I wrote this for my lovely Mikami, since without her my life would be empty and DOGSless. This is my first attempt at writing in this fandom, so I'm slightly nervous, but I'm really proud of this fic. It's my baby. Comments are love... just sayin'
Warnings: Serious blasphemy and sacrilege, if the title didn't give that away. Also, the word 'fuck' appears in this far too often (as it's very Badou-centric.)
Obviously, I own nothing, except for my own twisted ideas.
He knows it's stupid – they both know it's fucking stupid – but it's happening anyway, Haine dragging him into the confessional and practically slamming the fucking door once they're both inside.
And – fuck – Haine's mouth tastes like blood and violence and fucking danger. He closes his eye and pushes further into the kiss, knowing there's no way he tastes that good; probably more like nicotine and sleep deprivation and desperation. But.
But Haine either doesn't mind or doesn't care (or hell, maybe the psycho even likes it) because he's grabbing Badou's hair and neck and just fucking pouring all of his feelings (rage, impatience, annoyance) into that kiss.
He feels like a bitch, fucking moaning when Haine bites his lip hard enough to draw sweet, coppery, almost smoky blood. It hurts, but fuckdamnit, it's making him so fucking hard and Haine is actually licking up the thin trickle of red from his chin.
"Shut up." And they're kissing again, cold-as-death hands slipping under Badou's shirt. Haine's spidery fingers are making him shiver because shit, shit, he's too hot and it feels so fucking good (better than he ever thought it would or could, because what the fuck, whatthefuck, it's Haine.)
It's like he's on fire and Haine, Haine, Haine is all he can fucking formulate in his mind. His shirt is off, somehow, and when the fuck did that happen?
"Haine-" He fails to speak again because brilliantly sharp teeth and a hot fucking mouth are against the skin of his neck, his collar bone, a nipple, and JesusfuckingChrist is it good. He's really fucking glad that he's against a wall, has some fucking support, because shit, if he didn't he'd be on the fucking floor by now.
He hears the zipper more than feels it being pulled down, and he wants to hesitate (wants to fucking push Haine away and demand some goddamn answers) but instead he's pushing his hips forward into that cold, cold hand and biting his still-bleeding lip to keep from whimpering.
HaineHaineHaine. It's like a fucking mantra, and shit, did he say it out loud? He must've because Haine is glaring at him, that same fucking look he gets when he wants to punch Badou for being late again. He doesn't though, doesn't even say anything, just licks a burning path across Badou's chest and bites the other nipple, almost growling around the nub of flesh.
And. And. And fuck, he can't help but fucking strain toward that mouth and those teeth and the goddamn hand that's just resting on the bulge in his boxers and not fucking moving like it needs to.
Then Haine's mouth is moving again, back up to his neck and – ohshit he's biting down almost a little too painfully and sucking and fucking marking Badou so everyone will know who he belongs to. The thought makes him shudder and go weak at the knees, and thank fucking Christ Haine's other arm is around his waist, holding him up and against the confessional wall. (The fucking confessional. Fuck.)
He tries once more to speak, but all that comes out is a pained (impatient) groan.
And as much of a pain in the ass Haine is, he actually fucking responds and doesn't keep Badou waiting anymore. He slips his hand beneath the elastic of the boxers and oh-so-gently (too fucking gently) strokes the hot flesh beneath.
Hey, God, are you watching now?
It's the first fucking coherent thought he's had since Haine shoved him inside this stupid booth and kissed him.
"Fuck," Haine hisses, shifting even fucking closer to Badou, who is now stupidly wondering if the albino can read minds. "Fuck," he says again, pulling his hand away and making Badou actually whine.
And then Haine is yanking Badou's pants down, boxers too, and shit, shit, shit he's not entirely prepared for this, not to mention the fact that they're in a church, in a mother fucking confessional, which (what the fucking hell?) is kind of fitting, if he actually thinks about it. But still, Badou is wondering, how the fuck is this happening and why the hell has he let it get this far? (Because he fucking wants it, has wanted it for a really long fucking time, no matter how much he wants to deny it.)
He's quickly turned around, knees knocking uncomfortably against the bench, Haine's hands sliding over his skin. The contact is suddenly gone, there's shifting of clothes and a popping sound, and ohgod, there's a slick finger probing at him and it's sliding in and fuck it's strange and fucking weird and kind of nice. It moves a few times before there's another finger and they curl, hitting something that makes Badou cry out so loudly that Haine slaps his free hand over the redhead's mouth and tells him to shut the fuck up before he gags him.
And that, shit, that gives Badou an idea, because there's no way he's gonna let Haine have all the fun. His tongue sneaks past his lips, tentatively licks one of Haine's fingers, then sucks it into his mouth. And yes, fuck yes, Haine actually moans as his tongue and teeth tease the gun-calloused flesh and Badou feels a surge of self-satisfaction, right before another finger joins the two already inside him and they all thrust.
"Shit!" The word is slurred around Haine's finger and his eye snaps shut as those sinful, wonderful fingers move inside him. He feels kind of like a cheap whore, bent over with his hands planted firmly on the confessional bench, ass presented to Haine like it's some kind of fucking prize, and those goddamn fingers fucking him. Seriously, fuck.
And out of fucking nowhere, at an agonizingly slow pace, they're being removed. Badou whines again and Haine laughs. Fucking laughs, that fucking asshole.
He hears Haine fumbling with his own pants, freeing himself and God, why is it so cramped in here? because Badou would fucking kill to see how hard Haine is for him right now. (He's killed for less.)
But he doesn't need to see, not when Haine makes a soft noise in his throat, and Badou knows he's fucking stroking himself, slicking himself with lube he got from Godonlyknowswhere, and then finally, fucking finally, he pushes inside.
It kind of hurts. It kind of really fucking hurts, more than he'd expected, especially since the fingers felt so fucking good. But Haine moves and hits that spot again, making him writhe and grind back against the albino, wanting, fucking needing, more, screw the pain.
"Shit, Badou," Haine says, half drowning the words in a moan and making Badou grin like some kind of fucking fool (due to the fact that Haine isn't doing this because of some seriously pent up sexual frustration and Badou was the closest breathing thing – he's doing this because as much as they're at each other's throats all the goddamn time, he fucking wants Badou as much as Badou wants him. And shit, that's really fucking satisfying.)
His fingers are clawing at the wooden bench, splinters finding their way into the cigarette-yellowed skin as Haine fucks him, making him moan and whimper and beg, "Fuck, Haine, harder."
Badou's surprised when Haine complies, hands wrapping around his hips, gripping so tight that there will be finger-shaped bruises later, and slams into him, drawing loud moans from both of them.
"Shitshitshitfuck," Badou practically screams when one of Haine's hands slides forward and wraps around his cock, which by now is almost painfully fucking hard.
Haine's speeding up and it's almost too fucking good, being pounded into and having those long, fucking amazing fingers stroking him and shit, there's no way he's gonna last.
"Haine," he moans, "Haine... Haine... Haine, fuck... I can't..."
If anything, the bastard thrusts harder, strokes him faster and then he's leaning forward, pressing them chest-to-back, and so close that his breath is a hot puff against Badou's ear when he growls, "Come for me."
And he does, eye snapping shut, knees turning to jello (again), cock twitching, spilling his seed all over Haine's hand and the fucking bench as he loudly moans something that might sound like Haine's name.
Haine comes right after, thrusting erratically, Badou's muscles clamping around him too much to resist. He bites down on Badou's shoulder, drawing blood as he empties himself into the redhead, marking him yet again (in more than one way), and Badou is too fucking blissed out to really even register the pain.
They slump to the floor, a mess of tangled limbs and clothes, sweaty and sticky and panting in the small space between the bench and the walls and the door.
"Fuck," Badou breathes out, resting his head on Haine's shoulder. He's still bleeding from the lip and now from the shoulder, and he thinks, maybe even a little from the neck, making it look more like he just got his ass kicked rather than fucked.
He feels Haine nod and then he's shifting, extracting himself from Badou and pulling his pants up.
He's like a fucking pile of mush and his brain isn't too far from that. And fuck, fuck, shit he needs a cigarette. There should be one left in his one of his pants pockets, so he straightens as best he can, tugs his pants up and fishes through the pockets until he comes across his prize: a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He pulls out the lone, bent stick of shitty tobacco and rat poison and cancer, sticks it lovingly between his lips and lights it.
He barely has time to take a drag before Haine snatches it away and snuffs it out against the side of the confessional. "Have some fucking respect, we're in a church."
There's a long silence and Badou just stares at Haine until he cracks and can't stop laughing at the absurdity of it all. And shit, Haine's laughing too, so he guesses that makes it all okay.