swordhardy | NOCT INBOX

Sure, where are you?

I’d want to kill you.
But I don’t know if I would.

eden
ill meet u outside when u get close

why not

Alright. Don’t get too drunk without me.

…
I don’t know if I want to kill someone I love again.
It felt …
Well.
That feeling would probably be gone by then, anyway, so maybe I would.

ill stop til u get here ! just bcoz u asked so sweet

[ he isn't sure either way. Rokurou is a creature of habits and of blood — is it more romantic for him to show restraint? in a moment of liquored clarity, he considers his own depravity. ]

gone huh
wouldnt have much to lose at that point i guess

Don’t misunderstand.
What I do feel doesn’t change easily. Even if you changed or tried to leave me, I’d feel about you as I do now.

It was how killing someone I loved didn’t feel … good. Like it usually does.

But I’m not a good man. I wouldn’t allow you to find your own happiness elsewhere.

You already knew that though.

[ "didn't feel good", "wouldn't allow you to find your own happiness elsewhere" — he lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding in a rare laugh. ]

yea i did
thanks

[ SOMETIME NOT TOO MUCH LATER... ]

They won't let me in

i told u to text me when u was close, dickhead
i gotta paint u
stay still !!!

[ he'll be out in a few minutes, bioluminescent rune-like patterns in red, orange, and yellow from crown to sole, disappearing beneath the scant clothes he's wearing — drop-crotch joggers that cuff at the calf and a pair of heavy boots. hair dried and clumpy with salt from sweat and seawater, a bubble helmet on as he wades out from the sea, bursting as it touches air. ]

[ the waves compromise his already delicate balance send him tumbling onto his hands in the sand beneath before he rears back up to a drunk, slumping height. ]

Hey. [ mood improving as he draws into Rokurou's orbit — or draws him into his own, perhaps — he flashes a sly look and a "follow me" curl of a finger. further down the beach: buckets of bioluminescent paint in so many assorted colors. Guanshan could go for the ones that are tried and true to the man's theme, sunset oranges and midnight purples... but instead grabs a brush full of glowing red, not unlike the eerie glow of his blighted eye during a frenzy. ]

[ this color only. ]

Shirt off 'n spread your arms.

[ In similar lack, Rokurou's only wearing a pair of sweats, plain tee, and slip-on sandals instead of his usual warrior nines garb. Light, casual wear made lighter when he strips automatically on Guanshan's command, ripple of white v-neck gone in sleek overhead motion.

Tilting his head, Rokurou tightens the tie keeping his hair in place—in a rare sight, it's tied up today to keep the thick mop off his nape. ]

How about a kiss first?

[ Even though he's already spreading his arms, leaving his chest wide open as a canvas to Guanshan's artistic ministrations. Red, blue, orange, purple, vomit green—doesn't matter to him what the redhead does, only that it ends up drawing a shitty smile to that freckled face in the end. ]

Lemme taste that whiskey breath.

[ .... He may have pre-gamed on the way. ]

[ the look of knowing he flashes isn't cutting so much as it is molten, eyes that burn with the refraction of that glowing red pot of pigment, a hot poker to jab them both right in the guts. paired with that oh so soft uptick of a lip just before his close over Rokurou's, the rush of Synchrony is quick and torrid, channeled into this single spot of connection like a gushing volcano trying to follow great channels of earth to stymy it out to sea and instead fills, threatens to overflow. ]

[ seam of his lips bitten as he separates, the rough replaced with the soft, all those sweet contrasts Rokurou likes. upon his kiss-bitten lips, the soft and wet bristles of a paintbrush, dotting his mouth in color that spiral up, crimson filling the gaps of human skin between the black tendrils of his blight. ]

[ and down from there. following the curves and angles of a memory, he paints out half of the man's body in spreading, greedy red threads — chest and ribs, taut core. tendrils of color that mimic something they had shared together once, on a space station that feels like a lifetime ago, when the thighs that had bracketed his on uncomfortable maintenance shaft grating were just as daemonic as his face. ]

[ tickling sensation of the brush drawn right to the waist of his pants, and Guanshan eyes hover with interest. an always present one, of course, but this time — saturated in a drunken nostalgia bordering on déjà vu. like that time before, he reaches out with his hand and pulls the elastic back, exposing him to a brisk rub of ocean breeze. ]

[ Electricity's sting numbs his lips, lava's flow boils beneath his ribs. It's nothing short of amazing how one brief kiss from Guanshan can charge him full with enough emotion to satisfy the day. Smoke and ember burn at the back of his throat on the exhale of that finishing bite, eyelashes a quiet flutter in aftershock as tapered fingers slap vivid neon across his chest.

He doesn't think much on the color or pattern—Rokurou only manages to steal a single downward glance at it before the tug at his pants. Like back then, callused fingers slap down over spindly knuckles to swat them away. Still an instinctual response even when the only people nearby are drunkenly stumbling around the sand in the dark with only the barest light cast off by buckets of neon paint to act as markers amongst the dunes.

It's only after he's done it that he feels like it's happened before.

—he laughs, a choked snort and twitch of mouth. It isn't loud, but over the quiet of the shore and against the muffled pound of music coming from beneath the water, it feels big. ]

I didn't say you could paint my dick too.

Edited 2021-06-23 03:36 (UTC)

[ with Rokurou in on the joke, his amusement blooms bigger, held up by the effervescence of liquored giddiness. the grin on his face is mischievous and cheeky, but also timid and unused, a bit gormless. normally he would mock and refuse Rokurou's humor, but the ambiance and the drink have him feeling magnanimous. downright cheery. ]

Such a prude. [ so begins the game of Guanshan continuing to make inebriated grabs for Rokurou's waistline only to be smacked away with instincts he doubts will ever be whiskey-soaked enough to be bested, laughing all the while. balance is a precarious thing, further incited by tumult sands, bettered when their wrestling, bracketed arms allow him some level of support. ]

Promise I'll clean it off by the end'a the night. [ whether Rokurou has heard that indeed the body paint only comes off with another body's fluid is irrelevant to his suggestion, but it does make it incredibly literal. ]

How about you clean it off right nnnnnnnow?

[ Stupid, tipsy challenge when his dick ain't even painted, but that's what he comes back with when before he pushes, bodily shoving into Guanshan's chest to tackle on top of him on dogged roughhousing. Sand's a cushion when they both topple down onto it, a splay of limbs and knocked paint cans. Neon red topples, sloshing over the both of them and soaking into the shore.

A slop of color that doesn't stop him from dragging Guanshan into a wrestle, wrapping his arms around lank form. Wanting to drag him in good, sticky with neon glow, all wandering hands to grab tickle grab tickle before sinking his teeth into the back of freckled neck in a playful bite. ]

—ugh, sand. [ spitting off to the side, smacking his lips, ] It's in my teeth.

No— Ah-Rou, no— augh!

[ attempting to dissuade him from the obvious trajectory isn't unlike trying to get a self-serving great dane to not do what it wants; hands go up in pacifism and wind up more like a brace for his landing, air unfortunately knocked from his lungs as he plummets to the shore. ]

Hrghk... [ a graceful sound that preempts a second robbing of his breath as he jerks and spasms at tickling, squirming and trying to pound his palms on that barreled chest. whining for mercy and choking on his own laughter, breathless and alive, cheeks near as flushed as the paint now matting his hair and gluing them together in tackiness. it doesn't stop him from jerking at the bite — or scolding him for his own lack of foresight. ]

And now whose fault is that, ah! [ retaliation comes in a cruel pinch and twist: namely, two sets of fingers on Rokurou's exposed nipples, a la Purple Nurple. ] Geddoff'a me, off!

[ he's having fun. ]

[ HIS NIPPLES..... what an animal?!

The noise the daemon makes when fingers find his nipples and twist isn't like any he's ever made before. High-pitched, alarmed, like a teenager's voice cracking when his balls drop. Not because it feels good—ain't a nipple man—but because it genuinely catches him off guard. ]

H, hey! [ in one of the few, seldom, rare times, his face feels hot for making such a stupid noise—good think it's dark and covered in paint. ] You freak!

[ Assault his man tits? This. Means. War. ]

Lil shit, that's gettin' you a Rangetsu special. [ Guanshan might be longer, but Rokurou's heavier; he uses that to his advangage to roll 'em over again, slapping his palm against the back of red scruff to shove his head down toward the sand, ] Heeeere it comes.

[ Is he going to grind Guanshan's face into the wet, sticky, neon covered shore? You bet he is. #bestboyfriend ]

How d'you have a Rangetsu special for this?!

[ a rhetorical question that has the benefit of Rokurou's lack of self-reflection, in moments like this. try every way that he might to squirm and fuss his way out of the swordsman manipulating his body how he wants, once he has a determined goal, he's helpless against that superior strength. ]

[ there are more grunts — of realization, of Guanshan putting his palms in the now gritty paint to try and buck against him and prevent the ineviable... but when his face plants into that shallow puddle, his incredible wit only surfaces in an onslaught of air bubbles, drowning out what is undoubtedly a slew of colorful curses. fuck, it's up his nose — how is he ever going to get that out? will his baby nose hairs just be stuck together forever?! ]

[ when he rears out of the muck, he oozes vermillion and stained stand, fingers swiping his face to free room to breathe. it makes the whites of his eyes look starker, the pissed expression deepening the furrows the paint was too thick to seep into. his kicking heels aim at Rokurou's crotch, slamming brutally into inner thighs at the very least — but his attempts are repeated, not unlike a threatened horse's rearing hind legs. ]

I take it back, I'm choppin' it off instead'a lickin' it clean.

[ Raucous laughter crackles on the edge of the daemon's shit-eating grin, full-bodied and straight from the chest. It's a gleam of teeth that doesn't fade when heels thrash down; Rokurou grasps out wildly, trying to catch both ankles in hand but misses, lacking his usual on point hand-eye coordination courtesy of knocking back a bottle before hitting the road.

Doesn't keep him from trying, again and again, when each new kick comes. Just a little closer, slower, c'mere c'mere c'mere— ]

Tell me somethin' I'll believe! My dick's your favorite thing about me.

[ Ain't nothing like diligence. Eventually he nabs a knobby ankle, and then the other one with triumphant hoot. Fingers cuffed and secured, he glances back over his shoulder toward where water foams against the shore—only a few feet away—before turning mirthful gaze back onto the redhead. ]

Sorry, sorry. I'll clean you up.

[ Sliding back on his knees, Rokurou drags Guanshan by the ankles slowly toward where the sealine, a neon-wet slog like drawing a bloody corpse to its watery grave, complete with manic serial killer smile. ]

No— stop it!

[ the wail of a tormented spirit reverberates on the ocean wind, made eerie with its erratic spray and, to the casual passerby, the deep and flooding claw marks that lead from small puddle to incomprehensibly large one. the increasingly wet sand offers no further purchase, and when the tips of waves crash into his digging fingers, he knows there are no other options but the drink. ]

[ the first wave crashes in over his head puts a brine-burn in his sinuses right between his eyes. it recedes with Rokurou's deepening footsteps, but the next one that crashes over his shoulders only drags them in deeper, water giving heavy bodies a buoyant pull. he's laying in Rokurou's wake instead of hanging over it as the water reaches chests, and every drowning flip-flop splish-splash would draw predators to him were he not already claimed by the biggest one for miles. ]

[ when it comes to let him go or let him die, there only inevitability is Guanshan springing back up right side out of the waves, wreathed in dead seaweed and some nocturnal aquatic creature with suckers shellacked to a cheek. spraying out the nautical sinus flush from his mouth is, of course, aimed right at Rokurou's face. ]

You're really such a fuckin' asshole.

Yeah.

[ Black hair spreads spilled ink fingers, plastered waterlog along angled jaw and cragged blight. A red-split gaze peers from between tangles and strands with that word, slanted grit on a crooked mouth, even when nasal brine splats against his cheek and trickles down into salt smear.

Scarred fingers pry the barnacle from Guanshan's cheek, suckers peeling with a wet pop before it's nothing more than a dot soaring toward the horizon off the end of a long-arm swing. Wordless when he twists them, pulling Guanshan's lank frame over his, heels digging into sinking sand beneath the surface while strapping his forearm over the small of his back.

Nose and mouth press into the crook of the younger man's neck, momentary quiet against the backdrop of the sea breaking against the shore. His lips are a cool touch, slow trace along sloshed neon paint and brine before it's gleam and gum, teeth digging down hard into flesh. A ringed print that won't wash away with soap or saliva. ]

It's 'cause I like you.

[ untrusting, arms straighten and slack, giving Rokurou pure cheek as he moves in, fussy and moody and dejected as if it were a continued part of the play. pinned in his embrace and then bitten into another shape, Guanshan starts with a jolt, sparking life back through those still limbs. squirming only lasts as long as it takes those words to reach his ear, siren-calling a change in mood. ]

[ the liquor isn't enough to fight off the night ocean's chill anymore. fingers find the broad column of Rokurou's torso at either side, hooking there for support as the wave bounce them on a rhythm — and Guanshan folds to the temptation of giving in without further struggle, his head lowering pacifistically to rest on the daemon's shoulder. his feet stay afloat, relying entirely on the other man's support. trust restored so easily, so readily mollified. ]

Don't I fuckin' know it.

[ hands go up, loop broad shoulders and neck. he does know it, but damn if he can deny how good it feels to hear. can Rokurou detect his pulse tick up over the sounds of the surf, see his washed-out veins pulse in the silver light of the moon? he's given him enough compliments for the night, beguiled him here with promise and praise — and he's so damn greedy and vain, he shouldn't blow his head up like that. ]

It's okay. I know you'll take care'a me after.

[ but Guanshan's own hedonism is among the many reasons they work. ]

[ Dimming temperature, upticked pulse, coiled limbs—Guanshan is as known as a blade in Rokurou's hands. But he's a different kind of weapon though no less sharp, one that's taken the swordsman years of learning to grow comfortable holding. I made a lot of room in me for you, you know. Give and take between them has always been unfairly lopsided, but Guanshan managed to carve out an alcove where they shouldn't have been any give.

(We just have to find a place where we both can meet.)

Attention needles in on the soft fall of breath. The beat of a strong heart beneath wiry ribcage. The creak of joints, grind of teeth, flutter of pale lashes, stick of skin to wet skin—the moon is vividly bright and the night sky is cast with brilliant stars, but it's Mo Guanshan that he can't stop admiring. ]

You still want me to buy you that drink? [ water sloshes as the daemon stands, bracing arm tucked beneath long legs to draw them up with main weight leaned into his chest. doesn't matter how big this kid gets, Rokurou will still carry him. ] You feel cold.

Yeah I still want the drink, [ announced with sibilant disdain, the same tone of voice he's brandished during requests for five more minutes when Rokurou tries to wake him up at some offbeat hour. it's true that he's easily content when it comes to this man's presence — ]

[ but it's also true that he has a brash stubborn streak that only gets amplified with inebriation. the liquor's tunnelvision had detoured to the arrival, irritation, and basking of the presence of his favorite person; as he now attempts to recalibrate, he overcorrects, practically throwing himself out of Rokurou's embrace and plunging back into the crashing waves. ]

[ he knows it'll tickle the daemon's prey drive, and so vows to race back to the shores away from him, splashing blindly at his back to slow the oncoming pursuit, aiming for the eyes. all cold really needs is a little action, sometimes. ]

If I beat you down there, I'm chargin' double!

[ now that Rokurou's painted pretty, he'll be allowed in. Guanshan may have knowledge of how the air bubbles work going for him, but how good is a daemon at swimming under water? he's about to find out. ]

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