Content

BY : Jade Ai
Category: Rurouni Kenshin > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 2440
Disclaimer: I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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‘Who knew that he, of all people, so quiet, so calm, so self-contained with movements as graceful and deadly as a well-made katana could be so noisy during love-making?’ thought the fiery-haired young rurouni.

“Himura.” My love calls me and I must answer; I smoothly stand up with my own brand of careless grace born of natural skill and years of training, and walk towards the house, to our bedroom, thinking all the while about all that had happened.

Everyone thought that Kaoru-dono and I would end up together after that incident with Shishio. It was only expected after the many times I had saved Kaoru from various mishaps and disasters and the affection she showed me in turn, even though – as everyone assumed, what with her determinedly boyish exterior – she had tried to hide it behind poorly constructed insults, barbs, and even physical violence that I was thankfully skilled enough to minimize the damage of.

But they were wrong. They were all wrong. And when the time came for me to confront Kaoru-dono, even I was wrong.

When he finally told me he loved me, I had nervously gone up to Kaoru-dono to tell her, slowly, carefully, doing my best to be considerate of what I thought had been badly hidden, though evidently deep feelings for me that I unfortunately did not return. To my surprise, she merely smiled, and told me that she had a crush on my best friend, Sanosuke.

She also wished me the best of luck with, and I quote, “that cold, dead fish masquerading as a human being.” Several colorful insults ensued, followed by increasingly creative threats – I had expected no less. Even if I did not love her, Kaoru-dono was a fine woman and a good friend to have – she cared for everyone she considered under her protection with all the ferocity of a panda. Deceptively gentle, but terrifying once her anger was aroused. Even I would not dare to cross such a woman lightly, for all my experience. Tokio…

“Himura.” My love calls me again as I finally enter our room. It is sparsely decorated with little furniture – bare even for a typical Japanese home. Yet it is our home and our bedroom – it is what we are most comfortable with, and I would not have had it any other way.

I dispel all the thoughts running through my head with the ease of long practice as I gaze upon beloved, familiar features with eyes full of barely-hidden desire and passion.

As I look upon him, I become lost in his eyes that are burning me, consuming me where I stand. I am devoured by him, I lose myself and my mind in him, and once again I am lost in thoughts of my love for him and his love for me.

After a few, brief moments, I hear a grunt of impatience come from somewhere – I am too deep in thought to pinpoint where, a dangerous habit, but I know my love would protect me as I him, and there is no worry within my heart.

Suddenly, I am jerked back to reality as his lips close over mine, and I immediately surrender to his passion. His tongue slides across my lower lip, pleading for entrance and I do not hesitate to comply, opening my mouth. I feel his tongue dart inside, tasting every part, every crevice hungrily, with the desperation of a man who knows he is given little time in which to savor his last meal, and must therefore consume it with barely restrained haste.

I moan as I feel his hand in my gi, and I do not wonder that I did not realize its movement – my ki has become so accustomed to his own that my body no longer perceives him as a threat, and I am glad. Glad that the one who so holds my heart in his own should have no trouble in breaching the defenses that lead to it, glad that there is no hesitance on his part in holding me close, glad that his movements speak of a sense of entitlement – an assumption that I am his as he is mine, and that that possession does not need voicing, or pleading, or any fighting in order to be expressed. I am not inclined to protest anyway – as much as he desires to devour me, so do I desire to be consumed, and to consume in return.

Before I know it, we are already on the bed. His mouth nibbles delicately along the shell of my ear and he kisses his way down my neck, licking and tracing the hollow of my throat as a noise of pure hunger traitorously betrays my desire. He moves lower and gently nips and sucks at dusky nipples that seem stark on my pale skin, instantly turning the soft flesh to hard nubs.

He resumes his journey downward, pausing for an indeterminable moment at the burning heat between my legs, as if carefully considering what to do next. Every single second’s worth of wait is pure torture to me – I cannot be kept apart from him for very long, as I know that he resents every moment of separation as well. It was not I who called him to our bed. Though I suppose that since I did not resist, it is only fair that I wait upon his pleasure.

But I cannot. And I arch my body in one long, sinuous movement of my hips, desperate to make him do something to answer this rising desire within me. Then he bends forward, suddenly taking me whole into his mouth, surprising me enough that it took large efforts to restrain the scream bubbling in my throat. He swallows so skillfully that any moment I will come when his mouth leaves me just as abruptly as it came, and I moan in disappointment.

He is just as desperate, however, and he does not leave me for long – his own desire sees to that. He lifts my legs onto his shoulders and pushes an oiled finger inside my passage. No scent lingers in the air as the oil itself has no fragrance to suit our preferences. I once told him that I like the idea that there is nothing in this room besides us and our passion when we make love, that even the futon we lie on is the only necessary foreign object intruding into our union, and there is nothing to distract us, nothing to witness this most sacred coupling between us two. I know that he agrees, and so the oil remains scentless.

I squirm in discomfort, but his kisses sooth me, and his whispers in my ear serve to relax me as he introduces another finger into me. All the while his flow of words of love never stop, and the sensation of those words surrounding us, that wisps across our skin and imprints itself into our senses is more heady than the finest sake in winter.

He slips a third finger inside of me and begins to stretch me, preparing me for himself. Finally he deems me ready, and he pulls his fingers out, smiling at the moan of loss that issues from my mouth. He places himself at the entry of my passage and then hesitates – he is so careful with me even though he does not need to be, and I think I love him all the more for insisting on treating me with the gentleness one reserves for a sakura blossom; delicately, but with full appreciation of my own strength and endurance.

I smile at him in reassurance and the hesitation vanishes as he thrusts inside. I grit my teeth at the inevitable pain despite the preparation, but I relax soon enough and he starts to move. The pace was agonizingly slow at first, “savoring,” he laughingly told me once before but with an aching vulnerability in his eyes that I do not deny him, and often I find I cannot deny him when he has denied himself for most of his life, but for now my desire overrides that reservation of mine and I arch appealingly, pleading soundlessly for him to move faster. His movements stop, then suddenly change, and once again my body forms a graceful arc as he hits a spot inside of me that forms starbursts at the back of my eyes. He senses this, for he quickens, adjusting himself so that he hits that spot inside of me over and over again.

He takes hold of my shaft, and pumps it in time to his movements and soon I feel myself approaching the edge. I feel myself burning, feel our passion and love intermingle with increasing intensity until I choke out a soundless scream, an undoubtedly mangled, pleading version of his name before going limp. He too comes mere seconds after me, and I feel more than hear him scream his love for me before he collapses, thoroughly spent, on top of me.

Breathing harshly, he brushes away red locks of hair that were plastered to my face with sweat. He smiles at me. A genuine smile, a rare one, and all the more beautiful for its rarity.

“Ai shiteru, Kenshin.” He speaks softly. Three simple words, but with an infinite wealth of meaning. Sometimes I find it difficult to believe that a mere three words can convey all the longing, desire, hope, disappointment, fragility, and understanding that ties the two of us together. It does not seem right to me that such a profound binding of souls can be so simply described, that such an ephemeral, mere whisper, born of dreams and desires that dissipates into the cold reality of the world can convey the desperate need that one being can hold for another. And yet…

“Ai shiteru, Aoshi.” And I mean it. How can I deny him this whisper? Though it may not seem right to me, that the world only sees three words where I see my world is… fitting. I wish to hold my love close, and for once in my life I have no desire to share this beauty of fire and ice to anyone else. He is mine alone, my beautiful phoenix born of fire, ashes, thunder, and lightning, my magnificent dragon of grace and ice and strength.

We smile at each other as he slips his arm around my waist, embracing me as we drift off into blissful sleep, filled with not the brief spark of happiness, but with the lasting satisfaction of contentment that meant forever. We are forever. We are content.

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AN: There. This is an old, old, old one-shot that I had written many, many years ago, back when I was still new to the concept of fanfiction and its wonders. It is my first piece of fanfiction, and I did very little to change when I posted it - merely corrected grammatical errors and such. I was quite young when I wrote it, and evidently I was quite a romantic, too. Anyway, thank you for reading, and please rate and review!

wolfsbride: Actually, between you and me.. I wrote it back when I was about 13 years old. Indecently young, I know. Let me just say that I barely knew what portions of the male anatomy were called when I discovered slash. It took me months to figure it out, and even longer to understand the mechanics of male/male intercourse. Thus the obviously amateurish work, the one-two finger prep method (which was all I knew), and the lyrical method of writing slash (which was all I could bring myself to write without being horribly embarrased). Admittedly, though, I wrote this piece in a sudden burst of what I now call 'writing frenzy' - the irresistible urge to put down to paper and to ceaselessly write a story until it has been finished. Hence what you read before you. ^^;;;


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