Spirit Orison
Jul. 10th, 2010 11:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
myeerahTitle: Spirit Orison
Fandom: Vagrant Story
Characters/Pairings: Hardin -> Sydney
Prompt: shaving/depilation for Kink Bingo
Rating: worksafe
Word count: 690
Warnings: None, really
Notes: a spirit orison is an item in the game that cures the Numbness status
It never ceased to amaze him, how someone as capable and miraculous as Sydney could need anyone’s help. Yet here he was, John Hardin, a man who had failed everyone who had ever depended on him, trusted by the closest thing to a god incarnate to assist with his daily toilette.
“You credit me with too much, my friend,” Sydney said, his voice lilting, lyrical, and touched with mirth.
Of course Sydney would know his thoughts; it was part and parcel of what made the man remarkable. “Forgive me, my lord,” Hardin replied, shaking out a towel that had been warming by the hearth and holding it ready for Sydney.
“Come now, my dear Hardin,” Sydney said, rising gracefully from his bath, beads of water gleaming on his fair skin, the fine hairs of his body. The silver of his clawed arms chimed sweetly with his movements. “We are friends, are we not?”
He allowed Hardin to dry him with gentle, reverent strokes. When the other was on his knees, toweling off Sydney’s legs, Sydney extended a careful claw and tipped Hardin’s chin up to meet his eyes. “We are friends,” he repeated. “Are we not? I am no lord, certainly not to you.” A faint smile graced his lips as he awaited Hardin’s reply.
“Yes, my— Yes, Sydney, of course.” He pressed adoringly into the touch when Sydney stroked the back of a warm, metal hand across Hardin’s cheek.
“Come, then.” Sydney laughed, a musical sound that passed through the ears into the soul. “You would not force your friend to face the world unshaven and unkempt, would you?” He ran cautious claw-tips through Hardin’s beard. “While it looks quite dashing on you, I suspect the fashion would appear perfectly ridiculous on me.”
“I doubt you could ever look anything less than remarkable,” he hesitated, then finished, “Sydney.”
Pleased with the concession, Sydney allowed Hardin to dry and dress him as much as he ever allowed himself to be dressed, humming cheerfully all the while. When his trousers were laced, Sydney sat in the high backed chair, waiting patiently for Hardin to fetch the razor.
Obediently, Hardin unwrapped the shaving kit, laying the pieces out on the side table. Sydney’s eyes fluttered closed in relaxation.
Absently stropping the razor, Hardin studied the other man’s face. Perhaps Sydney wasn’t conventionally handsome: his face was pointed, fox-like; his mouth too wide, lips too thin; not tall enough, or broad enough of shoulder for similarly-configured men be thought striking; but on Sydney, all of this was overwhelmed by sheer presence and pale grey eyes that could see into your heart, your past, your future.
Deciding that the razor was sharp enough, Hardin wet the brush and worked the soap into a lather, then generously spread it across Sydney’s face. The nearly-invisible blond hairs completely vanished beneath a thick coating of foam, the contours of his face lost beneath the concealing white. Taking a deep breath, Hardin pressed a thumb to Sydney’s face, holding the skin taut, and set the razor at a careful angle before sliding it down.
Clean, smooth skin revealed itself, stroke by slow stroke. Hardin took painstaking care of the difficult curves: the divot below the nose, the roundness under the chin, the sensitive skin beneath his ears. Every gliding sweep of the blade scraped off stubble-flecked soap, quickly wiped off to keep the razor clean and ready.
After the final pass, Hardin used a fresh towel to gently wipe away the last traces of shaving soap. When he made to pull away, Sydney caught one of his hands in a gentle grip and pressed it back to his face.
“Smooth?” Sydney asked, the thrum of his voice carrying through Hardin’s hand to lodge, warm and inviting, in his very bones.
Tracing the shape of Sydney’s chin with slightly trembling fingertips, Hardin answered, “Very.”
Sydney’s breath was warm and sent tingles up Hardin’s arm when he made a content little sound and spoke into the hand still tracing his lips. “My thanks.”
Fairly glowing from the approbation, Hardin mustered his courage and replied, “What are friends for?”
Fandom: Vagrant Story
Characters/Pairings: Hardin -> Sydney
Prompt: shaving/depilation for Kink Bingo
Rating: worksafe
Word count: 690
Warnings: None, really
Notes: a spirit orison is an item in the game that cures the Numbness status
It never ceased to amaze him, how someone as capable and miraculous as Sydney could need anyone’s help. Yet here he was, John Hardin, a man who had failed everyone who had ever depended on him, trusted by the closest thing to a god incarnate to assist with his daily toilette.
“You credit me with too much, my friend,” Sydney said, his voice lilting, lyrical, and touched with mirth.
Of course Sydney would know his thoughts; it was part and parcel of what made the man remarkable. “Forgive me, my lord,” Hardin replied, shaking out a towel that had been warming by the hearth and holding it ready for Sydney.
“Come now, my dear Hardin,” Sydney said, rising gracefully from his bath, beads of water gleaming on his fair skin, the fine hairs of his body. The silver of his clawed arms chimed sweetly with his movements. “We are friends, are we not?”
He allowed Hardin to dry him with gentle, reverent strokes. When the other was on his knees, toweling off Sydney’s legs, Sydney extended a careful claw and tipped Hardin’s chin up to meet his eyes. “We are friends,” he repeated. “Are we not? I am no lord, certainly not to you.” A faint smile graced his lips as he awaited Hardin’s reply.
“Yes, my— Yes, Sydney, of course.” He pressed adoringly into the touch when Sydney stroked the back of a warm, metal hand across Hardin’s cheek.
“Come, then.” Sydney laughed, a musical sound that passed through the ears into the soul. “You would not force your friend to face the world unshaven and unkempt, would you?” He ran cautious claw-tips through Hardin’s beard. “While it looks quite dashing on you, I suspect the fashion would appear perfectly ridiculous on me.”
“I doubt you could ever look anything less than remarkable,” he hesitated, then finished, “Sydney.”
Pleased with the concession, Sydney allowed Hardin to dry and dress him as much as he ever allowed himself to be dressed, humming cheerfully all the while. When his trousers were laced, Sydney sat in the high backed chair, waiting patiently for Hardin to fetch the razor.
Obediently, Hardin unwrapped the shaving kit, laying the pieces out on the side table. Sydney’s eyes fluttered closed in relaxation.
Absently stropping the razor, Hardin studied the other man’s face. Perhaps Sydney wasn’t conventionally handsome: his face was pointed, fox-like; his mouth too wide, lips too thin; not tall enough, or broad enough of shoulder for similarly-configured men be thought striking; but on Sydney, all of this was overwhelmed by sheer presence and pale grey eyes that could see into your heart, your past, your future.
Deciding that the razor was sharp enough, Hardin wet the brush and worked the soap into a lather, then generously spread it across Sydney’s face. The nearly-invisible blond hairs completely vanished beneath a thick coating of foam, the contours of his face lost beneath the concealing white. Taking a deep breath, Hardin pressed a thumb to Sydney’s face, holding the skin taut, and set the razor at a careful angle before sliding it down.
Clean, smooth skin revealed itself, stroke by slow stroke. Hardin took painstaking care of the difficult curves: the divot below the nose, the roundness under the chin, the sensitive skin beneath his ears. Every gliding sweep of the blade scraped off stubble-flecked soap, quickly wiped off to keep the razor clean and ready.
After the final pass, Hardin used a fresh towel to gently wipe away the last traces of shaving soap. When he made to pull away, Sydney caught one of his hands in a gentle grip and pressed it back to his face.
“Smooth?” Sydney asked, the thrum of his voice carrying through Hardin’s hand to lodge, warm and inviting, in his very bones.
Tracing the shape of Sydney’s chin with slightly trembling fingertips, Hardin answered, “Very.”
Sydney’s breath was warm and sent tingles up Hardin’s arm when he made a content little sound and spoke into the hand still tracing his lips. “My thanks.”
Fairly glowing from the approbation, Hardin mustered his courage and replied, “What are friends for?”