Author's Notes: This was written for the Persona 3 kinkmeme on LJ. The prompt was, and I quote: "Shinjiro/Mitsuru- Shinji loves the taste of pussy."


Now, before you run off screaming, let me say that this fic isn't as crude as the prompt suggests (which may mean I've failed actually, but -- ANYWAY -- ). I think it's actually one of my better stories, even.



A Shinjiro/Mitsuru Oneshot

It all started when he poured himself a beer that one sweltering day in mid-summer.

She remembers folding herself into the seat opposite him, watching out of bleary eyes as the golden liquid swirled in the glass and the head rose and steadied into a perfect white disc. Watched how he raised the mug to his lips, pin-prick eyes peering out from beneath the hem of his beanie to drill right into hers. And then that deep voice of his, droning out, "Tough night, huh?"

She let her eyes flicker over to the stairways then. How long since the rest of the SEES team had staggered up there with varying degrees of fatigue?

Mitsuru didn't remember then. She still doesn't now.

"'Tough' is relative," she remembers herself saying, sliding one boot off of her leg and resting the heel of her foot on the edge of her chair. "It's just our duty, Shinjiro. 'Duty' and 'tough' are synonymous – as they should be."

After that, silence reigned.

The ceiling fan above them droned on like a lazy, dying insect, and sweat was beading on Mitsuru's skin, matting strands of cherry hair against her forehead and the nape of her neck.

And then he said, "I understand, you know." Just that, nothing more, but she remembers that the weight it carried made her stomach turn to lead.

She held his gaze then. A chill rolled down her spine at that moment, and there was a hollowed-out feeling at the back of her throat, like she had just dry-swallowed a pill.

"That you're scared," he went on, voice scratchy in his throat, talking to her as if she was a child or weak, and she hated that, oh, she hated it

"It's scary." He leaned back against the chair, hands shoved into his pockets. "I know."

She swallowed, tried to speak, couldn't, tried again while turning up her nose and fixing him with one of her famous Mitsuru Kirijo Death Glares, and then managed, "I'm not scared."

He laughed then, she remembers. Just – laughed.

That throaty chuckle of his that seemed to reverberate a few times in his trachea before spiraling out of his mouth drilled into her ears until she was ready to spill her beer into his face in anger, wanted to watch it drip down along his cheek and drool off his chin like piss. Her hand trembled around the mug in suppressed nerves, just one nerve reflex and she really would --

And then the laughter dulled to a chuckle and then died off completely, and there was a certain melancholy in his eyes she hadn't really seen before.

And then, well then, he began to talk. In that soothing bass voice of his that she had always liked. Words poured forth in a stream, something about the loneliness of shadows and a lot of other things, but she only remembers his words as a an old song twirling atop a dated music player that skips as many notes as it plays.

She listened, though. Listened, with her spine erected, her head perked up and her nipples inexplicably hard, something in his voice dissolving the protective layer the ice around her –

( perhaps she'd just been tired, just tired – )

And then she remembers answering, remembers thoughts and feelings pouring forth, tongue eased by the beer that sloshed to a frizzing puddle in the pit of her stomach. Oh yes, the pressure. The guilt, she said.

He knew all about guilt, he assured, lounging there on the chair before her, hands shoved into his pockets and legs fanned out beneath the table. Aaall about it.

And then they looked at each other, over the table with the mugs of beer scattered about, and she remembers tugging at her right earring, shifting in her seat, feeling the weight of his eyes everywhere --

She doesn't really remember much after. She does remember that he leaped to his feet, rounded the table and pressed a stiff kiss to her lips, but the moments are fraught with mental static, as if the television of her memory is on the fritz.

There was the bittersweet taste of beer on his tongue, oh yes, there was that. And – and his rough and calloused hands on her body, and yes, his muscles felt like iron when his arms flexed beneath her legs and lifted her up, and then there were soft covers beneath her and the sweltering summer heat coalescing on her body and blotting it with sweet and sour sweat. And hands, large and calloused and strong ones, and moans, flashes of his eyes and the surprisingly soft web of his hair –

Hazy, most of it. She remembers waking up the following morning wincing at that ache between her legs more than anything else.

Oh. Oh yes, she remembers with a smile. There is one thing she remembers clearly from that night.

That smirk, the one that turned up the corners of his eyes and flashed a wink of white teeth and that was so smug and masculine that it made her envy him.

And what he said then, after she had come hard against his mouth. "I love the taste of your cunt."

She remembers that proclamation well.

"I really do," he insisted after seeing the skepticism wrinkle at the corners of her mouth. "Really."

She still thinks about that the same way she did then.

Weird guy. Really, really strange --

Her train of thought drives into a wall, and she snaps like a pocket knife as his stubble rubs against her inner thighs. Bastard knows she's ticklish.

"Stop tickling me," she says. She raises her feet, drumming her heels against his shoulders, urging him forward, because bastard also happens to know what she likes.

His fingertips skip up over her thighs to her hips. All she can see of him, sprawled out on the bed as she is, is the wild mop of black hair, stark against her pale thighs wrapped around it.

She can feel more than hear him laugh; the hot gust of wind chills her as it hits her wetness. "But I like you best when you laugh," he says.

Mitsuru says nothing, doesn't really have anything to say to that, so she only drums her heels against him more insistently.

She can feel him smile against her when he complies, leaning forward to press his lips to her, and then there's his hot tongue, nudging against her clit, running along her cleft, tickling the entrance and sampling her juices, and Mitsuru closes her eyes.


It's raining, she notices. Oh yes, right, it's raining; she remembers frowning at the gleaming arcs of wetness the others left on the floor after strolling up the staircase one after the other only an hour or so ago. The rhythmic drum of the rain sizzles against the roof like static.

Fall shower, she thinks. It's been an entire season already.

Soft moans tumble from her lips, and she's writhing on the bed now, fingers tangling in the sheets, grasping them as if trying to look for something to hold on to, thighs vibrating against his ears, toes curling (oh, he's so good at this ) --

And then she can feel him pressing the tip of his tongue inside her, then deeper, worming his way in, and his thumb is suddenly on her clit, drawing lazy circles around the nub.


A shiver tears through her, from her legs all the way to her shoulders, and the next thing she knows she has her legs stemmed against the sheets and is bucking her hips, fucking herself on his tongue, wanting to get more, more, more, in, in, in, more of
( him )

-- that tongue, and she's almost there, almost there, almost, climbing up the ladder to that blinding light, almost –

There, oh yes, she's there, and she's shivering and moaning, and the pleasure gathers in her lower belly and then shoots throughout her entire body, and then she feels herself contracting around his tongue, once, twice, thrice.

She slumps back, spent and exhausted. She stares up at the ceiling and listens to the rain slosh against the windows and, for just a moment, her mind is a wasteland illuminated by the silver-drenched rays of afterglow.

Soft pressure on the bed next to her: the carousel of Mitsuru's thoughts starts up again, and she shifts to the side a little to let him spread himself out next to her.

Then Shinjiro's next to her, and she can smell him, smells his spicy sweat and his sharp cologne and the unique fragrance of his scalp and maybe even the smell of herself hanging on his lips and tongue.

Mitsuru wonders what the hell they're doing and why she can't feel guilty about it.

She still locks her thoughts away at the back of her mind. It's more of a reflex than anything personal when the barrier sprouts out of the ground like Tartarus at Midnight.

Silence cushions them like a blanket, punctuated only by their breathing.

Mitsuru fumbles for the blanket and covers her breasts.

He's just staring at the ceiling next to her, limbs sprawled out all around him like the matchstick men she used to draw as a child. His eyebrows are drawn stroke by stroke above the dark holes of his eyes.

Mitsuru tucks the loose threads of her emotions back behind the mask of professional apathy she has been wearing for so long it's bled into her skin. She shifts to the side, curling into a protective ball. There's a brief moment of dread, a fleeting moment of the bottom of her stomach dropping out beneath her, of her balling her hands into fists and drawing her knees up closer to her chest.

The bed creaks when he rolls around on it. He wraps his arms around her and presses her back against his chest. He's warm and large against her back, and something in her chest moves, gives way like a stone beneath the constant drill of a waterfall.

"Don't be scared." She can feel the hair at the back of her neck fluttering in his breath.

She stifles a smirk. "Speak for yourself, Aragaki."

"All right then, Kijiro," he says languidly, pressing his nose against the tangle of her hair. "Be that way then."

The place where his tongue has just been burns in response to his voice.

In the darkness, Mitsuru feels her heart slowing down, the dread fleeing back into the black box of depression she keeps stashed away at the back of her mind, the last black tendrils hissing and spitting before they disappear completely. She crosses her own arms over her chest, right above his, pressing him closer against her, closing her eyes.

All of this – the whole relationship, or whatever this is – started when he poured himself a beer that sweltering day in mid-summer.

She hadn't known she liked beer until then.

Author's Notes: I'm actually kind of disappointed that I got no comments for this at all on the kinkmeme, so... just one review would make me ecstatic, really. ^^