Title: now there's a hunger left in my eye
Fandom: Dogs
Disclaimer: I do not own the Dogs characters or anything associated with the franchise. I make no profit from writing fanfiction.
Notes: 10 minutes. Un-betaed. No edits. Shame on me. (title from Thomas Dybdahl's 'Stray Dogs'. Clever, huh?)
Haine only touches him at night.
Tangled in Badou's sheets, he scrapes lines down Badou's bony sides with his claws and listens to the snarls; the acid, caustic words that slip in between the moans and long drawn out breaths; the crack that Badou's spine make when he arcs into a particularly aggressive scratch.
"You- You," the beginnings of a sentence degenerates into a gasp as Badou shifts, presses his back to Haine's chest and curses, reaching and dragging his hands through white hair. "Fuck."
Yes, please, Haine wants to say, but he doesn't.
Haine never speaks during their encounters; he communicates through his hands and his mouth and his skin - raw, red, heated skin that burns with arousal and the sounds that Badou is making are not helping.
"Fuck," he snarls again, fisting his hands in Haine's hair and pulling hard. His head lolls back, an empty eye socket gapes at him. "Fuck!"
Haine complies.
Badou doesn't keep his stray for long.
When he wakes up, the bed is half full and half empty - and he's naked. He finds his clothes folded in a neat pile at the foot of the bed, forgoes them, and pads bare-footed into the kitchen where he discovers a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of eggs on the counter. Sunny side-up.
He sits down and eats them, drinks a cup of coffee and lights a cigarette when he's done, thinks about nothing. That's easy, because nothing includes not thinking about Haine's domestic tendencies, includes not wondering about who taught the dog to play house.
The smoke curls in front of his face and he swats a hand through the cloud, but his nicotine breath shapes itself into white dogs that pounce on the tip of his nose and snarl into his good eye.
Haine hunts.
He brings the degenerate to their knees, squealing and dirty, and the dog inside is saying eat them eat them but Naoto has cut all of their throats before he can rip them out by hand. He snarls, his steel spine shivers and he catches a glimpse of Naoto shifting just a bit back, just a little further out of his reach.
Naoto isn't like Badou, he thinks. Naoto is touch-me-not; but Badou is give it to me.
He says so in every curse, in every open and filthy gasp, the hands that grip Haine's shoulders too tight when Haine is moving wrongwrongwrong; he says it every time he takes off his eye patch and stares at him, grinning as he drags him to bed with his pinching hands and his biting teeth and the missing eye that laughs at him, mocks him for his insecurities and clumsy, aggressive advances.
Bad dog. Bad dog.
At night, the stray slips into bed behind him and curls up into a ball. He doesn't touch Badou, but Badou turns to him anyway, pushes the hair from his glassy human eyes and invites him with kisses and whispers; and when Haine looks at Badou, he sees the dogs prowling in his eye, wonders if he put them there.
The dogs are hungry, he thinks muzzily as Badou's hands make tracks down his body; and he lets him, lets him touch and kiss and drag him down, down, down that spiraling dizzy path to release that has him clawing red stripes across Badou's back with one hand as he grinds up with his hips and strokes with the other. He digs in his heels, head snapping back as teeth savage his throat - don't take it don't take it don't take it - and he lets him he lets him he lets him-
The strays howl together.