[Hasebe flushes a bit at the nickname, and looks down at their hands, too, before steeling himself and pulling that hand up to his lips for a fleeting kiss to the side of his thumb.
Then he'll release it, and move into the room proper.]
I thought it only fair to give you something in return for all you've done--or tried to do--for me. I wanted to show you my true self... if you'll permit it.
[following his own hand up with his gaze again, his eyes stay locked on the mouth on him, torn between staying statuesque and considering pulling away, too hot and too embarrassed]
[he's quietly grateful when Hasebe does it himself, turning with him]
[it's not like he wanted you to see them or a-anything...]
[a familiar road by now but it feels charged with something else, settling down on Hasebe's bed with his feet cast off the edge like he doesn't quite know what to do with long, gangly limbs, but he keeps his eyes trained on the swordsman -- the blade, moreso]
[Should he have said something at the time? He thought about it, truly. Silent for a few moments, Hasebe retrieves his sword and moves to take a seat beside Guanshan. it's laid lengthwise across his lap.]
"Heshikiri" refers to the manner by which I was once used to kill someone who displeased my master. The weight of my blade alone was enough. I hate having been used for something like that, but I bear it.
[the desire to want to let a moment play out, leave it undisturbed -- he wishes he had that kind of restraint sometimes, to not need to react to everything]
[he just listens, tensing minutely with the weapon even that close to him]
[but instead of move away, he presses closer to Hasebe, arm into arm, as if he's silently requesting for him to protect him from... well, himself]
It's heavy? [it seemed like he'd be light, if anything... quick, airy]
[The discomfort is obvious, but Hasebe won't back down. Gently, he turns his head toward Guanshan. His fingers tense, then curl over the gilded sheath. It has a weight to it that Hasebe doesn't even notice, since it's a part of him, but he picks it up into his palms and tries to make eye contact.]
I know. I disavow what I prudently can. [He takes a slow breath.] The rest, I let my pride carry. I am still a weapon, and I still... live and serve as one. You don't like that about me, do you?
['disavow what he prudently can'... what does that even mean? the words are too uncommon and educated for him to understand, brow scrunching as he looks at Hasebe's face again, fingernails digging at the denim of his jeans]
[It means he ditches the part of the name he doesn't like. He forgets to speak plainly sometimes. Right now, Hasebe's pride and his nerves are clashing, and he begins to look uncomfortable.]
Nothing has made me want, even for a moment, to be anything but what I am.
[His thumbs run over the sheath. He'll expend all this energy after Guanshan leaves. Polishing things will help.]
Selfishly, I want you to hold it--me--with your own hands.
[and Mo Guanshan wouldn't think for a moment he could break that streak]
[that he could make him want to be something more than a tool, a thing with his own autonomy, his own to command and not be commanded -- to fall heavy and true where it wants and nowhere else]
[accepting Hasebe means, simply, he accepts Heshikiri]
[he doesn't entirely, not with how much blood that blade has drank, but...]
...Okay.
[but it's not like that blood can crawl onto his own hands]
[right?]
[his hands turn up, all the lines of his palms red and white with the pressure his clenched fists had built up, slowly fading as they wait for the weapon to find its place in them rather than reach for it]
[Dangerously, he makes Hasebe question things. What, he wonders, would it be like to want more than just being a tool? He doesn't reach the point of wanting, but the fact that this young man has created a curiosity within him, an exploration of his own thought process, is kind of astounding.
His life has been so very short. Only a couple of years...]
I wondered what it would be like to be in the hands of someone I would never have to consider my master. Who would never see me as a tool.
[With a soft smile, he shifts the sword, sheath and all, into waiting hands. He'll lower the weight carefully, keeping his own hands close in case there's some kind of unfavorable reaction.]
You honor me, Mo Guanshan.
[Hasebe is truly, absolutely, rather uselessly happy. Though sensation is dulled through the sheath, he feels a strange lightness that makes him positively giddy.]
[...he never thought that could sound like a compliment]
[that 'i could never consider you my most important person' wouldn't sound like a rejection but a different form of acceptance, of trust and longing that he didn't expect to be possible when there's a layer of distance there still; pale fingers tighten around the dark sheath, looking more like bones than flesh standing eggshell against the night of it]
[he swallows, grunting in response to his name, his attention transfixing to the weapon itself, shivering when a droplet of sweat runs between his shoulderblades]
[not knowing what to do with it now, he just sort of... bounces it in his grip a few times, feeling how indeed heavy it is, precariously working his way around it like the whole thing is a trigger that could fire at any moment]
Um. What am I supposed to...
[trailing off, he twists it some, fingers smoothing over the edges of the bloodguard and on up the hilt]
[how many hands have gripped him, far surer and stronger than his delicate touch is now?]
[It's the opposite of an insult, and Hasebe hopes he's right in conveying that message, that it will make his own heart a little clearer. There are untoild numbers of things they don't know about each other, but Hasebe already has his mind made up, that this is and will be different from anything he's ever experienced. It's more akin to the bond he feels with his fellow swords, but more meaningful in its newness and mystery. It makes his head spin a little. Those light touches aren't helping.
Maybe it's better if he stops staring and answers the question, though.]
Here.
[Carefully, he shows him a safe way to hold everything and keep it balanced while he draws the blade, should he choose to do so.]
Go ahead. I'll show you everything, if you'd like.
[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]
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no subject
Then he'll release it, and move into the room proper.]
I thought it only fair to give you something in return for all you've done--or tried to do--for me. I wanted to show you my true self... if you'll permit it.
no subject
[he's quietly grateful when Hasebe does it himself, turning with him]
["tried to do"?]
...Uh-huh?
no subject
As the blade came before the... man, so to speak...
[He'll motion for him to follow into the bedroom.]
You can have a seat, if you'd like.
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[a familiar road by now but it feels charged with something else, settling down on Hasebe's bed with his feet cast off the edge like he doesn't quite know what to do with long, gangly limbs, but he keeps his eyes trained on the swordsman -- the blade, moreso]
...This's 'cuz'a what I said to Souza, ain't it.
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[He hesitates, caught.]
...I didn't want to intrude.
[Should he have said something at the time? He thought about it, truly. Silent for a few moments, Hasebe retrieves his sword and moves to take a seat beside Guanshan. it's laid lengthwise across his lap.]
"Heshikiri" refers to the manner by which I was once used to kill someone who displeased my master. The weight of my blade alone was enough. I hate having been used for something like that, but I bear it.
no subject
[the desire to want to let a moment play out, leave it undisturbed -- he wishes he had that kind of restraint sometimes, to not need to react to everything]
[he just listens, tensing minutely with the weapon even that close to him]
[but instead of move away, he presses closer to Hasebe, arm into arm, as if he's silently requesting for him to protect him from... well, himself]
It's heavy? [it seemed like he'd be light, if anything... quick, airy]
He did it, not you...
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I know. I disavow what I prudently can. [He takes a slow breath.] The rest, I let my pride carry. I am still a weapon, and I still... live and serve as one. You don't like that about me, do you?
no subject
...I mean. I dunno. It ain't like I got a choice.
[he is who he is; there's no getting around it]
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Nothing has made me want, even for a moment, to be anything but what I am.
[His thumbs run over the sheath. He'll expend all this energy after Guanshan leaves. Polishing things will help.]
Selfishly, I want you to hold it--me--with your own hands.
no subject
[that he could make him want to be something more than a tool, a thing with his own autonomy, his own to command and not be commanded -- to fall heavy and true where it wants and nowhere else]
[accepting Hasebe means, simply, he accepts Heshikiri]
[he doesn't entirely, not with how much blood that blade has drank, but...]
...Okay.
[but it's not like that blood can crawl onto his own hands]
[right?]
[his hands turn up, all the lines of his palms red and white with the pressure his clenched fists had built up, slowly fading as they wait for the weapon to find its place in them rather than reach for it]
no subject
His life has been so very short. Only a couple of years...]
I wondered what it would be like to be in the hands of someone I would never have to consider my master. Who would never see me as a tool.
[With a soft smile, he shifts the sword, sheath and all, into waiting hands. He'll lower the weight carefully, keeping his own hands close in case there's some kind of unfavorable reaction.]
You honor me, Mo Guanshan.
[Hasebe is truly, absolutely, rather uselessly happy. Though sensation is dulled through the sheath, he feels a strange lightness that makes him positively giddy.]
no subject
[that 'i could never consider you my most important person' wouldn't sound like a rejection but a different form of acceptance, of trust and longing that he didn't expect to be possible when there's a layer of distance there still; pale fingers tighten around the dark sheath, looking more like bones than flesh standing eggshell against the night of it]
[he swallows, grunting in response to his name, his attention transfixing to the weapon itself, shivering when a droplet of sweat runs between his shoulderblades]
[not knowing what to do with it now, he just sort of... bounces it in his grip a few times, feeling how indeed heavy it is, precariously working his way around it like the whole thing is a trigger that could fire at any moment]
Um. What am I supposed to...
[trailing off, he twists it some, fingers smoothing over the edges of the bloodguard and on up the hilt]
[how many hands have gripped him, far surer and stronger than his delicate touch is now?]
Can I open it?
no subject
Maybe it's better if he stops staring and answers the question, though.]
Here.
[Carefully, he shows him a safe way to hold everything and keep it balanced while he draws the blade, should he choose to do so.]
Go ahead. I'll show you everything, if you'd like.
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]
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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.
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[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]
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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...
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[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+
I WAS SO CONFUSED
SORRY
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