trinity helix (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} trinityhelix) wrote,@ 2005-01-20 21:17:00 |
|
Two Sides of a Coin
by Trinity Helix
Feedback: Everything to trinity_cross@yahoo.com
Website: www.trinityhelix.com
Fandom: Samurai Champloo
Pairing: Jin x Mugen
Genre: Romance (as much as it can possibly be, considering it's Mugen and Jin.)
Warnings: NC-17, Slash
Summary: Because Jin and Mugen are more alike than they think.
This is Jin, Mugen, and Fuu (the girl). Jin is a ronin (wandering masterless samurai) and Mugen is a kenshi (swordsman with no specific code of ethics). That's about all you need to know.
FIC BEHIND THE CUT:
*ONE*
Jin is a patient man.
He would wait upon the precipice of a rushing waterfall if he needed to, stand poised before an army without so much as a sigh. But here, now…he finds himself watching his companion without knowing he is doing so, eyes constantly seeking the other man out.
He would call Mugen prey if he didn’t know better, though Jin doesn’t know what he would do with him if he caught him.
Mugen is, after all, a thing of the wild.
He is a fire moving from village to forest to city to town, burning everything he touches but never staying long enough to be caught.
There are times when Jin’s eyes find him sprawled across the hay in the dark, and it is in these times that he is tempted to go to him. There is a voice inside him that tells him to wait, to breathe deep and clear his mind of doubt, but still the samurai is tempted.
“Wait,” the voice inside him says.
“Touch,” his hands argue.
On most nights, his mind wins and Jin bows his head against his swords, sleep coming slow like the lap of water against the shore. On most nights, he bites the insides of his cheeks until he tastes blood on his tongue, coppery and metallic and wet. On most nights, he feels the air pressing into him from all sides, choking him, until he feels like he might go mad.
This is not like most nights.
Mugen is sprawled across the hay like he always is, chewing on a stalk he’d picked up outside. The blade is a vibrant yellow that blossoms into a stem of tiny buds, and Jin watches as they bob up and down between Mugen’s teeth. There is nothing different from his routine, nothing at all, but when he looks at Jin there is something in his eyes that the samurai has never seen before. It could almost be a question or simply sleep fast approaching, but Jin thinks it might be a promise as well.
Wishful thinking perhaps, but at this point he no longer cares. Jin would be a patient man in anything but this, with anyone but him, and the samurai finds himself rising and pushing Mugen into the ground before he can stop himself.
“What the fu--" The other man almost says, but he’s cut off by Jin’s mouth and two hands holding his wrists at bay.
Kissing Mugen is like kissing the wind, Jin reflects, breathless and wild and free. He could write a poem about it, or a haiku, except there’s a knee in his stomach and he breaks the kiss but doesn’t relinquish his hold.
“You lookin’ for a fight?” Mugen asks, but the challenge is gone from his voice. Instead there is uncertainty, something that is almost fear flickering in his eyes.
Jin doesn’t smile-- not even his fathomless eyes flicker in the candlelight. “No,” he says, very carefully. “I’m not looking for a fight.”
Mugen opens his mouth and closes it, for once not knowing what to say and not wanting to fight to break free.
“Don’t move.” Jin’s thumb is calloused and rough, swiping at the pulse on Mugen’s wrist. “Please.”
The last word is almost an afterthought, and Mugen’s breath hitches as Jin’s hands tighten on his wrists. They’re hard enough to bruise and his last thought before their lips meet is: This is how I like it.
The kiss is raw and rough and almost unbearably sensual, battling for dominance in this as well as everything else. Jin drinks him in like he’s trying to get at his very soul, the core of his being, and Mugen fights him every step of the way. Somehow, deep down, they both know that this is *right*.
They break apart with barely a sound when Fuu returns from the hot springs, her cheery voice warning them beforehand. Mugen doesn’t move from his position, hands above his head and knees splayed, though Jin has moved swiftly back to his perch.
The samurai tucks his katana back onto his shoulder, curving it into the crook of his arm. He doesn’t look up when Fuu says goodnight, peacefully oblivious, and she’s in bed and snoring soon enough.
Jin narrows his eyes, the only outward sign of his discomfort, and does not sleep the rest of the night.
*TWO*
Mugen is not an eloquent man.
It’s nighttime when they first come together, Fuu off at a soba shop she’d unearthed and pleasantly occupied for the rest of the night. There are crickets in the background and Mugen almost wishes he could speak their language, if only to ask them why they never just shut the fuck up so he can get some rest.
Jin is in his corner of the barn, head bowed in almost-sleep, eyes closed behind the rimmed glass. Mugen wants to touch him, wants to kiss him like he did two nights ago, but doesn’t know that he should. He waits a while and picks at a scab on his knee, contemplating the pale, still figure.
Mugen doesn’t care much for propriety and he cares even less for pomp and tradition, but something about Jin makes him stop short of touching him.
His sword is a familiar presence at his side and he hefts it, balancing the hilt on the palm of his hand. It spins on his calluses, rough turns and glinting steel.
After a while he says: “Are you awake?”
But he says it softly, not quite to himself, and is almost relieved when Jin doesn’t answer.
Mugen spins the sword again, whistling this time, following the turns with the tune in his head. It’s simple and mindless and an excellent way to pass the time.
Across from him Jin exhales impatiently, a quick breath gusting from his lips. “I thought you would have come by now,” he says as he rises, kneeling by Mugen’s side.
“Wasn’t sure you wanted me to,” the other man shrugs, spinning his sword again.
Jin counts two turns before deftly taking it from its spin and laying it on the hay beside them.
“Oi!” Mugen protests, starting to sit up. Jin’s hand is steel against his chest, pushing him hard against the hay.
“Be quiet,” the samurai says softly, leaning down.
“Stop telling me what to do,” Mugen mumbles, and then their lips meet and he doesn’t want to talk anymore.
Jin’s mouth is hard just like his, and the hands that are fisting in his hair would bring tears to a woman’s eyes. It becomes a fight without their doing anything to foster it, though this time it’s more of smoke than the proverbial fire.
Mugen pulls at Jin’s gi, baring a smooth white shoulder and splaying his fingers against the skin of it. It’s softer than he thought it would be (or should be), and his brow knits as he ponders the knots of Jin’s hakama.
The samurai, in the meantime, has made short work of Mugen’s half-open tunic and is already pulling off his trousers. Mugen grunts a little as Jin slaps his hands away from his waist, ridding him of the complicated knots himself.
“Oi,” he protests, the word sounding weak even to his own ears, and Jin lowers himself onto Mugen once more. This time it’s skin on skin, bare perfection and Mugen can’t stand how fucking *still* everything is.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be, not with Jin, and he can’t put into words because he doesn’t know *how*. So instead he pushes against Jin, surprising the samurai into sitting up, moonlight spilling from the windows and putting Mugen into shadow.
Jin smiles, a glint of white, and then he kisses Mugen again. It’s hard enough to draw blood, almost as if to say: I understand.
His nails dig into Mugen’s wrists-- raw and sharp-- and he pushes him back down into the hay. “Mine,” Jin says, and it’s a statement that brooks no argument.
He enters Mugen with little preparation, a low hiss issuing from his lips. Blood mingles with spit and sweat as they buck against each other, pain and pleasure burning low.
Jin is controlling the pace of the fuck and Mugen is surprised to realize that he doesn’t care. There is heat and fire and it is spreading throughout his body, his mouth is open and he doesn’t know what he’s saying, only hopes that Jin won’t remember later on.
He’s a wild man, a crazy man, a man who kills for pleasure and fights for sport. He surrenders to the samurai’s hands and the samurai’s lips and the samurai’s cock, and Mugen closes his eyes because he can no longer bear to see Jin’s face.
He comes when Jin comes, drawing bloody crescents on the white skin of Jin’s back, teeth cutting into his lower lip. He shivers when Jin leans down to kiss him, a slow swipe of tongue against his mouth. The gesture is entirely unlike him, unlike them both, but Mugen closes his eyes and lets him anyway.
They look at each other afterwards when Jin pulls out of him, slowly rolling onto his back. Their arms are touching-- nothing else.
Jin says: “I’ll make salve for your wound later.”
And Mugen doesn’t reply, because even though he is not an eloquent man, Jin is.
And for now, that is enough for the both of them.
*fin*
by Trinity Helix
Feedback: Everything to trinity_cross@yahoo.com
Website: www.trinityhelix.com
Fandom: Samurai Champloo
Pairing: Jin x Mugen
Genre: Romance (as much as it can possibly be, considering it's Mugen and Jin.)
Warnings: NC-17, Slash
Summary: Because Jin and Mugen are more alike than they think.
This is Jin, Mugen, and Fuu (the girl). Jin is a ronin (wandering masterless samurai) and Mugen is a kenshi (swordsman with no specific code of ethics). That's about all you need to know.
FIC BEHIND THE CUT:
*ONE*
Jin is a patient man.
He would wait upon the precipice of a rushing waterfall if he needed to, stand poised before an army without so much as a sigh. But here, now…he finds himself watching his companion without knowing he is doing so, eyes constantly seeking the other man out.
He would call Mugen prey if he didn’t know better, though Jin doesn’t know what he would do with him if he caught him.
Mugen is, after all, a thing of the wild.
He is a fire moving from village to forest to city to town, burning everything he touches but never staying long enough to be caught.
There are times when Jin’s eyes find him sprawled across the hay in the dark, and it is in these times that he is tempted to go to him. There is a voice inside him that tells him to wait, to breathe deep and clear his mind of doubt, but still the samurai is tempted.
“Wait,” the voice inside him says.
“Touch,” his hands argue.
On most nights, his mind wins and Jin bows his head against his swords, sleep coming slow like the lap of water against the shore. On most nights, he bites the insides of his cheeks until he tastes blood on his tongue, coppery and metallic and wet. On most nights, he feels the air pressing into him from all sides, choking him, until he feels like he might go mad.
This is not like most nights.
Mugen is sprawled across the hay like he always is, chewing on a stalk he’d picked up outside. The blade is a vibrant yellow that blossoms into a stem of tiny buds, and Jin watches as they bob up and down between Mugen’s teeth. There is nothing different from his routine, nothing at all, but when he looks at Jin there is something in his eyes that the samurai has never seen before. It could almost be a question or simply sleep fast approaching, but Jin thinks it might be a promise as well.
Wishful thinking perhaps, but at this point he no longer cares. Jin would be a patient man in anything but this, with anyone but him, and the samurai finds himself rising and pushing Mugen into the ground before he can stop himself.
“What the fu--" The other man almost says, but he’s cut off by Jin’s mouth and two hands holding his wrists at bay.
Kissing Mugen is like kissing the wind, Jin reflects, breathless and wild and free. He could write a poem about it, or a haiku, except there’s a knee in his stomach and he breaks the kiss but doesn’t relinquish his hold.
“You lookin’ for a fight?” Mugen asks, but the challenge is gone from his voice. Instead there is uncertainty, something that is almost fear flickering in his eyes.
Jin doesn’t smile-- not even his fathomless eyes flicker in the candlelight. “No,” he says, very carefully. “I’m not looking for a fight.”
Mugen opens his mouth and closes it, for once not knowing what to say and not wanting to fight to break free.
“Don’t move.” Jin’s thumb is calloused and rough, swiping at the pulse on Mugen’s wrist. “Please.”
The last word is almost an afterthought, and Mugen’s breath hitches as Jin’s hands tighten on his wrists. They’re hard enough to bruise and his last thought before their lips meet is: This is how I like it.
The kiss is raw and rough and almost unbearably sensual, battling for dominance in this as well as everything else. Jin drinks him in like he’s trying to get at his very soul, the core of his being, and Mugen fights him every step of the way. Somehow, deep down, they both know that this is *right*.
They break apart with barely a sound when Fuu returns from the hot springs, her cheery voice warning them beforehand. Mugen doesn’t move from his position, hands above his head and knees splayed, though Jin has moved swiftly back to his perch.
The samurai tucks his katana back onto his shoulder, curving it into the crook of his arm. He doesn’t look up when Fuu says goodnight, peacefully oblivious, and she’s in bed and snoring soon enough.
Jin narrows his eyes, the only outward sign of his discomfort, and does not sleep the rest of the night.
*TWO*
Mugen is not an eloquent man.
It’s nighttime when they first come together, Fuu off at a soba shop she’d unearthed and pleasantly occupied for the rest of the night. There are crickets in the background and Mugen almost wishes he could speak their language, if only to ask them why they never just shut the fuck up so he can get some rest.
Jin is in his corner of the barn, head bowed in almost-sleep, eyes closed behind the rimmed glass. Mugen wants to touch him, wants to kiss him like he did two nights ago, but doesn’t know that he should. He waits a while and picks at a scab on his knee, contemplating the pale, still figure.
Mugen doesn’t care much for propriety and he cares even less for pomp and tradition, but something about Jin makes him stop short of touching him.
His sword is a familiar presence at his side and he hefts it, balancing the hilt on the palm of his hand. It spins on his calluses, rough turns and glinting steel.
After a while he says: “Are you awake?”
But he says it softly, not quite to himself, and is almost relieved when Jin doesn’t answer.
Mugen spins the sword again, whistling this time, following the turns with the tune in his head. It’s simple and mindless and an excellent way to pass the time.
Across from him Jin exhales impatiently, a quick breath gusting from his lips. “I thought you would have come by now,” he says as he rises, kneeling by Mugen’s side.
“Wasn’t sure you wanted me to,” the other man shrugs, spinning his sword again.
Jin counts two turns before deftly taking it from its spin and laying it on the hay beside them.
“Oi!” Mugen protests, starting to sit up. Jin’s hand is steel against his chest, pushing him hard against the hay.
“Be quiet,” the samurai says softly, leaning down.
“Stop telling me what to do,” Mugen mumbles, and then their lips meet and he doesn’t want to talk anymore.
Jin’s mouth is hard just like his, and the hands that are fisting in his hair would bring tears to a woman’s eyes. It becomes a fight without their doing anything to foster it, though this time it’s more of smoke than the proverbial fire.
Mugen pulls at Jin’s gi, baring a smooth white shoulder and splaying his fingers against the skin of it. It’s softer than he thought it would be (or should be), and his brow knits as he ponders the knots of Jin’s hakama.
The samurai, in the meantime, has made short work of Mugen’s half-open tunic and is already pulling off his trousers. Mugen grunts a little as Jin slaps his hands away from his waist, ridding him of the complicated knots himself.
“Oi,” he protests, the word sounding weak even to his own ears, and Jin lowers himself onto Mugen once more. This time it’s skin on skin, bare perfection and Mugen can’t stand how fucking *still* everything is.
This isn’t how it was supposed to be, not with Jin, and he can’t put into words because he doesn’t know *how*. So instead he pushes against Jin, surprising the samurai into sitting up, moonlight spilling from the windows and putting Mugen into shadow.
Jin smiles, a glint of white, and then he kisses Mugen again. It’s hard enough to draw blood, almost as if to say: I understand.
His nails dig into Mugen’s wrists-- raw and sharp-- and he pushes him back down into the hay. “Mine,” Jin says, and it’s a statement that brooks no argument.
He enters Mugen with little preparation, a low hiss issuing from his lips. Blood mingles with spit and sweat as they buck against each other, pain and pleasure burning low.
Jin is controlling the pace of the fuck and Mugen is surprised to realize that he doesn’t care. There is heat and fire and it is spreading throughout his body, his mouth is open and he doesn’t know what he’s saying, only hopes that Jin won’t remember later on.
He’s a wild man, a crazy man, a man who kills for pleasure and fights for sport. He surrenders to the samurai’s hands and the samurai’s lips and the samurai’s cock, and Mugen closes his eyes because he can no longer bear to see Jin’s face.
He comes when Jin comes, drawing bloody crescents on the white skin of Jin’s back, teeth cutting into his lower lip. He shivers when Jin leans down to kiss him, a slow swipe of tongue against his mouth. The gesture is entirely unlike him, unlike them both, but Mugen closes his eyes and lets him anyway.
They look at each other afterwards when Jin pulls out of him, slowly rolling onto his back. Their arms are touching-- nothing else.
Jin says: “I’ll make salve for your wound later.”
And Mugen doesn’t reply, because even though he is not an eloquent man, Jin is.
And for now, that is enough for the both of them.
*fin*
