Title - Sometimes

Author - MidKnight2501

Author's Website - None.

Rating - Uh, I'm have to put this at an R or above for that almost last paragraph.

Category - POV.

Fandom: Witchblade

Pairing (if needed) – Ian/Kenneth

Archive: Yes, please.

Warnings - SLASH!! M/M

Spoilers - Mentions the second episode. That 'Touching' scene at the very end.

Summary - Ian's POV on his very complex relationship with Irons.

Sometimes
by MidKnight2501

I am his servant, he is my master.

Sometimes I watch him as I wait for orders. I keep my shoulders squared and my feet firmly planted in a stance that can easily shift to offensive or defensive tactics and at the same time is submissive. My eyes never match Kenneth's, even for a second. I know his floors by heart, the cool and collected blood-honey colored wood in his office, the stormy gray slate of the kitchen, and the burgundy rich carpet, that feels like silk, in his bedroom. Silently I map the floors and furniture legs as I follow him obediently on his rounds.

Sometimes when I stand in his presence I can spare glances at him, momentarily lifting my eyes, to see him studying the waning and waxing moons burned into his hand. The very symbols that allowed him to wear the weapon, still allow him to sense its wearer. Kenneth is the magic maker,
his brush with the Witchblade, the one time he wore it, having forever parted the veil of the senses for him.

Sometimes it's humorous, the times when he responds to Sarah's actions.

He calls to her, telling her not to go around the corner, to duck, he cheers for her too. Sometimes Sarah follows some clue I've let her have, some whispered riddle, and his glare scorches me.

Sometimes I'm not his slave. When I'm sent on a mission I pretend I'm doing it at my own command and I let myself feel free. When I'm protecting Sarah, I know the feeling is real, since I'm disobeying his orders. And other times the feelings are real because Kenneth surrenders
to me.

Sometimes I am the master and he is the slave. Kenneth calls me to his chambers and he lets me beat him. He likes to bleed when I'm done, the bruises and cuts marring everything but his face and he's hard as a rock and begging. One time I bent him over my lap and slapped his hide till it
was an angry red and heat radiated off him and he sobbed. The crack of a leather belt, the meat-like thud of flesh on flesh, the silent razor cuts I do with a knife. I wrote my name in his blood once, across his neck, marking him as mine.

Sometimes there is a common kindness from him, as if he cares. I woke to do my katas one morning to find he'd left me a gift in the training room.

An expensive wool coat, tailored exactly to me. We sit watching some nature show that's entranced him, he on his desk and me in a chair, and I feel him wanting to touch me. Sitting back I feel his hand grip my shoulder and I lean into the touch, brushing my cheek along it and closing my eyes.

Sometimes I wonder who the master is and who is the slave. Sometimes the lines have blurred so that I wonder if even he or Pezzini can part that veil. Sometimes when I beat him Kenneth calls my name and tells me he loves me. And sometimes I think I love him back.

end