Even in the Thunder Plains Inn, where rolling salvos of lightning never cease, Yuna is silent. No one will hear, but the skin of her belly still tenses whenever lavender lips draw a meek whimper from her.
Tonight's silence is more than girlish bashfulness, however. A crushing wall has fallen between old friends. Yuna won't explain why she means to marry a man of blatant ambitions. Lulu won't oppose the loveless union, despite misgivings. The mage's tongue is bound, accursed for letting devotion slip into heresy. She cannot confess her selfish, blasphemous wish against Spira's greater good.
For now, at least, Seymour must wait. Lulu will atone later.
The nightly ritual between guardian and summoner is delicate, refined. Light fingertips pay homage to moon-lily skin. Decorous kisses speak tenderness, not lust. No more than a knee gently rocking has ever come between Yuna's thighs.
But the straps binding Lulu's heart are coming unbuckled. The lightning outside taunts her with unbridled power. She molds Yuna's tingling body with authoritative strokes, coaxing limbs to loosen, knees to part. Her hands are electric. Some part of her seethes with fury as she dips her chin, inhales, and abandons restraint for ravishment.
Entwined with Lulu's braids, Yuna's fingers curl and uncurl in shock. The summoner makes no sound even now: not when she begins to tremble, hips rocking in mute plea, not when deft fingers replace tongue like thundaga chasing thundara, not even when Yuna arches, stills, and falls shuddering to the sheets.
Exulting, ashamed, afraid that she's frightened Yuna, Lulu rests her cheek on hip's pillow. Yuna tugs her hair, shyly demanding. Lulu takes a deep breath to remember, then scales the cot to gather the younger girl in a protective (possessive?) embrace.
The yearning kiss that awaits her is answer enough.