FIC: DOGS/DEADMAN WONDERLAND - if we stay on our feet (we'll make it)
Title: if we stay on our feet (we'll make it)
Fandom: DOGS/Deadman Wonderland
Rating: R.
Pairing: Genkaku/Badou.
Disclaimer: NNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOO
Feedback: NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOO
Notes: For reneges, from gargleblasted RP. THIS IS FOR BREAKING MY HEART, YOU BITCH.
Ⅰ
Badou’s come a long way. After all, Genkaku hasn’t forgotten the first time his lips touched that sun-starved skin, the resulting pistol-whip that’d left behind burst capillaries and a heart screaming school girl love. It’d been the wonderful start of a high-stakes game of keep-away, of watching the Undergrounder thrashing back and forth between animal instinct and the pull of the moon.
Mathematics became very suddenly important; for every finger traced down a strong jawline, there were three broken digits. For every loving kiss there were ripped apart lips and a tongue practically bitten out of his head. Increasing the intensity, decreasing the space between punch and touch [it’s only three letters difference, you know!] all done so meticulouslypatiently because the worth is far greater than the sum.
[Finally dividing the legs and multiplying the pressure, Badou scoring a tally on his back with cutting nicotine-stained nails and oh this is what he was counting on, yeah?]
Add it all up; graveyards full of fractured bones and liters upon liters of blood just for this very moment - his fox curled up comfortably within the relaxed arches of his legs [like the den he’s always wanted]. Badou’s spine-notched back bumps lightly into his chest as the Undergrounder shifts the Flying V’s heavysteel weight in his lap, struggling to play a single solid line of Paranoia.
They fit perfectly, just as Genkaku had known they would [by numerology, not mathematics].
“Damnit,” mutters Badou absently over stumblestutter notes. The taller man covers the Undergrounder’s forearms with his own, palm pressing on top of that jagged sliver-shaped scar, fingers wrappingtwining [always such a serpent]. He pulls him back more, arching over his shoulder, moving their hands together to play the notes.
“D, C, G, G, D,” he strumshums, pressing the side of his nose into tinderbox hair. “An’ the chorus starts on another D. Got it?”
“--Think so.”
“Just take it slower, yeah?”
Badou nods, gives the V that attentive look that says nothing but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Genkaku shifts, feeling a corresponding twitch in his pants - fuck , so cute [and so close]. As the other man butchers a few more chords, Genkaku drops his mouth to the bare neck, sweetly kissing the whitewhite stripes between bright orange strands. It’s too hard to keep the brush of lips light after so long waiting for these corpse-lily expanses to be all his to linger over [while Badou was always his, it was that contradiction he craved, not just spring-loaded attack but touch-me-fuck-me laxness, too].
As a believer of many things including [and especially] embracing The Impulses, he bears down on the other more insistently, teeth sinking down and clamping [mineminemine], tongue wetting the reddened welt, hand working it’s way around Badou’s skinny concave waist and down between his legs, grasping proprietarily at an inner thigh, slithering up-
The guitar in Badou’s lap goes twang-ang. “Would you fuckin’ cut it out?” he snaps, all warning growl - but it’s just this side of breathy.
Genkaku just smiles. Yeah, he’s come a long way [and he’ll come again and again and go fartherhigher if a humble Super Monk has anything to say about it].
Ⅱ
Genkaku’s come a long way. When Badou recalls bruises on his own throat the same mauveblack of the shadows beneath the monk’s eyes, he’s sure of it.
The sleeplessness had bothered him even before he’d let the monk get close enough to really see the tiredness in the corners of his mouth [especially before he let Genkaku take him anywhere near a bed]. From the very start it’d been a lump, bitterly ironic in the back of his throat; if a remorseless killer couldn’t find respite in sleep, where the fuck was he to find it? That just wasn’t fair to the point where even bad humour couldn’t resurrect a punchline out of it.
[No fucking laugh track, just thin red veins in the whites of Genkaku’s eyes, like his irises were bleeding.]
Badou had understood how to fix it before he’d known it. Once he’d known it, he’d been slow to try it; his own barriers felt insurmountable [junkyard garbage walls piled high up, too tall to climb over].
But he’d done it, somehow. It hadn’t been a quick or easy ascent [like Genkaku lifting him up by his collar to their latest vantage point, one handed, for fuck’s sake]. He’d jammed his boots into the scrap and baggage, done his best to avoid hypodermic needle-sharp defenses and climbed like hell, because even a Super Monk needed deliverance sometimes.
Long, boring movies turned out to be a stepping stone to sleep. Little fifteen minute windows of nodding off became a half-hour of rest, Genkaku slumping towards him every time [he’s too goddamn heavy, but Badou’s thinsharp shoulder as a place to rest is inappropriate as any]. He’d… touched him, then, seen the way Genkaku bowed into his hands, sought relaxation in the bars of his forearms [tch, always such a damn jailbird].
They’d never said anything about it when he woke, however many too-short minutes later [though only parted after the credits finished rolling].
It’s gotten both worse and better since they’d started fucking. Contact becomes something he doesn’t need to fend off - they’re not-so-surprisingly good at doing nothing together, sprawling together like littermates. When Genkaku dozes then, it’s for longer, and yeah sometimes Badou really has to go to the godfucking bathroom when the asshole is anchoring him with his fat fucking head, but - he guesses he can hold it.
The rougher nights are dealt with roughly. When he sees lover-demons in Genkaku’s eyes, he takes the monk to bed and tries to exorcise them with touch and fuck and everything in-between. Now, his hips insist, thrusting down hard and demanding, here, me, now. With his legs bracing for earthquake aftershocks on either side of the other man’s lap, he makes Genkaku come enough to shed tension from every muscle in his body, to make his mind go blank and peaceful. Then, the monk sleeps because he’s too fucked-out exhausted not to [and clawed or fanged, all animals need their rest].
It doesn’t always work; no matter how many stains they leave on the sheets or how many aches Badou earns, there’s no guarantee. Waking up to hands around his throat chokingstrangling was the first indicator of this [kind of a strong one, actually]. The fingers had pressed and crushed and Badou had made a panicked, guttural noise, immediately raking his nails into tear ducts. Genkaku’s glazed eyes snapped to focus as blood and paintears fell, his hands loosening as he croaked out flatly, “I dreamt that I was killing you.”
Badou had felt relieved at the revelation, which was probably inappropriate.
[Inappropriate or not, with steady hands, he’d lit a cigarette and then pulled the monk down, let him press that stupid turned-up nose to the purpling marks and make the fresh bruises sting.]
This afternoon is the kind Badou seeks; they are sprawled in Genkaku’s bed, sheets tangled up around their legs [legs tangled up in each other]. Last night’s pizza box hadn’t yielded any lunch [“No, shut up, I could’a sworn-” “What a waste of energy.”], but they aren’t hungry enough yet to rock-paper-scissor for the trip to the kitchen. Moving is out of the question for the Undergrounder; lying on his back, the monk is twined around his trunk [knowledge and temptation complete with morning breath].
And while Badou smokes, Genkaku sleeps.
It’s been weeks since the other man fell to insomnia, and months since he turned demon in the night - but Badou isn’t counting [doesn’t lie in wait for bad days anymore].
With the monk’s breath calm against his collar bone, Badou knows he’s come a long way.
Ⅲ
Things are not always good, not always clumsy chords and warm, rumpled beds. They never will be, but those small windows - they’re enough, more than a thousand slivers could have promised.
They have a long way to go [but they’ll walk every mile hand in unloveable hand].
Fandom: DOGS/Deadman Wonderland
Rating: R.
Pairing: Genkaku/Badou.
Disclaimer: NNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOO
Feedback: NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOO
Notes: For reneges, from gargleblasted RP. THIS IS FOR BREAKING MY HEART, YOU BITCH.
Ⅰ
Badou’s come a long way. After all, Genkaku hasn’t forgotten the first time his lips touched that sun-starved skin, the resulting pistol-whip that’d left behind burst capillaries and a heart screaming school girl love. It’d been the wonderful start of a high-stakes game of keep-away, of watching the Undergrounder thrashing back and forth between animal instinct and the pull of the moon.
Mathematics became very suddenly important; for every finger traced down a strong jawline, there were three broken digits. For every loving kiss there were ripped apart lips and a tongue practically bitten out of his head. Increasing the intensity, decreasing the space between punch and touch [it’s only three letters difference, you know!] all done so meticulouslypatiently because the worth is far greater than the sum.
[Finally dividing the legs and multiplying the pressure, Badou scoring a tally on his back with cutting nicotine-stained nails and oh this is what he was counting on, yeah?]
Add it all up; graveyards full of fractured bones and liters upon liters of blood just for this very moment - his fox curled up comfortably within the relaxed arches of his legs [like the den he’s always wanted]. Badou’s spine-notched back bumps lightly into his chest as the Undergrounder shifts the Flying V’s heavysteel weight in his lap, struggling to play a single solid line of Paranoia.
They fit perfectly, just as Genkaku had known they would [by numerology, not mathematics].
“Damnit,” mutters Badou absently over stumblestutter notes. The taller man covers the Undergrounder’s forearms with his own, palm pressing on top of that jagged sliver-shaped scar, fingers wrappingtwining [always such a serpent]. He pulls him back more, arching over his shoulder, moving their hands together to play the notes.
“D, C, G, G, D,” he strumshums, pressing the side of his nose into tinderbox hair. “An’ the chorus starts on another D. Got it?”
“--Think so.”
“Just take it slower, yeah?”
Badou nods, gives the V that attentive look that says nothing but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Genkaku shifts, feeling a corresponding twitch in his pants - fuck , so cute [and so close]. As the other man butchers a few more chords, Genkaku drops his mouth to the bare neck, sweetly kissing the whitewhite stripes between bright orange strands. It’s too hard to keep the brush of lips light after so long waiting for these corpse-lily expanses to be all his to linger over [while Badou was always his, it was that contradiction he craved, not just spring-loaded attack but touch-me-fuck-me laxness, too].
As a believer of many things including [and especially] embracing The Impulses, he bears down on the other more insistently, teeth sinking down and clamping [mineminemine], tongue wetting the reddened welt, hand working it’s way around Badou’s skinny concave waist and down between his legs, grasping proprietarily at an inner thigh, slithering up-
The guitar in Badou’s lap goes twang-ang. “Would you fuckin’ cut it out?” he snaps, all warning growl - but it’s just this side of breathy.
Genkaku just smiles. Yeah, he’s come a long way [and he’ll come again and again and go fartherhigher if a humble Super Monk has anything to say about it].
Ⅱ
Genkaku’s come a long way. When Badou recalls bruises on his own throat the same mauveblack of the shadows beneath the monk’s eyes, he’s sure of it.
The sleeplessness had bothered him even before he’d let the monk get close enough to really see the tiredness in the corners of his mouth [especially before he let Genkaku take him anywhere near a bed]. From the very start it’d been a lump, bitterly ironic in the back of his throat; if a remorseless killer couldn’t find respite in sleep, where the fuck was he to find it? That just wasn’t fair to the point where even bad humour couldn’t resurrect a punchline out of it.
[No fucking laugh track, just thin red veins in the whites of Genkaku’s eyes, like his irises were bleeding.]
Badou had understood how to fix it before he’d known it. Once he’d known it, he’d been slow to try it; his own barriers felt insurmountable [junkyard garbage walls piled high up, too tall to climb over].
But he’d done it, somehow. It hadn’t been a quick or easy ascent [like Genkaku lifting him up by his collar to their latest vantage point, one handed, for fuck’s sake]. He’d jammed his boots into the scrap and baggage, done his best to avoid hypodermic needle-sharp defenses and climbed like hell, because even a Super Monk needed deliverance sometimes.
Long, boring movies turned out to be a stepping stone to sleep. Little fifteen minute windows of nodding off became a half-hour of rest, Genkaku slumping towards him every time [he’s too goddamn heavy, but Badou’s thinsharp shoulder as a place to rest is inappropriate as any]. He’d… touched him, then, seen the way Genkaku bowed into his hands, sought relaxation in the bars of his forearms [tch, always such a damn jailbird].
They’d never said anything about it when he woke, however many too-short minutes later [though only parted after the credits finished rolling].
It’s gotten both worse and better since they’d started fucking. Contact becomes something he doesn’t need to fend off - they’re not-so-surprisingly good at doing nothing together, sprawling together like littermates. When Genkaku dozes then, it’s for longer, and yeah sometimes Badou really has to go to the godfucking bathroom when the asshole is anchoring him with his fat fucking head, but - he guesses he can hold it.
The rougher nights are dealt with roughly. When he sees lover-demons in Genkaku’s eyes, he takes the monk to bed and tries to exorcise them with touch and fuck and everything in-between. Now, his hips insist, thrusting down hard and demanding, here, me, now. With his legs bracing for earthquake aftershocks on either side of the other man’s lap, he makes Genkaku come enough to shed tension from every muscle in his body, to make his mind go blank and peaceful. Then, the monk sleeps because he’s too fucked-out exhausted not to [and clawed or fanged, all animals need their rest].
It doesn’t always work; no matter how many stains they leave on the sheets or how many aches Badou earns, there’s no guarantee. Waking up to hands around his throat chokingstrangling was the first indicator of this [kind of a strong one, actually]. The fingers had pressed and crushed and Badou had made a panicked, guttural noise, immediately raking his nails into tear ducts. Genkaku’s glazed eyes snapped to focus as blood and paintears fell, his hands loosening as he croaked out flatly, “I dreamt that I was killing you.”
Badou had felt relieved at the revelation, which was probably inappropriate.
[Inappropriate or not, with steady hands, he’d lit a cigarette and then pulled the monk down, let him press that stupid turned-up nose to the purpling marks and make the fresh bruises sting.]
This afternoon is the kind Badou seeks; they are sprawled in Genkaku’s bed, sheets tangled up around their legs [legs tangled up in each other]. Last night’s pizza box hadn’t yielded any lunch [“No, shut up, I could’a sworn-” “What a waste of energy.”], but they aren’t hungry enough yet to rock-paper-scissor for the trip to the kitchen. Moving is out of the question for the Undergrounder; lying on his back, the monk is twined around his trunk [knowledge and temptation complete with morning breath].
And while Badou smokes, Genkaku sleeps.
It’s been weeks since the other man fell to insomnia, and months since he turned demon in the night - but Badou isn’t counting [doesn’t lie in wait for bad days anymore].
With the monk’s breath calm against his collar bone, Badou knows he’s come a long way.
Ⅲ
Things are not always good, not always clumsy chords and warm, rumpled beds. They never will be, but those small windows - they’re enough, more than a thousand slivers could have promised.
They have a long way to go [but they’ll walk every mile hand in unloveable hand].