Transfusion

They sat across from each other, separated by firelight and shadow and a million exercises in opposition. Jin watched, pretending that he wasn't watching, as the mongrel's shoulders jerked and thrusted, as a grunt and a scowl occupied his lips. The rock in his hand - jagged, rough, dirty, like the man himself - was most certainly making obscene gouges in the steel of his sword. Jin winced and held his katana up to the firelight.

With years' precision, his eyes scanned the edge of the blade, looking for bent, dull stretches. He frowned and pretended he didn't hear Mugen scoff at him. They were different; they always would be. For Jin, this was a ritual, a meditation, something to be done with care and with purpose. For Mugen, it was a chore, one more bother in a long day of duties and annoyances. Mugen grunted again, struck rock to blade, and a spark burst free into the night.

"You're going to break it."

Mugen rolled his eyes and snarled at the samurai sitting cross-legged and straight-backed across the wooden floor in the hut. "At least I'll finish tonight."

Jin paid him no mind and returned to examining his blade. He reached a long, pale hand behind him to retrieve the leather strap.

Mugen watched, pretending that he wasn't watching, as the samurai's shoulders swayed and rocked, gentle, fluid movements in the firelight. The leather strap slid back and forth over the blade, bringing the edge, the bite back into the sword. This would take all night. Mugen would never be able to sleep with the swishing, rough noise of leather on metal, with the crackling of fire used as lighting for the samurai's task. Mugen scraped his rock against his blade again. Good enough.

"You're gonna be at this all night."

Jin's expression made his indifference clear. Over the months, he had become quite skilled in ignoring the other and returned to his task. As Mugen stretched upward, satiated, his shirt shifted and savage ribs and rings of dirt were revealed. The criminal was a disgrace and Jin often felt himself sickened by the very idea of him.

More sparks took to the air and Jin wondered briefly if Mugen was this hastened and careless in all matters. He shook his head to remove the image of Mugen braced against the corner, knees bent and spread to the sides, knobby-knuckled hand between his legs, pumping up and down. The very figment itself seemed to be emanating an odor of sweat and dirt and cheap sake.

"Do you even enjoy this? Is it just a chore to you?" Jin asked, not removing his eyes from the work at hand.

"What does it matter? Gets the job done." Contempt dripped from his lips.

Jin frowned, but continued to ignore the other as Mugen yawned in a foul manner and made a show of bedding down, having rushed like a fool through the sharpening of his blade. No, Jin would not let this mongrel get to him. He would not-

Damn it.

Only a twitch in Jin's eyebrow betrayed his pain as he watched the blood swell at the gash in his finger. The pendulous drop began to slip under its own weight and trickle, slow and honeyed down his palm.

Mugen sat up, swinging with momentum from his feet, as if he could smell the blood, as if he could taste something akin to fresh kill in the small space of the hut. One ridiculous twist of body and he was on all fours, crawling across the hardwood to where Jin sat.

Mugen's eyes shone in the dark, but the flush of his face was creating a warmth swelling in Jin's stomach, entirely disembodied from the firepit.

"Cut yourself?!"

Jin opened his mouth to respond, but the twist of Mugen's mouth told him that it may be wisest to wait out his opponent and counter rather than attack.

"What's the point of taking so long if you're just going to cut yourself anyway?"

Mugen's knees slid along the floor, becoming darker with dirt as he went. His fingers were bent downward, claw-like, and his back bowed like a sick dog. He was close now; Jin could smell his sweat.

Gooseflesh swelled on Mugen's shoulders. He always felt a rush, a tingle of feral pleasure when he'd look down after a battle and see his shirt splashed with his opponents' blood. He could smell it, metallic like it belonged mated with the edge of a blade, and he could taste it in the air, mercury and poison on his tongue. It pleased him because he knew he had caused it, knew he had brought his opponent down. The sight of crimson on Jin's pale skin brought him pleasure, too, but it was different.

Mugen hadn't drawn the blood, but it still felt like a victory of sorts. It was still the color of triumph, the smell of dominance. Jin's careful crafting of his blade had led to recklessness and a reddened palm. Mugen watched as Jin's eyes widened. The mongrel slid his tongue from between his lips, pink and glistening, hungry. It touched down at the base of Jin's palm, where it met wrist. The blood tasted sharp and sweet, unlike the taste of all the unworthy opponents he had faced and defeated. Jin was different. Jin had taken effort and perseverance, qualities that usually felt so unbecoming draped over Mugen's shoulders.

Jin shuddered but didn't withdraw his hands as Mugen's tongue slid up his lifeline - a line shared for the moment - the weighty pace of inevitability. The shadows cooled Jin's heated skin where the other had left a trail of saliva. The tongue was hot and rough and following the most revealing creases on his palm, the gutters that directed the slowing flow of blood. He watched the blood pool, thick and velvety on Mugen's tongue, watched it track down the center line and back into the dark of the criminal's cavernous mouth. He closed his eyes and lost a battle to a soft gasp that fought its way from the pit of his stomach.

Mugen had been waiting months for this. He'd imagined the taste, the heat. It was as he'd pictured it, but for the pulse. He'd expected a careful, rhythmic pulse, a beat worthy of a samurai. Instead, the blood surged into his mouth, rapid and irregular. He felt Jin's tremble as a backbeat and closed his mouth around the tip of the finger, working his throat to swallow.

Jin felt a rush of panic as Mugen's tongue circled his finger and a quiver ran through his arm to his guts. His eyes widened and he tried to jerk away, but Mugen's teeth caught him and he gasped. A shock of pain shot deep into the cut. He wished he hadn't allowed his sword to clatter to the ground in the alarm of his accident. Mugen's dark, dirty fingers curled around his wrist and he winced at the black grime packed under yellowed fingernails. He felt sick.

Mugen's eyes rolled up to stare at Jin's face, at the samurai's eyebrows angled downward toward each other and his grimace. His teeth nipped again. The sharp intake of breath was his reward.

Jin's strength was his concentration, his ability to focus always on the next three moves toward victory. But, with Mugen's tongue and teeth probing the gash on his finger, with that grimy hand around his wrist, Jin's concentration was on that coil of panic in his gut.

Mugen's strength was his opportunism, his ability to see gaps and bridges and to take fierce, complete control of them. Jin's gasp, his half-lidded eyes, his opened mouth were begging Mugen's exploitation and he struck.

Jin exhaled sharply as his back was forced against the wall and his hand was pinned beside his head. He'd never had to fend off an enemy like this. Before he could react, before he could think of reacting, he could smell the other's breath, felt his warmth, and soon lips crushed against his own. His teeth were pressed into his bottom lip and he couldn't breathe without breathing in Mugen. His stomach churned at the taste of his own blood and the other knew it.

Mugen grinned against Jin's mouth. He'd make the samurai taste his blood, his defeat. The wrist in his hand felt pale and limp, and he felt that if he tightened his grip, it would snap. Mugen's other hand rested on the blue fabric covering Jin's chest and he could feel the heaving breath beneath it. He slid his fingers beneath the flap of cloth. Jin hissed.

Jin fought back a gag at the sour taste and slick feel of Mugen's tongue sliding against his own. The kiss was rough and unskilled, clumsy and full of childish, schoolboy attempts at establishing alpha male status. Fingernails scratched down his sternum and he shivered. Jin bent his knee, preparing to shove the filthy man away from him, and Mugen let out a long groan. Jin felt the other's erection rub against his thigh.

Mugen's knees buckled and he fell harder against Jin's mouth. Drawing his legs up, he pressed his knees to the floor on either side of the samurai's hips. Jin was so calm below him, barely struggling anymore, and his tongue began to slide along the side of Mugen's, rough and wet.

Jin could feel coolness where Mugen's erection had left a damp spot on the front of his clothes. There was nothing subtle or careful about this man perched above his hips; Jin had no doubt where this was leading. As Mugen's tongue slid out of his mouth, down over jaw and earlobe and neck, Jin wondered if he should be more opposed. Instead, Mugen's fingers found a nipple. Jin merely sighed.

Mugen, sensing another opportunity, pushed the samurai's clothing off his shoulders, off his hips. Jin was naked, vulnerable before him. He trailed on hand over chest, down ribs, up a thigh, to hook under a bent knee. With a groan, he pushed it back, connecting it to collarbone, angling Jin's hips upward.

Jin prided himself in his ability to swim wherever the river pulled him, but his eyes flew open when he felt Mugen thrust aggressively at his entrance. Hoarse grunts, bared teeth, sharp fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. The jerks of Mugen's hips met with resistance as Jin squirmed tighter against the wall. Mugen fucked like he polished his sword.

Mugen licked his lips and pressed harder against Jin. The samurai was unyielding, but Mugen could smell his weakening resolve; he could taste his submission. Jin would be crying out his name, fisting his hands in wild brown hair, hooking narrow feet over bony hips before they were through. Mugen steadied himself with a hand on Jin's shoulder.

It was the quickness that surprised him the most. Before he could brace himself for counterattack, Jin had him on his back, shorts pushed to his ankles, pinned helpless beneath the slender man with pale skin glowing in the firelight. The flames made even the samurai's lifeless skin look hot, sweaty, impassioned. Mugen snarled with half an effort. It didn't matter to him if he was giving or taking, it didn't matter because he had tasted the other's blood. His dominance was not in question here.

Jin gritted his teeth, fought back a grimace at the other's willingness to be pressed to the ground. Mugen should be fighting, growling, hissing, not making this so damned easy for him. There should be a struggle - there was always a struggle. Instead, Mugen stared up at him, eyelids lowered half way in an attempt at intimidation. His salty lips, edged with Jin's blood, curled up at the corners, an invitation to show him what you've got. Jin bared his teeth, swooped his head down.

Mugen yelped as sharp teeth grabbed hold of his bottom lip and tugged. He could smell the blood, taste it, before he felt it trickle down his chin, into his mouth. Jin's smirk held him pinned and the samurai's tongue began to probe his mouth. Their blood together tasted like volcanic rock, profane and perfect. Mugen groaned as Jin's shoulders slipped between his thighs and slid to hoist his knees.

Jin looked down at the man beneath him, back and hips and legs curved up toward him. Mugen grinned, blood and saliva mixed and slithering into the creases where teeth came together. Jin took in the yellowed teeth, the filthy skin, and decided that Mugen's ass was probably the cleanest place on his body. He slid his fingers under a thigh, and inside. He knew that this gesture of kindness, of mercy, was probably not necessary with Mugen - was probably wasted on him, in fact - but Jin had been trained to do things right. He could hurt this man in other ways; he didn't need to prove that now, not with the taste of their blood mingling on his tongue.

Mugen ground forward, harsh and arrhythmic, madly trying to communicate without actually asking. He didn't have the patience for the bastard's caution. He was not some fucking sacred katana that needed precision care. He was a pirate's blade that had a job to do and needed it done now. Mugen turned his head to the side to nip at the wrist Jin had propped near his head. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to be a warning.

Jin slid his fingers out, moved his hand down to cup Mugen's ass, and angled his pelvis up. With one smooth jerk of his hips, he was inside. Mugen howled, but when wasn't the mongrel howling or grunting or snorting? With his eyes closed, his body stilled, Jin swore he could feel the pulse, the surging of the other's blood around him. He wondered briefly if he could synchronize. But, with Mugen, the silence rarely lasted long and an extended hiss broke the quiet as the criminal slid his hips forward, rocking Jin backward into blackened vision.

Mugen's back curled off the floor with each movement of his lower body; Jin's mouth fell slack each time his knees carried him forward. In their months of sparring, of practicing, of outright trying to kill each other, they'd never been so harmonized toward a common goal. He let Jin cup the back of his knee with the cradle between thumb and forefinger, pressing it to his chest, his body doubling back on itself.

Jin had to admit that he was expecting acrobatics, boneless flexibility. Instead, it was too harsh, too fast, too achingly good. He would pretend that it felt this way with women. That it wasn't just the anger, the violence, the fucking blood on his tongue that made him arch into Mugen, managing only curses and single words disconnected from context. Jin felt his own movements become more frenzied, even as Mugen's slowed in savory exhaustion.

Mugen bit the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out anymore embarrassing things, to keep his vocalizations to only animalistic half-syllables. The slide of his traveling companion inside him, pressing down on his knees, long ponytail swaying forward to tickle his shoulder and raise goosebumps, it was driving him crazy. He had to slow down. But Jin's hips jerked frantically, madly against him, lifting his hips higher with each forward swing, making the tension shoot out of his guts to touch the rooftops. He fisted his hand in Jin's ponytail, dragged his mouth down to his own, and pressed their lips together.

Jin coughed, startled, faltered his rhythm for half a beat, then closed his eyes and let Mugen's tongue slide past his lips. Perhaps not all tenderness was lost on the criminal, Jin thought for a fleeting second before pulling back and driving into him one last time, staying locked against the other's hips, lower back twitching involuntarily as he came. He barely registered as Mugen's teeth clamped down on his tongue, as new blood was passed between their mouths. All he felt was release, then Mugen bucking up to meet him, wetness splashing on their abdomens.

Mugen's head rolled back onto the floor, his eyes closed, his mouth hanging open to emit ragged breaths. Jin glanced down with distaste at the soiled shirt sticking to the criminal's body, his mind touching on the fact that Mugen would probably never notice the mess anyway. He grabbed the discarded shorts to clean himself. He watched for a moment as his companion sprawled lazily on the wrong bedroll, scratching at his belly and yawning.

For once, Mugen fell quiet and the only sound in the hut was that of Jin, with the taste of his companion still thick on his tongue, bending to put his katana away for the night. Good enough.