Saiyuki oneshot - "The Rub"
Jul. 28th, 2005 09:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aquabeanTitle: The Rub
Author: Rune *shame*
Words: 1395 (omgwtfbbq! >_<)
Rating: NC-17. For. Um. Feathers.
Notes: Sooo...![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
wildelamassu put up a picture of Hazel, happend to say to me, "Poor Sanzo. I bet he has nightmares about being tied to the bed with a feather boa." To this I can only say, "Oh, does he ever." So, I guess this is for her. Because, the bunnies, they come when you're least expecting them. Anyways, I'll have you all know that this is also my first. Porn. Ever. And look what I did! *flails* Good Lord. XD And a huge thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
karotsamused, for sitting through all the flailing. And the beta. *G*
Summary: Everyone has nightmares. Even Sanzo.
It’s dark, but not so much so that he can’t see the shape of his own body against the white of the mattress. And while he can’t move, he’s not exactly in pain either, it’s just... being tied down wouldn’t be so much of a concern -- it’s happened enough times by now that it always seems rather anticlimactic -- if the bindings weren’t fuzzy.
“God. Damn it.”
A short struggle only manages to send a cloud of something floating into the air. In the half light he watches with growing horror as a last few -- feathers? -- drift down to land on his chest and face. He sneezes.
From somewhere to his left he hears the sound of foot steps, sharp, like a woman in heels.
“Who’s there?” he says, grinding the words out between clenched teeth.
He gets no response but the footsteps change, circling the bed, the slow clicking of measured steps coming from just beyond his line of sight. They stop behind the head of the bed, and no matter how far he cranes his head back he can’t make out anything. Snarling, he stills within his bonds. He resists the urge to tug again, knowing the softness of the feathers belies their apparent strength.
It remains silent so long that he begins to think that perhaps he’s alone after all. And while keeping his eyes open seems like the smartest choice, the constant tension is taking its toll. He feels himself drifting off, eyes falling shut, muscles in his arms and shoulders twinging as they slowly relax. This is stupid, he thinks, but leaves his eyes shut.
They jerk open again a moment later, his wrists screaming in protest as he tries to throw himself forward, away from the cool softness that slides across his cheek.
A shadow looms above him, but all that he can make out clearly is the feather, a light and shimmering blue, obviously a match to those that tie him to the bed. It’s held by a white gloved hand, and is again dragged down his face.
He tries to turn away, but the angle of his arms keep him from going far, though nothing stops the snarl that greets the feather’s decent down his throat.
“Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”
The lack of laughter surprises him -- the kind of perverts who usually do this sort of thing tend to also be the kind who gloat. Silky smooth, the touch returns, just firm enough not to tickle. Across his cheekbone and over the bridge of his nose, the feather moves in small curving strokes. Twitching and trying in vain to turn away it takes him several seconds before he realizes that there’s a pattern to the movements. Like something being traced, or written. Words.
He’s not struggling any more, but he glares up at the body leaning over him, still too much in darkness to be clear.
“I’m going to kill you.”
The feather dances across his eyelids and he blinks furiously, his vision blurring, and for an instant the lighting seems to shift. The shape connected to hand gains definition and he thinks he makes out the edge of...a hat?
His own nakedness comes as more of a shock than it should somehow and Not-Fear makes his gut clench. Undignified as thrashing about might be the sudden realization that the feather painting long strokes down his neck isn’t the only one seems to justify the action. A feather settles itself across his eyes.
Not being able to see changes nothing, he tells himself. He tries to twist his head anyway but the weight keeping his lids shut is enough to hold his head in place as well. Muscles in his thighs and stomach shudder, unable to avoid the caresses he can’t lift his head enough to see. None of it is enough, though, to remove the expression of absolute loathing from his face until the almost-pain of quill-sharp roughness scratches the skin of the hollow just below his hip bone. He opens his mouth with a gasp as his body betrays him, straining towards a touch he tells himself he doesn’t want.
Ragged breathing, his own, is the only sound, the feathers silent, Like owls, his mind supplies needlessly and it’s enough to bring him back to himself.
Something like burning sings along his skin as he strains to remain still. There is intent to the way he is touched and he clenches his jaw, breathing hard through his nose, unwilling to make even one sound.
A feather dips low, cool and light as silk, along the underside of his cock. He nearly bites through his tongue, though his hips snap upward, his whole body arching. He is being teased, he realizes, and the fury that accompanies this realization is enough to regain him a modicum of control.
No one. He tries to twist away again but is rewarded with a firmer touch, still cool despite the time spent pressed against his skin. No one is allowed--
Elsewhere on his body the touching stops. It leaves him hyper-aware, skin tingling waiting for it to begin again.
Behind his knee, he feels them for an instant and they are gone. Then, traveling up the inside of his thigh, brushing in circles, some so cold they feel almost wet. He shivers, his mouth open now, breathing through his nose having become more than he can sustain. But still he makes no sound in response.
A gentle touch to the skin behind his balls makes him jerk, his fists clenching as again he strains against his bonds. Downy softness brushes his cock and the fleeting thought that feathers don’t bend like that is cut short by the unrelenting stroke of feathers that do.
Back bowed, hips thrusting helplessly, his world narrows until only the shivering caress of the feathers remain, at his wrists, his ankles, his cock and then there, against the small of his back, slowly moving lower.
A green glow seeps through his eyelids as his body slowly slips from his control. No one is allowed to-- but he can not scream the words out loud for the feathers that press against his lips. They push, insistent and he thrashes at last, violent with regained will.
Light, bright and harsh flashes around him, and for a split second he freefalls before again finding himself immobilized. The attention to his body becomes more insistent, but something has shifted and he forced to fight less to maintains his control. Blinking away the afterglow, even as the air changes, he inhales deeply. Smoke, familiar and not unpleasant slides through his barely parted lips, filling his lungs.
The feathered cords that bind him are no longer gentle, but harsh and biting and as a feather scrapes down his cheek he remembers the silhouette that loomed above him. He stares straight ahead, and finds himself glaring at the same hard point of a hat resting atop a head that bares no face.
Shock and anger make his eyes widen as again a white gloved hand traces the the hollow of his throat with a single feather.
A mouth appears, thin lips over too white teeth. It opens with a sneer, “But I’m h-hungry.”
He blinks and somehow the shadow before him betrays the same surprise. Snarling, it leans forward, lips inches from his own.
“Saaaanzooooo. Hakkai says he won’t make real breakfast until you get up.”
He has time to laugh just once before the sickening fall through air filled with nothing but feathers steals his breath away.
Sitting up in bed, sweat soaked sheets pooled around his waist, Sanzo took a moment to allow reality catch up with his profound sense of annoyance.
“Come ooooooon.” Goku’s plaintive whine sounded through the door.
“Shut up!”
A split second later the door opened, the lack of gun shot apparently enough of an invitation for the monkey.
“Sanzo, Hakkai said he won’t make breakfast unti-- OW!” Goku squawked as a pillow hit him squarely in the face.
“Shut up. Tell Hakkai to just make whatever. I’ll be down when I’m down. ”
“Oh. Okay, sure!” Goku grinned, before sprinting from the room. He didn’t want to be there when Hakkai saw all those feathers.
Author: Rune *shame*
Words: 1395 (omgwtfbbq! >_<)
Rating: NC-17. For. Um. Feathers.
Notes: Sooo...
wildelamassu put up a picture of Hazel, happend to say to me, "Poor Sanzo. I bet he has nightmares about being tied to the bed with a feather boa." To this I can only say, "Oh, does he ever." So, I guess this is for her. Because, the bunnies, they come when you're least expecting them. Anyways, I'll have you all know that this is also my first. Porn. Ever. And look what I did! *flails* Good Lord. XD And a huge thanks to karotsamused, for sitting through all the flailing. And the beta. *G*Summary: Everyone has nightmares. Even Sanzo.
It’s dark, but not so much so that he can’t see the shape of his own body against the white of the mattress. And while he can’t move, he’s not exactly in pain either, it’s just... being tied down wouldn’t be so much of a concern -- it’s happened enough times by now that it always seems rather anticlimactic -- if the bindings weren’t fuzzy.
“God. Damn it.”
A short struggle only manages to send a cloud of something floating into the air. In the half light he watches with growing horror as a last few -- feathers? -- drift down to land on his chest and face. He sneezes.
From somewhere to his left he hears the sound of foot steps, sharp, like a woman in heels.
“Who’s there?” he says, grinding the words out between clenched teeth.
He gets no response but the footsteps change, circling the bed, the slow clicking of measured steps coming from just beyond his line of sight. They stop behind the head of the bed, and no matter how far he cranes his head back he can’t make out anything. Snarling, he stills within his bonds. He resists the urge to tug again, knowing the softness of the feathers belies their apparent strength.
It remains silent so long that he begins to think that perhaps he’s alone after all. And while keeping his eyes open seems like the smartest choice, the constant tension is taking its toll. He feels himself drifting off, eyes falling shut, muscles in his arms and shoulders twinging as they slowly relax. This is stupid, he thinks, but leaves his eyes shut.
They jerk open again a moment later, his wrists screaming in protest as he tries to throw himself forward, away from the cool softness that slides across his cheek.
A shadow looms above him, but all that he can make out clearly is the feather, a light and shimmering blue, obviously a match to those that tie him to the bed. It’s held by a white gloved hand, and is again dragged down his face.
He tries to turn away, but the angle of his arms keep him from going far, though nothing stops the snarl that greets the feather’s decent down his throat.
“Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”
The lack of laughter surprises him -- the kind of perverts who usually do this sort of thing tend to also be the kind who gloat. Silky smooth, the touch returns, just firm enough not to tickle. Across his cheekbone and over the bridge of his nose, the feather moves in small curving strokes. Twitching and trying in vain to turn away it takes him several seconds before he realizes that there’s a pattern to the movements. Like something being traced, or written. Words.
He’s not struggling any more, but he glares up at the body leaning over him, still too much in darkness to be clear.
“I’m going to kill you.”
The feather dances across his eyelids and he blinks furiously, his vision blurring, and for an instant the lighting seems to shift. The shape connected to hand gains definition and he thinks he makes out the edge of...a hat?
His own nakedness comes as more of a shock than it should somehow and Not-Fear makes his gut clench. Undignified as thrashing about might be the sudden realization that the feather painting long strokes down his neck isn’t the only one seems to justify the action. A feather settles itself across his eyes.
Not being able to see changes nothing, he tells himself. He tries to twist his head anyway but the weight keeping his lids shut is enough to hold his head in place as well. Muscles in his thighs and stomach shudder, unable to avoid the caresses he can’t lift his head enough to see. None of it is enough, though, to remove the expression of absolute loathing from his face until the almost-pain of quill-sharp roughness scratches the skin of the hollow just below his hip bone. He opens his mouth with a gasp as his body betrays him, straining towards a touch he tells himself he doesn’t want.
Ragged breathing, his own, is the only sound, the feathers silent, Like owls, his mind supplies needlessly and it’s enough to bring him back to himself.
Something like burning sings along his skin as he strains to remain still. There is intent to the way he is touched and he clenches his jaw, breathing hard through his nose, unwilling to make even one sound.
A feather dips low, cool and light as silk, along the underside of his cock. He nearly bites through his tongue, though his hips snap upward, his whole body arching. He is being teased, he realizes, and the fury that accompanies this realization is enough to regain him a modicum of control.
No one. He tries to twist away again but is rewarded with a firmer touch, still cool despite the time spent pressed against his skin. No one is allowed--
Elsewhere on his body the touching stops. It leaves him hyper-aware, skin tingling waiting for it to begin again.
Behind his knee, he feels them for an instant and they are gone. Then, traveling up the inside of his thigh, brushing in circles, some so cold they feel almost wet. He shivers, his mouth open now, breathing through his nose having become more than he can sustain. But still he makes no sound in response.
A gentle touch to the skin behind his balls makes him jerk, his fists clenching as again he strains against his bonds. Downy softness brushes his cock and the fleeting thought that feathers don’t bend like that is cut short by the unrelenting stroke of feathers that do.
Back bowed, hips thrusting helplessly, his world narrows until only the shivering caress of the feathers remain, at his wrists, his ankles, his cock and then there, against the small of his back, slowly moving lower.
A green glow seeps through his eyelids as his body slowly slips from his control. No one is allowed to-- but he can not scream the words out loud for the feathers that press against his lips. They push, insistent and he thrashes at last, violent with regained will.
Light, bright and harsh flashes around him, and for a split second he freefalls before again finding himself immobilized. The attention to his body becomes more insistent, but something has shifted and he forced to fight less to maintains his control. Blinking away the afterglow, even as the air changes, he inhales deeply. Smoke, familiar and not unpleasant slides through his barely parted lips, filling his lungs.
The feathered cords that bind him are no longer gentle, but harsh and biting and as a feather scrapes down his cheek he remembers the silhouette that loomed above him. He stares straight ahead, and finds himself glaring at the same hard point of a hat resting atop a head that bares no face.
Shock and anger make his eyes widen as again a white gloved hand traces the the hollow of his throat with a single feather.
A mouth appears, thin lips over too white teeth. It opens with a sneer, “But I’m h-hungry.”
He blinks and somehow the shadow before him betrays the same surprise. Snarling, it leans forward, lips inches from his own.
“Saaaanzooooo. Hakkai says he won’t make real breakfast until you get up.”
He has time to laugh just once before the sickening fall through air filled with nothing but feathers steals his breath away.
Sitting up in bed, sweat soaked sheets pooled around his waist, Sanzo took a moment to allow reality catch up with his profound sense of annoyance.
“Come ooooooon.” Goku’s plaintive whine sounded through the door.
“Shut up!”
A split second later the door opened, the lack of gun shot apparently enough of an invitation for the monkey.
“Sanzo, Hakkai said he won’t make breakfast unti-- OW!” Goku squawked as a pillow hit him squarely in the face.
“Shut up. Tell Hakkai to just make whatever. I’ll be down when I’m down. ”
“Oh. Okay, sure!” Goku grinned, before sprinting from the room. He didn’t want to be there when Hakkai saw all those feathers.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 04:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 04:39 am (UTC)Dude, first porn and it's this? I really am insane XD
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 05:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 05:18 am (UTC)And dude, left field is all I've got. Heheeh.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 06:09 am (UTC)Okay, hon, I know you *say* this is your first porn, but I suspect the existence of practice pieces hidden on your hard drive. Or possibly deleted right after birth. Whatever you did...(just a lot of research? *G*)...it worked. KA's right, this ROCKS. It's so...well...evocative. Brings true feeling of the quill points, the cold feather tips, the works. And the darkness. A lot of night-set fics forget about that after saying it once, and so the lights sorta click on halfway through, as the reader forgets to pay attention to the lack of light. Here, we can't do that--you emphasize the shadows, and the effect they have on Sanzo's perception, to prevent that. (And talk about mood! ^_^)
I said it before, I record it here for future reference: I love fics that create striking images and lines (collections of sound, the way it rolls off the tongue, meaning included) with very little fancy footwork. This one does--the two lines I like best to this end are
Downy softness brushes his cock and the fleeting thought that feathers don’t bend like that is cut short by the unrelenting stroke of feathers that do.
He has time to laugh just once before the sickening fall through air filled with nothing but feathers steals his breath away.
Another thing I like is inventing adjectives, which you do two or three times in this sentence:
None of it is enough, though, to remove the expression of absolute loathing from his face until the almost-pain of quill-sharp roughness scratches the skin of the hollow just below his hip bone.
And the location--playing to Sanzo's strengths, certainly. Skinnyass monk. ^___^
Wow I'm rambling. *pounce* GOODFIC. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 06:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 09:01 pm (UTC)*VBG*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 09:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 09:03 pm (UTC)And dude, Sanzo should have been born in Egypt, because, Um. YES. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 03:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 09:05 pm (UTC)Good to know I've done my job right. *G*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 09:54 pm (UTC)I also love the pun in the title, because I'm all predictable like that. ...and in that sleep of Sanzos who have just seen canon go-go rent boys wearing feather boas, what dreams may come. XD
Did Rana forsake you forever for writing Hazel? *G*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 09:09 pm (UTC)Rana was appeased by the hotness, but I understand that next time Sanzo gets to have fun with anyone except Hazel. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-29 11:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-07 09:04 pm (UTC)Thank you!