Mar 14, 2008 03:50
Something unnamable swells in my chest, like a fist clenched around my heart, and I have to avert my gaze. If things were different...but it’s a stupid, indulgent, pointless thought, and I quash it before it ever really forms--safer that way--and keep my eyes trained steadily, ruthlessly, out the window.
“Sanzo?” he ventures tentatively as he braces one knee on the mattress beside me, he knows well enough by now when he’s treading dangerous ground with me, and I ignore him. Don’t ask me ‘why,’ don’t you dare, damnit, because I don’t have an answer for you.
I hadn’t realized how tightly my arms were folded across my chest (a classically defensive posture, I can hear Hakkai saying now) until Goku rests a hand on my shoulder. Don’t, I want to tell him, but then the ‘why’s will come, and I can’t explain it to him. I won’t, especially not when I’m not yet ready to try to explain it to myself.
Goku just is, and always has been, seems like, and why the fuck can’t the idiot leave well enough alone? There are so many little things, so much shit I let him and only him get away with, and he knows it, even if he hasn’t enough malice to hold it over the heads of people like Gojyo. What more does he want from me?
“Sanzo,” he repeats softly. That feeling threatens to return, and I suddenly want more than anything to knock his hand away, don’t touch me! but I’m starting to understand it was pointless from the start, that any possible reason I give will be batted aside with his typical, idealistic, moronic unconcern.
“Sanzo,” he sighs, sounding exasperated, “don’t you ever get tired of saying ‘no?’”
Yes. I do. But I’m not about to tell the little shit that, because then he’ll walk all over me every time he wants an extra helping of this, or another ten minutes of that, and as long as I’m able to deny him life’s smaller pleasures as a matter of course, I don’t need a reason to deny him the larger, potentially disastrous ones. The ones I’ve learned to deny myself as a matter of course.
But I do. Get tired of it, sometimes, yeah. Contrary to popular belief, I get no real enjoyment from denying those three the things they want. However, I’ve found it’s often so much easier to say ‘no’ than ‘yes.’
Goku’s arms slip under my elbows from behind to wrap around my waist; his right hand slides under the fabric of the left side of my robe to touch my chest through my leathers (To be worn as armor against the world? the smartass old monk whom I’d hired to tailor them after the design of the traditional silk had suggested wryly), and I tense up at the sheer audacity of the action.
Yes, I get tired of it. I get goddamn sick of it.
His forehead presses against the center of my upper back, and I find my hand gripping the wrist stuck inside my robe tightly, but I haven’t done anything. Just...gripped.
I can feel the mattress dip under his weight as he shifts his body, and then Goku’s mouth--that infuriating, too loud, too big for his own good, voracious, trouble-making mouth--is level with my ear. “Yes?” he murmurs, seeking assurance beyond the implicit permission suggested by the fact that I’m not doing a fucking thing to stop him, what the fuck is wrong with me, I must have lost my mind, I should stop this now, before it’s too late--
I should, yes.
His breath stirs the hair there, just below the corner of my jaw, and I close my eyes, gritting my teeth against the shudder that zips down my spine, that sizzles like electricity beneath my skin.
Yes.
Those firm, blunt-tipped fingers flex against my ribs, those of the other hand reach out to curl around my chin, and he leans over my shoulder, turns my face towards his. He’s trembling like an old man--I can feel his heart thudding against my back, through layers of cloth and leather and flesh, and for some reason this is reassuring. “Do you want this as much as I do?” he asks, his voice laughably weak in comparison to his usual brazen self-confidence, but I’m not laughing.
Yes.
His mouth is startlingly soft, and wet, and when I push my tongue inside, he groans in a truly obscene manner that goes straight to my cock. He pushes into me, as if trying to eat me whole, and I push back, yes, he fights me for control of it, but that’s a joke because there’s some pathetic, needy noise I can’t fathom working its way up my throat, and I can’t be sure but I think he’s growling somewhere almost below my range of hearing--and both of us are so fucking far from ‘in control,’ it would probably be deeply unsettling, if I gave myself a chance to think about it. But I won’t. Shit, not now.
The angle is awkward and it’s putting a strain on the muscles of my neck, but I couldn’t move if I wanted to, not when Goku sucks at my bottom lip like that; not when he paints indecipherable characters across my tongue with his own, and my jeans tighten further when it strikes me, the sudden reality of a thousand new uses for this tireless mouth, fuck, yes.
I pull his hand from inside my robe. He makes a noise of protest, but I kiss him all the fiercer for it, and when I place that hand on the knot of my obi, I learn the taste of his smile.
~*~
Uuuugh. ',:{ Ughughugh, I told you I have trouble writing a coherent narrative with this pov. I am a bit fond of the last paragraph, though (in a totally unrealistic, sappy sort of way, haha).
fic (kinda),
sanzo/goku