Samurai Champloo Fan Fiction ❯ Heliotrope ❯ Heliotrope ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I don’t own Samurai Champloo or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos; much sadness for 3Jane. However, Kakashi from Naruto is extra hot. Yow!

A/N: It occurred to me that I have no practice in the writing of the citrus, and will need it in future for Nenju. So . . . um. Yes. Let’s think of this one as AU, shall we, where our threesome is as onto bunnies. (Not with bunnies, ‘cause ewwww.) PWP, OOC, one shot . . . yeah. Lemons ahoy!


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Heliotrope



She would like to try red, she thinks.

He fucks like he fights, the first time rough and impatient against the back wall of an inn. He lifts her up as she wraps her legs around his waist, grunting into the side of her neck. His fingers dig into the skin of her hips, pulling her in tight as he thrusts, thick and burning inside her. It’s good, but not quite right; he shifts her until she’s braced with her back against the wall and his hand under her ass. His other hand strokes down over her belly and his thumb rubs over her and it is so, so — she screams in her pleasure and he grins against her collarbone before the long, rolling shudders overtake him as well.

He never kisses her.

Instead, he bites and sucks her neck before his lips travel lower and nip at the flesh of her breasts. He licks along her stomach, his hand fisting into her kimono, before a long finger slips inside her and she writhes, back arching. Her hips buck into him and she feels his heavy breath fluttering against her hair. She whimpers, wanting wanting wanting — he grinds against her as they fuck, and they go up together.

Sometimes, he draws blood, when he bites the softness of the inside of her thighs. Sometimes she draws blood, when her hands slip inside his scarlet gi and she drags her nails across the skin of his back.

They never undress fully, there is never time for that, and their clothes when they are done are spattered and smeared with drying crimson. He hisses with her kitten claws in his flesh and takes her harder, harder, until his legs are shaking and she turns inside out. She smiles and pulls the kimono free of her blood as it dries.

Sometimes she takes him in her mouth and he is hard and demanding before his hands threaded through her hair spasm and pull too tight, the scream dying strangled in his throat oh god oh god oh god Fuu — he tastes of ocean water and green apples when he comes.

When they walk out of the alleyways, his eyes are drunk with the fucking, half-lidded and wild. She walks like an old woman. They reek of sex and her thighs are sticky with him; he can smell her on his fingers. They’ll both be sore tomorrow and sleep like the dead tonight.

When they come back to their room, the first time, he drops to the floor in an exhausted sleep without a word. She is tired too, but she feels the speculative eyes of the other man on her. She smiles to herself before her eyes close, the lashes a soft touch against her cheeks.

She would like to try blue, she thinks.

He is long and steady and languid, taking her on the floor of the bamboo forest. His skin is smooth and pale and burns against her like snow. She knows he is hers when she takes his glasses from him, and he lets her; his hair is loose and spills over her like overturned ink. Their clothes lie jumbled together, as if they’ve already joined under the waxing moon, and they lie entwined.

He kisses her like he does everything else, thorough and slow. His mouth tastes of sweet water and his lips are soft and cool. Impatient, she bites at him with her sharp little teeth; she feels him smile against her mouth before he strokes her skin, down from her temple over her collarbone to just above her nipple. He won’t be rushed. He tips her head back gently and trails his tongue down the pillar of her throat to the spot where her pulse quickens. His mouth lingers above her breasts, writing light kanji, as those long fingers stroke over her hips and thighs.

He slips lower, finally, when she is dazed with wanting, and she thinks: at last. But he surprises her, and his body ghosts over her thighs and calves, until he is sitting at her feet. She raises herself on her elbows to look at him — has he changed his mind? — he doesn’t want me? — and he smiles at her again, a small secret smile she has never seen before. Then he takes her foot in those hands (she has always loved those hands, those hands, she has always been afraid of those hands), rubbing gently across the arch to reassure her. When he takes her toes in his mouth, she is lost, her hands digging into the ground, his tongue between her toes in those secret places like honey and she is nothing but sensation, nothing but her skin and his tongue.

When he stops, she moans in her throat, squirming to reach down for him, so, so hungry for his skin — and he smiles. He gently pushes her back and begins his slow climb up her body as she forgets how to breathe.

She loses her mind as he licks the skin of her inner thighs, his hands tracing over the shape of her hipbones, now oh yes oh yes — and his breath is warm over the place where she wants him most — before she feels his teeth biting lightly at the sleek lines of her stomach. He chuckles as she growls at him, her hands threading into his shadow-colored hair, the strands smooth and heavy between her fingers; she arches her hips up into him then, and his chuckle becomes a quick intake of air when she draws her foot over the hard muscles of his ass.

She smiles to herself and thinks: she can be patient, for a short time.

She can feel then that he wants this too, as he settles over her body. His mouth is at her breast and he maps the shape of her nipple with his tongue. His breath is as ragged as hers, now, his cock pressing hot and insistent into the length of her thigh. She has never known him this close to losing his control, that icy calm, and she wants to see it, wants him screaming into her. She draws her nails over the skin of his back and he groans.

He wants her, she knows, because when he lifts her hips to his mouth, his hands are trembling as she moans to him, either his name or for mercy, she isn’t sure which. He is determined; she knows this too, because when she feels his lips and teeth and tongue at the place where she burns for him, his breath rasps harshly over her before he steadies himself. Then she feels him sucking at her, licking languorously at the small nub of flesh that is the key to her gates, and she knows nothing more than the ground falling away under her and how he smells of pine needles.

Then he is inside her, his hands gripping hers above her head, as they rock together on the ocean swells of the bamboo forest. His sweat drips down and she shifts to catch the drop with her tongue, licking the side of his neck as he moans, low and guttural. She is so, so wet, and he glides so easily within her; she locks her ankles around his waist, her body a bowstring underneath him, before she screams and pinwheels away again within her own flesh. His eyes are dark and wild and demanding as he spills, hot inside her, his body filled with typhoon.

Spent, they lie together, neither ready to move, even though she can smell herself on his breath and he wants a drink of water.

Later, she licks every bit of herself off him before they begin again, and this time he wants to see her when her breath comes ragged.

Some time, she thinks, she would like to try purple.