Hey look...an update. Gasp with me? I'm thinking I might need to up the rating on this...what do you think

Clash

It was so symbolic it hurt sometimes, Mugen decided.

The way they clashed.

Everything about them was so completely different that there just had to be some cosmic example they were setting.

Jin had been raised by strict samurai codes, his fighting style was honed to a deadly perfection, and he had every move planned out before he even began a fight. Mugen had been raised in a prison camp. He didn't think when he fought, he felt.

Jin was kind and considerate to most everyone, even when fighting. He was raised to respect women, to treat men with dignity even when they had none. Mugen was loud and crass to everyone, especially when fighting. He was raised by the example of the men around him, not objectifying women would be considered an insult…how else would they know he thought they were attractive? He didn't care what sort of status a man had, if they didn't earn his respect, he wasn't going to give it to them.

Jin was pale, Mugen wasn't sure how, he spent most of his time living outside, yet his skin was the porcelain cream of a landlord's daughter. He was refined, sharp around the edges, but in a subtle, appealing way. Mugen was tan, and that was no mystery, years of coastal living left him only a few shades lighter than his dusty, almost brown hair. He was rough around the edges, grating and jarring.

Even their signature colors were complete opposite. Jin was a deep, navy blue, cold and withdrawn. Mugen was a loud, fiery red, volatile and hot tempered.

Two people with so many differences…that had to mean something.

But that was sometimes. This was now.

Now when they were not fighting, when samurai codes ended and they were both forced to make it up as they went.

Now when kindness and consideration and even brash obnoxiousness fell away and was replaced with hunger and need and want and the desperate clawing urge for more more more…

Now when Jin's pale skin wasn't a mystery so much as an incredible turn on, spread bare before him, pressed against his own dark skin and the equally rich color of the hardwood floor beneath them.

Now…now when their jarringly different clothes were tossed, in the same untidy heap just out of Mugen's immediately line of view.

Now they were the furthest thing from clashing. They were melding, melting, intertwining in a perfect, living, moving, wanting shape.

By the time Jin finally started making eager noises of his own…Mugen was more vocal, in all things, both had trouble distinguishing between any of them.

And as they lay together afterwards, covered in both red and blue, pressed together in an intimate fashion, one they'd never dream of in the light of day, Mugen was glad they clashed, even if it was annoying at times.

Because without their constant clashing, Mugen didn't think that it would feel near as good when the fighting stopped and the constant tension it caused was worked away.

In fact…it probably helped.

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