[the angle of Hasebe's body -- bodies? -- at his side, in his hands... the angle is awkward, not the best for demonstrating, and he tries to pay attention, torn between watching his hands and glancing at his face]
Move back a little.
[on the bed, he means, and he stands up to let the swordsman shift, and then plants his seat between his legs, leaning back to press his back into Hasebe's chest so that, when arms wrap around him to guide him, they are natural and aligned]
[he unknowingly surrounds himself by this man, this being, this sword, completely]
[his thumb pushes up the bloodguard like he was shown with a soft click and his heart in his head, one set of fingers wrapped around the hilt and the other on the scabbard as he slowly pulls the two apart, the sound of sliding metal on metal, and a reflection of amber eyes in the shiny, shiny surface]
[the more it spreads, Hasebe's come into view at his side, and he swallows hard, arms trembling]
Um... yer beautiful.
[it just slips out, and when he realizes it, flushes deep]
[He nods and moves back until Guanshan seems satisfied, then relaxes completely as their bodies connect. The way they fit together so easily makes him smile, and his arms wrap around his companion like they're meant to be like this, together, exploring. There's so much he wants to show him, tell him, but he takes only what small victories he grasps by virtue of simply being himself.
The feeling defies description, and Hasebe guides and invites more, resting his hands on the younger man's waist when he seems to have the hang of handling the blade. He can't picture him as a warrior, or as someone with a need to kill. But seeing the weapon in his hands, seeing himself held with respect instead of utility, makes Hasebe utterly glad to have been dragged to this place at all.
A sobering thought. If something so good is here, he'll find patience in his quest to return home. Maybe he can take something important from this and carry it with him as a treasure, or a mark of his progress.
He's mesmerized by the slow sight of the blade being drawn, and once he catches a glimpse of himself, he glances over to Guanshan.]
...Thank you.
[With firm, strong hands, he steadies the tremulous grip and presses a kiss to the side of Guanshan's head. Another kiss follows, slowly offered to the space right behind his ear. To Hasebe, this is sensual. Being appreciated by this particular person is a gift greater than any he could think to be given right now.
One hand reaches for the hilt again, and he gently pulls the sword out more.]
[what this means for Hasebe, how it must feel, how personal and intimate it is -- despite his words, he still sees them as two different things, a man and his blade, not the blade's man]
[but if this is what he wants, what he needs, who is he to argue? the hands that guide him feel safe even when he knows they aren't; the weapon before him feels like a toy even when he knows it isn't]
[he leans unconsciously into the affection without thinking about it, before it clicks what it is, not realizing the air around him has grown charged until it's too late]
[it's a start, even when his certainty wavers, arms sagging as if already exhausted by the weight of this thing that has killed]
[he pulls it from the sheath entirely and slides that back onto the bed next to his partner's thigh, delicate in its placement, knowing every move he makes is being watched, and carefully]
[it's bigger than he expected, somehow, and he requires Hasebe's help to keep it lifted with one hand]
[that's when curiosity gets the better of him and two fingerprints slide along the edge in what he swears is the most delicate touch he's ever used... and yet he doesn't even feel the separation of his skin until crimson trickles down]
[Of course, he's not really prepared to be rejected, so he's certainly fortunate that he isn't. Instead of worrying about anything much, Hasebe's focus is on the fingers wrapped around him, the way his hand rests beside them and keeps the blade steady, guides it safely as it's inspected. If anything were to harm this man, Hasebe's anger would be palpable. It's not something he acts on, but should it ever come to it, he has within him the capacity to make someone apologize, or worse.
Unwisely, he doesn't stop the motion to touch the blade itself, to stroke the steel and examine the moat fearsome part. It's incredible, the way his breath hitches and his stomach drops when he sees the injury happen, when the blood threatens to drip down. A sword wasn't made for this. Hasebe can't possibly know what to do.
He eases the blade away slightly, brow furrowed, chin resting lightly on Guanshan's shoulder.]
That was foolish.
[But with the hand not holding the sword steady, he takes the injured finger in hand and examines it. How... he's a weapon. He's a thing of death and anger and chaos and destruction and he's being treated like this, so kindly, respectfully... It hurts, somehow. Feelings occur, but aren't processed, as they aren't understood. He makes no effort to create a true picture out of any of this. He just brings the bloodied finger to his lips and presses a kiss there. He acts on instinct and mimics what he could learn of human liaisons from his life as the blade alone.]
[words he's heard, a sentiment he's expressed to himself, countless times and yet he's not sure it's ever had quite a note of fondness under it, like it's not that Hasebe's chastising him for doing something so obviously stupid, but that he's pleased he had the audacity to do it at all]
[he watches his blood slip between the cracks of his lips, printed there like a brand, and that's what's erotic to him]
...S'awright. It'll stop in a bit.
[or maybe he just wants the excuse]
[to leave his fingerprint everywhere: on his skin, on his bed, on his blade that's no doubt tasted red from countless enemies -- and now a single person who doesn't fit that category]
[it takes a lot for him to look away from the swordsman, but he does, palm tentatively roaming the length of silver, the shift of colors beneath from forging, tempering, compressing and compacting, working ember and earth until all that was left was this lethal thing -- and he thinks that's probably a little like Hasebe himself]
[he doesn't understand it, but he grasps for conclusions:]
Can you feel this? [feel it the same way he can his shoulderblades around his heart, his hips between his thighs, his fingers on his mouth]
[He licks the crimson from his lips and cares nothing for the way he heats up, the way his insides twist with familiarity. How beloved is this treatment? How generous to humor Hasebe's needs and desires. The word more comes to mind as he traces the fingertip with his tongue, then withdraws. Let Guanshan brand anything he wants in here with a brush of blood drawn by the kindest of cuts. His small, temporary claims are Hasebe's favorite thing in this place, though the courage to admit that is hard to find. This isn't war or friendship. It's an arrangement Hasebe doesn't get to analyze or ponder overly much for fear of losing it.]
It feels like a hand laying on my back. The bracing touch of a companion whose life I'd guard with my own. [With a murmur, he clarifies, and settles his free hand on the side of Guanshan's neck.] As one would anyone who bore them as a weapon. My integrity is yours, and my victory as well. [He lets it trail down to the younger man's chest, fingers lightly curved, lips close to skin.] It feels like... energy. Connection. It's intoxicating.
[He's a tool, when he's taken in hand, obedient and subservient and intimately joined with every action of his bearer, and every aspect of their will. This is no different.]
[Guanshan scarcely knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of those things, even when a boy who had never said it but proved it had put his own energy and connection into sheltering him, both under his fists and his jacket still warm with body heat; Hasebe coiling around him is so similar that he can't help but wonder if he's offering warmth or taking it]
[is he a snake? is he cold metal, or is he the man behind him? is he both? he doesn't know]
["intoxicating" is a good word for it, though; this man, who he's offered so little and been given so much in return -- he wants to please him, feels the pressure of it weigh between shoulder blades, in the heft of the blade in his hands, despite his skepticism concerning his promise]
[he says nothing, just continues with the wordless stoicism Hasebe's come to know from him when it really matters, not asking for permission this time as he has so many times before when he dips his head down and, with his nose bumping almost cutely against the bloodguard, presses a kiss to the collar of the blade holstering it towards the hilt]
[the touch trails across cold steel, keeping close to the blunt mune, and lips part once they find the dip of a blood groove, hesitating...]
[before a warm, wet tongue lashes out to strike across it a single time, waiting for a -- hopefully -- favorable reaction]
[Hasebe knows two things: protecting, and defending. He's acquainted passively with waiting, with time moving inexorably forward in nothingness and passive participation. For once in his existence, he's doing something wholly selfishly. Beyond simply the experience of holding a sword, he can't imagine the younger man getting anything in particular out of this. Hasebe sees himself as the one taking, not giving. What does this do but complicate an explanation that barely makes sense to him, anyway?
Longing to be understood by Guanshan is the crux of this, wanting to be felt as a man and a tool, as something special and unique, yet as what he is, and not what the man thinks Hasebe should be. If he changes, if his perspective shifts, then so be it. But he wants to be met on this ground, so he's put the offer out and it has been at least partially accepted.
The truth is that Hasebe is the man, now, and that going back to merely being the sword loses all appeal when he is appreciated, when he notes in sharp, vibrant ways that he can have the best of all worlds right now. He did not choose his fate, but now he can at least select his moments of joy. That's worth so much more than he wants to admit, and while he'll obediently and dutifully give it up as required to serve, he won't stop chasing it now that he's felt these things... And more. Is he admired? Is he a novelty? What is it that allows him this freedom?
Time slows. Nothing matters when those lips brush Heshikiri, when the natural progression lends itself to human error and folly, and he feels the ghost of a presence of lips on his neck. Hasebe gasps, and hides his face against a slender shoulder. But he has to stay stoic, and calm. When warmth touches the groove it makes his mind snap, and he feels like his entire being has been invaded by that action. Heat radiates from his core, and he fights ths strong urge of arousal. He fails, groaning softly, almost apologetic.]
I can feel that, as well.
[He traces a line down his companion's sternum.] Here. My heart's beating harder now.
[he feels like a fucking dog with how much his ears perk as Hasebe utters a single, approving sound, and the boy's body continues to tremble -- now, not with fear, but tension, with muscles going tired from their unusual ways of being held and a new weight he doesn't know, of wanting to keep this moment as it is, untainted by moving too quickly]
[patience isn't one of his virtues, but the voice in his ears and at his back slows him, the syrupy description giving him pause, the blade clicking as it shifts in his grip and he watches his a head of hair shifting in the corner of his vision]
Good. [he wonders if he can even feel his breath, where it rests so closely that it's easy to picture a glasgow smile splitting him open -- but as for himself, his lips don't even quirk up]
[the tip of his tongue dips into that groove, tasting steel that has no doubt been saturated in viscera during Hasebe's long wars, but he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to think about that, only wants to think about the way he twists and reacts behind him, where he might feel this -- ]
[in his head? along his spine? somewhere rigid and awakening? his mouth closes over the blunted back of the sword and his teeth drag with a scrape that is nothing like a battle, might be more like cutting down to the bone]
[Now he cries out, a pleasant whimper following, at the sensation of teeth on blade. It isn't wholly a good feeling, but it arouses something in Hasebe that he can't deny. Curiosity. Need. Lust.
Shameful.
He would kill for this man, but he won't say it. That blade could drink the blood of dozens at Guanshan's behest, should Hasebe feel it needs to be done. But he doesn't. They have this beautiful, peaceful, passionate dance to attend to, and it's far better than gore. An oath to give affection is greater than an oath to kill, at least right now. Hasebe would swear that one a hundred times, that he'll fall at Guanshan's feet, that he will give him everything for this kind of attention, but again, it's best left unsaid and undone. Right now, he's able to express it physically.
So while the scrape of teeth on the blade is like a stab in his spine, the way he fairly vibrates afterwards is a sign of sure pleasure, and the gasp as he realizes he's getting hard from this only serves to complete the picture. He's borne in those hands with some difficulty, but the reverence makes this one of the most singularly erotic and wonderful moments of his short life. Should he be ashamed?]
[this, despite all of its foreign elements, is much more natural to Guanshan: to pepper his affection with discomfort, to let pleasure ebb into pain and flow back, driving both higher]
[he could want as many good things for Hasebe as his mind can contain, but at the end of the day, he's a harmful person who does harmful things and wants -- needs -- for harmful things to be returned before he can feel, before he can trust]
[and the swordsman won't shoulder it alone, those words pouring over in his mind as, awkwardly as he holds it, he draws the blade to its end and lets his mouth settle near the very tip]
[thoughtfulness palpable, there's a beat of hesitation before his tongue dips and sweeps its mercury curve, hanging onto the flat but razing that slickness across the edge, bleeding here as he had his fingers]
[a half-turn points him towards the man more, weapon lowering as his hold becomes one-handed, freed palm grasping his jaw to tilt it to a preferred angle]
Then hang on t'me.
[he bleeds more as he speaks, but his crimson-coated tongue tangles with Hasebe's, fervor unchecked as he ravishes his mouth, desperation to respond spurring him into too much roughness, too much passion, always carefully masked behind apathy and anger -- behind things that are easier]
[but if Hasebe doesn't want easy, then neither does he]
[Heshikiri is not a dull sword in the least. It is a killer, a weapon, kept in the finest condition even here, and the world shifts into slow motion when he sees what's about to happen.]
Be care--
[More than foolish. Ridiculous. And he'll feel that for a while. Shuddering, Hasebe reaches to pull the blade away from Guanshan's grip, stopped short with wide, concerned eyes as he's commanded to do nothing further.
Mo Guanshan is to be protected from things like this, but the side of him that pulls away from the sweetness he's always shown and gravitates toward injury confuses Hasebe. The confusion doesn't have a lot of time to take hold. There's blood on his lips and tongue again, more abundant now, and when Guanshan escalates, Hasebe meekly follows. If it were someone else, a fellow sword perhaps, he might not bat an eyelash at this. But it's... a person. A normal person, someone who only a short while ago wanted to be far enough away from the blade itself.
If he's opening up to Hasebe, if he's offering, Hasebe will take, and he closes his eyes with a soft groan. This kiss is unlike anything he's ever experienced. Maybe this is how it feels to care about someone on a deep, instinct-driven level, without thought of propriety. All he can do now is hold Guanshan close and let himself be taken over.]
[not many people do understand this about him -- hell, he's one of them]
[what it is about the malignant side of life that makes him feel bonded, why he needs bruises and blood and physical proof of a connection before he can acknowledge it's really there]
[he's bled plenty of times for things that weren't... but Hasebe caving to him, the texture of the hilt in his hand, the way blood turns pink mixed with spit and swallowed -- these things he can feel, believe]
[the silver in his finger he pets harmlessly in the middle of that kiss and the breath it makes this man draw; the stiffening erection against his hip he has to make myself not touch, wanting each part of him at mercy beneath his fingers]
[his lips are strained red when he finally gives him air, molten amber eyes searching mauve ones]
What else?
[does he want? that's the reason he's here, after all]
[Hasebe... wants to share everything with Guanshan, but he doesn't want to hurt him. Yet he did. And he is. He's kissing him deeply and with no notion of propriety, lapping at his lips and tasting the blood on his tongue. It's new and different, different from it simply running down him and drenching his blade. This is intimate. This is... good.
He gasps when his hardness brushes the younger man's hip, distracted, and shudders when he tries to come back to his senses. An apology is ready to be given, but it never comes out, because the fierce hunger and dull ache of need must show in the light purple of his eyes. Why bother being formal?]
This has... gone beyond my intentions.
[Leaning in, he kisses Guanshan again, then sighs against his lips.]
Now I... [He swallows, boldness there, ready, his body screaming...] ...I'm afraid I'm thinking impure thoughts. Perhaps it is best if we part, before I beg to act on them.
[that this wasn't a part of what Hasebe had planned, whatever that might've been, that the electricity between them right now is something he had a hand in crafting -- that was charged by what he himself chose to do]
[he doesn't know if that makes it better, but he does know the swordsman's mouth against his own and the power he can exert over him just by touching something like this feels really damn good]
[those words almost make him laugh, instead curling with a lopsided smirk]
You don't gotta beg for my attention. Not you.
[his head tilts to suck at the soft line of his throat, following its natural groove to his collarbone -- and his free hand presses at the arousal making slacks tight without much warning, cupping him through fabric]
Can I suck your dick? ["why bother being formal" indeed]
[Nothing like this was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be innocent sharing and maybe a kiss but not... not this. And he's red-cheeked and he wonders how much of that blood lingers near his lips. He wonders is Mo Guanshan is going to always make him feel so weak. It's fine, of course. He's smiling and tilting his head a little to leave his neck exposed.]
["first"? why first? those words make him defensively curl towards it, drawing the blade a little away from him just in case he tries to reach, thumb kept pressing onto metal as the weight of the blade itself sags along his own jeans]
...I ain't done with it yet. [but it's said more like a request, like he's still tentative about holding it in the first place, that one word of disapproval would have him handing it back over like it burned him]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Move back a little.
[on the bed, he means, and he stands up to let the swordsman shift, and then plants his seat between his legs, leaning back to press his back into Hasebe's chest so that, when arms wrap around him to guide him, they are natural and aligned]
[he unknowingly surrounds himself by this man, this being, this sword, completely]
[his thumb pushes up the bloodguard like he was shown with a soft click and his heart in his head, one set of fingers wrapped around the hilt and the other on the scabbard as he slowly pulls the two apart, the sound of sliding metal on metal, and a reflection of amber eyes in the shiny, shiny surface]
[the more it spreads, Hasebe's come into view at his side, and he swallows hard, arms trembling]
Um... yer beautiful.
[it just slips out, and when he realizes it, flushes deep]
no subject
The feeling defies description, and Hasebe guides and invites more, resting his hands on the younger man's waist when he seems to have the hang of handling the blade. He can't picture him as a warrior, or as someone with a need to kill. But seeing the weapon in his hands, seeing himself held with respect instead of utility, makes Hasebe utterly glad to have been dragged to this place at all.
A sobering thought. If something so good is here, he'll find patience in his quest to return home. Maybe he can take something important from this and carry it with him as a treasure, or a mark of his progress.
He's mesmerized by the slow sight of the blade being drawn, and once he catches a glimpse of himself, he glances over to Guanshan.]
...Thank you.
[With firm, strong hands, he steadies the tremulous grip and presses a kiss to the side of Guanshan's head. Another kiss follows, slowly offered to the space right behind his ear. To Hasebe, this is sensual. Being appreciated by this particular person is a gift greater than any he could think to be given right now.
One hand reaches for the hilt again, and he gently pulls the sword out more.]
Thank you.
1/2
[what this means for Hasebe, how it must feel, how personal and intimate it is -- despite his words, he still sees them as two different things, a man and his blade, not the blade's man]
[but if this is what he wants, what he needs, who is he to argue? the hands that guide him feel safe even when he knows they aren't; the weapon before him feels like a toy even when he knows it isn't]
[he leans unconsciously into the affection without thinking about it, before it clicks what it is, not realizing the air around him has grown charged until it's too late]
[wide eyes fly backwards]
no subject
[it's a start, even when his certainty wavers, arms sagging as if already exhausted by the weight of this thing that has killed]
[he pulls it from the sheath entirely and slides that back onto the bed next to his partner's thigh, delicate in its placement, knowing every move he makes is being watched, and carefully]
[it's bigger than he expected, somehow, and he requires Hasebe's help to keep it lifted with one hand]
[that's when curiosity gets the better of him and two fingerprints slide along the edge in what he swears is the most delicate touch he's ever used... and yet he doesn't even feel the separation of his skin until crimson trickles down]
Damn. [a curse that is awe, not pain]
[he's fucking deadly]
no subject
Unwisely, he doesn't stop the motion to touch the blade itself, to stroke the steel and examine the moat fearsome part. It's incredible, the way his breath hitches and his stomach drops when he sees the injury happen, when the blood threatens to drip down. A sword wasn't made for this. Hasebe can't possibly know what to do.
He eases the blade away slightly, brow furrowed, chin resting lightly on Guanshan's shoulder.]
That was foolish.
[But with the hand not holding the sword steady, he takes the injured finger in hand and examines it. How... he's a weapon. He's a thing of death and anger and chaos and destruction and he's being treated like this, so kindly, respectfully... It hurts, somehow. Feelings occur, but aren't processed, as they aren't understood. He makes no effort to create a true picture out of any of this. He just brings the bloodied finger to his lips and presses a kiss there. He acts on instinct and mimics what he could learn of human liaisons from his life as the blade alone.]
Shall I bandage it for you?
no subject
[he watches his blood slip between the cracks of his lips, printed there like a brand, and that's what's erotic to him]
...S'awright. It'll stop in a bit.
[or maybe he just wants the excuse]
[to leave his fingerprint everywhere: on his skin, on his bed, on his blade that's no doubt tasted red from countless enemies -- and now a single person who doesn't fit that category]
[it takes a lot for him to look away from the swordsman, but he does, palm tentatively roaming the length of silver, the shift of colors beneath from forging, tempering, compressing and compacting, working ember and earth until all that was left was this lethal thing -- and he thinks that's probably a little like Hasebe himself]
[he doesn't understand it, but he grasps for conclusions:]
Can you feel this? [feel it the same way he can his shoulderblades around his heart, his hips between his thighs, his fingers on his mouth]
[his grip tightens, slowly gaining confidence]
no subject
It feels like a hand laying on my back. The bracing touch of a companion whose life I'd guard with my own. [With a murmur, he clarifies, and settles his free hand on the side of Guanshan's neck.] As one would anyone who bore them as a weapon. My integrity is yours, and my victory as well. [He lets it trail down to the younger man's chest, fingers lightly curved, lips close to skin.] It feels like... energy. Connection. It's intoxicating.
[He's a tool, when he's taken in hand, obedient and subservient and intimately joined with every action of his bearer, and every aspect of their will. This is no different.]
no subject
[someone whose life he'd guard]
[Guanshan scarcely knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of those things, even when a boy who had never said it but proved it had put his own energy and connection into sheltering him, both under his fists and his jacket still warm with body heat; Hasebe coiling around him is so similar that he can't help but wonder if he's offering warmth or taking it]
[is he a snake? is he cold metal, or is he the man behind him? is he both? he doesn't know]
["intoxicating" is a good word for it, though; this man, who he's offered so little and been given so much in return -- he wants to please him, feels the pressure of it weigh between shoulder blades, in the heft of the blade in his hands, despite his skepticism concerning his promise]
[he says nothing, just continues with the wordless stoicism Hasebe's come to know from him when it really matters, not asking for permission this time as he has so many times before when he dips his head down and, with his nose bumping almost cutely against the bloodguard, presses a kiss to the collar of the blade holstering it towards the hilt]
[the touch trails across cold steel, keeping close to the blunt mune, and lips part once they find the dip of a blood groove, hesitating...]
[before a warm, wet tongue lashes out to strike across it a single time, waiting for a -- hopefully -- favorable reaction]
no subject
Longing to be understood by Guanshan is the crux of this, wanting to be felt as a man and a tool, as something special and unique, yet as what he is, and not what the man thinks Hasebe should be. If he changes, if his perspective shifts, then so be it. But he wants to be met on this ground, so he's put the offer out and it has been at least partially accepted.
The truth is that Hasebe is the man, now, and that going back to merely being the sword loses all appeal when he is appreciated, when he notes in sharp, vibrant ways that he can have the best of all worlds right now. He did not choose his fate, but now he can at least select his moments of joy. That's worth so much more than he wants to admit, and while he'll obediently and dutifully give it up as required to serve, he won't stop chasing it now that he's felt these things... And more. Is he admired? Is he a novelty? What is it that allows him this freedom?
Time slows. Nothing matters when those lips brush Heshikiri, when the natural progression lends itself to human error and folly, and he feels the ghost of a presence of lips on his neck. Hasebe gasps, and hides his face against a slender shoulder. But he has to stay stoic, and calm. When warmth touches the groove it makes his mind snap, and he feels like his entire being has been invaded by that action. Heat radiates from his core, and he fights ths strong urge of arousal. He fails, groaning softly, almost apologetic.]
I can feel that, as well.
[He traces a line down his companion's sternum.] Here. My heart's beating harder now.
no subject
[patience isn't one of his virtues, but the voice in his ears and at his back slows him, the syrupy description giving him pause, the blade clicking as it shifts in his grip and he watches his a head of hair shifting in the corner of his vision]
Good. [he wonders if he can even feel his breath, where it rests so closely that it's easy to picture a glasgow smile splitting him open -- but as for himself, his lips don't even quirk up]
[the tip of his tongue dips into that groove, tasting steel that has no doubt been saturated in viscera during Hasebe's long wars, but he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to think about that, only wants to think about the way he twists and reacts behind him, where he might feel this -- ]
[in his head? along his spine? somewhere rigid and awakening? his mouth closes over the blunted back of the sword and his teeth drag with a scrape that is nothing like a battle, might be more like cutting down to the bone]
[he does these acts with reverence]
no subject
Shameful.
He would kill for this man, but he won't say it. That blade could drink the blood of dozens at Guanshan's behest, should Hasebe feel it needs to be done. But he doesn't. They have this beautiful, peaceful, passionate dance to attend to, and it's far better than gore. An oath to give affection is greater than an oath to kill, at least right now. Hasebe would swear that one a hundred times, that he'll fall at Guanshan's feet, that he will give him everything for this kind of attention, but again, it's best left unsaid and undone. Right now, he's able to express it physically.
So while the scrape of teeth on the blade is like a stab in his spine, the way he fairly vibrates afterwards is a sign of sure pleasure, and the gasp as he realizes he's getting hard from this only serves to complete the picture. He's borne in those hands with some difficulty, but the reverence makes this one of the most singularly erotic and wonderful moments of his short life. Should he be ashamed?]
I fear I'm losing myself...
no subject
[he could want as many good things for Hasebe as his mind can contain, but at the end of the day, he's a harmful person who does harmful things and wants -- needs -- for harmful things to be returned before he can feel, before he can trust]
[and the swordsman won't shoulder it alone, those words pouring over in his mind as, awkwardly as he holds it, he draws the blade to its end and lets his mouth settle near the very tip]
[thoughtfulness palpable, there's a beat of hesitation before his tongue dips and sweeps its mercury curve, hanging onto the flat but razing that slickness across the edge, bleeding here as he had his fingers]
[a half-turn points him towards the man more, weapon lowering as his hold becomes one-handed, freed palm grasping his jaw to tilt it to a preferred angle]
Then hang on t'me.
[he bleeds more as he speaks, but his crimson-coated tongue tangles with Hasebe's, fervor unchecked as he ravishes his mouth, desperation to respond spurring him into too much roughness, too much passion, always carefully masked behind apathy and anger -- behind things that are easier]
[but if Hasebe doesn't want easy, then neither does he]
wrong journal A+
Be care--
[More than foolish. Ridiculous. And he'll feel that for a while. Shuddering, Hasebe reaches to pull the blade away from Guanshan's grip, stopped short with wide, concerned eyes as he's commanded to do nothing further.
Mo Guanshan is to be protected from things like this, but the side of him that pulls away from the sweetness he's always shown and gravitates toward injury confuses Hasebe. The confusion doesn't have a lot of time to take hold. There's blood on his lips and tongue again, more abundant now, and when Guanshan escalates, Hasebe meekly follows. If it were someone else, a fellow sword perhaps, he might not bat an eyelash at this. But it's... a person. A normal person, someone who only a short while ago wanted to be far enough away from the blade itself.
If he's opening up to Hasebe, if he's offering, Hasebe will take, and he closes his eyes with a soft groan. This kiss is unlike anything he's ever experienced. Maybe this is how it feels to care about someone on a deep, instinct-driven level, without thought of propriety. All he can do now is hold Guanshan close and let himself be taken over.]
I WAS SO CONFUSED
[what it is about the malignant side of life that makes him feel bonded, why he needs bruises and blood and physical proof of a connection before he can acknowledge it's really there]
[he's bled plenty of times for things that weren't... but Hasebe caving to him, the texture of the hilt in his hand, the way blood turns pink mixed with spit and swallowed -- these things he can feel, believe]
[the silver in his finger he pets harmlessly in the middle of that kiss and the breath it makes this man draw; the stiffening erection against his hip he has to make myself not touch, wanting each part of him at mercy beneath his fingers]
[his lips are strained red when he finally gives him air, molten amber eyes searching mauve ones]
What else?
[does he want? that's the reason he's here, after all]
SORRY
He gasps when his hardness brushes the younger man's hip, distracted, and shudders when he tries to come back to his senses. An apology is ready to be given, but it never comes out, because the fierce hunger and dull ache of need must show in the light purple of his eyes. Why bother being formal?]
This has... gone beyond my intentions.
[Leaning in, he kisses Guanshan again, then sighs against his lips.]
Now I... [He swallows, boldness there, ready, his body screaming...] ...I'm afraid I'm thinking impure thoughts. Perhaps it is best if we part, before I beg to act on them.
no subject
[that this wasn't a part of what Hasebe had planned, whatever that might've been, that the electricity between them right now is something he had a hand in crafting -- that was charged by what he himself chose to do]
[he doesn't know if that makes it better, but he does know the swordsman's mouth against his own and the power he can exert over him just by touching something like this feels really damn good]
[those words almost make him laugh, instead curling with a lopsided smirk]
You don't gotta beg for my attention. Not you.
[his head tilts to suck at the soft line of his throat, following its natural groove to his collarbone -- and his free hand presses at the arousal making slacks tight without much warning, cupping him through fabric]
Can I suck your dick? ["why bother being formal" indeed]
no subject
[Nothing like this was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be innocent sharing and maybe a kiss but not... not this. And he's red-cheeked and he wonders how much of that blood lingers near his lips. He wonders is Mo Guanshan is going to always make him feel so weak. It's fine, of course. He's smiling and tilting his head a little to leave his neck exposed.]
Then.... ah... please?
no subject
...I ain't done with it yet. [but it's said more like a request, like he's still tentative about holding it in the first place, that one word of disapproval would have him handing it back over like it burned him]