Categories > Anime/Manga > Saiyuki
Something Like Enough
Sometimes it's cool with Gojyo when Sanzo goes seme, but sometimes it feels like there's something else going on. This is afterwards. No actual sex, but sexual imagery and language.
?Blocked
Something Like Enough
Fuck... When the thunderstorm in his head had died down a little, Gojyo pulled himself up onto his scraped elbows and took stock. Splinters in his ass from the raw surface of the table. A crease in his scalp where Sanzo's last shot had gotten a little too close, the drying blood matting his hair. That had to be pretty - fucking Sanzo...one day the bastard's aim would be off, and there'd be one less fine, fine kappa decorating the earth and one more mess for someone to scrub off a wall. He hoped it would be a big, colourful mess, that's all, a bright red splash and smear with some interesting sticky bits.
And speaking of blood - the halfbreed swallowed hard, tasting metal, and slid his tongue over his lips, doing a damage check. Yeah, a nice neat split, right down the middle of his lower lip - and what felt like a bitemark - he'd been in bar-fights - hell, he'd fought youkai and come out less messed-up than this. And Sanzo was supposed to be human. Uh-huh - maybe. At least the youkai had never left him with a sore ass and a weird kind of hurt that seemed to have little to do with the pounding he'd just taken.
The monk's little exit-line hadn't been any too sweet - Don't kid yourself...I don't care enough about you to miss you - Gojyo wondered what he'd said to bring that down on himself; what he'd done to bring any of it down...he'd only been doing what he always did, taking advantage of an opportunity. Because...even in one of his walking-nightmare moods Sanzo was damn hard to resist; to Gojyo he had all the fascination of a box wrapped up in shiny paper, tied all around with string and seals and misleading labels about its contents and a return address you couldn't quite read...who wouldn't want to tear into it? And even when you heard the faint ticking sound coming from inside it, you STILL wanted to rip it open.
OK, so he'd miscalculated somewhere tonight, tripped some wire he hadn't even known was there, pulled the wrong string - and the pretty box had gone off in his hands like a grenade. Worth it, though. Always. Worth the damage and the doubt and the what-the-hell-did-he-mean-anyway and the Look...Gojyo shifted and slid off the table, trying to ignore the glaze of come and lube that streaked him from navel to knees and pulled his shirt down from where it had gotten shoved up under his arms. The fabric chafed against his nipples as he bent to fish his pants up off the floor, making him growl. Fucking monk. There had to be some part of him that wasn't going to hurt tomorrow, or the next day...or the next.
Gojyo dug his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, aware that he was thinking way, way too much, and when Gojyo started to think, his mind didn't always end up where he meant it to go. It tended to wander off the path, following some faint trace of an idea like a whiff of smoke, or investigating a shadowy corner that would have been better left alone, taking on a few of the hungry ghosts that came and went around the edges of the dark. Sometimes he could fight his way back to the road that ran from A to B. Sometimes, like right now, he was too tired and had to drag along after his mind like the tail of a loose kite. He prowled across the dim room on long, bare feet. Man, if he had any sense, he'd stop thinking and go get a drink. If he had any sense, he'd be out of here by the time Sanzo got back from wherever he'd run to, drunk, even more pissed-off, maybe; Gojyo wasn't sure he could do Round Two without a little more recovery time.
The bed looked good. Trust Sanzo to get the best bed in the place, then decide to fuck on the table/. And he called /Gojyo an idiot. Maybe he'd just stretch out for a minute or two - sometimes it was easier to think lying down...Bed-1; Sensible Behaviour- 0. That the bed smelled like Sanzo didn't help his concentration, though - cigarettes, gun oil, that smoky , incensy smell that seemed to drift around Sanzo's hair and clothes; a scent that Gojyo associated so powerfully with the monk that just walking past a temple could sometimes get him half hard...which would be kind of a liability if he'd been the religious type...Gojyo's grin pulled at the split in his lip and he cursed and licked it, inventing a few new names for the man who'd done it.
And what was his damn name, anyway? "Sanzo" wasn't a name, it was a title. He must have had a name once, when he was a kid - where had it gone? The same place the kid had gone? Washed away in the river he hated the sound of? Burnt to sticks and ash? Bled out? Left on an altar somewhere like a god-bribe? Gojyo realized with surprise that he was the only one of them who still had the name he'd started out with - at least, he supposed he did. That's what he'd always been called, anyway, even if his mother hadn't used it much. He felt something twist around in his head like a trapped animal; this hadn't been where he meant to go.
Gojyo thought of flowers and blood and the way her hair had looked, like something dark spilled across the floor, and how silentsilentsilent the house had been when her voice had stopped; he remembered crying, not because he was afraid - he was never afraid again, after that - but because now he'd never have a chance to make her love him. He'd had nothing to give her that she'd wanted, and she was dead before he learned to stop trying. He guessed he'd never learned...all he knew how to do was to take what he could and hope that one day it would feel something like enough.
Like this had anything to do with Sanzo. Like there was anything the same here. Like.../fuck./
Fuck... When the thunderstorm in his head had died down a little, Gojyo pulled himself up onto his scraped elbows and took stock. Splinters in his ass from the raw surface of the table. A crease in his scalp where Sanzo's last shot had gotten a little too close, the drying blood matting his hair. That had to be pretty - fucking Sanzo...one day the bastard's aim would be off, and there'd be one less fine, fine kappa decorating the earth and one more mess for someone to scrub off a wall. He hoped it would be a big, colourful mess, that's all, a bright red splash and smear with some interesting sticky bits.
And speaking of blood - the halfbreed swallowed hard, tasting metal, and slid his tongue over his lips, doing a damage check. Yeah, a nice neat split, right down the middle of his lower lip - and what felt like a bitemark - he'd been in bar-fights - hell, he'd fought youkai and come out less messed-up than this. And Sanzo was supposed to be human. Uh-huh - maybe. At least the youkai had never left him with a sore ass and a weird kind of hurt that seemed to have little to do with the pounding he'd just taken.
The monk's little exit-line hadn't been any too sweet - Don't kid yourself...I don't care enough about you to miss you - Gojyo wondered what he'd said to bring that down on himself; what he'd done to bring any of it down...he'd only been doing what he always did, taking advantage of an opportunity. Because...even in one of his walking-nightmare moods Sanzo was damn hard to resist; to Gojyo he had all the fascination of a box wrapped up in shiny paper, tied all around with string and seals and misleading labels about its contents and a return address you couldn't quite read...who wouldn't want to tear into it? And even when you heard the faint ticking sound coming from inside it, you STILL wanted to rip it open.
OK, so he'd miscalculated somewhere tonight, tripped some wire he hadn't even known was there, pulled the wrong string - and the pretty box had gone off in his hands like a grenade. Worth it, though. Always. Worth the damage and the doubt and the what-the-hell-did-he-mean-anyway and the Look...Gojyo shifted and slid off the table, trying to ignore the glaze of come and lube that streaked him from navel to knees and pulled his shirt down from where it had gotten shoved up under his arms. The fabric chafed against his nipples as he bent to fish his pants up off the floor, making him growl. Fucking monk. There had to be some part of him that wasn't going to hurt tomorrow, or the next day...or the next.
Gojyo dug his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, aware that he was thinking way, way too much, and when Gojyo started to think, his mind didn't always end up where he meant it to go. It tended to wander off the path, following some faint trace of an idea like a whiff of smoke, or investigating a shadowy corner that would have been better left alone, taking on a few of the hungry ghosts that came and went around the edges of the dark. Sometimes he could fight his way back to the road that ran from A to B. Sometimes, like right now, he was too tired and had to drag along after his mind like the tail of a loose kite. He prowled across the dim room on long, bare feet. Man, if he had any sense, he'd stop thinking and go get a drink. If he had any sense, he'd be out of here by the time Sanzo got back from wherever he'd run to, drunk, even more pissed-off, maybe; Gojyo wasn't sure he could do Round Two without a little more recovery time.
The bed looked good. Trust Sanzo to get the best bed in the place, then decide to fuck on the table/. And he called /Gojyo an idiot. Maybe he'd just stretch out for a minute or two - sometimes it was easier to think lying down...Bed-1; Sensible Behaviour- 0. That the bed smelled like Sanzo didn't help his concentration, though - cigarettes, gun oil, that smoky , incensy smell that seemed to drift around Sanzo's hair and clothes; a scent that Gojyo associated so powerfully with the monk that just walking past a temple could sometimes get him half hard...which would be kind of a liability if he'd been the religious type...Gojyo's grin pulled at the split in his lip and he cursed and licked it, inventing a few new names for the man who'd done it.
And what was his damn name, anyway? "Sanzo" wasn't a name, it was a title. He must have had a name once, when he was a kid - where had it gone? The same place the kid had gone? Washed away in the river he hated the sound of? Burnt to sticks and ash? Bled out? Left on an altar somewhere like a god-bribe? Gojyo realized with surprise that he was the only one of them who still had the name he'd started out with - at least, he supposed he did. That's what he'd always been called, anyway, even if his mother hadn't used it much. He felt something twist around in his head like a trapped animal; this hadn't been where he meant to go.
Gojyo thought of flowers and blood and the way her hair had looked, like something dark spilled across the floor, and how silentsilentsilent the house had been when her voice had stopped; he remembered crying, not because he was afraid - he was never afraid again, after that - but because now he'd never have a chance to make her love him. He'd had nothing to give her that she'd wanted, and she was dead before he learned to stop trying. He guessed he'd never learned...all he knew how to do was to take what he could and hope that one day it would feel something like enough.
Like this had anything to do with Sanzo. Like there was anything the same here. Like.../fuck./
Sign up to rate and review this story