jedishampoo | Fic: The Man Who Murdered Love, Zakuro/Sanzo, NSFW

Title: The Man Who Murdered Love
Author:

jedishampoo
Rating: NC-l7
Pairing: Zakuro/Sanzo
Summary: It was Zakuro's lucky day-- maybe. Yaoi, humor.
Warnings: Dub-con-ish, bad language.
Author's notes: Written for

whymzycal in the

yuletide_smut exchange-- one of the three stories I wrote there! :) Takes place just somewhere near the end of Reload 8. Thanks to my wonderful betas

sharpeslass and

saltcandy and to

mercifulkanzeon for her work in the exchange. Brain stuff swiped from Wikipedia. Title borrowed from an XTC song. Have a grain of salt handy.

Shangri-La was a very big place. It encompassed climate zones that ran the gamut of the rough and wild and annoyingly nature-filled: from big-sky plains with short grass that stretched into infinity, to bone-cold, snow-drifted mountain passes, on down into forests so deep that they whispered to themselves. Since the minus wave calamity, Shangri-La's occasional deserts had grown, and lurked in the low countries, waiting to kill lonely travelers with their hot, dry wind and sand that slithered beneath leather clothes and ground against skin with every step such a lonely traveler might take.

A small clearing in a sunny mountain valley might prove a pretty respite: air so clear it might not have existed except for its crisply cool edge; multicolored, sun-seeking flowers dotting the bright, happy green ground; the darker green of leaves and pine needles providing a lush natural barrier to the nasty world outside. All topped off by an imperfect circle-ceiling of perfect blue sky.

There was just such a clearing and a man occupied it, sitting on a smooth rock that jutted from the grass like an old broken mountain-bone. The man wasn't doing much to appreciate the quiet beauty of his surroundings, however. Neither was he contemplating his recent, refreshing bath in a cool stream or the blessed lack of sand-- at last-- in his clothing. He was contemplating an inevitable if somewhat terrifying task: finding his most dangerous enemy, the one who must be defeated if he were ever to complete his mission and return to the solid comforts of home. His heart thumped a little faster at the thought of a confrontation.

It was anticipation and fear both: the enemy was a handsome, slender, sneering man, deceptively deadly. The contemplating man was off on his own without those who were supposed to be his allies, who might even fight him if they were encountered because of some stupid, perceived betrayal. He was tired. He was hungry. He wanted to finish things, and go home.

He was stuck with no dragon to ride. He was not necessarily dressed for long bouts of crossing Shangri-La on foot. He was annoyed. He'd thought his day would improve after the bath.

He sat and contemplated his tiredness and hunger and annoyance. He was unaware that his possible salvation-- or damnation-- lay quite close at hand.

***

Sanzo uncrossed his legs from his lotus-perch on a flat tree-stump and set his boots in the grass. He lit his fourth-to-last cigarette and hmphed at himself. He'd been taught to be able to meditate anywhere. The little mountain clearing had seemed a likely enough spot-- clear air with just a hint of a cold bite on his bare shoulders, green, flowers, all the requisite scenery that was one of the few good things in this world provided by the gods-- but he just hadn't been able to focus.

He'd even managed to lose his companions for a short while. Once Hazel and Gat had been convinced that Sanzo would return, they'd let him wander off to do his Buddhist thing with only a warning to be careful.

Goddamned youkai and goddamned humans and goddamned giant undead bodyguards of the world-- all were equally crazy, as far as Sanzo was concerned, and they all annoyed him. He'd have been better served jerking off in his alone-time. It was a more mindless and calming activity than meditation, and felt pretty good, besides.

He considered that course of action for a few moments, and polluted the air with exhaled smoke. Soon, however, he got a sudden sense that someone was nearby-- and probably had been for a few minutes. He hmphed at himself again. That was part of what the cursed meditation had been for, to sharpen his senses so he'd feel someone coming if someone came.

There was a rustling of branches, a cawing of ravens.

Sanzo tensed for the confrontation. He was ready, had been ready for days. During his whole side-trip while he watched Hazel and Gat and Hazel and Gat watched him back, there had been a fourth spectator. And that person was exactly the one he was looking for, his mortal enemy--

An arm, then a black-clad leg, broke through the leafy branches.

"You!" Sanzo said, and turned. "Ukoku Sanz-- Oh, hell."

For Zakuro, Master of Illusion, had discovered that it was indeed his lucky day.

"Ah hah hah!" Zakuro laughed at the blond man in the clearing, who was just as handsome, just as sneering as Zakuro remembered. But much more alone. Deliciously alone. "I knew this day could only improve. What fortuitous coincidence, Genjyo Sanzo!"

Sanzo yanked his pistol from his bunched-up robe and aimed. This enemy, he had no time for. Then he realized that it was too late: he'd already looked into Zakuro's eyes.

"No escape for you this time, Genjyo Sanzo. And your weapon is useless here-- I've learned your tricks. Why, look, it's a twig."

And snap, just like that, Sanzo was holding a twig. He stared at the sad little knobbly branch for a few moments, willing the spell to break, for it to become his gun again. It didn't. Around him, the idyllic scenery was replaced by the requisite skull-mounds and tiki-torches of Zakuro's World of Illusion.

"...of Illusion," Zakuro was saying. "You won't escape this time."

"So you've said," Sanzo said, and tucked the twig into his robes, anyway. He glared around, purposefully disdainful, while his thumping heart tried to decipher the current threat-level. "Here again? How unoriginal."

"You only mock your surroundings because you fear your ultimate death. Hah! I've fooled you with hardly any effort, Genjyo Sanzo!" Zakuro felt like cackling with glee. He'd been all but prepared to give up-- to go home, to crawl into Houtou Castle and throw himself on the nearly nonexistent mercy of his beauteous mistress-- when he'd smelled the ineffable tang of Marlboro smoke. His perseverance, his near-death in the desert, killing the misled youkai who called him traitor: all his trials were to be rewarded. He did cackle, a little. He'd earned it. "Heh heh hah! I don't see your companions, Genjyo Sanzo."

"Which ones?" Sanzo said. He looked regretfully at the remnants of his fourth-to-last smoke, burned down to its yellow filter. He dropped it to the beskulled ground and stood.

"Hm? It doesn't matter." Zakuro's fingers were shaking with excitement. "I've thought of so many ways to torment you. To make you beg me to take your infernal sutra. I hardly know where to begin."

"Why don't you just kill me, already?"

"Patience!" Zakuro said. It was true; now that he had Sanzo, he didn't know where to start. For the moment, though, he needed only a stop-gap, something to hold his prisoner while he assessed the surroundings, decided how to kill him. He needed to think of something cool.

"You're boring me. Let me out of here," Sanzo said.

So Zakuro thought of something cool. A real mind-fuck. "Very well. I'll return you to where I found you."

Zakuro's beloved skulls faded to be replaced with the idyllic little clearing, his lovely black skies with the cursed bright sun overhead.

"Hey--" Sanzo began.

"Don't thank me yet, for I haven't given you your freedom! Your former perch will hold you, while I think. See? It's a giant hand! Its fingers are thick as tree trunks. You shall not escape them."

True to Zakuro's word, Sanzo's flat meditation-stump sprouted and morphed. Flexible wooden fingers encircled him and held on tightly, not quite bone-breakingly tight, but just on the verge. Sanzo willed his brain and eyes to banish the illusion, but was unsuccessful. "I wasn't going to thank you."

"No matter. I am enjoying your helplessness, Genjyo Sanzo."

Sanzo pfted out a frustrated breath. He cursed himself, for he'd never really spent much time thinking about Zakuro. He decided, now that he was immobilized by the crazy youkai and in possible actual peril, it might be an excellent time to do so.

Zakuro looked a little worse for wear since the last time they'd seen him, after Goku's little adventure. Goku-- alive, or--? His probably-blond hair, strangely tinted, was longer, past his shoulders. His tight leather pants and pre-ripped open jacket were even more ragged, his bare chest and arm-muscles slightly more defined. He was chattering, rambling on about his trials and the desert and the youkai and the desert, again-- it was obvious that he'd had a hard time of it, lately, and also that he hadn't been relying on his mind-powers alone to survive.

And his mind-powers, or whatever, were, truthfully considerable. This moment, this place, seemed almost more real to Sanzo than the nightmare in which he'd been living the past couple of weeks.

It would be easy to dismiss the guy as an idiot, or a figure of comedy, as Hakkai and Go-- the assholes whom Sanzo didn't miss at all and who might be dead, for all Sanzo knew-- had. Sanzo wondered what petty insecurities Zakuro's outward grandiosity concealed. He had real potential as a villain to make himself menacing, all the right ingredients: good-enough looks, some brains, real power. Instead, he glorified himself only to the point of appearing foolish to all but the lowest life-forms. But while Zakuro might commit the crime of appearances, he was still creditably dangerous. And he had a grudge.

Zakuro was-- perhaps not ironically, at that very moment-- telling Sanzo about his grudge, and watching his purple eyes as they expressed his frustration. Sanzo's ridiculously pretty thunder-countenance was perfectly readable, to Zakuro. While Sanzo was using all his brain-power to figure a way out of the illusion-- impossible, hah!-- Zakuro could pick at his brain at leisure. Most recent memories, first, of course, because those were the most useful to him at the moment.

"Y'all oughta be careful if ya go wandering off," Sanzo mumbled in a slightly shamed voice. Not his words, not his shame, Zakuro knew already. "That explosive little... war is only a few miles below and away, in the desert, after all, Sanzo-han."

"I was there!" Zakuro cried at his slightly-baffled prisoner. "I was there, curse you! But thanks to you, I now know that you've been traveling with strangers. And I have all the time I need."

"Get the hell out of my head," Sanzo said.

"I fear not!" Zakuro shivered with the possibilities, with the power he had over this man, in that moment. He looked a little more deeply. Payback for the last few weeks was what he needed. There was something about those strangers, those westerners... Yes.

Sanzo tried to think about something stupid. Anything stupid and meaningless. Food. Gojyo.

"Your efforts have been useless, for I have found it!" Zakuro told him. "Something else one of those men does to you. I have decided on your manner of torment, Genjyo Sanzo. This will be quite enjoyable. See? Your manner of capture has multiplied tenfold. Twenty-five-fold!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sanzo said, though he had a pretty good idea, based on the way the large wooden hand was morphing into lots of little wooden hands, hands that started picking at his clothing, crawling under them, pulling them off. His body shivered, and not from the cold. He thought about trying to reach his gun before it disappeared with his robe. He thought about shooting himself. He'd thought about that before, lots. Now would be a good time. His gun, however, was still a twig, unless he could end this-- The grabby, crawly wooden hands seemed to read his mind, and stretched his arms above his head.

"People don't seem to understand that I'm vastly more intelligent than most of them." Zakuro was babbling in his excitement. A bad habit, he knew, but it couldn't be helped. "My brain studies have gone beyond the hippocampus, you know. One good thing about Her Majesty's interest in science and that-- person-- ahem. Anyway, I was unable to display my knowledge to all of you, last time."

"Argh, Watch it!" Sanzo said, as the insect-like hands, Zakuro's lovelies, unbuttoned his jeans and slithered them down his legs. Tiny, deft and splintery fingers unlaced his boots. Sanzo watched his sutra scuttle away on its own legs like a centipede. Not real, he reminded himself. The sutra was still around his shoulders. Only his mind was at risk, here. And only until he could figure a way out of this mess.

"The zona incerta, in the subthalamic area, contains some of the automatic control systems for 'consummatory' behaviors, such as eating and drinking," Zakuro continued. "And copulation."

"You wouldn't," Sanzo said. Once the little hands had undressed him, they'd solidified again into some kind of weird wooden statue, something that held his hands and feet, both spread a foot or so apart. He was bare and vulnerable. It was certainly a new, and disturbing, experience. It might have evolved to the point of true intimidation, in the hands of a more malevolent villain.

"Yes, I would. Hah hah!" Zakuro told him.

"So you're just a common pervert. A rapist."

"Ha! Not in the least. " Zakuro said, and grinned at the sight presented to him. Sanzo was mostly naked in this world of his, now, except for his shirt. What ridiculously binding clothing these priests wore! No matter. He was pretty good-looking naked; haughty, well-built, if a little skinny. Zakuro preferred girls, but hell, he could do that, too. Nothing was impossible in the World of Illusion. "What fun would that be? This is as real as our minds make it. No, you'll enjoy it, too. You'll despise me for how much you'll enjoy it, I promise you, Genjyo Sanzo!"

"Don't want to," Sanzo said. 'Our' minds?

"Look! Here is a beautiful woman," Zakuro said, taking a few steps forward. He tried to decide what sort of girl might entice Sanzo. He settled on what he knew was familiar.

Sanzo watched, wary. One moment he was watching Zakuro, that crazy, dangerous idiot, and the next step forward Zakuro had become that healer woman, the one who ran with Kougaiji's group. Not become; it was all an illusion, he reminded himself. Yaone. That was her name. She was naked. She certainly had massive--

"Sanzo-san!" said Yaone's earnest voice, and Yaone's earnest eyes. "Oh, Sanzo-san! Take me!"

She-- he-- was still naked. She-- he-- threw herself on Sanzo, shoving her ginormous breasts just under Sanzo's chin, and rubbing the rest of herself all over Sanzo's bare skin. Whatever it was, real or not, it couldn't exactly be called unpleasant. She-- he, dammit-- was very soft. Perky-nippled. But Sanzo had no real interest in those, or her. If Zakuro thought that was what Sanzo liked-- weepy women-- then Sanzo's libido was quite safe. He found he could yell into the pointy ear pressed against his chin with all his usual, calm hatred.

"Get off me! Pervert."

Zakuro poked around in Sanzo's brain some more, let himself take a few more full-body rubs for good measure. Sanzo's skin was nice and warm. It felt great in the cool mountain air. Zakuro suddenly realized how very, very lonely he'd been. He'd barely had a civil word with another living being for weeks, let alone-- but that wasn't important at the moment. What was important was that he wasn't getting the hoped-for reaction from Sanzo.

"You don't like girls?" Zakuro stood back a couple of inches and bounced up and down a few times, showing off his assets. The Beauteous Mistress help me if Lord Kougaiji ever found out about this one... Zakuro thought. The prince was so protective of the little traitor. "Come on...lookie, lookie."

"I don't like anyone," Sanzo said, turning his head to avoid getting a psychological black eye from all the bouncing flesh. "Moron. Least of all you."

"Hm. Well, my powers are near-limitless, here in my World of Illusion, but I still can't read your mind completely. I'll have to try something else."

"Just give it up, already, or kill me before you bore me to death."

Oh, Sanzo wasn't bored. Zakuro knew that very well. Still, he was depressingly limp between the legs.

"How about this, then? See? It is someone you know very well. Oi, Sanzo!"

Sanzo jerked his head forward at the sound of that voice, involuntarily filled with hope for perhaps half a second that he was being rescued, and it really was Gojyo. After that half-second he remembered that it was all hypnotic suggestion. Ephemeral and false. And that he didn't want to see Gojyo. He especially didn't want Gojyo to see him like this. He hated the way his body twitched all over, anyway.

"That's gotten your attention!" Zakuro was heartened-- it seemed Sanzo wasn't dead from the waist down, after all.

"That's revulsion," Sanzo lied.

"Are you sure about that?" Zakuro lay his-- the illusion's-- his-- his-- He paused and hmphed at himself. He'd rarely, if ever, become confused by his own constructs, and didn't want it to happen now, when it meant everything. Illusion or not, it was all real enough to both of them to not matter otherwise. So he laid his palm on Sanzo's flat stomach, over Sanzo's navel. He pressed, felt the taut and yet smooth skin give under his pressure, felt tiny hairs tickling his palm.

"Bastard..."

"Heh, guess it's my lucky day. Sanzo-sa-ma all tied up and helpless for a change. Kinda sexy," he drawled. And yes, that was definitely a dick-twitch on the part of his captive. Zakuro slid his hand up under black silk, caressing the quivering skin under Sanzo's ribcage. "Gettin' a better idea of what you like, now, ain't I?"

"You're killing me with stupid. I hate that fucking kappa," Sanzo lied again. Shit, he thought. He'd never believed the idiot's powers could extend this far, far enough to get a real, physical reaction out of him. He had to get his act together. "It's all false, anyway. A trick of the mind. A trick of the light. Bullshit craziness."

"Oh, you're good," Zakuro told him. "Light is involved. But all matter is light. All sight and colors are light. Form is only how the brain interprets it. Look! You can see Cho Hakkai. He would understand this, were I to let him. I'm the other intelligent one, correct?"

As Zakuro changed the suggested reality, he let his other hand get into the action, touching the stretched skin between Sanzo's armpit and waist, feeling the tiny, rolling indentations of his ribs. He was enjoying this on a whole new, and unexpected, level. He was high on the power, certainly-- Sanzo had made such a fool of him before-- but also the contact, the breathing, the blood pulsing just beneath the skin. All was driven and reported by the brain, in human and youkai. That was true magic.

"Better," Sanzo said, in a strained voice.

"Excellent, because I was annoyed by using bad grammar," Zakuro told him. Sanzo was breathing harshly, now; the pulse under Zakuro's fingers was becoming more erratic. He thought the whisper in Sanzo's ear was the perfect touch: the dark hair mingling with blond was nearly aesthetically perfect. "Here, your scarred healer. Healing hands. The light of chi-- what will it do to this piece of flesh down here?"

"Still not good. Told you, I hate everyone," Sanzo ground out. He hated himself for the moan that tried to jump its way out of the back of his throat when those-- not real-- long fingers gave his cock a nice, hard squeeze. He'd clenched his teeth to stop the moan, but then his teeth only vibrated with the effort. It wasn't real. Light was formless, the mind could be conquered--

"Zakuro-sama still thinks he could do better," Zakuro told him, in a low, sensual voice. "What's your hot-button, Genjyo Sanzo? Yourself? How about the first time you touched yourself-- jerked off? Made yourself come all white and gooey on the pristine temple walls?"

"Ahshit," Sanzo coughed, without meaning to at all. Oops.

"Whoah, hoah!" Zakuro crowed. Now that had been quite a spike in brain activity. And an obvious spike elsewhere. Dirty talk-- the Mighty Zakuro should have known. The zona incerta was very interested in what functions it directly controlled, and that sort of speech was quite direct. Zakuro wanted to play that game, definitely. He was having more fun than he'd thought he might. Inside his leather pants, the rush of blood thickening his own cock, the low, warm throb of his abdominal nerves, confirmed that. Touch... real touch.

With a well-practiced mental twitch, Zakuro searched past boring, short-term memory and found the correct brain-node, and pushed. "So you like the way I talk! How would you feel if Zakuro-sama-- I mean, how about I suck you off? Nice, hard blow-job?"

"You bastard," Sanzo whispered as he felt his cock, his whole lower half, jolt and heat and betray him, utterly. He shut his eyes, but it didn't help. It wasn't even Hakkai's voice, anymore, just Zakuro's-- but lower, more raw and guttural. It worked, more was the pity. Flesh may be light, illusion may be light, but at the moment light and illusion felt like nerve bundles and sensitive, aching skin, and throw sound into the arousing mix, and, ah, screw it. It was all too confusing and maybe he did want a nice, hard, blow-job. "If you're fucking with my brain, then nothing's my fault."

"Ha. Give yourself some credit, though I hardly care to. I'm only opening you up to the possibilities." Zakuro realized he'd forgotten how to play his own new game for a moment, there. He found that place again, in both their minds. What the brain felt was the real thing, in the end. "Do you see that? Look at that, my tongue on the head of your nice, hard cock. Can't do that for yourself."

"Ah," Sanzo cried out, as his ass surged forward off the pillar.

"Kack. Don't choke me, priest." Zakuro coughed. "Mmph. Tastes good. How does it feel? All wet and slippery? My tongue slick or rough? It must feel good, you're all hot and hard. Mmph."

"Shitshit. Feels horrible. You suck," Sanzo mumbled. Bad choice of words, he realized, too late, in the short rational moments between his own ragged breaths and the hot and the slippery. Hoshit Zakuro sucked... hard. "Asshole."

"Hmh." Zakuro pulled his mouth off Sanzo's cock-head with a loud, rude lip-smack. Sanzo wasn't dead at all below the waist; rather, delightfully alive and real. He shoved his face into Sanzo's belly, tasting what he'd touched with his hand, earlier, now sweaty and charming. "You remind me, filthy monk. Nothing's sacred, is it? Very well. How does it feel to have my finger up your ass? Ever try to do that to yourself? In the bath?"

Zakuro matched word to action, curled his hand behind Sanzo's testicles, found the little opening, shoved.

"Ah!" Sanzo said again. Yeah, he'd tried it. Could remember how it felt, too-- like-- ah-- that. Only this was better, truthfully. He wished he could cover his ears... but that wouldn't help him, would it? Sanzo was afraid to look. He looked, anyway. A quick glance down at his own body, quivering, his own hard, hot flesh caressed by cool air and a warm cheek, light tickles of hair, light fingers tracing it base to end, worshipful. He closed his eyes again, and that didn't help, either... Vulnerable, and yet worshipped; powerless, yet aroused. Zakuro wasn't the only pervert here. Sanzo concentrated on breathing.

"I've got long fingers. Bet that makes you harder, filthy monk." Zakuro realized he was hypnotizing himself with his own words, crossing that line again. He looked up to see what his torment had wrought: Sanzo, all pink and gleaming with a sheen of sweat, those expressive eyes screwed shut, but his mouth, those thin, sneering lips, hanging slightly open...

It was all for him, Zakuro. He wasn't pretending to be anyone else, only the World was the Illusion. He and Sanzo, his enemy, his golden, glorious enemy, were real. Nothing was sacred, indeed. He had to fuck Sanzo. Sanzo would like that... Before Zakuro... did whatever he'd been planning to do. The sutra, right. At the moment it didn't matter. He was soaking up every breath, every sound, every touch, all for him.

"You... are so-- hah-- dead," Sanzo said, trying to remind himself that they were on opposite sides of this... whatever it was. Zona incertas notwithstanding, it had been a long time since he'd taken care of that sort of physical business, with himself or anyone else. Jerked himself off onto something pristine and sacred, or even not so much of either. Shit. Sick bastard knew what he was doing. That finger-- unh-- felt pretty fucking good and oh, hell, was that hair brushing his cock again? In Sanzo's mind's eye it was black, it was brown, it was red, it was green, purple, whatever...

"Should I slick up my nice, fat man-rod for you? Squeeze it into that tight ass of yours? I'll have to free your legs. But see? Your body is only as free as I want it to be..." Zakuro had just enough brain left to make the words real, for Sanzo and for him, to lock Sanzo's legs around his back. He slicked up his own pulsing dick as promised. Good thing, he thought, that it was his World and his Illusion and he could do what he wanted. He didn't want Sanzo to hurt, to hate him-- wanted his glorious enemy to worship him in return...

Zakuro was way past torment, and didn't care. Touching himself felt good and it would feel even better when he-- hah-- there. Zakuro shoved his nose into Sanzo's ridiculously binding monk's shirt, the ridiculously soft silk, and moved; no more thought, only the exercise of hips and clench of muscles. All talk, the game, was forgotten in the sweet, sweet tightness of Sanzo's body, its breathing life and its burning, sweaty thighs chafing Zakuro's hips.

"Knew you wanted it... knew you wanted me to fuck you..." he managed to mumble as he propelled his hips forward, tried to match the rhythm with his hand on golden Sanzo's cock... was slightly off the beat but he could tell Sanzo didn't care, he was breathing hard, exhaled curses caressing and heating Zakuro's hair...

"Ah-- hell. Ah-- shit," Sanzo gasped. That invasion, unexpected yet unhated, rational thoughts telling him to ignore the way his body shivered, soaked it up and stretched into it... His balls tightened. He was going to come, goddammit. Zakuro was wasting his abilities, all right. He didn't even know enough to make Sanzo hate it. The idiot could hypnotize up some decent fucking when it came down to it.

And so could Sanzo: he let his hips move, let his false or not body take all of it, give back. Once Zakuro had shut his trap Sanzo could think straight again. Sort of. The idiot would--- ah-- have to drop his guard at some point. Right?

"Release my-- hah-- arms," he whispered, willing his voice to exercise power.

"Yes..." Zakuro whispered to him, shoving his cock in, hard hitting deep, electric nerves that buzzed along Sanzo's veins and nearly knocked away his slippery control. "They're free... hold on, Genjyo Sanzo."

Sanzo's sore arms fell and all he could do was let them collapse onto Zakuro's shoulders, because they were nerveless; it was the build in his gut that was tight, stretched, he was so close... he felt his own hips clench, and one of Zakuro's final hard, unrhythmic jerks on his cock pulled out his climax, yanked it out, long strands of release. White strands, the world was devoid of color, only pulsing white.

"Yes, yes," Zakuro laughed and it felt like crying, he was so happy, he was lost, was drowning in sensation... Sanzo was the most wonderful enemy, ever. He, the Mighty Zakuro, had been emotionally compromised. How would he ever explain it to his mistress? "Yes!"

"Uh," said Sanzo, breathing.

"I love you, Genjyo Sanzo!" Zakuro cried, and he did, oh, he did, curse him, damn him...

"Uh. What the fuck?" Sanzo managed.

"The Mighty Zakuro does nothing by halves!" The Mighty Zakuro's ass clenched, and he fell over that line, wonderful touch, wonderful climax.

"I can see that," Sanzo said, after a nonplussed moment or two. The white was fading, to be replaced with the world. The world and the idiot had gone completely nuts, and he wanted the white back. Still, Sanzo had to get his shit together unless he wanted to be defeated, in addition to being thoroughly fucked. He shook out a tingling arm, and stuck his finger into Zakuro's ear. "I can see my gun in my hand. Pow."

The edges of the world wavered, matter shifted, and nauseous, twisting patterns reformed grass and sky.

***

Sanzo awoke. Rather, he awoke to his real self. His surroundings looked the same as they had-- what-- seconds ago? Perhaps the sky was darker, tinged with the pink-orange of approaching sunset. Only he and Zakuro had substantially changed. Sanzo was lying on his back in the grass, his clothes askew. All of them were intact, however. Including the sutra. The front of his jeans felt suspiciously sticky and wet. Mental, physical... he'd given up trying to understand it. It had all worked out for him, eventually, even if not in ways he'd have chosen.

Sanzo dug in his robes at his waist, shook his third-to-last cigarette out of his pack, and lit it. The bite of the smoke in the cool air was a welcome refresher. He decided he should have jerked off, after all. He could have meditated for hours and not felt more relaxed than he did right now.

For a moment he wished he could explore his own brain, try to figure out what ghastly erotic fantasies lurked in there, waiting to be exploited.

No, not a good idea, probably.

What he needed to do was finish business with that one. That one was curled on his side, snoring. Sanzo considered blowing his head off. Then he hmphed at himself. Even he couldn't shoot an unconscious man in the back of the head. He had no stomach to play executioner.

Sanzo pulled an extra silk tie out of his robe and tore off a piece. He used the longer strip to bind Zakuro's hands behind his back. The shorter bit he tied around his head, covering his eyes. There was no use risking another trip back to the World of Illusion.

Then he kicked Zakuro in the back of the head with the toe of his boot. Once. Twice, a little harder.

"Wake the fuck up, moron."

"Unh," Zakuro mumbled. He twitched and drooled a little into the grass.

Sanzo kicked him again. "I said, wake the fuck up. Sit up. I know you can."

"Kumquat," Zakuro mumbled. He pulled himself to a sitting position. "Oh, no."

"What the fuck did you say?"

"Dunno," Zakuro gasped, felt his face flaming. He was glad for the he blindfold, that he couldn't see his own humiliation coming for him. Knowing it was coming was terrible enough. He deserved it, all of it. He'd been emotionally compromised-- he! And rejected-- he! He was a failure.

"Are you finished with your goddamned talk?"

"Yes, Genjyo Sanzo."

"Good," Sanzo huffed. He took a drag from his smoke, looked at Zakuro sitting on the ground, head hung between his knees. Sanzo was over it. He was ready to get back to his true mission, to what he'd been doing before this moron showed up. Waiting. For the real enemy. "Stand up, and start walking. I don't care if you fall over a cliff. Just walk. If I ever see you again, I will kill you."

To his surprise, Zakuro didn't move.

"Just kill me, Genjyo Sanzo," Zakuro said in a dull voice. How the Mighty Zakuro had fallen. All he could do was throw himself on the mercy of his beloved enemy, because his beloved mistress had none. "Shoot me, quickly. If I return without the sutra, she'll throw me back to-- to-- him."

Sanzo yanked his cigarette out of his mouth, suddenly more interested than annoyed. The real enemy...? "Who is him?”

"I-- cannot say. Just kill me. Release me from my wretched misery."

"Tell me."

"No!" Zakuro wailed.

"Shit." Threatening death wouldn't work, obviously. And Sanzo didn't feel like begging. So much so that it was worth not getting what might not even be a satisfactory answer. He grabbed the back of Zakuro's leather jacket and yanked him upright, then gave him a nudge in the ass with his boot. "Get the fuck out of here. You'll untie yourself eventually. Stay away from me."

Zakuro sighed, but stayed upright under his own power. "If you won't give me anything, Genjyo Sanzo, I'll have to try and take it, eventually. Death or the sutra. Those are my choices."

Sanzo fingered his gun, reconsidering his earlier position on wasting the bastard. For some reason, it still didn't feel right. The blindfold, the tied hands... yeah, right. He did pull the pistol and cocked a bullet into the chamber, loud enough in the quiet clearing that Zakuro would be sure to hear. "I won't even bother to shoot to kill, if you stick around. How 'bout I shoot your dick off?"

Zakuro definitely didn't want that. Suddenly, he didn't want to die, either. When there were such enemies to be had? He started walking forward, fingers already working to try and undo the knot holding his wrists together, hoping he didn't find the threatened cliff before he could free himself. A cackle tried to fight its way out of his throat. He walked a little faster. "Hah hah! You are a worthy scoundrel to have as an opponent. Goodbye. For now. Hah hah!"

It was too late for Sanzo to shoot once he'd decided to; Zakuro had disappeared, stumbling, into the thick wall of leaves. Sanzo hmphed, sat on the stump, and finished his smoke. He put it out, and re-crossed his legs.

It was an annoying world, huge and wild. Full of annoying people. More and more, the line between enemies and not-enemies was beginning to blur. Friends and not-friends. If Sanzo's enemies could survive his own weaknesses and failings, then, perhaps, so could his friends.

He closed his eyes and meditated on the annoyingness and ineffability of life. He was unaware that his possible salvation-- or damnation-- lay quite close at hand.

End. Thanks for reading!