[Fanfiction] - Gojyo/Sanzo - Penance
Written on a whim. I worry so much that they're OOC...
Title: Penance
Fandom: Saiyuki
Word Count: 601 (ZOMG so short...)
Beta: butterflygirl_3
Genre: Angst/Romance
Characters/Pairing: 35
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, non-explicit rough sex, hints of dub-con, general darkness. Emotional dysfunctionality. Sanzo being a bit of a bastard. Well, more of a bastard than usual.
Author's Notes: Yes. Well. *coughs* Don't really have an excuse. Is it bad that I actually find Sanzo dead sexy when he's like this?
Disclaimer: If Sanzo and Gojyo belonged to me, I wouldn't have time to write fic. XD
Summary: Sanzo likes to make him beg.
The brush of bare feet on the floor. The clink of a belt buckle. The faint catch of the lighter. Wisps of cigarette smoking, creeping through the night air.
The bed feels empty without him.
Gojyo can feel the fading imprint of Sanzo’s fingers on his skin. He’ll have bruises in the morning. He always has bruises in the morning. Has bruises because Sanzo never learnt the difference between sex and violence, pleasure and penance. Because Sanzo doesn’t know when to stop.
Because he’s never learnt to tell Sanzo to stop.
He’s not sure Sanzo would stop if he did.
Sanzo never stays for long. They share their bodies, but they never share the languid intimacy of lovers. He slides away, fumbles around for his clothes, wrenches them back on haphazardly as Gojyo pretends to sleep. Pretends he doesn’t care. Pretends there isn’t a hole somewhere inside him which corresponds exactly to the dent in the mattress where Sanzo had been.
Gojyo keeps his eyes shut. He should shut his eyes more often, but he can’t tear them away from Sanzo’s face when they’re together. Those violet eyes, black with lust, with need, with something that dances dangerously close to hate. Golden hair, soft as silk, darkened with sweat. Those lips, parted with pleasure.
Sanzo doesn’t like Gojyo touching his hair. Sanzo isn’t big on touching as a general rule. Gojyo wants to run lazy fingers over every inch of his pale skin, trace the arches of his ribs, discover every secret his body holds. But that’s not what Sanzo wants from him. So he grips the sheets with white knuckles and turns his head aside when he can’t look anymore, can’t bear it.
Sanzo does like touching Gojyo. Taunting him. Teasing him with gentle fingers, mocking him with tenderness that will never be anything but casual artifice. Watching him, naked and vulnerable. Searching out every shameful, dirty truth beneath his pale skin and woven through his bloody hair. Sanzo likes to see him bare, likes to see him stripped down to skin and sweat and desperation.
Sanzo likes to make him beg.
Sanzo knows exactly what to do to reduce him to a pleading mess of need and desperation. Knows precisely where to touch him, precisely what to whisper in his ear. Knows every filthy, sinful desire that burns behind his eyes. Knows how to make him hurt until it feels perfect, and then how to hurt him until all he wants it for them to start all over again, so he can forget for a moment the agony that’s tying knots in his throat, choking him.
He could stop it. Sanzo’s strong, but he’s stronger. He could snap Sanzo’s bones like pieces of kindling if he wanted, bloody that beautiful, untouchable face with his knuckles. Watch as crimson swallowed up the purple of his eyes. Do to Sanzo’s body what Sanzo’s done to his soul.
But sometimes, sometimes, when Sanzo thinks he’s not looking, or when the pleasure rises up with greedy fingers to claw away strips of his armour, Gojyo sees something in Sanzo’s eyes.
Fear, sharp as knives, diamond hard and toxic.
And that fear stops the words that could end this all, stops him from pushing the man away and gathering up the shreds of his dignity. That fear keeps him swaggering when he should limp, keeps the bruises from hurting, the scratches from stinging. It keeps him sane.
Because there’s only one thing in the world that scares Genjo Sanzo that badly.
And it’s the one thing in the world that could make Gojyo stay.
Title: Penance
Fandom: Saiyuki
Word Count: 601 (ZOMG so short...)
Beta: butterflygirl_3
Genre: Angst/Romance
Characters/Pairing: 35
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, non-explicit rough sex, hints of dub-con, general darkness. Emotional dysfunctionality. Sanzo being a bit of a bastard. Well, more of a bastard than usual.
Author's Notes: Yes. Well. *coughs* Don't really have an excuse. Is it bad that I actually find Sanzo dead sexy when he's like this?
Disclaimer: If Sanzo and Gojyo belonged to me, I wouldn't have time to write fic. XD
Summary: Sanzo likes to make him beg.
The brush of bare feet on the floor. The clink of a belt buckle. The faint catch of the lighter. Wisps of cigarette smoking, creeping through the night air.
The bed feels empty without him.
Gojyo can feel the fading imprint of Sanzo’s fingers on his skin. He’ll have bruises in the morning. He always has bruises in the morning. Has bruises because Sanzo never learnt the difference between sex and violence, pleasure and penance. Because Sanzo doesn’t know when to stop.
Because he’s never learnt to tell Sanzo to stop.
He’s not sure Sanzo would stop if he did.
Sanzo never stays for long. They share their bodies, but they never share the languid intimacy of lovers. He slides away, fumbles around for his clothes, wrenches them back on haphazardly as Gojyo pretends to sleep. Pretends he doesn’t care. Pretends there isn’t a hole somewhere inside him which corresponds exactly to the dent in the mattress where Sanzo had been.
Gojyo keeps his eyes shut. He should shut his eyes more often, but he can’t tear them away from Sanzo’s face when they’re together. Those violet eyes, black with lust, with need, with something that dances dangerously close to hate. Golden hair, soft as silk, darkened with sweat. Those lips, parted with pleasure.
Sanzo doesn’t like Gojyo touching his hair. Sanzo isn’t big on touching as a general rule. Gojyo wants to run lazy fingers over every inch of his pale skin, trace the arches of his ribs, discover every secret his body holds. But that’s not what Sanzo wants from him. So he grips the sheets with white knuckles and turns his head aside when he can’t look anymore, can’t bear it.
Sanzo does like touching Gojyo. Taunting him. Teasing him with gentle fingers, mocking him with tenderness that will never be anything but casual artifice. Watching him, naked and vulnerable. Searching out every shameful, dirty truth beneath his pale skin and woven through his bloody hair. Sanzo likes to see him bare, likes to see him stripped down to skin and sweat and desperation.
Sanzo likes to make him beg.
Sanzo knows exactly what to do to reduce him to a pleading mess of need and desperation. Knows precisely where to touch him, precisely what to whisper in his ear. Knows every filthy, sinful desire that burns behind his eyes. Knows how to make him hurt until it feels perfect, and then how to hurt him until all he wants it for them to start all over again, so he can forget for a moment the agony that’s tying knots in his throat, choking him.
He could stop it. Sanzo’s strong, but he’s stronger. He could snap Sanzo’s bones like pieces of kindling if he wanted, bloody that beautiful, untouchable face with his knuckles. Watch as crimson swallowed up the purple of his eyes. Do to Sanzo’s body what Sanzo’s done to his soul.
But sometimes, sometimes, when Sanzo thinks he’s not looking, or when the pleasure rises up with greedy fingers to claw away strips of his armour, Gojyo sees something in Sanzo’s eyes.
Fear, sharp as knives, diamond hard and toxic.
And that fear stops the words that could end this all, stops him from pushing the man away and gathering up the shreds of his dignity. That fear keeps him swaggering when he should limp, keeps the bruises from hurting, the scratches from stinging. It keeps him sane.
Because there’s only one thing in the world that scares Genjo Sanzo that badly.
And it’s the one thing in the world that could make Gojyo stay.