[Fanfiction] Sanzo/Gojyo - Womaniser
Because I always keep my promises.
Title: Womaniser
Fandom: Saiyuki
Word Count: 1152
Beta: kashibanohikari
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Characters/Pairing: GojyoxSanzoxGojyo (353)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, non-explicit sex, BDSM elements, yaoi, gunplay, bad language (it's Gojyo, what do you expect?).
Author's Notes: Thankyou to butterflygirl_3 for convincing me it wasn't terrible and to caeseria for soothing my characterisation fears.
Notes: Written with the 52_flavours prompt 25 ) The swagger of a champion in mind. Because clearly lyrics -> song -> characters -> fic. Until the song 'Womaniser' becomes yaoi-themed.
Summary: Gojyo's slept with a lot of women, but he's never met one with a mouth on her like Genjo Sanzo.
Gojyo’s slept with a lot of women. They’ve blurred into a meaningless succession of gasped names, floral scents and half-forgotten snippets of sweaty skin. They didn’t mean anything, so they’ve slipped into the shadowy recesses of his mind, leaving nothing but the fleeting memory of hollow pleasure.
It’s funny, when it’s meaningless. It’s not intimacy, not love, not trust. It’s just limbs and mechanics and panting breaths, a smorgasbord of fingers and touches and ecstasy that’s never quite enough.
He’s slept with a lot of women. Beautiful women. Beautiful men on occasion, who kiss harder and touch him with a strange blend of lust and horror. But he’s never slept with anyone quite like Genjo Sanzo.
For one thing, no woman he’s taken to bed has ever sworn the way Sanzo does, a muttered litany of profanity in his ear, chanted almost like a prayer as they move together. It’s probably sacrilegious, how erotic he finds it, Sanzo’s breath hot against his skin, Sanzo’s scent filling his nostrils, Sanzo’s leather-clad arms twined around his body.
His voice will turn ragged and husky, his words will begin to run together and stumble into pauses, like an old record, beaten and scratched. He’ll gasp in one, anguished breath and then he’ll sob something that could be Gojyo’s name.
Gojyo’s slept with a lot of women, but he’s never met one with a mouth on her like Genjo Sanzo.
If Gojyo’s lucky, they’ll kiss afterwards, tender and satiated. Sanzo’s mouth is hotter than hell and sinfully delicious. Who’d have thought such an uptight prick would taste so goddamn perfect?
-
Sanzo doesn’t mean to give anything away. But Gojyo’s slipped under his skin, teased out his secrets, read between the lines scored on his muscled back. Gojyo knows.
Knows that although it’s hard and fast and rough and they dance on a razor’s edge between violence and passion, it’s the gentle touches that unravel something deep inside him. The soft caresses, the kisses that are barely kisses, the brush of fingers on his naked skin.
The way Gojyo says nothing but his name. As if all he could say, and all he wants to say, are caught up in that single word.
Sanzo always leaves afterwards. Collects up his clothes like pieces of broken crockery and tugs them back on haphazardly, never speaking. He’ll light up a smoke, take a drag, try to keep his hands from shaking. Gojyo just watches him, naked on the bed.
Somehow, he knows he’s more naked than Gojyo ever is, even when swathed in his robes again.
-
The fact Sanzo likes to be in control is hardly a surprise, but what is a surprise is how much Sanzo needs to be out of control.
Gojyo can’t remember what he said. He’s sure it was something provocative, because fuck knows he’s never been able to keep his mouth shut when he should.
There’s a gun at his head, then a gun pressed against his torso, and then somehow his clothes are gone and all he can feel is metal against his skin and the bruising power of Sanzo’s lips. Fingers on his wrists like shackles, hands in his hair, wrenching his head back so hard it hurts. Sanzo bites him hard on the throat, the gun sliding up to press under his chin.
The fear is cold and Sanzo is hot and he’s fairly sure it’s wrong to like this as much as he does.
He has bruises around his mouth the next day, dappled patches on his pale skin. He catches Sanzo’s eyes on his face at odd moments, the look on the priest’s face somewhere between smug and predatory. Gojyo licks his lips and the expression slips a little.
-
Sanzo’s sick of being an effigy. A symbol. Something to be worshipped. He’s sick of the dumb admiration in the cattle-eyes of men and women and children.
Gojyo defaces him and strips back his layers until he can’t be anyone but himself, and shoves him onto the bed or the wall or the floor and makes him forget his name. He’s never been able to forget that before.
Gojyo invades him, desecrates him, violates him.
Fucking Gojyo is the closest he’s ever come to a truly religious experience.
He usually leaves but sometimes, if Gojyo tumbles quickly into exhausted slumber, he lets himself lie in their tangle of sheets and sweat, Gojyo’s limbs draped over him.
He remembers his name in those moments, but somehow it doesn’t matter as much.
Eventually he’ll disentangle himself, gather up his clothes, stumble to the door and make his way back to his own bed. His cold bed. His empty bed. The sheets will chafe on his bare skin, the mattress will be too hard or too soft, and as often as not he’ll end up by the window, smoking and staring at the stars while sleep batters away at the edges of his consciousness.
When he sleeps he dreams of violence, and hair the colour of freshly-spilled blood.
-
Gojyo’s had a lot of meaningless sex. He’s used a lot of people, and has been used in turn by plenty as well. He’s let people touch him with greedy, rough fingers as they imagine someone else, let them strip him and take what they need from him. He’s used girls (though he’ll challenge anyone to find one who didn’t enjoy it), and left them before the dawn light had begun to inch across the floor.
Nobody’s ever used him in quite the way Sanzo does.
The others never came back. They were footnotes, but somehow Sanzo’s become the story. He’s not sure when it happened, not sure which choked gasp, which filthy suggestion, which bruise tipped him over the edge. But his chapters are edged with gold the colour of Sanzo’s hair, and all his clothes seem to smell of Sanzo.
He knows Sanzo enjoys the tenderness. Knows the gentle touches are as much of an aphrodisiac to him as the violent ones. He knows something in Sanzo needs something he can give.
But they fuck, they don’t make love, and Gojyo wonders a little when that started to bother him. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it. Sanzo’s a beautiful son of a bitch, and whether it’s hard and fast or slow and deep it feels sinfully good. Until he wakes the next morning with the faintest sense of sickness uncoiling in his stomach.
It’s violent. Sometimes too violent. Because even as ecstasy turns his world to white something sucks the colour from his soul. It should be a convenient arrangement. Pleasure given and pleasure received. Games between the damaged and the damned. Just fucking, as it’s been just fucking so many times before.
But it’s not, and he can’t figure out why.
Still, it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t change anything. Because Sanzo only stays when he’s asleep.
Title: Womaniser
Fandom: Saiyuki
Word Count: 1152
Beta: kashibanohikari
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Characters/Pairing: GojyoxSanzoxGojyo (353)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, non-explicit sex, BDSM elements, yaoi, gunplay, bad language (it's Gojyo, what do you expect?).
Author's Notes: Thankyou to butterflygirl_3 for convincing me it wasn't terrible and to caeseria for soothing my characterisation fears.
Notes: Written with the 52_flavours prompt 25 ) The swagger of a champion in mind. Because clearly lyrics -> song -> characters -> fic. Until the song 'Womaniser' becomes yaoi-themed.
Summary: Gojyo's slept with a lot of women, but he's never met one with a mouth on her like Genjo Sanzo.
Gojyo’s slept with a lot of women. They’ve blurred into a meaningless succession of gasped names, floral scents and half-forgotten snippets of sweaty skin. They didn’t mean anything, so they’ve slipped into the shadowy recesses of his mind, leaving nothing but the fleeting memory of hollow pleasure.
It’s funny, when it’s meaningless. It’s not intimacy, not love, not trust. It’s just limbs and mechanics and panting breaths, a smorgasbord of fingers and touches and ecstasy that’s never quite enough.
He’s slept with a lot of women. Beautiful women. Beautiful men on occasion, who kiss harder and touch him with a strange blend of lust and horror. But he’s never slept with anyone quite like Genjo Sanzo.
For one thing, no woman he’s taken to bed has ever sworn the way Sanzo does, a muttered litany of profanity in his ear, chanted almost like a prayer as they move together. It’s probably sacrilegious, how erotic he finds it, Sanzo’s breath hot against his skin, Sanzo’s scent filling his nostrils, Sanzo’s leather-clad arms twined around his body.
His voice will turn ragged and husky, his words will begin to run together and stumble into pauses, like an old record, beaten and scratched. He’ll gasp in one, anguished breath and then he’ll sob something that could be Gojyo’s name.
Gojyo’s slept with a lot of women, but he’s never met one with a mouth on her like Genjo Sanzo.
If Gojyo’s lucky, they’ll kiss afterwards, tender and satiated. Sanzo’s mouth is hotter than hell and sinfully delicious. Who’d have thought such an uptight prick would taste so goddamn perfect?
-
Sanzo doesn’t mean to give anything away. But Gojyo’s slipped under his skin, teased out his secrets, read between the lines scored on his muscled back. Gojyo knows.
Knows that although it’s hard and fast and rough and they dance on a razor’s edge between violence and passion, it’s the gentle touches that unravel something deep inside him. The soft caresses, the kisses that are barely kisses, the brush of fingers on his naked skin.
The way Gojyo says nothing but his name. As if all he could say, and all he wants to say, are caught up in that single word.
Sanzo always leaves afterwards. Collects up his clothes like pieces of broken crockery and tugs them back on haphazardly, never speaking. He’ll light up a smoke, take a drag, try to keep his hands from shaking. Gojyo just watches him, naked on the bed.
Somehow, he knows he’s more naked than Gojyo ever is, even when swathed in his robes again.
-
The fact Sanzo likes to be in control is hardly a surprise, but what is a surprise is how much Sanzo needs to be out of control.
Gojyo can’t remember what he said. He’s sure it was something provocative, because fuck knows he’s never been able to keep his mouth shut when he should.
There’s a gun at his head, then a gun pressed against his torso, and then somehow his clothes are gone and all he can feel is metal against his skin and the bruising power of Sanzo’s lips. Fingers on his wrists like shackles, hands in his hair, wrenching his head back so hard it hurts. Sanzo bites him hard on the throat, the gun sliding up to press under his chin.
The fear is cold and Sanzo is hot and he’s fairly sure it’s wrong to like this as much as he does.
He has bruises around his mouth the next day, dappled patches on his pale skin. He catches Sanzo’s eyes on his face at odd moments, the look on the priest’s face somewhere between smug and predatory. Gojyo licks his lips and the expression slips a little.
-
Sanzo’s sick of being an effigy. A symbol. Something to be worshipped. He’s sick of the dumb admiration in the cattle-eyes of men and women and children.
Gojyo defaces him and strips back his layers until he can’t be anyone but himself, and shoves him onto the bed or the wall or the floor and makes him forget his name. He’s never been able to forget that before.
Gojyo invades him, desecrates him, violates him.
Fucking Gojyo is the closest he’s ever come to a truly religious experience.
He usually leaves but sometimes, if Gojyo tumbles quickly into exhausted slumber, he lets himself lie in their tangle of sheets and sweat, Gojyo’s limbs draped over him.
He remembers his name in those moments, but somehow it doesn’t matter as much.
Eventually he’ll disentangle himself, gather up his clothes, stumble to the door and make his way back to his own bed. His cold bed. His empty bed. The sheets will chafe on his bare skin, the mattress will be too hard or too soft, and as often as not he’ll end up by the window, smoking and staring at the stars while sleep batters away at the edges of his consciousness.
When he sleeps he dreams of violence, and hair the colour of freshly-spilled blood.
-
Gojyo’s had a lot of meaningless sex. He’s used a lot of people, and has been used in turn by plenty as well. He’s let people touch him with greedy, rough fingers as they imagine someone else, let them strip him and take what they need from him. He’s used girls (though he’ll challenge anyone to find one who didn’t enjoy it), and left them before the dawn light had begun to inch across the floor.
Nobody’s ever used him in quite the way Sanzo does.
The others never came back. They were footnotes, but somehow Sanzo’s become the story. He’s not sure when it happened, not sure which choked gasp, which filthy suggestion, which bruise tipped him over the edge. But his chapters are edged with gold the colour of Sanzo’s hair, and all his clothes seem to smell of Sanzo.
He knows Sanzo enjoys the tenderness. Knows the gentle touches are as much of an aphrodisiac to him as the violent ones. He knows something in Sanzo needs something he can give.
But they fuck, they don’t make love, and Gojyo wonders a little when that started to bother him. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it. Sanzo’s a beautiful son of a bitch, and whether it’s hard and fast or slow and deep it feels sinfully good. Until he wakes the next morning with the faintest sense of sickness uncoiling in his stomach.
It’s violent. Sometimes too violent. Because even as ecstasy turns his world to white something sucks the colour from his soul. It should be a convenient arrangement. Pleasure given and pleasure received. Games between the damaged and the damned. Just fucking, as it’s been just fucking so many times before.
But it’s not, and he can’t figure out why.
Still, it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t change anything. Because Sanzo only stays when he’s asleep.