The Best Things Are Free
Soul Calibur, Hwang/Kilik
Rated… oh… R.
By rtuko
rtuko@email.com
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He rises on his toes, balancing with an ease that speaks of long practice and natural talent; so sure on his feet, the muscles of his calves rippling and those curious shoes of his turning and twisting on the matted grass without a sound. His body is long and smoothly corded, bending and flexing in a private dance as he moves through his sword forms; long and sleek and so responsive to every sensation. The black tattoos boldly executed on each shoulder writhe as if they are alive as he stretches, expanding and contracting as he opens his arms wide and spins delicately, seeming to play with the wind. Their strange incongruity against lighter skin only accentuates the breadth of his chest and the martial strength of his back, running down each side.
An arm slices deftly through the air, the act of twirling his sword so innate and unthinking it seems just an extension of the smoothly oiled machine that is his body. He leaps high into the air, twists, and slashes downward at an imaginary enemy so swiftly there is only a silver streak and the vague sensation air has been parted. He lands and pauses, holding his pose, eyes closed, and with just a hint of a smile.
He is so beautiful, with the sun gleaming against his bronzed skin, and he is mine.
He brings one leg forward to cock it almost vertically and pauses again, deliberately reminding me just how flexible he is. Balanced delicately but so effortlessly, he makes it look easy. The enigmatic smile broadens as he opens his eyes and meets my fascinated gaze, then whirls himself into a graceful pirouette, his blade gleaming along one long arm as he transforms martial art into dance. He luxuriates in the warm sun and gentle breeze like a satisfied feline; bending, dipping, swaying, as he laughs up into the sky.
It is a sensual seduction.
He is not flushed or breathing hard, but there is a faint sheen of sweat along his shoulders and on his high forehead. He has taken off the band that usually holds his unruly hair out of his face, and I desire to run my hands through that warm thickness; to luxuriate in the softness while he laughs in mild protest, pretending to be angry when we know he takes as much pleasure in it as I do.
I ache as I watch; I miss every moment when I cannot touch him and kiss his smooth skin and hear his softly whispered endearments.
With a barely audible whicker his sword slices through the air, every line of his body bespeaking control and power. He is thoroughly synchronized with himself, moving through his forms without flaw; he reminds me of a tiger, with his passion and pride and strength.
I love him, but I fear. The gods frown on those who are too happy.
He finishes, standing in front of me with his golden eyes laughing, and carefully sheathes his sword. He waits, head slightly tilted, bending slowly to lay the sheathed blade on the grass.
It is not a conscious decision; his eyes turn serious and we move together, mouth meeting mouth in soft greeting. He is warm and moist, the mere touch of his lips filling me with inexpressible comfort and happiness. I feel him smile against me as I reach to touch him with my hands, twining my arms around his neck and delving deep into the softness that had so taken my attention. It is silky, just as I knew it would be; silky, alive under my exploring hands, as soft and beautiful as the man himself. Nothing else matters except the heat and firmness of his body against mine, the gentle probing of his tongue, one hand against the small of my back and the other sliding up my arm to cup my cheek as he tilts his head and gives himself to me, trusting me completely. His breath and mine are one; the scent of him in my nostrils heady and exhilarating. It no longer matters who might be watching and it no longer matters who might know; under the balmy blue sky such things seem trivial.
I nip at his lower lip playfully, smiling at his surprised "Mmph?" and mock growl, then I rest my cheek against his own, closing my eyes. Privacy is a precious commodity, and the few moments we snatch are rare and infrequent; never enough to treasure the long lines of his body conforming to mine, thigh to thigh, chest to chest; to savor the dampness of his breath as he moans against my skin; to run my hands down his sides and feel his shiver; to make him turn his head and smile privately into my eyes with that slight lift of his eyebrow and a slow gleaming flash of teeth. I long to curl myself tight around his warmth endlessly.
He moves. There is a bending and a sliding and the slither of clothing, then his smooth nakedness brushes against mine as he lowers me carefully to the ground, the dry matted grass scratchy against my elbows. We caress, touching with lips and hands; dipping low, sliding up, leisurely massaging, tasting, and exploring. The taking is slow and gentle; exquisitely warm, a frission building as we move in unison.
I refuse to let my eyes slide shut, preferring instead to watch and trace the changing expressions fleeting across his face, sliding my fingers down his cheek to his lips, then down to his neck where his heartbeat pulses against my hand. He takes my hand and twines his fingers with mine without opening his eyes, only smiling that mysterious smile of his and arching his back to press his body closer to mine with a low murmur, lips parting.
The air is too cold and the sun is too warm; it is hard to breathe as all feeling focuses on one point and spirals up as my eyes close involuntarily and I tear my breaths through clenched teeth, releasing in a long shuddering sigh. It is pleasure; it is warmth and contentment, resting my chin on his shoulder while my hands move down to aid him in his own pleasure. He writhes, face tensing, and shivers to a halt as I cover his lips with my own until long after we have both relaxed.
There is always melancholy in the aftermath; a heavy contented sadness for good things done and gone and the intrusion of reality once again. I tuck my head under his chin and lie quietly, savoring the quiet and the pleasant ache even as I almost absentmindedly keep note of the time as the sun makes its trek westward across the sky. I know we must return to camp soon, and find myself dreading each moment as the time draws inexorably nearer.
A hand unhurriedly combs through my hair and tucks a stray strand behind my ear, then traces the outer lobe, circling and then drawing delicate patterns down my neck and spine. Relax, he tells me wordlessly with his stroking hand. If he was speaking, I know he would also add You worry too much.
It has always benefited me to yield to his advice.
He is breathing regularly now, drifting off into sleep. I look up; his dark eyelashes are fluttering against his cheeks, but then he slits his eyes open to look at me and smiles, drawing me closer to pillow my head on his arm and giving me a soft kiss, then closing his eyes again.
The speed at which he falls into deep sleep always amazes me.
I look at him again, studying the lines and planes of his face, knowing I am fortunate. In the weeks and months and perhaps years to come until we find the legendary sword we are all in quest of, much may happen; if we survive, we may still have to battle each other for our goal. Death may come for either or both of us, and I know it may occur next month, or even the next day- and I cannot argue, for that is fate.
Until then, however, I will treasure every moment.