Title: Ai Shinai
Author: akisawana
Genre: Saiyuki dark little PWP
Archive: ff.n, my lj, goldmagic.
Warning: Sex. akisawana writing sex.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a hell of a lot more sex.
Dedication: For thenurserycryme, because this is her pairing, not mine. Me, I'm 53 straight up.
Notes: I am not Hakkai. I ain't even within spitting distance of him. Sanzo, Sanzo's as good as in another galaxy. So if they're a bit off, it's all my fault and I'm sorry.
This is a story about love. For the woman I love is dead.
I don't love women anymore. They're fragile. Too fragile for a demon. Even a youkai woman is woman first and youkai second, and I couldn't trust a woman to take care of herself.
I like taking care of people if it means cooking and driving and counting cigarettes and beer cans. I don't like taking care of people when there's bullets and blades and blood. Especially blood. Blood still makes me nauseous; it took more than a year before I could see it without vomiting. I only like taking care of people who don't depend on me.
I like being a redundancy. I think that means there's something wrong with me.
I tried telling this to Gojyo one time. After I explained what a redundancy meant, he told me I wasn't redundant, that I was needed and necessary. He was trying to make me feel better. It only made me feel worse.
I tried telling it to Sanzo later. He told me that the only way to be redundant is to be self-sufficient. But all that proved was that half the Buddhist philosophy he quotes is made up on the spot. It wasn't bad for something made up while I was pulling four inches of steel out of his shoulder.
He's almost as bad as a woman when it comes to taking care of himself. Some days only sheer stubborn pride keeps him from just crawling in my lap and telling me to make it all better. Rainy days, mostly.
He's the best weatherman I've ever seen.
Neither of us like the rain. Too many bad things happen on rainy nights. Too much is lost. Rain makes me nervous; I haven't lost anything in too long. The wheel keeps on turning, and I want to be on the bottom, want to get it over with. Sanzo told me, in a rare moment of good humor, that maybe I wasn't on top yet.
I said I'm never top.
He told me to shut up.
"Stop thinking," he tells me now.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because when you think," he says, leaning on his elbows above me, "you make me care about you."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
He doesn't answer me.
He kisses me instead, tasting like cigarettes and beer and bitterness, hard and rough and a little dirty. When I raise my arms, trying to embrace him, he pins my wrists down instead. One-handed, which isn't near enough to hold me; it's a reminder, not a restraint. He's in charge, I just follow along.
Another way Sanzo's like a woman.
His other hand's wandering down, until he finds my pants and just shoves them down and grabs me possessively, no preamble, no pretensions of asking, no warning unless you know Sanzo. His mouth is moving down my throat now, sucking and biting. I try to wiggle my hands free just a little, but his hands, both of them, tighten and I guess there isn't audience participation this time around.
Sanzo lets go of my cock and presses first one knee and then the other between my legs. He licks and blows at my ear until I gasp and he slips the fingers of his free hand in my mouth. He lets me suck on them for a full minute, until they don't taste like gunpowder and nicotine any more. His other hand lets go of my wrists and starts pulling on my hips, nudging them in position. He holds me still while he pushes first one spit-slick finger, then another and another in me, stretching, rubbing, spreading. He brushes over a particular spot and I can't help but arch up at him, grab his shoulders. He does it again, his lips smirking against my own as I shamelessly twist into his touch.
Withdrawing his hand, Sanzo settles both of them under me and lifts. He stops, as close as he can get without actually being inside me, and looks up at me. He's looking for reassurance that this is all right, that I'm all right with this. It makes him look much younger than he is, too young to be doing this and this glance is the biggest clue I'll ever get towards understanding him.
"Please," is all he needs to hear and he's inside me all at once, fast and just this side of painful. He leans forward so he can kiss me again, his hands flat on my chest which isn't great for leverage but we want as much contact as we can get. He pulls out as far as he can and thrusts back in immediately, again and again and again. It's not long before I'm bucking against him, trying to get him in faster, deeper, harder. He presses down, lips and hips, trying to suppress me, trying to hold me still and if that's the way he wants it, I'll let him. I let him fuck me, quick and hot and sweaty until he shudders and his cock spits inside me, and that's enough to tip me over the edge too.
Sanzo pulls out wetly, and I ignore the sound he, alright, our bodies make. Otherwise, I'll start giggling, and I highly doubt Sanzo'll appreciate that. He pushes my bangs up out of my eyes, as close to tenderness as he gets. I smile at him and pull him closer, forcing him to cuddle. He's the first person I've met that doesn't like it. Even Gojyo's held me two or three times. Sanzo endures it, though I know he wants a cigarette and possibly a shower. He rubs small circles with his fingers on the back of my neck and I pretend that he loves me.
Author: akisawana
Genre: Saiyuki dark little PWP
Archive: ff.n, my lj, goldmagic.
Warning: Sex. akisawana writing sex.
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a hell of a lot more sex.
Dedication: For thenurserycryme, because this is her pairing, not mine. Me, I'm 53 straight up.
Notes: I am not Hakkai. I ain't even within spitting distance of him. Sanzo, Sanzo's as good as in another galaxy. So if they're a bit off, it's all my fault and I'm sorry.
This is a story about love. For the woman I love is dead.
I don't love women anymore. They're fragile. Too fragile for a demon. Even a youkai woman is woman first and youkai second, and I couldn't trust a woman to take care of herself.
I like taking care of people if it means cooking and driving and counting cigarettes and beer cans. I don't like taking care of people when there's bullets and blades and blood. Especially blood. Blood still makes me nauseous; it took more than a year before I could see it without vomiting. I only like taking care of people who don't depend on me.
I like being a redundancy. I think that means there's something wrong with me.
I tried telling this to Gojyo one time. After I explained what a redundancy meant, he told me I wasn't redundant, that I was needed and necessary. He was trying to make me feel better. It only made me feel worse.
I tried telling it to Sanzo later. He told me that the only way to be redundant is to be self-sufficient. But all that proved was that half the Buddhist philosophy he quotes is made up on the spot. It wasn't bad for something made up while I was pulling four inches of steel out of his shoulder.
He's almost as bad as a woman when it comes to taking care of himself. Some days only sheer stubborn pride keeps him from just crawling in my lap and telling me to make it all better. Rainy days, mostly.
He's the best weatherman I've ever seen.
Neither of us like the rain. Too many bad things happen on rainy nights. Too much is lost. Rain makes me nervous; I haven't lost anything in too long. The wheel keeps on turning, and I want to be on the bottom, want to get it over with. Sanzo told me, in a rare moment of good humor, that maybe I wasn't on top yet.
I said I'm never top.
He told me to shut up.
"Stop thinking," he tells me now.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because when you think," he says, leaning on his elbows above me, "you make me care about you."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
He doesn't answer me.
He kisses me instead, tasting like cigarettes and beer and bitterness, hard and rough and a little dirty. When I raise my arms, trying to embrace him, he pins my wrists down instead. One-handed, which isn't near enough to hold me; it's a reminder, not a restraint. He's in charge, I just follow along.
Another way Sanzo's like a woman.
His other hand's wandering down, until he finds my pants and just shoves them down and grabs me possessively, no preamble, no pretensions of asking, no warning unless you know Sanzo. His mouth is moving down my throat now, sucking and biting. I try to wiggle my hands free just a little, but his hands, both of them, tighten and I guess there isn't audience participation this time around.
Sanzo lets go of my cock and presses first one knee and then the other between my legs. He licks and blows at my ear until I gasp and he slips the fingers of his free hand in my mouth. He lets me suck on them for a full minute, until they don't taste like gunpowder and nicotine any more. His other hand lets go of my wrists and starts pulling on my hips, nudging them in position. He holds me still while he pushes first one spit-slick finger, then another and another in me, stretching, rubbing, spreading. He brushes over a particular spot and I can't help but arch up at him, grab his shoulders. He does it again, his lips smirking against my own as I shamelessly twist into his touch.
Withdrawing his hand, Sanzo settles both of them under me and lifts. He stops, as close as he can get without actually being inside me, and looks up at me. He's looking for reassurance that this is all right, that I'm all right with this. It makes him look much younger than he is, too young to be doing this and this glance is the biggest clue I'll ever get towards understanding him.
"Please," is all he needs to hear and he's inside me all at once, fast and just this side of painful. He leans forward so he can kiss me again, his hands flat on my chest which isn't great for leverage but we want as much contact as we can get. He pulls out as far as he can and thrusts back in immediately, again and again and again. It's not long before I'm bucking against him, trying to get him in faster, deeper, harder. He presses down, lips and hips, trying to suppress me, trying to hold me still and if that's the way he wants it, I'll let him. I let him fuck me, quick and hot and sweaty until he shudders and his cock spits inside me, and that's enough to tip me over the edge too.
Sanzo pulls out wetly, and I ignore the sound he, alright, our bodies make. Otherwise, I'll start giggling, and I highly doubt Sanzo'll appreciate that. He pushes my bangs up out of my eyes, as close to tenderness as he gets. I smile at him and pull him closer, forcing him to cuddle. He's the first person I've met that doesn't like it. Even Gojyo's held me two or three times. Sanzo endures it, though I know he wants a cigarette and possibly a shower. He rubs small circles with his fingers on the back of my neck and I pretend that he loves me.