deserve tenderness and worship. Something romantic. Cherry blossoms on your breast, love songs in the air, blushing faces exchanging meaningful looks by candlelight. Anything better than this, better than sneaking around at night (and in the morning, and midday, and twilight) to fuck like animals, like some devolved species driven only by a mad desire to breed, your body lusted after, used, and left behind. Without a doubt, you would understand their sentiment.
There's just one problem.
You fucking love it.
No, worse, you need it. Fuck, you couldn't stand to live without it. And if anyone tried to take it away from you, they'll have to spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulder, on guard for the mad bitch in heat that will climb through their window to steal him away again. Because you've never felt this way about anyone, not ever, and you had assumed it would be an experience you simply would have to miss out on, the way other people never learn to swim or figure out how to win koi-koi. A distant dream. And yet here you are, riddled with perverse lust, sick in the head, slurring his name over and over and pushing your hips back against his thrusts so that he can hit deeper inside of you. How could you ever let this go?
You've become quite adept at gently tricking your aunt and uncle into staying out for hours on end so that you can enjoy Okita's company for as long as possible, but tonight, you won't have the privilege of hours of fucking. He knows this too, and you can feel his breath hitch as he pummels your walls with increasing urgency. If you take much more of this, you're likely to simply fall apart. You're moaning words you can't even remember, incomprehensible in your lust, but when you finally manage to desperately cry out, Souji, please, he finally hits his climax.
With an impossible effort, he pulls out of you with a rough curse, and as you collapse to the floor you feel hot ropes of cum against your back, your ass, the backs of your thighs. All that time at the bathhouse for nothing, you think warmly, just taking it with a sigh, letting him fall back with exhaustion as you crawl to a nearby cloth to clean yourself up. Animals in the dirt. It makes you happy. No matter what barriers currently separate you, you realize that encounters like this make you both feel seen. Bodies needing to be claimed, needing to be used for their purpose.
Needing to be loved.
Yes; everyone could think whatever they wanted about you. But judgment levied against this affair based on the intensity of your sex would be missing out on crucial details: like the way you turn on your back after you've thrown the cloth away, satisfied and fully sated, and how you pull him toward you so that he can lay his head on your breasts. A soft sigh of contentment rumbles in his chest as he listens to the slowing of your frantic heartbeat with the knowledge he was the one responsible for its recent pace. You run your fingers through his hair, now loosened and unbound, pausing to affectionately rub your thumb against his brow as he closes his eye. He has his duties, and he must leave soon, but you can have this snatched moment.
"How'd you do it, anyway?" you wonder.
He's too contented to even stir. "Eh?"
"Sneak into my room like that." You smile. "Considering you tend to look down on stealth."
"Hardly a challenge for a Shinsengumi captain, girl," he huffs. "Told ya; I had an important mission."
"And what was that -- truly? You wanted that badly to make sure my time at the bathhouse was for nothing?"
A sinful mixture of bodily fluids is drying on your skin, and you know you'll have to go back again tomorrow. Though your friends suspect nothing of your reasons, they've teased you about how often you frequent the establishment, thinking you're spending money frivolously on shallow pursuits. If only they knew that your visits tend to be purely practical. And despite your frequent reminders to yourself to avoid fantasizing, you can't help but wish for a house with him, with a private bath. Logically, so that you can avoid the prying observations... and illogically, because you want to wash his back at least once in your life.
"Nah. Wanted to see the look on yer face if I surprised ya, and it was worth it." A lazy smile warms his vulpine features. "Ruinin' your hard work is just routine."
You have nothing to say to that, but you continue to pet him, your nails gently curving along his scalp. Underneath his devil-may-care exterior, you've always sensed a certain kind of loneliness in him, and it manifests in his unbothered relaxation underneath your ministrations. Despite being a notorious complainer, he doesn't stir with you, doesn't tell you that he's had enough, and he always waits for you to break contact first. But tonight, there's something different in his quiet, and though you begin to wonder if he has unwisely fallen asleep on you when he will have another mission to handle soon, you look down to see him staring off into space with a dull look.
"What's bothering you?" you ask, knowing that it's not like him to -- frankly -- keep his mouth shut like this for so long.
He doesn't look up at you, just continues to stare at the wall. Irritation works his jaw. You know that look in his eye, and it breaks your heart.
Boredom.
Not with you, of course. You'd made the mistake of believing that only once, and after you had ducked him for a fortnight to avoid the humiliation of getting explicitly dumped, he had practically hunted you down to fuck you into the next historical period in order to set the record straight. No. This is related to his other great passion: bloodshed.
"Pain in the ass," he mumbles with a deep sigh, his sword hand flexing idly as though wishing it to be holding his blade and cutting into the chest of someone ballsy enough to stand against him. "Work's makin' me want to gouge my other eye out."
"Oh, yeah?" you murmur supportively, gently massaging his temples. "Haven't killed anyone fun lately?"
You are, perhaps, the only other person in Kyoto with enough screws loose to speak his language. Furrowing his brow as he sinks into your soothing ministrations, he knows he can be open with you, a frustrated grumble darkening his voice as he folds his arms.
"Nah, they ain't even worth discussin'. Talk a big game, then shit their hakama as soon as I look at them. Half of 'em can barely hold their sword straight. Boring."
"Poor baby boy. Maybe someday soon, you'll get to fight some nice, destined, chosen one." Looking over your shoulder as you worriedly anticipate your family returning soon, and knowing with disappointment that your time together must come to a close soon, you try to find a silver lining for his departure when you add, "Could even be tonight."
"Don't you go and get my hopes up," he warns, reading your mind and grudgingly rising from the warmth of your lap, looking back at you as you fix his ravaged clothes. "How've ya been holdin' up? No one better be messin' with my favorite girl."
It has been a difficult week, not only because of banalities at work and a miserable run of weather, but the same group of thugs has mugged your uncle twice this week in the exact same place. (Despite your pleading with him to just pick a different fucking route home, he is horrified by the very idea of breaking from his beloved routine) Still, you don't want to sic him on every bad guy in your path, not only because it's irresponsible, but also because life might become something of a chore if your neighbors start becoming terrified of your mysterious power. So you just shake your head and assure him, "Nothing I can't handle."
"Ain't you tough?" He leans down and kisses you, but even this affection is as animalistic as his earlier handling of you, his teeth sinking without warning into your bottom lip and tugging it with him as he pulls away. Your breath catches as you let out an involuntary moan at this sharp pleasure, and after you draw back, you taste blood as you glide your tongue against the worried skin. Your resultant glare only amuses him. "Tough. But still soft where I like it."
When he leaves, you watch him go until he disappears into the dark. Part of you is worried about his safety, as always, even though your concern would be better spent on anyone standing in his way, but another part of you has a heavy heart at hearing that he isn't enjoying his work much lately.
You don't much like to boast, but you would give yourself enough credit to say that you're something of a problem-solver. As you shut your door and rub your fingers against the marks where he's bitten you tonight, you're already forming an idea in your head. You may have no great destiny, no significant presence, and there's only so much one woman can do; but you can afford to do something small to cheer up your lover while he's in the throes of ennui. You've saved up a little money from your work, and there's a kimono you've had your eyes on for months. If you buy it, then maybe...
Before you close the screen door, you take one last look up at the night sky, towards the tail of the moon, and the two of you share a conspiratorial smile.