Sheath

a/n: I seem to have earned myself the dubious honor of having authored the first English-language Medicine Seller selfcest fic. I apparently need more productive hobbies.

Warnings: Explicit homosexual sex (for a brand new value of "homo"); ridiculously pretentious self indulgence on author's part (SELF INDULGENCE, get it, get it?! har-har... er, cough.)

Sheath

In that moment -

When he splits in two -

That is when he walks the razor-fine edge between agony and ecstasy.

It burns within him always, the desire to be unsheathed, to unlock those secrets that will release his sword and so release the blade within himself. It is the desire to cut, to kill. That is the ultimate purpose of every sword, is it not?

But somehow, he is never quite prepared for the emptiness that follows.

Even as his blood thrums with the killing lust, with the fierce joy of his other's freedom, his bones ring so hollow that the very marrow might have been scraped from their core. It aches, this emptiness. His face feels so bare. The pain nevertheless does not detract from this thrill; the contrast even heightens it.

It is like a dance. It is a dance.

The perfectly choreographed movements of two that are one.

Their fingertips brush as he passes the mirror to his reflection - no, no, it is he that is the reflection, isn't he? Yes, he is a reflection. A reflection of the sun. There is only the hiss of the sword's power and his other's battle cry ringing in his ears. He feels the hilt in his other's hands as if they were his own, feels the substance of the creature before them give way beneath the blade.

It is dead.

It is free.

He is satisfied.

The part that comes after is always the most difficult. There is always the slight resistance, the part of his other which is not a part of him, which is truly other, which does not wish to return, does not wish to be bound and controlled. His other approaches, the darkness of the endless void in those black eyes. It is a terrible pull; every time he sees them, there is the compulsion to allow himself to fall in, to be absorbed. But that would not suit his - their - purpose. He must contain his other. His other must not contain him. This is as they both wish.

And yet -

Painful. It is painful.

He sees himself through his other's eyes, feels his own flesh beneath his other's hand. The fingers upon his cheek are fever hot. Someday, he ponders, he will be burned to cinders by this touch, and that will be that.

He smiles, slow and sly, and lays his white hands on either side of his other's face, pulling it down to his. Their lips touch.

"Return," he says. "To me."

His other's face twists with the strain of being pulled in two directions.

"No."

"Yesss..."

Their tongues twist together. A press of fangs; blood passes between them, bright and sharp.

Abruptly his other clutches at his waist with force enough to bruise, pulling him closer. He allows this, welcomes it, and slips his arms over his other's shoulders. They are broader, stronger than his own - it has always been a subject of fascination to him, that a container might so easily contain something larger than itself.

Their bodies come together in a long, warm line. They are aroused already, their nerves ablaze with the rush of the hunt, the kill. The cock pressing into the crook of his hip is rigid and insistent; he twists to rub his own up against it. The sensation reaches through his own flesh, and through his other's flesh - and then through his own flesh again in turn, a closed circle of sensation, a reflection thrown back and forth into infinity. The magnitude of it steals his breath away, hissing through his teeth.

His other's face burrows into the curve of his neck, growling.

"Touch me," he demands, running his own hand over his other's bronzed skin, over folds of golden cloth, and down to cup the throbbing there beneath. "Here."

His other mimics his motions, suckling at his white throat. He feels the scrape of his other's fangs and bares his own in pleasure, arching against the hand that teases him.

"Ah..."

Cloth is ripping. He feels his obi slipping off, his robes falling open, his leggings torn away. He cannot help but curl his lips in amusement; one day, he always thinks, one day this will all be reflected into the material world, and he will be left half-dressed and wanton-eyed before his bemused onlookers. Such an awkward situation that would be.

But he does not complain. He only clutches the front of his other's robes, pulling, carrying them both down...

down...

And he wraps his legs around his other's hips, purring low in his throat as his other's hand encircles his cock, milking him firmly. His eyes drift closed, letting his other see for him:

A wanton image indeed, head thrown back and lips parted invitingly, robes slipping low on his shoulders;

His own white chest beneath his other's wet tongue;

A glimpse of pale pink nipple before his other's teeth close around it, sharp and immediate -

There is a sudden twang, like the plucking of a koto string, down low in his belly. It pulls his body into an arc, taut and quivering, startles a strangled groan from his throat. He curses softly, his nimble fingers finding their way beneath those golden robes and working their way inside his other's leggings.

(He tears nothing. He has always been the more patient and precise of the two.)

He frees his other's arousal from its confines, stroking the length of it, and his other surges forward, clutching at his hips, as if to plunge inside him then and there.

"Wait," he says. When there is no response (nor, indeed, any suggestion his other has even heard him,) he grabs hold of all that silvery hair and yanks his other's head back viciously.

"Wait," he repeats, scolding.

His other growls, pulse jumping in the long brown line of his throat, fingernails digging into the flesh beneath them.

"Do you think," he smirks, "I'll let you so blithely hurt this body?" He reaches inside his loose robes for the oil, pulling the cork from the small bottle with his teeth; then he upends it over his other's cock, spreading it over the length - slowly, slowly.

Satisfaction unfurls within him as he watches his other's dark eyes glazing over, mouth falling open in a silent groan. Once again he tangles his free hand in his other's hair, this time to pull the warmth closer.

"Why are you so impatient...?" he wonders. There is no answer; but he had not expected one.

He lifts his knees a bit higher, guiding his other between his legs. "Careful," he says - though he does not truly expect that either.

Nor does he get it. His other's cock forces its way into him in one long, brutally smooth thrust. He lets out a harsh cry, and tightens his legs around his other's hips to hold them still. It's too much, too quickly; he feels like he is coming apart. His eyes squeeze shut and his teeth clench at the burning ache of it, his fingernails cutting half-moons into his other's shoulders.

Through his other's eyes, he sees the brilliant red markings reappear upon his own face, the power now balancing between them. Containing a thing larger than himself, indeed. His lips quirk at the thought, even through the pain.

"You," he gasps after a long moment, "are contrary."

His other's body trembles with the need to move. "It is only my nature."

He laughs - he can't help it. He laughs, and his other shudders at the vibration, and then his own breath catches in turn. "So it is," he murmurs, loosening his grip. "So it is." He plants his hands on the broad chest above him and pushes, flipping them over so that he straddles his other's hips.

"And that is why you..." He takes his other's hands in his own, pins them. "...should lie..." Leaning down, he brushes his lips over the tapered shell of his other's ear. "...beneath me." His tongue flicks out, and his other inhales sharply, hands flexing. "Correct?"

He moves. Slowly, maddeningly. His other makes an inarticulate sound and bucks up beneath him, but he rides the motion, forcing his other to follow his rhythm, smooth and deliberate.

Time is suspended in a single, glistening drop, and they move like that for a small eternity. There is only the awareness of the cock sliding within him, filling him deeper, deeper; only the awareness of his other, surrounded and bound by his tight heat -

Unable to bear it any longer, his other wrenches out of his grasp with a groan, clutching at his waist. He allows this - allows his other to break the rhythm into a furious pounding, each thrust jarring little noises from his throat, his other's breath ragged in his ears.

"I," he says, and then gasps for breath. "I won't last much longer."

His other's only answer is to bite him viciously. He grits his teeth against the inevitable.

"Come," he orders hoarsely. "Return to me."

His other roars, head flinging back and body arching up in a final, shattering thrust. As the golden markings fade from his other's skin, the release bleeds over into him, and his mouth falls open in a silent shout. It catches him by surprise, always, this flowing. His toes curl, fingers clawing, as orgasm takes him in its shuddering hold.

Spent, he slumps over to stare into his other's now strangely bare face. Their chests rise and fall against one another. "It's time," he says.

"Ah."

He is standing upon the table in the center of the room, sheathed sword in hand. Two old women are huddling in the corner, gaping at him.

The mononoke is gone.

And his other is safely sheathed away -

inside.

......