Disclaimer: No, I don't own Trigun. If I did, it would be just as smutty as the shit I write. So there.
Bacchanalia
I lie
before you soaked
in white orchid, its redolence
assails like devil's fire. And when
you sheathe my body with your flame
I get drunk from the blood of you, the flame of you.
Then, when the new moon mounts
black sky, I inhale your breath
and pray to you: swallow me
alive.
-j.b. bernstein.
Every now and then the dream would come back, and he would wake up sweaty, distraught, and clinging to a memory that did not exist. No matter how many times he died and woke up screaming, limbs flailing as he tried to release from the imaginary reality, he never could figure out what it meant. Each time he called for Legato - his mental comfort - he would sit in despair, trying to decipher the subconscious message. A slave had no opinion; only the will of his Master. That is what separated God and Man.
Knives said nothing. His conversations were all one-sided arguments at this time of night, and he could see and hear the simpleness of the human's thoughts. It didn't matter now, the hurt and confusion - things he never dealt with lightly - threatening to rise up until he shrank into Legato's awaiting arms like a frightened child.
"Is there something you wish of me, Master?" A usual monotone, smoother than the sheets the Plant had tangled them in.
"I want to sleep," he replied after several minutes, his voice just as emotionless.
It was an unspoken command, something Knives couldn't bring himself to vocalize but had asked for once before. Their lips melted together, so gently, soundlessly, and effortlessly, even as the tears slipped over the pale skin. Legato moved his hands carefully, finding every inch, curve and line of the other body sacred, shedding the fabric from it to reveal what was shared with no one else.
A moan, an ache, another longing touch. Poison in each lick; it burned the feeling through Knives until all he knew was the human's body. In the dark he could barely see the outlines, bending to his fingertips, writhing with his own reactions. There were no sincere kisses or meaningful smiles, although he could almost hear Legato pray for it as he pressed him into the mattress. Worship, always passing over trembling lips just before the last gasp spilled and shattered the silence. Knives could feel his own muscles tense, his back arching and fingers digging, clawing - not fingers, now - those marvelous edges, ethereal perfection designed flawlessly sharp for pain. Sliding, raking, and gently, gently because all he could speak and think was gently, over the hip bone. The skin cried red, and he smiled.