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The shoji door slides shut with a dull thud behind him, his fingers holding onto the edge until the last possible moment. His shoulders droop the slightest amount and Yoritomo finally releases an exhale that had been caught in his chest all evening.
The fall of the Heike had amounted to bountiful prosperity. Increased trade, strengthened diplomacy between cities and strongholds, and with it required appearances for the war general that had seen the old world burn to cinders. Strategy meetings with his loyal vassals and commanders transformed into endless gatherings of Imperial Court politicians and repetitive pomp and circumstance that he could not slip away from.
It had been another such night for Yoritomo, the man caught at a banquet held for esteemed guests visiting Kyoto. Exquisite rows of freshly cooked food, a never ending stream of liquor, and lithe dancers dressed in silk kimonos. The emperor had spared no expense for his guests, eager to display Kyoto's newfound growth and revelry.
He told Yoshitsune early this morning to not wait for him and she nodded, a small, sad smile tucked into the corner of her lips. She did not complain, she never complained, and it made his insides twist in a way he hated to push aside. It had been days, if not weeks, since he carved out time to spend with her that wasn't a morning greeting or seeing him off to the palace once more.
Yoshitsune had listened, Yoritomo's eyes adjusting to the darkness of their bedroom as he pads softly towards her sleeping form. He was worried his entry would wake her but she hadn't stirred, her breathing even and eyes closed under the wave of her bangs. What had she done with her day today? Training? Traveled down to the markets? Visited Kurama Temple? Yoritomo wanted to know it all, everything he had missed while busy with duty.
He pulls the string tying his cloak around his shoulders, the fabric pooling at his feet. His bracers come next, Yoritomo quietly loosening them from around his forearms. The belt at his waist is last, easily tugged free and set next to his armor on a side table. The fabric of his kimono drifts freer now, no longer restrained and shifting with him as he closes in on their shared futon.
Yoshitsune remains still as he slides in next to her, the warmth of her body immediately seeping into his front where they touch. Turned towards him, his hand ghosts over her face before he even registers the motion, an invisible force always pulling him to her. He stops shy of his fingertips grazing her cheek, instead turning his hand to brush his knuckles across it. It's the lightest touch, Yoritomo not wanting to wake her but unable to keep away, watching her sleeping form with rapt attention.
She breathes softly, no other movement but the shift of her eyes below their lids, a strong indication that she's firmly asleep. He's not sure if he's pleased or saddened she doesn't notice him arriving; Yoshitsune deserved all the rest she could ever desire and more, but Yoritomo was a greedy man for her at his core and it had been weeks since they laid together. Those two thoughts conflicted inside him, Yoritomo continuing to gently swipe the pads of his fingers across the features of her face. The proud jut of her chin, the high rise of her cheeks, the soft strands of hair that hid her forehead.
Eventually, his wandering hand travels down to slip across her waist, Yoritomo tucking closer to her form. His face finds home in the crook of her neck, enveloping himself in the gentle scent of a freshly washed kimono and the soap Yoshitsune habitually uses to bathe.
Tomorrow then perhaps, he thinks, shifting through his schedule for the next day. Maybe tomorrow he could free up some time for her, carve out space in his afternoon to come back early, have her to himself—
"You're back," a voice murmurs, slurred with sleep. Yoritomo stiffens for a moment before relaxing, pulling his head back up to see Yoshitsune blinking up at him. He can't see her budding smile in the dark but he can hear it in her voice. Her hand reaches out to cup the side of his face.
You should sleep, he should say, but his lips decide another route, turning to press a kiss into her palm. Yoshitsune hums contently, her fingers reaching to push back long strands of his hair that fell forward. His larger hand moves to cover the back of her own, mouth planting another kiss on the heel of her palm.
He replies after he peppers his affection down her inner wrist. "Yoshitsune," he whispers back, her name laced in a tenderness only for her ears. "I missed you, all day."
"All day?" She's teasing him, he can tell. She must know it pains him to stay away this long. He nips at her wrist before letting it drop, Yoritomo shifting onto his elbow to lean over her. His free hand thumbs across the swell of her upper lip and then down to cradle her chin with a quiet reverence.
"All week, all month, every morning and evening I must be away," he admits, eliminating the distance between them. Yoritomo brushes his mouth against hers and savors the hitch in her breath. Yoshitsune sinks her fingers into the roots of his hair, softly grasping the nape of his neck. He kisses her again harder, a pleased, low groan escaping at the scratch of her nails. Her lips are chapped yet still soft and pliable against his, Yoritomo slowly applying pressure to pry them apart with each kiss.
It was easy to lose himself when being with her; Yoshitsune's touch is a river he handily drinks from. She sighs contentedly, mouth slipping open for him to pounce on. Yoritomo immediately delves inside, tongue stroking against her own while his free hand tugs her hip closer. The blanket over them slips down and away, Yoritomo instead becoming her warmth as he looms across Yoshitsune, kisses relentless and insistent.
Her hand slips from his hair and travels down to fist into the front of his kimono. "Yoritomo."
He pauses, breaking away to glance down at her, eyes now able to perceive the rise and fall of her chest. The proximity between them is so small their shell necklaces clink softly together, Yoritomo pressing his lips to the corner of her own. "What is it?" he asks. His mouth moves in a languid line down her exposed throat. One kiss, then another, always another spot to worship.
Yoshitsune sighs and stretches out like a content feline, neck tilting back for him to access. "I missed you too, I wanted to stay up and wait for you but you were adamant." Her admission is honest yet tinged with embarrassment. He can tell by the way her words hitch at the end and how her fingers twitch against his chest. Her next words are more resolute though, Yoshitsune's eyes fluttering shut. "Missed the feel of you, missed this."
Yoritomo pauses. He was already admonishing himself for waking her but learning she was just as desperate…
He huffs and grips her waist tighter, his teeth scraping at her neck. "You are not making this any easier for me to stop, Yoshitsune."
"But it's the truth," she insists. "I don't plan to deny you that, not anymore."
Yoritomo inhales sharply. It takes all of him to not surge ahead, to not peel the layers of her clothes off. His discipline keeps him in place, as it so often does. He wants to relish in the feel of her beneath him, how she accepts his touch, how she shudders when he sucks at a spot beneath her jawline.
She lets slip another sigh, her shoulders relaxing with her exhale and posture loosening as his mouth traces a pattern down to her collarbone. Long fingers glide over the top layer of her kimono, following the edge of the thin fabric until they meet resistance at her waist. They waver at the knot tied there, hesitating. Yoritomo glances up to see her eyes staring back at him with a quiet affection.
Yoshitsune takes the opportunity to mirror him; her lithe fingers teasing under the hem of his kimono to trace along the contours of his chest. Time always seems to stop in these moments for them, Yoritomo blocking out everything else but the way she touches him. He waits fully now, curious to see where she'll venture. He lets her have her fun, whatever she wants from him.
His heart pounds and sings when Yoshitsune's fingers glide over the swell of his pectoral. She moves to brush his seashell out of the way as she crosses sides, affectionately grazing it with the pad of her thumb. It was material symbolism not needed anymore, not after the steadfast pledge of her life to him, but he cherished it all the same.
His hand shoots out to tug that same hand to his face again, overcome with a need to sear how he feels into her skin. Yoshitsune laughs, the sound better than any performance he heard earlier that evening.
"You lavish attention there more than me sometimes," he points out. She pictures the furrow of his brow as he says it. Yoritomo was not wrong. Yoshitsune loves to feel the ridges of the shell under her nails. She loves to hear his rapid, almost imperceptible inhale when she accidentally tickles his collarbone. Most of all, she loves knowing that he wears it proudly to show he is hers.
Her hand not clasped in his winds its way under his collar, her fingers splaying at the base of his throat.
"You carry a piece of me with you always. I remember feeling nervous you were not going to accept it," she answers.
Yoritomo hides his embarrassment by kissing her knuckles once more, only letting go when sated. "It was the first gift from family I had received in over a decade."
Everything stills for a moment when he lets the weight of those words sink. The room falls silent between them again, Yoshitsune pausing.
Yoritomo survived his years of exile by rejecting and repressing every weakness he saw inside himself. Appeasement was not a privilege he allowed but his perseverance had soon crumbled over what he believed was his last remaining tether to those he cut down before. He couldn't say no to his last chance as much as he felt he didn't deserve the gift and connection Yoshitsune so desperately desired.
The definition of his family shifted from assumed brothers to two souls intertwined with his spirit bolstering hers, and so he feels his admission maintains its truth. Yoshitsune was predetermined to be his family, even if they both had been blind regarding the exact circumstances.
Yoshitsune cups his face with both hands now, pulling his lips to hers. She murmurs against them, her warm exhale heating his cheeks. "I want to give you so many more too, Yoritomo. All of me and whatever else you desire."
He kisses back hungrily, desperately, rolling to fully seat himself over her. Their legs tangle together until he slides one thigh between her two, her hands winding around his neck in return. His hips press down against hers, his voice coarse as one hand tugs unceremoniously at the knot of her top until loosened.
"Yoshitsune, I want— no, I need—" Yoritomo sucks in her bottom lip. His hands are hot against her torso, Yoritomo able to feel how the muscles of her stomach jump as he veers down to the hem of her hakama. His patience wanes in the wake of her confession, Yoritomo replacing it with the appetite he has starved for weeks.
Yoshitsune shivers when he pulls away her kosode, naked skin meeting open air outside where he touches her. She can't catch up, his teeth nipping at her mouth and tongue swirling around her own. He's an oncoming storm in his own right, all her senses slowly filling with him. The soft sounds he makes, the faded cologne lingering near his jaw, calloused fingers that dig into the divots of her hips.
He releases her with one last languid kiss, holding onto her until he's forced to breathe. She stares up at him in awe, slightly winded and her bangs mussed. Sensing the opportunity, Yoshitsune peels open his kimono top, the wide range of his chest now tangible.
The lack of candlelight doesn't stop her for a moment. She rakes her nails across his chiseled muscles, enjoying how he shivers at a touch just shy of ticklish. He watches her quietly, enamored with the way she handles him. Always enamored, always reverent of how soft she is; the same hands that have shed so much blood and protected him now glide across the dips and valleys of his body with a resounding gentleness.
Yoshitsune ghosts the tips her fingers across his lower belly. Yoritomo can't help but react, quivering as she brushes through the soft hair that resides there. His eyes widen and he stills when she trails lower and presses her palm to his growing arousal.
Her hand stops. "You have me. Take what you need and trust that I feel the same."
He wants to stop her, to tell her she takes precedence. He could easily knock her hand away and swap their roles. But Yoritomo is also a man denied, a man wanting, and so he finds himself unable to do any of that. Yoshitsune palms his length directly now, feeling how he's filled out behind the silk of his hakama.
His forehead lands on her shoulder and Yoritomo groans against it, wanting to sink his teeth into her skin. "Yoshitsune." He knows it has been too long when this is enough to make his thighs tense. Yoritomo resists the urge to rock forwards when she rubs harder.
"Yoshitsune," he repeats again with an undercurrent of desperation mixed in, his body asking for more. Eager to please and not wanting to deny, she slips her hand under the last layer between them.
He moans low and soft at the sensation. Her fingers wrap around him firmly, stroking upwards and circling the tip. She leans her head against his cheek while his hips tentatively follow her motions, Yoritomo even now withholding what his body clearly wants. It breaks her heart in a way, knowing that even in their most intimate moments he's shackled by restraints deeply ingrained. Yoshitsune knew how tired he had been these last few weeks, continuously inundated with meetings and responsibilities. Knowing he had not had a reprieve, she decides to set him free.
Yoshitsune unshackles his invisible chains, hand swooping downwards to squeeze at the base of his length. This garners a louder reaction, Yoritomo's note of surprise caught in his throat.
"What will it take?" she whispers against his ear. The warm puff of air makes him shiver in a different way altogether.
"For what?" He grits out. She circles back to the tip of his cock and dips the pad of her thumb into the pre-cum collecting there. His thighs squeeze hers tighter, his hair spilling over his far shoulder to tease at her forearm. This was driving him crazy. All he wanted to do was buck into the warmth of her grip—
"To let go."
She strokes him, once, twice, over and over until he cracks, his hips pressing forward. The slide becomes easy for Yoshitsune, now lubricated by his own eminent release as she continues to pull him towards the edge and over. His head spins, his teeth find the crook of her shoulder to bite into, and he stops worrying about anything else but the tension buzzing in his lower gut.
Yoritomo comes with a muffled shudder, seed splattering onto Yoshitsune's lower belly. Yoshitsune pushes back strands of his sweaty hair with her clean hand, letting him settle. The haze of his orgasm slowly drifts away, leaving him almost embarrassed if not for her doting.
Slowly, the room shifts back into focus for Yoritomo. Yoshitsune wipes her hand against her stomach and then the edge of the futon - a problem for tomorrow - and glances back to see him re-situating. She tries to guess the meaning behind his silence as if it's a game. Calm? Relaxed? Lost in thought?
Yoshitsune will have to play again another day. Lost in thought, she misses Yoritomo snapping back to attention. Firm hands grip her hips, his thumbs quickly slipping under the hem of her pants and underclothes. With no preamble, he tugs down. Yoshitsune squeaks at the immediate vulnerability. Yoritomo gropes handfuls of her toned thighs before pushing them apart, Yoshitsune unable to react in time.
She had been wrong, horribly wrong. He wasn't any of the options she thought. This wasn't calm, this was determined. Yoshitsune lifts up onto her elbows in a paltry attempt to regain some footing.
"Yoritomo," she gasps, trying to think but finding it increasingly difficult with his fingers steering straight for her core. "Yoritomo—"
He leans in to cut her off with a bruising kiss.
"Your turn, Yoshitsune," he murmurs, lips back on hers.
Let me take care of you too, he expresses with his fingers sliding through her folds, ending at the spot that makes sparks fly behind her closed eyelids. Her body shudders, insides gripping around nothing; a phantom squeeze that makes her groan into his mouth. Yoshitsune falters for a moment and Yoritomo notices, forcefully pushing her shoulder back down into the mattress.
He dips the tip of a finger into her entrance and she cries out. Her back arches. Her hips lift in hope he'll sink deeper. Time and time again, her eagerness drove him crazy. Yoritomo's pleased, setting her lips free to kiss along her jaw. "Gods above, everything you give me — I miss you the most always, but this," he pauses, his digit sinking knuckle deep into her. "This is a close second."
Yoshitsune shivers as he continues to press into her with more, thumb toying with her clit in tortuous, languid rotations. In the same way she had dragged him to submit, she surrenders much sooner; chest rising and falling with each labored breath and her feet planting on the ground for leverage.
Yoritomo paths a new trail down the valley of her sternum, dropping kisses sporadically. He crooks his fingers inside her and she whimpers at the pull in her lower belly. In any other situation this would make her laugh with the way Yoritomo always yearns to be a victor in the end. He's stubborn, dedicated, and hellbent on enacting the plan he's concocted, hastily unraveling her from above.
He kisses the rise of her breasts, one after the other. He laves over the stiff peaks of her nipples, and all the while his hand slicks in and out of her, Yoshitsune condensing down to soft cries and ecstasy. One of her hands shoots out in search of him, nails scratching his forearm. Was it too much? Not enough? Yoritomo lets his rhythm slow for a moment, glancing up to try and study her expression.
Yoshitsune keens when he pauses. A woman left wanting, her nails dig harder in an wordless request. Even now he marvels at how his touch alone could bring her to this. Yoritomo was undoubtedly used to everyone around him treating him with a distance he enforced back. Yoshitsune was the only exception and would continue to be the sole one, for how could he not shatter his enclosure with the scene below him. The shadows hinder what he can see but it ultimately conceals nothing from him. He can hear the needy whine that escapes her mouth and how she clenches at where he fills her up over and over.
Yoshitsune scales (or really, jumps over) walls he constructed years ago and she calls for him in a myriad of indications; the way her body relaxes when he touches her, how she grips him closer for more, how his fingers fit inside her perfectly like she was made for him.
She sets free what he would easily consider the cutest huff before he finally continues on. His fingers hasten back to tempo, a constant in and out while his thumb presses down over her clit. Yoshitsune's thighs tense and he accelerates, able to read her like a well-loved book. Yoritomo looms over her, shifting closer to be face to face once more.
He murmurs, her inner walls fluttering around thick fingers. "Come for me, Yoshitsune."
She whines. Stubborn girl, he thinks affectionately. Yoritomo continues to pump into her, curling upwards. "What will it take, hm?"
It's cheeky, but it ends in his intended effect. Yoshitsune falters to laugh for a second before her release hits her like a sudden slap from an ocean wave. She moans, the sound bending higher and evolving into a strained whine. Yoritomo kisses her deep. Her cries die out past his tongue, one final noise when he withdraws his hand from between her legs.
Silence hangs between them like a beloved familiar, its presence welcome and unassuming.
Yoritomo wipes his hand on the patterned fabric of his kimono. He's exhausted but sated, the feeling creeping into his weary limbs like growing vines. It was enough for now, even if they had not laid together. He could finally sense a calm emptiness he craved so often at night, a gift that seemed to only arrive after time spent together. He finds space next to her on the futon to stretch out and then falls asleep fast enough to miss Yoshitsune's confused yet amused observation.
He wakes the next morning to an empty bed. It's unusual for him; he's normally awake first, Yoshitsune's temple upbringing unable to compete against his own habits. There's a distinct lack of heat from where he would expect his partner to be and he frowns. Sunlight peeks in from the nearby window that makes him squint, Yoritomo rolling over to look away. He's entirely in no mood to move even though he knows he's due somewhere for something.
The shoji panel slides open before his brain has willed his bones into action however, Yoshitsune stepping back into the room. Facing away, he hears her set something aside before padding closer.
She crouches down onto her knees. "You're awake."
Much to his disappointment, he was. Another day of politics he was entirely uninterested in. He exhales, not realizing she heard it until she laughs just as quietly. "You're also very late."
Yoritomo snaps up to look at her, red eyes widening. "Late?"
"Technically, yes. Late. The palace requested you an hour ago," she begins, her fingers idly reaching for the long threads of his messy ponytail. "But they also wanted you fit and ready for another full itinerary of entertaining an envoy, and I said that's not possible."
He blinks at her confused. She carries on, her palm cupping his face. "You're sick, Yoritomo."
"Sick?"
"Horribly sick. Influenza, a coughing mess, all of it." Yoshitsune lists out symptoms clinically with a growing smile on her face. "So I told the palace you would return when healthy, and to not expect you a moment sooner."
He blinks again. There very well could be repercussions for her actions but he chooses to ignore that thought, not when she's giving him the slyest look he's ever seen. "You're ridiculous," he mutters, pulling her to him.
"No. I'm worried," she answers teasingly. He hides a smile against the crown of her hair. "Worried and wanting to nurse my husband back to health."
Yoritomo releases a rare laugh, finding this whole situation incredulous but unwilling to change it whatsoever. He plants a tender kiss to the corner of her forehead, wrapping his arms tighter around her waist.
"Then I hope my wife is ready to tend to all my needs," he states, tugging her back down to the futon with him.
With some foresight, he can only hope that she relayed whatever ailment he contracted was contagious; he knew this brewing sickness of his would need a few days to fully pass.