satoko ayakura | 綾倉 聡子 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thewisechild) wrote2025-02-04 01:20 pm
thewisechild) wrote2025-02-04 01:20 pm
Entry tags:
fic: swords (bleach x-over)
SWORDS
?
You do not look at Byakuya-sama’s sword without looking at Byakuya-sama in the same intake of breath, bash of eyelashes. If his sword is there, so is its wielder, you get no private moments in its presence, where he’s left it behind or abandoned even for a moment. Where Byakuya-sama goes, so does his sword. They are bound by more than his hip and his side and his hand. They are connected on a much more fundamental level.
Satoko comes to understand this after they begin connecting, too, although it is a steep learning curve. Her own father was an almost militant pacifist who saw the Gotei 13 as a symbol of a chaotic, violent ruling class with no morals and no ethical codes. Men who had made themselves kings of Soul Society and ruled by exactly that, the sword. That was the notion with which she entered his house.
If Byakuya-sama is to be a representative of that ruling force, at least, she doesn’t see any immoral or unethical methodology, although, of course, her view if obscured by the manor gates and she can’t look further than that. Nevertheless, she knows this – naturally, Byakuya-sama fights and he wins and battles are always to the death, but that is life, isn’t that so? Her father might as well have feared natural law, she thinks – and is allowed to think in a family that has provided men to Gotei 13 for generations.
Her father might as well have feared the passing of time. And for a long time, perhaps he did. Perhaps that is what he has passed on to her. Her autumnal reluctance.
So, she is never alone with his sword, she cannot connect with it on any personal level, but the sight of it speaks to parts of her she was barely aware of before. When she sleeps in his quarters, it sleeps, too, by their heads on its stand and sometimes she imagines she can hear it humming contentedly. When Byakuya-sama gets up early the next morning and dresses, straps it to his side, Satoko watches from amidst his sheets, eyes half-open at the most, she is not a natural morning person, and she imagines it tells her goodbye, since Byakuya-sama never does, leaving not in a hurry, but purposefully.
Quietly.
What Satoko comes to understand, as she gets to know Byakuya-sama better, the taste of his skin, sweat and semen, is that knowing Byakuya is knowing his sword, just as knowing his sword is knowing Byakuya-sama, seeing how it’s an extension of his innermost, not just an elongation of his body, his arm or his cock. It is made of every belief he carries at his core.
That is why, as he undresses with his back to her, they’re on their way to bed and when they’ve lain down, most likely he’ll take her or she’ll give him her mouth or whatever they might decide in the moment, Satoko bows her head to the sword on its stand, before slipping out of her obi, her kimono, her layers underneath.
Any reverence she wants to pay him, she should pay his sword first, after all. That is her notion now.
Satoko comes to understand this after they begin connecting, too, although it is a steep learning curve. Her own father was an almost militant pacifist who saw the Gotei 13 as a symbol of a chaotic, violent ruling class with no morals and no ethical codes. Men who had made themselves kings of Soul Society and ruled by exactly that, the sword. That was the notion with which she entered his house.
If Byakuya-sama is to be a representative of that ruling force, at least, she doesn’t see any immoral or unethical methodology, although, of course, her view if obscured by the manor gates and she can’t look further than that. Nevertheless, she knows this – naturally, Byakuya-sama fights and he wins and battles are always to the death, but that is life, isn’t that so? Her father might as well have feared natural law, she thinks – and is allowed to think in a family that has provided men to Gotei 13 for generations.
Her father might as well have feared the passing of time. And for a long time, perhaps he did. Perhaps that is what he has passed on to her. Her autumnal reluctance.
So, she is never alone with his sword, she cannot connect with it on any personal level, but the sight of it speaks to parts of her she was barely aware of before. When she sleeps in his quarters, it sleeps, too, by their heads on its stand and sometimes she imagines she can hear it humming contentedly. When Byakuya-sama gets up early the next morning and dresses, straps it to his side, Satoko watches from amidst his sheets, eyes half-open at the most, she is not a natural morning person, and she imagines it tells her goodbye, since Byakuya-sama never does, leaving not in a hurry, but purposefully.
Quietly.
What Satoko comes to understand, as she gets to know Byakuya-sama better, the taste of his skin, sweat and semen, is that knowing Byakuya is knowing his sword, just as knowing his sword is knowing Byakuya-sama, seeing how it’s an extension of his innermost, not just an elongation of his body, his arm or his cock. It is made of every belief he carries at his core.
That is why, as he undresses with his back to her, they’re on their way to bed and when they’ve lain down, most likely he’ll take her or she’ll give him her mouth or whatever they might decide in the moment, Satoko bows her head to the sword on its stand, before slipping out of her obi, her kimono, her layers underneath.
Any reverence she wants to pay him, she should pay his sword first, after all. That is her notion now.