Private Home Away From Home [M]

[Osytha]

Momo gives Osytha her wish: hands wrapped at her hips, his slender fingers drinking up the contours of her body. He doesn’t press hard, doesn’t grab… but, it’s enough to feel that perfect fit from the other side — how perfectly his lap cradles her in it, how perfectly his hands lock around her at the narrowest point; how perfectly in his power it puts her. Every squeeze, every caress Momo gives is met with happy little noises from the knight.

He also feels pretty fucking perfect up between her thighs. Murmuring in his apple-sweet, breathy voice…

“Gods, Osy. You’re gorgeous. I could spend the rest of my days just looking at you, memorizing the way the light lands on your skin.”​

Looking at you. Osytha’s eyelids fly open, her breath hitching in her throat as she stares up at Momo. Draped in moon-white locks, and looking back at her from below his short, cute stubby brows, with that gaze like rose-a-ruby under summer sun. But possessed of a deeper hunger than she’s seen in him before. When he looks at her that way…

Lips sink to her neck. Osytha arches up, humming her delight. Momo’s hand roves higher. He cups Osytha’s breast, and she feels him steal the weight away, exploring how she rests and yields in his fingers. Twirls a thumb around the tender bud of her teat, at which point her ‘happy little noises’ start to fracture. “Sensitive here?” he teases.

Smug bastard, is all she can think, in between the guttural, wordless pleas he ekes from her with each flick. First with the thumb — and then leads down with kisses, nuzzling into the soft give of her breast. Tongue lashing wet and greedily. Fuck. Fuck. The sight of his dreamy face supping away at her — it robs Osytha of her senses, it stokes up the heat flooding through her body; it drives an aching spike through her belly to the drooling mess between her legs. He looks so… so fucking hot down there.

Meanwhile, her own hands are far from idle.

Osytha’s fingers scrabble at the obi’s tie. Not so frantic that she fumbles it into some new, Gordian tangle, but there’s impatience in the sharp tug and pull with each loop she works loose. First his damn sword-belt, and then the himo keeping her from that hard prize he’s taunting her with through the fabric of his long, pleated, hakama pants.

“I-I want to touch every inch of you. I want to learn the shape of you, the feel of you, until I know you inside and out.”​

She wants it. She needs it. An urge immediate and desperate to the point of pain, as breath is to a drowning woman. At least the cord for her braies is a little more familiar. She doesn’t even have to think before her obnoxiously-gathered waistline unfurls away, opening like a flower to the morning sun. Momo wastes no time in sending a curious hand down the furrow of her back, and she quickly knows what he’s going for; the man’s long fingers fan out, digging into more meat than they can handle, while he drags the maddening bulge under his pants back and forth against her slit.

Her soft-voiced breaths have since degraded into outright moans. But when Osytha feels him trail fingertips from her knee up the inside of her thigh, she changes again — chest juddering with sharper gasps, each pitched higher than her last as he closes the gap… rising to a broken yelp when he rubs against her swollen clit.

For a little while, Osytha can only press herself into Momo, fingers clinging to the ridges of his hips, and whimper, through the slackened lips of her face turned blindly up to his.

“Not yet. I want to take my time with you—savor you.”​

Momo brings his wide, gorgeous lips to hers, and with that, Osytha feels something… complete. Like they’re two halves of a circuit now connected in a loop. Like she has no loose ends left unplugged, and she’s wanting for nothing.

Except, just when Osytha’s losing herself to the rhythm of his fingers… Momo takes it away from her.

“Not yet.” And when he pulls back from another kiss, Osytha’s eyes are swimming with confusion, with hurt. The urgent way she’s rubbing herself against the crotch of his pants makes clear what she wants — what he’s just robbed her of. But Momoshiro keeps her suffering. His touch moves back to her hip, her breast, already riling her right back up. Only she knows: he won’t let her have it. “Not yet.” Is he trying to make her lose her gods-damned mind?

Fine. If he wants to play games, then they can see who breaks first…

Osytha touches a couple of her fingers to the line of that sharp jaw. She strokes them along, half-caressing, half-guiding Momo’s face toward her, and whispers for him. “Momo.” She kisses his chin in passing; just enough to lick up its faint salty taste, and even fainter one of sweet pearmain, before bringing those lips closer to his ear. “I want to take thee in my mouth.”

Her other hand goes lower, much lower. She slips beneath the loosened waist of his hakama to find him there, and softly closed her fingers around that rigid girth which has so tormented her.

“I want,” Osytha goes on, and begins gliding her palm back and forth, “to feel thee throbbin’ on my tongue… to taste thy cum pourin’ inside me.” Her breath huffs warm and wet against Momo’s skin. “I want thee… to fill me up until I choke.”

Soft kisses land on his cheek, trail down his neck; leaving behind little cool patches against the air. Her fingers have slipped from his jaw to splay across his chest, where she soaks up the dew off his skin, the heaving of his lungs, and the pounding from his heart.

“I want… I want to worship thee.” Osytha is panting hard, her voice breathy against his throat. “To offer up… ivvery part of myself.” But all the while, the hand she has pumping below keeps to a steadily quickening beat. “Dost tha want that, Momo? To see me on my knees… watch me swallow down ivvery last drop…” Another kiss finds his adorable bobbing Adam’s apple, before she tilts her head back and looks into his eyes. “Dost tha want… to do something bad, to me…?”

 

[Momoshiro]

The gentle murmur of the nearby stream mingled with the rustle of willow branches overhead, their leaves whispering in the passing breeze as birds called softly from the surrounding thickets. The secluded clearing remained peaceful, the occasional ripple across the water the only disturbance to its quiet serenity.

Against that tranquil backdrop, Momo’s breath left him in a slow, shuddering exhale, and for a long moment he simply looked at her—at the light catching in her hair, at the flushed bloom spreading across her chest, at the stubborn, desperate gleam in her eyes that she tried so hard to hide behind boldness.

He watched her fingers work him, felt the glide of her palm over the rigid length of him, and a soft sound escaped his throat—something caught between a laugh and a groan. She was so determined. So beautifully, recklessly determined.

"You're asking permission," he murmured, and the words came out rougher than he intended, thick with the effort of restraint. His hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb stroking across the sharp line of it with aching tenderness. "But I think you've already decided, haven't you, my knight?"

He tilted her chin up, meeting her gaze fully. His rose-ruby eyes shimmered like firelight reflected in still water, their gentle glow carrying a quiet warmth and a deep, almost dreamlike serenity. Beneath that calm, however, lingered a tenderness that bordered on hunger, a hunger held carefully in check like a flame cupped in both hands.

"Do something bad?" He repeated her words, testing them on his tongue. A slow smile curved his lips, tired and genuine. "You want to kneel for me. You want to swallow me down until I'm spilling across your tongue, and you want me to let you. Is that the bad thing you're asking for?"

That damned grin

His thumb traced the corner of her mouth, a feather-light press against the softness of her lower lip.

"I want to see it then. I want to feel that pretty mouth stretched around me, to watch you take me apart with nothing but patience and that wicked tongue of yours." His voice dropped, quiet and intimate as a confession. "But I want to look at you first. I want to memorize the way you're breathing right now, the way you're looking up at me like I'm something worth kneeling for. I want to be greedy with you."

He drew her hand away from his length, gently but firmly, lacing their fingers together and lifting her knuckles to his lips. He pressed a kiss to each one, unhurried, reverent. Her skin was warm from the fire, slightly calloused from sword-work, and he lingered on the ridges of her knuckles as if tracing a map he intended to learn by heart.

"Finish undressing for me. Slowly. Let me watch the braies fall, let me see the shift of your hips as you bare yourself for me." His gaze traced down her body and back up, lingering where the fabric of her clothing still clung to damp skin.
"And when you're on your knees, when you've offered yourself to me exactly the way you want to—then I'll give you exactly what you're begging for. Every last drop, just like you said. I'll fill your mouth and your throat until you're choking on me, and I won't pull away until I'm empty. Until there's nothing left to give you."

He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss so soft it felt almost like an apology.
"Does that satisfy your terms, my bold, impatient knight? Or do you want to negotiate further first?"

That. Damned. Grin.

The question hung between them like a dare, and Momo felt the heat of her skin even before he touched her again. His free hand settled on her hip, thumb tracing the jut of bone beneath the fabric, and he could feel the trembling in her frame—that fine, barely-contained vibration that told him exactly how close she was to shattering.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in—the cool freshness of the stream, the faint salt of sweat, and the delicate sweetness of her skin. "I've spent my whole life learning to be patient. To wait. To hold back what I want." His fingers curled into the fabric at her hip, not pulling, just holding. "But you make me want to be reckless. In the best way."

He drew back just enough to look at her, and the smile that touched his lips was softer now, edged with something almost like wonder. "You asked if I want to do something bad to you. And I do. I want to spoil you rotten, Osytha. I want to learn every sound you make, every place your breath catches, every way your body begs when you think you're being quiet." His thumb swept across her lower lip again, a slow, deliberate stroke. "I want to take you apart so thoroughly that 'knight' becomes just a word you used to answer to."

His other hand slid down her spine, following the curve of her back to the swell of her ass, where he pressed her firmly against him—letting her feel exactly what she'd been stroking through the fabric, the hard, insistent length of him burning against her through the layers between them. He didn't grind, didn't move; he simply held her there, a promise made tangible.

"But I won't. Not yet." The words came out rough, almost pained. "Because I want you to look me in the eye when you kneel, and I want you to tell me again—not because I doubt you, but because I want to hear it. I want to carry the sound of your voice asking for me into that moment, so when I'm buried in your throat and you're swallowing around me, I remember that you chose this. That you chose me."

He released her hip, reaching instead to cup her face in both hands, tilting her head up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. For a long moment he simply held her there, sunlight through the trees dancing across the planes of his face, his rose-ruby eyes searching hers with an intensity that made the air between them feel thick and heavy.

Then, slowly, he moved.

His hands slid from her face down her arms, trailing warmth in their wake, until he caught her wrists and gently lifted them—drawing her hands away from him, from the place where she'd been stroking him under his hakama. He pressed a kiss to each palm, unhurried, reverent, his lips lingering against the calloused ridges of her sword-worked hands.

"Stand with me," he murmured, and the words were soft but carried the weight of a request he expected her to honor.

He rose from where he sat, and the movement was fluid, graceful—a hunter's ease that belied the trembling restraint coiled beneath his skin. He drew her up with him, hands settling on her hips to steady her as she found her footing. For a heartbeat they stood face to face, the sunlight at his back, the planes of his chest exposed where his robes had already fallen away.

And then Momo reached for the knot at his waist.

His fingers worked the fastenings with deliberate slowness, not teasing—simply letting her watch. The hakama loosened, slid down the lean lines of his hips, and he stepped out of them in one smooth motion, leaving himself bare before her. The exorcist cut an impressive figure: the sharp edge of his collarbones, the taut plane of his stomach, the lean muscle of his thighs, and there—between them—his rigid length standing proud and flushed, heavy with want, the sight of it made all the more intimate by how openly he offered himself to her gaze.

He didn't move to cover himself. Didn't shy. He simply stood there, letting her look, his breath coming in slow, measured draws as if he were steadying himself against the simple act of being seen by her.

He stepped closer, closing the distance until the heat of his body rolled off him in waves, until she could feel the warmth of his skin without quite touching it. One hand came up to cup her jaw again, tilting her face toward his, and his thumb swept across her lower lip with that same feather-light reverence.

No words were needed for this next part.

There was that grin again.

“Undress for me. Let me watch you. Let me remember you like this—bathed in the soft, silvery light filtering through the willow branches, wild and wanting.”

The words never left his lips. They lingered instead in the quiet depths of his mind, unspoken and unnecessary. He stood before her, unashamed, his gaze tracing every movement with an almost reverent attentiveness, his rose-ruby eyes glimmering like firelight reflected on still water. There was no need to tell her what he wanted; not when the answer was already written in the way he looked at her, in the quiet hunger of his expression, in the patience with which he waited for her to come to him. And when she stood bare before him, when there was nothing left to hide behind, he would draw her close and let his actions speak for him.

He would give her everything he had.

 

[Osytha]

However light his fingers at her jaw, the thumb upon her lips; there’s no denying Momo’s pull. With him near enough for his warmth to paint across Osytha like sunlight, and the apex of his desire resting against her belly… she’s starting to get there. “I want to take you apart so thoroughly that ‘knight’ becomes just a word you used to answer to.” She’s starting to forget it all — the order, her oaths. The bruise of coming back home. Apples and bitter oranges. With Momoshiro this close, everything else might as well belong in another life.

The soft press of his thumb sets a tremble in Osytha’s brow. It flutters her half-lidded eyes, has her breath tumbling damp and heavy down Momo’s hand. And her own — they roam with a mirrored veneration. She explores his lean stomach, with its tiny asymmetries in the firm pattern of muscle. Her fingers fan out, mapping harder lines at his hips and up the softer flesh of his waist, around to his back. As she curls her arms upward, the motion pulls Osytha in closer until there’s no more distance left. Combing her hands along that long groove from tail to shoulder blades, moulding her softer self to his shape.

Can’t resist one last little treat. She parts her mouth just a fraction wider and, gently, takes his thumb inside. Holds it on the wet heat of her tongue as apple’s crisp sweetness strikes first. Next comes a lick of salt, perhaps. Then bitterness off his skin… and there, in the undertow: a hint of her own tartness. If she didn’t already know the taste, then she might have thought it was from the pome.

Osytha lingers on the feeling of him within her. She’s all soft give of lips and tongue, wrapped about his thumb’s knobbed joints, lapping it up. Until she pulls away. Steps away.

One hand trails round to Momo’s chest to suddenly press firm where she’d just been gentle; stay. A second step backward, and he can see Osytha’s other hand is holding the loosened waist of her braies up to her navel. “Finish undressing for me.” There’s something she has to do. “Slowly.” And from where he can get a good view. Stepping further backwards, past where plaid yields to grass tickling up between her toes, until he can see all of her… and she, all of him. Osytha wants to watch him back, and see those lovely red eyes devouring every bared piece of herself.

“Slowly.” Her arm lowers, and the woman seems to think for a moment. Braies are, possibly, one of the least erotic garments ever devised. Not much for Osytha to work with there. At least her well-fitted and bias-cut hosen are more flattering — malachite and wisteria, faithful to the curves of her legs from toe to well up the thigh. Those she can save for last.

First one leg, then the other: the ties keeping those long wool stockings aloft come undone beneath her fingers. And once she un-tucks the legs of her braies from her hosen, they offer no resistance as she rolls them down below the swell of her milky hips, past her small linen loincloth. Past the tiny little gap between Osytha’s thighs, right below her nethers. Down, until her arms have no more reach, and then she lets go. Those baggy braies drop to the ground, and are promptly swept aside by a green-clad foot.

Her hand touches to the subligaculum’s knot at her waist… and stops. Momo is treated to a self-pleased little smile before slowly, agonisingly slowly, Osytha begins to turn around.

“Tha wish’st to be reckless with me?” She shifts her weight in exaggerated movements; flaunting the tilt and sway of her hips, a ripple of well-muscled thigh. “I wish it, too. For thee to just… let go.” Shapely, bunched calves underneath that taut fabric. Lots of curves, lots ample flesh. Lots there for Momo to grab onto, wherever he puts his hands. “The self-restraint, the patience. Tha canst let go of all that, Momo.”

She’s especially sure to show off the big, round cheeks of her rump. Smooth and languid movements flowing one into the other, so he can see how the light plays across her shifting shape — clench and lift, ease and slack. When Osytha’s head is in profile, she holds it there, looking back over her shoulder at Momo. But her lower half continues on its ambling twist, until she has her backside full to him.

“I wish to feel the shape of thy desire.” Now Osytha tugs at her loincloth’s simple knot, but even once untied, the fabric can’t surmount her curves on its own. So, she begins peeling it away. Gradually, unveiling that cleft running deep between plump cheeks. “Even if et’s reckless, or greedy… even if tha think’st et somehow ugly, or mayhap shameful. Even if et might hurt me. I don’t mind any of that.”

Osytha releases the pitiful under-garment. A few sharp jostles of her hips see it freed from catching between her thighs, to fall down between her ankles. Those motions also see the fully-bared mounds of her arse made to jiggle-bounce-jiggle, and she cranes her head around a touch more, trying to catch Momo’s expression at this display.

“Tha dostn’t need to hide those parts. Not from me.”

Then, she bends forward: legs together, hands rolling the tops of her hosen down her sturdy thighs. Osytha teases out this part as well — each movement at an unhurried, deliberate pace. Having to lean a little further, and further, and further again, the lower that she reaches… and once she’s tilted far enough down to get the hosen around her calves, then, enticing little details begin to peek from out betwixt her legs.

That cleft, running down into a puckered little divot. Smooth for a tiny stretch below that — and then, the start of another crease and a certain rumpling of her skin. Osytha makes the final push to reach her ankles, so reveals a little more to him; of fat, flushing lips pursed gently together, and the little pink frills which emerge between them. Those rosy folds glisten wetly as she adjusts her weight from leg to leg, pulling the hosen off her feet. Giving Momo time enough to have his fill of the view.

Then, every bit as slowly as she bent down, Osytha brings herself back up. Turns herself ponderously around toward Momo. Lifts her eyes to his, locking her gaze there.

She sinks to her knees.

“Because I want you to look me in the eye when you kneel, and I want you to tell me again…”

Osytha crawls forward.

“I want thee.” Rump up high, hips swaying side-to-side. Shoulder blades heaving as palms kiss flat to the earth, and an unwavering blue stare. “I want thy cock rammed down my throat until I’ve milked thee dry. An’ that’s only the start.”

When she gets within a few feet of him, Osytha leans back on her haunches and shuffles the rest of the way on her knees alone.

“Please, Momo.” And there she kneels below him; with her face upturned and gazing past his rigid shaft, past the white tuft of his nethers, up toward the twin red moons of her heavens. “Let me have et.” Osytha’s hands slide up his thighs to splay their fingers greedily into the meat of his backside, and she kisses him. Tenderly, right where his scrotum meets the base of his cock, and again, tasting her way up the underside. “I’m beggin’ thee. I want… want thee to tear me to pieces. I want to be thy toy, thy plaything. Please. Please, let me be thine… Momoshiro…”

 

[Momoshiro]

For a moment, Momo simply looked down at her.

There was something almost disarming about seeing Osytha like this. Not because she was kneeling, nor because of the way she looked at him, but because of the complete sincerity in her expression. The woman who had spent so much of her life carrying herself with the pride and bearing of a knight was now looking up at him with such open want, offering him a vulnerability he knew she would never extend lightly. And she was asking him to accept it. To stop holding himself at arm's length.

His rose-ruby eyes shimmered softly, their usual warmth deepening as he watched her hands settle against his thighs. A quiet breath passed through his nose, and the corners of his mouth lifted into something gentler than his familiar teasing grin. He had spent so long measuring his every movement, considering every consequence, that surrendering to the moment almost felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory. But Osytha was right. He didn't need to be afraid of wanting her. Not here. Not with her.

One hand came to rest against her cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath her eye. He let his gaze linger on hers, taking in the blue of her eyes, the flush across her cheeks, and the unmistakable devotion in the way she looked at him. Then he lowered himself just enough to press a lingering kiss to her forehead.

He had heard her. Every word.

And he intended to answer.

Momo’s breath suddenly hitched, the sound a jagged edge of desire in the quiet air. He looked at her—really looked at her—seeing the raw, unfiltered hunger in Osytha's eyes, the way her proud knight's composure had completely dissolved into a desperate, aching need. When she asked for it, the request vibrating through her voice, something shifted in him. The gentleness remained, but it was now laced with a dominant, focused intent.

"If that is what you want," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble that seemed to vibrate against her skin. "If that is where you want me..."

There was no waiting for a verbal reply; the way she leaned forward, her lips parting in anticipation, was answer enough. Momo reached down, his fingers curling firmly into her hair, not to hurt, but to claim. He tilted her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat, and guided his thick, throbbing head to her lips.

He didn't tease her this time. With a firm, decisive thrust, Momo drove his length deep into her mouth. The foxkin watched for her reaction, to see if she choked or was pained. Even as she asked him to do it, a part of him still maintained a measure of caution. It would likely always be there.

It was his nature, after all.

Momo raised his brow as she instinctively molded her lips to his shape, gripping him tightly as she worked to accommodate his girth. A part of him was surprised. It was one thing to talk about it, to imagine it, and another to see it, to feel it. Momo groaned, the heat and wetness of her mouth enveloping him like a vice, the suction immediate and intense. He felt the slide of her tongue against his shaft, a frantic attempt to taste him even as he dominated her space.

He began to move, his hips snapping forward in a rhythmic, relentless pace. He wasn't gentle now; he was taking what she had offered. He gripped her hair tighter, anchoring her head as he slid in and out of her throat, the sound of the encounter filling the air—the wet, sloppy slapping of his pelvis against her chin and the guttural, needy noises she made as she struggled to breathe around him.

Suddenly he had an idea that curled his lips into a grin. He'd always wanted to say it.

"Good girl," he rasped, his breath hitching. "My good girl."

He increased the speed, his thrusts becoming harder and more insistent. He watched her face, captivated by the sight of her eyes glazing over in a mixture of sensory overload and pure devotion. He pushed deeper, burying his length until he hit the back of her throat, forcing her to gag slightly, a reaction that almost made him pull back, but after half a second of hesitation he continued on. She asked for this and he couldn't deny being overwhelmed by the feeling of her throat muscles clamping down on him, trying to accommodate his size.

He continued like this, pumping in and out of her mouth, until the pressure under the surface reached a breaking point. He wanted to enjoy her for longer, but it was too much, too good. Momo’s muscles locked, his hips driving forward one last time with a powerful, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt in her mouth. A long, guttural moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering violently. He pumped thick, hot ropes deep into her throat, filling her mouth with his release.

He held himself there for several long seconds, breathing heavily, feeling the rhythmic pulses of his orgasm subside...

The peaceful clearing seemed impossibly distant now. The stream continued its gentle murmur, the willow leaves stirred overhead, and the birds carried on their quiet conversations among the branches. The world had not changed, and yet, for Momo, everything beyond the woman before him had fallen away.

He suddenly found his legs unsteady, his breathing heavy. He almost stumbled but regained his composure with a bit of a sheepish grin.

He gradually loosened his fingers from the hair at the back of her head, drawing his hand away as his fingers gently combed through the strands. His fingers traced around this side of her head, over her ear until it reached the front, where he carefully brushed a few loose strands away from her face. His expression had softened considerably, the hunger in his eyes tempered by an almost overwhelming affection. He leaned down and rested his forehead against hers once more, allowing himself a moment to simply be close to her.

"You're going to be the death of me, my knight," he murmured, a quiet laugh slipping into his voice. But there was no complaint in it. Only warmth, wonder, and a fondness he made no effort to conceal.

He kissed her again, slowly this time, not minding at all that he tasted himself on her lips.