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Foreigner. Devil. Demon. Westerner. Stranger. Few of many things where he tread which people called him. He greeted each day with the rising of the sun goddess standing from the sea and floating across the sky with her illuminated robes, he treaded her lit path along the many ways around Hondo to a great master, and so he found two sensei in his midst. One year led to two, then so became his age of youth and unrest, Gunnar was no stranger to easy victories at last completing his training with Hattori Hanzo and an infamous Ronin of the farthest east. Gunnar Jensen honored his sensei by wearing their joined clan seals, and his grandmaster’s ancient katana across his back as he then went by sea to the west where customs were a little less familiar, somehow a far cry from the twenty years he spent upon the sea-washed eastern islands.

Upon arriving, many took offense to his vesture being the robes of his sensei, and for which he instead wore with pride. From one city to the next, things remained the same for Gunnar who was in search for a sword equal in might and precise in handling to his own katana. Fighters rose like tides above the swarms of spectators in which who came to see the blonde warrior from the foreign Northern-West, and alike the foams washing on the crest of tides, they fell as if nothing more could be done of their failure. Double hammers, hoop blades, deer-antler blades betrayed their wielders soon after clashing with his thousand-folded steel katana, those of mighty family heirlooms neither broke nor splintered as he batted the weapons away from unsure hands grasping their ancient hilts. No sooner did the city yield to his steel edge, and no sooner did he grow tired of sniveling scholars lecturing him in their ways of wushu, he decided to visit the countryside for bumpkins quite possibly known for their work-hewn hands and their simple tongues.

No longer was he the target for intellectual talk, now moreover, he was then the receiver of Confucius’s enigmatic proverbs regarding topics of varying ranges. He then decided to go into the forest where there were no verbal puzzles or need for worldly knowledge, instead of nature which was a place not lost to him, neither was the peace it offered him. Neither was silence offered upon hearing not too far off a whisper, the sound ghosting in low notes like fingers combing along the rustling of leaves, there was no beauty maybe only in which the words that were said giving such music to the passing wind. He approached carefully along the thick grass and cotton-tipped seedlings rising behind as he disturbed their perch, yet not too much a ways ahead was a swordsman wielding a blade which slithered through the air this way and that not unlike a snake.

I’ve lost my one true love
In the sea of despair and sorrow

The snake of a sword when in the hand of the man looked as if it were a mere piece of white silk ribbon curling and unfurling in the wind, but only a fool would guess the weak temper of steel winding and biting the atmosphere with it’s single silver fang. The swordsman continued to gnash and gnaw in circles, taking care to not harm flying seedlings as they rose like cotton snow around him, in a blur of long black and fire-hued robes, he charmed the steel round and round with song uttered from his hardly-moving lips:

I shall wait forever
And ever, and long past tomorrow

Entranced, bewitched and beguiled by the swordsman’s beauty, Gunnar stood silently as a wordless effigy would in a temple, he witnessed the flawless communion between the human poet of movement and power manipulate skillfully the inanimate beast held in his right hand. Every flick of his wrist and glide of his legs over nature’s stage brought a hiss from the cobra, which was then the result of the swordsman to momentarily brush his left hand soothingly up the serpent’s back to his lone fang, the serpent lashes out wildly as he curls his own back and plants his foot firmly before him to control the blade:

I cannot bear this pain
This ache, these tears in which I swallow

Crouching low as the serpent rose to the sky and struck in the shape of a crescent moon, he allowed himself to rise with the cobra and be led by it’s tail as it seemed to weave through snarls of grass, just as suddenly, his body became that of the serpent, his left hand mimicking the cobra’s tail. The cobra slowly glanced with the sun’s glint on it’s fang as the robed form encircled itself, the tail sweeping the ground soundlessly, he then picked himself up on one foot, letting the silver head peek high above as his right wrist flicked the blade side to side, the dizzying movements increasing in range and effort. He motioned as if outlining the wide right and left petals of and orchid in full bloom, his legs rooting to the spot, uprooting and firmly tangling left and right in circular-digging motions:

O, where hast my love gone?
Does my heart lie above your barrow?

His feet looked as if they were braiding the earth as he swept his step inwardly, then landing outwardly in perfect stride, the serpent struck side by side swinging in motion around his shoulders, lifting the seeds higher as he approached and flew back just as suddenly. The cobra continued to lead him as he tamed and directed which way for the serpent to strike, he touched the iron fang with the tip of his left hand and rolled the ring consisting of his arm and the sword forward, the revolutions even and straight as a rotating wheel, he carried both head, tail and coiled body as if it were possessing him to do so. The blade again bent the faster he allowed the cobra head to move him, he soundlessly parted the grass, his robe lending to the illusion of an iron dragon leading a fiery inferno behind, the robes he wore spun behind until he was flying:

Truly, you are missing
To our next life, I shall follow

As the final verse of the poem was spoken, he slowed himself, the blade straightening as he did, his robes settling around his body, his long braided hair once flying as wildly as his blade lay at his back and he sheathed the sword not before picking up a bamboo staff. Gunnar could only watch as the gray-ringed eyes stared past him as if he was made out of air, and finally getting a good look out of the man, Gunnar was speechless: the swordsman had eyes so large, round and clouded that he was indeed sure that the young man was blind, what a shame it was since the man was surely unsighted to his own charm. The beautiful swordsman was immune to his own poison, but Gunnar was smitten even more so by the serpent’s guardian.

Turning away to leave, Gunnar shouted behind, “What a lovely day it is!”

The young man turned to the voice, moving his head to one side then the other, the young man could only squint at the foggy shade before him blotting out some of the hazy color, he inquired calmly, “The sun is warm, the birds are chirping, the day is long - then it must be so.”

“Swordsman?” Gunnar said, approaching the still form, he allowed a respectful space between them even if he was dying to close it, he asked, “Might you have a name?”

“Surely any should suit me as the name of one suits them,” the swordsman looked any which way besides to the man standing before him, he liked the sound of a new voice, though rough and loud, he knew that when it spoke poetry, there would be a music in his words, he quickly said, “It is only fair if you have heard my poetry that I should hear yours’. Do you utter beauty as such?”

“Your true love has returned,” Gunnar breathed as he drew near, lowering himself until he was close to bending in half, his voice deep, rich and certain with lust, but softened and slow since he was equally yearning if not completely dying from the ache in his heart, “From the sea I have come to your side.”

Gunnar unsheathed his sword, allowing first to let the terribly nearsighted swordsman to follow the glint upwards with his fingers, the practiced fingertips brushing dangerously over the sharpened edge, but so lightly that he had done no harm to himself, and Gunnar touched the flat of the blade along the young man’s outstretched arm. With the blunt side rising and falling steadily, he came to conclusion that the slighter man was hiding his muscle spasms, possibly out of fear, maybe for the sake of excitement, the unguarded expression on his face telling of both concern and interest. Gunnar circled him with the blunt edge rising higher to the young man’s shoulder, his steps slower as he drew nearer until the rustle of fabric was unmistakable and clear, the worried look on the young man turned into a calm apprehension, it seemed as if years had passed with the slighter man’s breath deepening and sweat misting his brow before Gunnar positioned his katana at the young man’s chest.

“I too have yearned,” Gunnar allowed his breath to dance along the gleaming skin, watching as the eyes met his, the dark pools lit and alive, “And so I cast off my selfish pride.”

He mused at how the man looked stunning at that moment, those dilated eyes focused and half closed in feigned tranquility, the trembling lips slightly opened and his long hair drawn into a braid, strands moments ago misplaced by all his movement had now hung loosely about his face, his large unoccupied left hand swept his hair aside without even sweeping his fingertips along the hot skin as he spoke smoothly by his low tone, ah! And the voice was indeed beautiful as it’s unseen owner, the swordsman focused less on the blurry image before him and instead treated himself to the sensual tone begotten unto him alone:

“I search in torment,” he brushed his lower lip along his hairline, rustling the soft hairs and making the young swordsman shiver at the new sensation, he leaned back only slightly to watch those eyes widen in the tone of his whisper, “Too much, for too long that I had died.”

The breath that the young man held was ghosting away from him, past his lips and flying away like a flock of wild doves, yet in a group it seemed to be at home next to the terribly menacing man he stood before. The swordsman dared not to reach for those lips forming beautiful words which were a mirror to his own poem, answering the questions left with untied ends, and giving new plane for the poem he was once told was the widower’s song. The foreigner was a little slow in pronunciation, almost speaking like a baby with their first words, but a grown man reciting poetry in a very adult manner wound his mind in dizzying circles and further drew him into the hazy shadow he grew warm under.

“I am here, my love,” Gunnar drew as a great shadow does in low light behind the swordsman, drawing his katana up under the delicate chin until the young man stood looking up in awe beneath hardly opened lashes, he cradled the chin and neck with his left hand, feeling the steady beat matching his own beneath his fingers and palm, “No grave is too deep, no sea too wide.”

The young man mused to himself that heaven looked no more divine with this foreign demon holding unto his neck as gently and wickedly as a greedy treasure’s keeper, if only would the foreigner lean a little closer only then could he actually visibly catch more than but the vague hint of a person, and so as Gunnar thought to himself about the beauty held within his grasp, caught between his thousand-folded steel katana and a blade equally as deadly: his body. The young swordsman stood as hours seemed to pass, until he no longer stood on his own but propped against the unwavering torso, and Gunnar was equally entranced, brushing softly along the pronounced eyebrows, each hair giving way under his slight touch. Then his thumb inched along under the ripe lips, pressing lightly within the smooth indenture between the swordsman’s lower lip and chin, he leaned near to the swordsman’s ear.

“Truly, I am here,” he whispered to the borrowed ear, he kissed the tip before asking, “My love, my mate, will you be my bride?”

The swordsman at long last blinked, so slowly as a butterfly does when she first tries her new wings, he hardly moved his lips as he murmured, “If I say no?”

Gunnar knew deep within his mind that he would Not accept ‘no’ for an answer, but he liked where they kept their distance in terms of their bodily desires, “I will be the only man to ever die of heartbreak.”

Sensing the katana edge easing from his neck, the swordsman took the hilt of his sheathed sword and lifted the edge away from his neck, his face still staring straight up at the foreigner, “And if I agree?”

Gunnar had to let the twitch in his cheek give way to a smile, he trailed his left pinkie finger on the swordsman’s slightly parted lips, he pulled the slighter body closer to his own all the while speaking in the tone by which he recited poetry, “Then you will be the happiest man alive.”

The young man gripped the hilt of his sword, an audible snap between skin and wood sounding, and he asked politely, “And if we fight?”

The foreigner brushed the stray dark strands once more aside as a breeze picked up, clearing the veiled eyes of vagueness, he answered with the word of the gentleman, “I will be sure to fight fair.”

“You would like my answer?” the young man asked, his mouth once again in a tiny slit as words came readily formed and hitting Gunnar with such conviction that he nearly devoured the swordsman, seeing a very slight nod in the foreigner’s chin, the swordsman added, “Sheathed swords, no blades.”

Gunnar shrugged, the smile still amok on his face as his left hand slid down the swordsman’s compact frame, the layers of silk crushing beneath his palm, the embroidered dragons curled and overpowered by his yearning, his fingers worked the knot on the sash, he parted the newly slacked robes until a simple white shirt lay ruffled in the breeze. The high stiff collar now gone left the pale nape exposed, unmarked and unmarred as newly fallen snow, the foreigner drew his left palm up to the young man’s cheek, those beautiful eyes along with that exquisite face burning him slowly. He grinned a little wider, allowing his partially naked inner wrist to trace along the swordsman’s misted brow, drawing the cool sweat away as he stepped back.

“Where’s the fun in that, my love?” Gunnar continued to pace backwards, he undid the ties of his katana sheath at his side while slipping the blade back into this scabbard and awaited the reaction of the swordsman.

“In good time, sir,” the young man inhaled, closing his eyes, he looked over his shoulder as far back as his nearsighted vision allowed, his whisper came clearly, “All in good time.”

In a simple motion of his unoccupied left arm, he drew off his outer robe and exposed the bright phoenix nestled in fiery hues about his neck and shoulders, he easily folded the outer robes in half and set them neatly upon a smooth stone before him. Gunnar, more simply dressed, he took off his own outer kimono and the dark suit jacket also, he unbuttoned the first button of his shirt and continued to watch the swordsman more fully. He watched as the swordsman’s eyes gazed from afar, possibly due to not being able to make detail from a colored silhouette and an unearthly gleam of the katana’s polished sheath, yet there he stood with his back to Gunnar, the pale chin turned up and toward him in recognition. Ever so slight shadows played on the young man’s face, that of wonder firstly hooded his eyes, then those of perception leading his body primarily with his shoulders turning, leading onto his waist, finally his legs rotated one by one to point toward his focal point: the foreigner.

“The world is so lonely,” he traced the shadows with his sheathed sword, the iron tip scraping along the dirt and grass as he approached the furthest object straight ahead of him, seeing the polished sheath and smelling the faint far eastern spices on warm skin, he recited his impromptu verse, “So blurry and so far.”

There was once again the serpent in his right hand, but straight as stiff rod it stood in his right hand, the eyes hooded but scales shining with the sun’s noontime radiance, the closer the swordsman drew to the foreigner, the clearer he became until he feared that the face of the man was as handsome as his voice if not ever more than one could see such wonder. Ever so slowly like a wheel, the swordsman circled around his target, wide spiraling circles which wound one way and coiled the other, Gunnar then mimicked each step, striding left as the other stepped left and then pacing right as the swordsman drew right. Subconsciously, the swordsman kept his eyes trained on the space between his sword and the shadow drawing ever nearer to himself, as a snail carries on with their day so did the two lure one another to each other’s trap, enticing one another with the other’s movement and magnetism, one becoming the other’s charmer as the other became the enchanter’s pawn. Once again, Gunnar was pulled into that lost gaze, he finally spoke after so long a pause in their speech having had no words more beautiful than movement to describe their motions to one another:

“Yet you see me clearly,” the very slight rasp at the end of his tone made the nearsighted swordsman draw the sword a little higher from the ground, to announce the tiny gape in the young man’s slack lips, Gunnar vocalized in the low voice that seemed to pacify the swordsman, “Your eyes open ajar.”

Indeed, though he could not see his own face, the breeze cooling the damp inside his open lips made the verse true, his heart knocked hard once inside his chest, and his eyes fought against the fog hanging over his brows to See the other man clearly. Yet there was no help in the form of a wind to blow the cloud away from his eyes, how one says ‘fighting blind’ he was preparing for it to be accordingly, he felt an inhuman pull to the foreigner. Though, try as he may, there was no escaping his own fate, he had no way to defend himself against his heart’s own longing, nor the other’s desire for himself.

Near enough to touch, but separated by their own insistent stubbornness, Gunnar stared down at the swordsman while the clouded brown eyes in turn gazed up at him, their sheathed blades at their side, neither ready to look away, not that there was anything more beautiful to them than that which they saw at the very moment. Their matching strides shifted from clockwise side to side to counter clockwise and still were they planted at each other’s duly occupied side, in a wonderful pair they seemed, like a hound chasing a ghost-vixen, a songbird perched atop a swooping crane, and neither looked away. Neither was aware or ashamed of how deeply they watched the other, their coinciding strides gradually picking up pace, their once latent blades now in full view as they drew apart to make room for the kinesis of their weapons.

Many a battle began with an eager opponent rushing to Gunnar, and ended more so swiftly with their weapons being knocked away, but none began purely out of attraction. He had to admit to himself how the swordsman’s simple sway in movement had him enthralled, the long dark hair swinging more freely with split robes to match the length of his braided queue, finally then did it seem all completely too vulgar to fight him. The swordsman knew no differently; he himself was endlessly Drawn to a face he had not yet seen, to lips whose richness in poetry and intoxicating poison in their lovely temptation, to gentle hands which had moments before held him close, a warmth rivaling the delicious caress of a black widow’s woven silks. Truly if lust were a substitute for passion, then both were victims of whichever masqueraded the primary emotion burning within them both.

In a flash, both were at the center of their circle with both swords grinding dry sparks from one another, their wonder igniting into lust.

“My beautiful swordsman,” Gunnar slowed his strides, right hand gripping firmly the locked scabbard of his katana as he drew it before himself, he smiled menacingly to the blush enshrouding the swordsman’s face when he mentioned ‘my’, “My lovely companion-”

Their sheathed swords met once more, hilt in hand whilst the inscribed iron edge touched the dark wood braided with cord and near the hilt wrapped in an ornate tassel, Gunnar could almost taste each scrape of the two sheaths joining in opposition, more for the will of their wielders, the weapons had no quarrel with one another. Both their right hands gripped fast to the covert swords, the young man whose stance expressed an air of evasiveness, the foreigner took measured steps and angled the katana parallel to the swordsman’s shoulder in precision, neither could help the drawing of the other’s body to the other, like two storms converging.

“Most stunning in the land,” the foreigner grinned widely now that the swordsman drew upon his left hand to hide the sunset hues staining his cheeks, he charged forth and thrust the sheathed katana in a downward swipe all while keeping his voice as soft and light as cotton flowers, “Why do you reprimand?”

Halfway, they met, face to face, the two sheathed blades locking and sparking just as their eyes burned into one another, Gunnar stepped sideways, the swordsman matching his step as their arms refused to give an inch to the other, they both held fast solidly. The young man blushed all the more furiously as he watched a blurry blossom-hued line stretch and edge closer until the scent of outlandish spice and sweat were so strong, he was lost to the world for one oblivious breath as he noticed the foreigner’s all-too-close presence. Once exhaling, two drops of the sky bloomed before him, his vision swimming with the blue tone, he realized no sooner how a warmth seemed as if to caress his chin, and like a wonderful dream, once contact between Gunnar and the swordsman’s shoulder was made - the spell was broken.

“Kind sir, kind traveler,” the swordsman drew away, his right leg swinging back and arm pulling the blade inward, he half-turned and drew the blade up in a crescent strike with the power of a storm wave crashing against a sea wall, his voice playful and soft he whispered, “Does one ever tire?”

Gunnar stumbled backwards yet quickly regained his footing, he kept his katana close with each wild strike growing closer to his body, he knew he had to act soon or face his first defeat. When their swords locked at the pinnacle where the swordsman stood outstretched and leaving his body vulnerable, the foreigner took his right hand off the hilt and formed a tight fist, he swung at the young man. Also just as quick a thinker, the swordsman drew his upper torso back, narrowly missing the massive closed palm hurdling like a thrown boulder past his chin, he flung his left shin into the exposed ribcage of the other, and earned a growl.

“As one as blind sees true intent,” the swordsman flung off a blow from the katana, he drew back and repositioned with his sword pointed at Gunnar and his posture tilted aside, “For crossing me, shall you repent?”

Hit but hardly moved, Gunnar charged several paces forward with his sword held low at his side in motion to slice upwards from the ground and all his might packed behind his strike, the swordsman only stepped aside and exhaled heavily as the foreigner grazed the other. He heaved the katana from striking the ground, turning to at least injure the young man, he gripped his thousand-fold katana by the hilt with both hands and dealt another blow. The young man their blades together midair in a mighty crash of steel against steel, their precious iron pieces battling as two opposing typhoons for superiority until Gunnar shoved forward and knocked the swordsman away. He stumbled back a few steps and planted a foot behind before he could overstep the circular borders his own feet and the other man’s had made only minutes before, his chest heaved deliciously as he breathed in the cool air and outlandish spice of skin.

“Whether by force or by will, are you at all emancipated?” again, there was that deep voice softened by poetry as Gunnar advanced, the swordsman felt his entire body blush a deeper shade of pink, this time the katana lunged straight for him, “What then is a compliment if it is not appreciated?”

He easily batted the sheathed blade sideways in an automatic response to a weapon ready to deal a deadly blow, leaving himself exposed, Gunnar’s left hand took him by the neck, the hot grip neither hard nor holding lethal promises, his voice came out a single whispered breath, “The truth transmuted.”

The swordsman undid the belt which wrapped around his waist and kept his robes together in neatness, he leaned in close yet his body not at all touching Gunnar’s, he whispered in the same tone as he had reciting the last lines of his poem, “Do what you will, foreigner.”

“Do what I will? What I shall? What I must?” Gunnar inched closer with each word, his voice dropping and deepening until as though he were speaking through a silent hum in his throat, yet by each syllable a breath rustled the swordsman’s hair, the few hanging strands which had long fell out of their place.

He tilted his chin upwards to both see the face slowly becoming clear and to receive the flow of words warming his lips, he felt the large hand kneading against his pulse venture to his brows and smooth his hair away, just on the verge of falling deeply into the eyes which were finally distinct and blue, he said low in his voice so as not disturb the air, “Anything you wish.”

Gunnar dropped his katana and drew the slighter body to himself, feeling each quiver of restrained muscles against himself, and at long last allowed himself a sample of the plump lips which complimented his own, the swordsman tasted ripe and sweet with youth as he held tighter lest the young man decided to run. Yet the swordsman stayed, he felt his lips give way to the other and Gunnar’s hands parting the folds of his robes, the patient fingers separating each layer from right to left of the black cloth. As the swordsman’s breath hitched and his arms grasped Gunnar’s shirt, the foreigner knew before his body did that he now brushed naked skin, the feeling different from simply touching.

The swordsman’s skin at the center of his chest quivered softly as he pulled away to lick his lower lip, he gently allowed his tongue to brush the shy tip of the other as one could without being inconsiderate, yet the slighter man held with an immovable grip on the fabric of his shoulders. He finally bared a left shoulder of the young man, he licked his lips as his mouth descended unto the exposed slope of muscle between the swordsman’s neck and shoulder, his lips firstly left a warm print and turned his teeth unto the area. The young man purred inside his throat, at first the tiniest of a pitch which turned into a low and rhythmic keening, wanting more sounds and to explore further, Gunnar kissed along the young man’s collarbone.

Planting his lips with care on the pale skin, he felt the young man’s grip twisting the fabric on his shirt, ready to rip the material to shreds as his mouth approached a hidden nipple, he quickly unbuttoned his upper garment so the other had something more intimate to hold unto. Surely, the swordsman grabbed on to a pair of sweaty arms, his hands hardly large enough to completely wrap around or get a firm grip, he buried his nose in the fragrant blonde hair and panted as the mouth closed around his nipple, teeth nipping and pulling at the very tip, he felt himself being moved, his body being picked up and set down. Opening his eyes and surveying the quiet chaos around, he found Gunnar seated cross-legged and himself kneeled atop the crossed legs, the foreigner’s erection apparent and leaking against his own.

He felt Gunnar’s tongue lick wide stripes from his chest to his chin, leaving a hot trail which cooled by the time his chin was reached, his eyes fluttered closed to cancel out his unreliable perception of the sky, of trees reaching to the blue ground as he leaned back and saw the world upside down. Gunnar’s hands pried his robes apart, one arm at a time until he lay limply held by two hands under his shoulder blades, and again the hot mouth descended on his chest, aching need pulsed between his legs, he felt himself twitching and sopping through his underwear and pants, yet he could not help himself against the gentle onslaught of his own desire and the physical one Gunnar applied to his body; leaving no accessible expanse of skin untouched nor unmarked by his bruising kisses.

Madness so pure and true claimed every word of protest before he could utter a coherent sound, his body alit with life as no person had ever seen, heard, or touched him as ever at all. Gunnar on the other hand wrote out every and any name he could remember only to hear this man’s sounds, any and every which made him whole, he felt his entire lower body rock forward, causing the swordsman to rub his cheek in his blonde hair, drawing in deep breaths labored and heavy as hot air. Alas wondering too much how the cause of the sounds were made, the foreigner lifted the pleasure-weakened body from himself, his mouth dropped to the sight before him:

The swordsman sat shivering on his lap, lips nearly the same color as the bruises on his shoulders, dark eyes unfocused and just barely opened slits, his body gleaming and heaving with near-exhaustion, the young man’s voice was like the lowest note whistled by a flute, “Walk away and leave me here.”

Gunnar was so entranced that he unfastened the young man’s pants, he crushed the slender body to his own in protest as he whispered oh so honey-sweetly into the swordsman’s ear, “Why?”

With a hand kneading his nether cheeks and slipping teasingly between as he was hauled forward, the swordsman had hardly half a mind to answer against the maddening caresses on his skin, he whispered whilst pleasure knitted his eyebrows softly in sorrowful pleasure, his words so guilty in his enjoyment and tinged with sadness, “You’ve seen my face.”

Gunnar took both cheeks with his hands and kneaded the prominent bones of the young man’s hips with his thumbs, he sucked his way down the swordsman’s neck and mumbled against his flushed skin, “It’s very beautiful…”

Ever so close to crying out and torn to give into his pleasure, the swordsman allowed his fingers to rake upwards through the blonde strands, his voice creating a hum against Gunnar’s chin, “You’ve crossed swords with me.”

Gunnar licked across the quivering adam’s apple presented before him, he said between licks, “You fought valiantly…”

The young man caught the foreigner with his lips, pouring the unwilling misery he had for the man’s fate, one he knew instantly he would regret if he followed his own rules, in a last attempt to drive the other away, he whispered after reluctantly withdrawing his lips, “You’ve defeated me.”

Gunnar tackled the young man to the ground, his forearm providing a cushion against the fall against the back of the young man’s head and the other already undoing both their pants, he smiled against the swordsman’s lips as if proving his point, “We’re fighting a battle with no losers…”

His body reacting to the foreigner’s touch, his senses rebelling and rules he set for himself were completely broken but one, the swordsman felt his erection enclosed by Gunnar’s hand and held tightly against the other’s dripping cock, his legs tangled around the firmly planted ones’, sensations so alien to his nerves bubbled up and seeped into his wavering voice, “I may have to kill you, foreigner.”

“After you cum…” his eyes watered, leaking for a worthy opponent he hardly knew while the foreigner whispered a sultry promise, his upper torso tightened as Gunnar thrust against his enclosed erection, the hard organ steadily dribbling thick pre-cum unto the head and underside of his trapped appendage. , “…you have my consent.”

Waves of pleasure coursed outward from his body, feeling as if he were melting into light and building around the foreigner holding him, he murmured against the shoulder propped above his upper torso, as if his body were unable to ignore his own climax, he savored the lasting warmth Gunnar provided him with. His fingers undid themselves away from the blonde locks and rested on the foreigner’s cheeks, his fingers wandering over the broad face, he perceived strong jaws and a sharp chin, deep-set eyes and strong brows, sculpted cheekbones and a prominent nose, and soft plush lips tense against straight teeth. The very image of the handsome man pleasuring pushed his body into one last convulsion, his veins roared with his release, his lips open and entire being swallowed with the chasm of mindless bliss wrapping his limbs in stifling ropes.

Having not finished yet, Gunnar coaxed the boneless swordsman back to life, wringing a cry from him as he abandoned his own hard-on in favor of getting another load from the young man’s pleasure-numbed self. He ringed the base of the still-hard length with his right thumb and forefinger while with his left hand using the slickness of spilled cum to continue, his grip constant but tightening as he got to the tip, the young man arched up against his chest and threw his hands over the working wrists on his nether parts, his legs struggling to drag themselves up and defensively clench together to keep the sticky fingers away from his painful erection.

“-please-!” the swordsman uttered, his voice broken and in nerve-twisting pain, his body drawn further more tightly as his grip lost strength as Gunnar picked up the pace, he pleaded behind gritted teeth, “-stop-! -no more-!”

His hands fell listlessly after being shaken off and clenched against the ground uselessly, his hips twitching at first, then unable to hold back against the sickly firm grip, he bucked upward into the tight fists stroking him. Once more, orgasm burned through him with a low shout and splattered across his chest.

Fascinated by the reaction, Gunnar tightened his fist at the base of the dripping penis to keep it from softening, his other hand grasped around the tip, his thumb rubbing over the cum-drenched slit, he bit at the young man’s jaw and stabbed tongue first into his open mouth. The swordsman’s arms grabbed him with both hands over his own hard-on, stroking with both hands in a fury up and down, their voices mingled as did their tongues, each shoving against the other and teeth clicking. He glossed his thumb round and round, almost teasing a sensation from the young man shivering spasmodically beneath him, his nerves on fire from watching the face helplessly contort and his skin seeming as if to crackle with the sensations before release.

Gunnar bit the bruised lower lip as he broke from the kiss, he growled against the slighter man’s cheek, “Wanna kill me now?”

Instead of answering, the swordsman’s mind went blank, in it’s place came a long breathy moan as Gunnar pressed his thumb to the slit and rubbed slick circles up and down that tiny amount of space, he dribbled over the wide thumb, his flow uninterrupted as the foreigner continued to scrape his sopped thumb alternating between teasing circles and sliding his thumb directly across the sensitive slit.

The young man unhanded Gunnar’s cock and pushed with renewed effort, his soaked palms shoved desperately at the immovable shoulders towering over him, his legs still unable to keep from shaking, he pleaded weakly, “-stop-! I can’t-!”

Gunnar unwrapped his fingers from the base of the other’s erection, he first spread his own pre-cum over his left thumb and reached down between the young man’s legs, he gradually worked himself in as the one below him sobbed pitifully, his hands searching until they touched upon a blade.

Before he could draw the weapon from it’s sheath, he felt the digit within him flexing, lighting new sparks inside his body, adding pressure behind his building release, his testicles drawing tight and erection twitching. Confused, wordless and unable to lift the too-heavy blade, he wrapped his arms around the wide shoulders atop him, his fingers digging into the tanned skin, his entire being alive with a fullness and contrast to the blatant glow he was wrapped in. Lips sought out his, too many sensations to comprehend, he spilled again, his vision going first white and black as a dreamless sleep. For one split second, he saw the handsome face with his own eyes, he perceived clearly the man unable to keep himself coherent enough to ignore his own release, a heady groan erupting which became a feral roar as his abdomen streamed with both their white essence.

That final image alone made him twitch and leak through his softening penis as unavoidable exhaustion claimed his sore muscles.

---

Gunnar had only but to wonder if he ever dreamed a more beautiful dream of an exquisite man, of a warrior with no name, he tossed back another cup of warm rice wine to dull the desire which seemed as if to double each time he remembered the gorgeous swordsman. He took a raw silver ducat from his coat and placed the precious metal on the teahouse’s restaurant tabletop, he strode lethargically around the busy street seeing many pleasures of the flesh on sale, yet unable to allow himself a taste he surely would not be able to enjoy.

Suddenly, a ruckus erupted from the furthest avenue, soldiers shouting and thundering in his direction, Gunnar stepped aside into a tent, the soldiers spread out and began harassing civilians one by one with questions. For the life of him, the foreigner could not understand why the imperial guard were out in the seediest part of the city shouting at people and raising suspicious brows, one stepped up to him.

“Have you seen an assassin, foreign devil?” the imperial henchman shouted, though unnecessary since Gunnar would have answered.

“Last one I’ve seen saw the end of my sword,” Gunnar smirked all too gladly remembering the run-in with the nameless swordsman, “What’s all the king’s men out here for?”

“There was an assassination attempt on the Emperor just moments ago,” the soldier answered, then inquiring about the unknown man in question, “Did that one live?”

“Who knows. I think I satisfied his thirst with his own blood,” Gunnar shrugged, he shouted to the soldier as he turned and scampered back to his division, “Tell me if you catch him!”

Gunnar had not noticed before, but he now felt a different weight against his spine, a voice said behind him, “You are a bad liar.”

The foreigner glanced back and saw large brown eyes staring up at him, their bodies back to back, and a soft smile spreading over the swordsman’s face, he whipped around and wrapped his arms around the slighter body, he grinned cheerfully at his own luck, “Beautiful assassins don’t scare me.”

The young man could only take Gunnar’s face in his hands and press his lips against the others’, just to prove that their happenstance was anything but a heartsick-fantasy.