Categories > Anime/Manga > Peacemaker Kurogane > Battle with the Colossus
theme #06: the space between dream and reality
You fall asleep with the setting sun and do not wake until the crickets are singing their songs.
When you do wake, it is with a start, but you don't open your eyes. There is someone above you, leaning over you. You feel like an insect under a magnifying glass, being watched, being inspected.
You feel lips pressed softly to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your own lips, and you think to yourself that under normal circumstances, this would be frightening, but you can smell blood and gunpowder and know that you are safe.
As he's running his tongue against your own, against your teeth, the roof of your mouth, down your chin, along your jaw, against the back of your right earlobe, you're thinking that it's a little ironic that a man who always smells metallic - from the swords, the gun, the blood - wants to be called "peacemaker".
He whispers something against your ear, and you know that it's a question, but your mind can't seem to grab ahold of and interpret it, so you make a small noise of assent, and you don't mind when you feel him start to undress you.
You've started to not mind a lot of things about him. You've stopped minding his abrasiveness - his clothes, his accent, his loudness, his determination. You've stopped minding the way he always shows up uninvited. You've stopped minding how normal it feels to be with him, and the way that you feel about him, and the fact that both of you would, undoubtedly, be killed if anyone ever found out about this.
So, when pieces of his unbound hair move an itchy trail down your chest; when the calluses on his hands catch against your stomach, your ribs, your back; when his whiskers brush against your left hip, the inside of your left thigh; when your hands catch on all of his millions of scars, it doesn't bother you.
And when he's inside of you and around you and everywhere, making you pant like a dog and dig your fingernails into his sandstone skin and struggle just to breathe, to keep your heart beating, you don't mind that this feels normal and old and like something that you've been doing forever, even though this is the first time.
Eventually, when he creates a crack in your cocoon of blood and gunpowder and sandpaper with his low, two-word exclamations of, "fuck, Tatsu," against the side of your neck and the underside of your jaw and your mouth you can finally hear and interpret the words and realize that you're saying and saying and saying his name, and you don't think you'll ever be able to stop.
Tatsunosuke wakes to the sound of crickets singing, and he does not open his eyes, because he knows that there is no one above him, despite the tight, damp heat that he can feel between his legs, because if there were, he would feel whiskers and calluses and scars instead of cold and dead and utterly, utterly alone.
You fall asleep with the setting sun and do not wake until the crickets are singing their songs.
When you do wake, it is with a start, but you don't open your eyes. There is someone above you, leaning over you. You feel like an insect under a magnifying glass, being watched, being inspected.
You feel lips pressed softly to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your own lips, and you think to yourself that under normal circumstances, this would be frightening, but you can smell blood and gunpowder and know that you are safe.
As he's running his tongue against your own, against your teeth, the roof of your mouth, down your chin, along your jaw, against the back of your right earlobe, you're thinking that it's a little ironic that a man who always smells metallic - from the swords, the gun, the blood - wants to be called "peacemaker".
He whispers something against your ear, and you know that it's a question, but your mind can't seem to grab ahold of and interpret it, so you make a small noise of assent, and you don't mind when you feel him start to undress you.
You've started to not mind a lot of things about him. You've stopped minding his abrasiveness - his clothes, his accent, his loudness, his determination. You've stopped minding the way he always shows up uninvited. You've stopped minding how normal it feels to be with him, and the way that you feel about him, and the fact that both of you would, undoubtedly, be killed if anyone ever found out about this.
So, when pieces of his unbound hair move an itchy trail down your chest; when the calluses on his hands catch against your stomach, your ribs, your back; when his whiskers brush against your left hip, the inside of your left thigh; when your hands catch on all of his millions of scars, it doesn't bother you.
And when he's inside of you and around you and everywhere, making you pant like a dog and dig your fingernails into his sandstone skin and struggle just to breathe, to keep your heart beating, you don't mind that this feels normal and old and like something that you've been doing forever, even though this is the first time.
Eventually, when he creates a crack in your cocoon of blood and gunpowder and sandpaper with his low, two-word exclamations of, "fuck, Tatsu," against the side of your neck and the underside of your jaw and your mouth you can finally hear and interpret the words and realize that you're saying and saying and saying his name, and you don't think you'll ever be able to stop.
Tatsunosuke wakes to the sound of crickets singing, and he does not open his eyes, because he knows that there is no one above him, despite the tight, damp heat that he can feel between his legs, because if there were, he would feel whiskers and calluses and scars instead of cold and dead and utterly, utterly alone.
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