c17h19no3 | It's about you, me, and tautology

Entry tags:

jigen,
lupin

It's about you, me, and tautology

What rouses him from slumber isn't a deep, satisfying yawn, the crack of his jaw over the need for oxygen to his brain, the darkness that envelops his bedroom, or the incessant chirp of birds outside his window.

He's lightheaded. It isn't the kind that comes hand in hand with a hangover after a satisfying night, no. Breaths are caught tight in his chest and throat and his legs are cramped, bracketed by something other than the humble frame of his bed. Lupin is sure this is some shit when his palms settle against wood. The air, what minimal air he has left, is thick with the scent of sandalwood.

He's in a goddamn coffin. This is decidedly not how last night ended. He and Jigen Daisuke had teamed up again for a certain painting, one held in an armored vault with a mind of its own (supposedly. Not much of one left after Arsene Lupin III got done with it. Nothing but gibberish after, not even enough for The Man Behind the Curtain.)

The first lesson in Waking Up in Your Own Coffin is to breathe as shallowly as possible, right? (He has no idea. This is his first time he'll care to remember in his adult life). His belt! His belt should have something...

His fingers feel heavy and fumble with the belt buckle, the sharp corners will probably be able to dig through the vinyl and wood pretty decently. Enough.

By the time he's dug through part of the lid his fingers are bloody and his breathing comes out fast and he's trying to keep his noises as minimal as possible, Grandpa would be able to get out of this in two snaps of his fingers, so why not him--

And that's when he hears a noise. A person shaped noise.

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He wants to say that that's not the point, that knowing and feeling aren't necessarily mutually exclusive. Jigen's been burned far too many times on that front to ignore the fact that it's not as easy to say goodbye to a memory as it is to say goodbye to a corpse; but the kid has a point, they won't really exchange farewells if they've still got another present-future to look forward to, right?

This is way too much for Jigen to process, actually.

So, to hell with it. He rubs a hand over his face, wipes his confusion away with a palm, and flicks it to the side as if he's done considering all the things he'll never make sense of.

"That's right. You're Lupin the Third, of course you'd want to take everything you can get."

A long exhale, to let the weight of that head settle into his skin.

"—By the way. If you wake up and I'm not here, don't panic."

That's right, he should take a page out of Lupin's book sometime. He's refused to stop thinking about it, has barricaded that part of his heart off where nothing can seep in through the cracks. At least not easily.

He hums to himself, grays peeking up past the rust-colored stain of blood on Jigen's shirt. "Damn right. I've found a few treasures I finally want...I've finally found some things I want....finally, finally...so I'm going to get them. In this time line or the next, it doesn't matter."

He feels Jigen's exhale right through the fabric and wants to feel more (always more), so deft fingers unfasten the last four buttons of his shirt from the bottom with lightning-quick movements, so he can press his face to his stomach further.

"Don't forget to get ice. And maybe I just won't sleep yet."

The admission is, again, cute. Lupin says the word 'finally' like it's a prayer on his lips, and thank god the kid's found something he can want aside from a general feeling, an abstract idea. Including himself in that equation is strange, so he thinks about Fujiko and mumbles under his breath:

"Yeah, well, you'll be chasing that woman for a while."

Be gentle on the kid, Fujiko... not that Jigen thinks she will, she's just as ruthless as Lupin is when it comes down to holding on and not letting go. A hn, accompanied by a slight jiggle of his knee.

"If you're not gonna sleep, and if you're gonna stay still, I'll go get towels and get some of that blood off you. Some kid's gonna think you're a zombie."

It's really all a matter of catching her, first. Well, more like its the chase, first and foremost. It's always been about that, with all of his treasures and baubles.

(its not enough to touch her, or him, or have nails, rough or manicured, scoring down his back until his spine is ripped open and filled with just them--)

Ear turned against the planes of Jigen's belly, he certainly doesn't hear what he says with clarity. Too tuned in to the rumble that buzzes in his head.

"No. Don't get up. Not allowed. Just stay here awhile, those kids could use a good scare so they eat their veggies..."

And the little bastard presses his open mouth right onto Jigen's navel. A tongue pokes out to swipe at sweat-laced skin. The taste of blood and gunpowder and Jigen is all there.

"Hey." A jostle, a tap of knuckles against short, ruffled hair. "Hey."

Coarsewarm tongue on his skin, Jigen raises a brow mid-motion in setting his beloved hat aside to focus his attention on the catlike slither of heat bristling up from that one point of contact. He'd be rougher with prying those knowing lips off of him if he wasn't afraid of Lupin staining those bandages with red again; even a full heart can't do much against steady bleeding.

"Don't get riled up, idiot. It's not gonna do either of us any good."

He doesn't want to be responsible for wounds splitting open because of indecent strenuous exercise, even if it wouldn't be the first time something like that's happened— the mental image makes him laugh, even, the thought of this stupid kid trying to keep going with a hole in his gut, trying to pretend that the pain is worth the momentary high (it might be).

Turning his head, he spares Jigen a peek from one of those gray peepers. A look of consideration. At least it isn't consternation; if anything, this is his element, isn't it.

(ripping at the seams until they pop out of the mold)

"I wouldn't exactly call this getting riled up. I just need this. And you do, too..."

He blows air across the spot he swiped with his tongue, then sinks his teeth into yielding flesh, surprisingly gentle. Surely it'll help him forget the throbbing pain in his stomach, right. Affection is good for that sort of thing.

(the idiot is beyond caring, huh)

The bitemark that Lupin leaves on Jigen's skin almost mirrors Lupin's trophy wound of the night, a centimeter of reddened skin made by a mouth that's as dangerous as any weapon. Jigen peels his shirt off while Lupin nips and teethes, careful not to jostle as he discards the mess of a garment onto the floor.

"What did I tell you last night about not messing with adults."

Sitting up with his partner effectively curled over his lap, he rubs the kid's jaw with the back of an index finger, draws a crooked joint up and along that smooth, defined curve. Act like a cat, get treated like one.

"Painkillers would do you a hell of a lot more good right now."

A gentle, gruff offer to go get some, even if he has a feeling he knows what the answer is going to be.

"And what did I tell you about assuming I'm a kid-- you're just going around in circles, old man. How unhealthy."

As snarky as the words out of his mouth, his eyes light up the instant Jigen moves to take his shirt off and comply with Lupin's wish. Oooh this is kinda nice. Hmm, and the rub down isn't too bad either, even if he wants more, more, more. He definitely doesn't purr, but the noise that slips from his mouth is absolutely pleased.

Scooting down slightly on his side to wedge himself comfortably, half on Jigen's lap and half between his legs, he drags the flat of his tongue lower, lower, between the surprisingly soft skin, teeth edging from his lip to score it as his (for now).

"Mmmnah, that's alright. I like this much better, and you will too."

"Hey. Hey, wait a goddamn minute—"

The hand previously occupied with lovingly giving kitty-scritches to Lupin's sideburns stops, turns over and rests itself under the kid's chin to tilt it up.

(He's absolutely used to handling his Lupin like a big, overly affectionate feline.)

"You've gotta be kidding."

Here? Now? With these walls???

Lupin's expression is more or less goddamn lupine-- a cat in wolf's clothing. The corners of his lips twist high, baring a row of teeth that, with a tilt of his chin down, Jigen's fingers still on him, press against his stomach once more.

The warmth there is exquisite, better knowing how much more is within Jigen, to touch and taste. His eyes are dark, darkened with lust and want.

"You should know I'm not kidding. Not at all. Not even a little bit."

To prove it, his fingers go for his buckle, unfastening it in seconds. His palm lies flat against Jigen's groin. He doesn't take those eyes off his face.

There it is again, those eyes. It's not as if his Lupin doesn't also bask in the satisfaction of seeing, but it's also been years and years of it happening that there'd come a time when Jigen, prideful as he is, knew when to give up.

This Lupin isn't exactly a stranger, in the strictest sense, but. Well.

The pressure on his crotch prompts a forearm to draw up and cover his eyes, flattening his thick bangs against his face.

"You've got a hole in your stomach and you still want to do this? You're beyond saving."

The hand still tucked under Lupin's chin gives an admonishing tap, once, twice. Now Jigen's just being patronizing.

"Maybe I can't stand to be saved this time. Maybe all I want to do is fall."

Dramatics, thy name is Arsene Lupin the Third. Jaws snap at rough fingers, never snagging the flesh, but they do score the pads of his not-partner's fingers. Lupin suppresses the curl of indignation that bubbles in his gut-- he'll show Jigen. He'll show him.

Kneading the heel of his palm against Jigen's dick through the fabric, he curls around him, back curved, to snag his teeth in one hip. Lips mold over the raised skin, of scars of old, ones he'd never seen...wouldn't be able to be there for for quite some time. He soothes over the bites with his tongue, sucking gently on each mark.

There's another hey, an exhale that would've been a sigh if it didn't waver halfway through. It's a mistake to keep himself from looking, because a certain lack of vision prompts his mind's eye to fill in the blanks with memories he's intimately familiar with: his stupid partner with his red jacket shrugged halfway down his back, grinning over old scars and demanding attention with 'Jigen-chan's that turn lower, huskier, until Lupin drops the diminutive altogether.

He forgets to catch himself before he can cut off the shaky "Lupin", knows that he's given himself away with those two syllables. His forearm slips from his eyes, lowers so he can see the figure arched over his lap and against his stomach.

"The only falling you should be doing is asleep, but you never listen to a lick of sense."

An index finger crooks, as if to say 'come here and I'll kiss you and that should be enough'.

(He has a feeling that trying to be the big man here isn't going to do him any favors or serve as a proper deflection, but. God, the kid could do without talking about falling.)

Jigen's voice doesn't fail to slither into his ears and seep down his spine in record time, right on cue. Pain and pleasure are a kind of drug for some people, right? Lupin's beginning to see the point here. As much as his stomach throbs and a fine pressure hints of more to come in the back of his head, he laughs. His gaze is as heated as the one Jigen's sent him, above the exasperation and the acceptance.

And curls further over Jigen, presses the heel of his hand against his crotch again, before he dashes that idea with quick fingers plucking the zipper down fully, seeking out that hardnened warmth he knows is waiting for him (him, just him. For now.)

He scoots until lips touch Jigen through his underwear, hot breath arcing over his skin, a thumb tracing his dick.

"I'd rather fall against you. Sense? Who has time for that when it comes to instinct."

He normally would have no qualms about using those long legs to kick Lupin off of the bed, but present circumstances strike that out as a potential course of action; this Lupin isn't his Lupin, and he also has a wound that could've been near-fatal if it'd been a few inches higher. Stupid, shitty kid.

Try as he might to be the voice of reason here (why does he even bother, is what he asks himself a majority of the time), his body reacts to the multiple points of contact, to that hot breath over the fabric of his underwear and the pressure up and along his dick (already half-hard). His eyelids flutter, drinking in the creeping prickle of pleasure that slithers up over his spine, and Jigen forgets to breathe for a moment.

"You're not the one that has to deal with him later."

Meaning, Jigen has a feeling that his monkey won't be too happy about this (hypocrite), especially considering that Jigen doesn't exactly sleep around.

Seeming to finally put some consideration into Jigen's words, Lupin pauses to look up with an unreadable expression.

"What is your husband, a mutt? Is he going to scent me on you?" Part of him isn't surprised, actually. Embarrassed? Not that he'd admit. Admiring it? ....No comment. He doesn't move a single inch, just breathes shallowly, tongue curled behind his teeth.

(its because he doesn't blame him-- he knows if that other him messed around with his Jigen, why, he'd be--

well, something else he wouldn't admit)

(he's always been told he's great at double standards.)

A sigh.

"Look, I'm not going to make you do this. If you don't wanna have fun, that's fine. I've got my own hand, see?"

Hand up, palm out, to demonstrate.

"Idiot, you've already done plenty to give him hints."

Almost comically, he waves his hands around his torso in a general 'all of this' motion: he hasn't forgotten all the bites that the thief in blue'd left all over his neck and collarbone the other night. It might be a bit of a mood-ruiner, Jigen's antics.

But that aside, it seems to hit him, again, that the kid is actually serious about beating off at a time like this, so—

—his shoulders lower, a hand going back up to rest against his forehead.

"Come here."

He taps his lap with the remaining hand, prompts Lupin to scoot and sit on his knees.

His lips twist into something akin to a pout. He liked his idea much better, about the scenting. A Lupin was always on the prowl, after all. A predator had to feed themselves somehow.

This is just a little less....devoured, more or less. The expression flickers on and off his face once more, fighting, and losing, the battle with the smug victory that curves his mouth. He reaches up, presses the pads of his fingers against the marks on his belly-- he'll go higher later.

His head tilts and curiosity killed the cat. But what's the point of having nine lives if you can't lose a few whiskers for the mice?

Slowly, cautiously, he half-props himself up on Jigen's knees-- the rest of him ready to bolt. It's written from his shoulders to the corners of his eyes. Grays which look away as his mouth opens.

"I just wanted...wanted to have this, just for a little while. So I wouldn't forget."

It's written all over Lupin's body and his face, incidentally, that he's reluctant about this in every way humanly possible, and Jigen almost feels badly for it—

—if it wasn't followed up by that, those words.

(Does this kid have to be so goddamn cute, that's the cutest fucking thing he's heard in the past 48 hours.)

A beat, and Jigen gingerly hauls Lupin a little closer, wraps one solid arm around his past-present partner to pull and lean him in so that his face is buried in the crook of Jigen's neck, Jigen's hair tickling his cheek.

The other hand slips into his pants, because. Well.

"Stay still, then."

This isn't nearly as grudging as Jigen could have made it sound; what a sucker.

A note of surprise rumbles in his throat as he's more or less manhandled, albeit gently, into Jigen's lap fully. Jigen's soothing scent, of gunpowder and metal and Pal Mals, as if that and earth and the remnants of day old cologne lay naturally on his skin, wafts into his nose as his vision goes dark, lashes fluttering against Jigen's neck.

He stays utterly still.

(to think, he can somewhat follow orders)

(doesn't mean he won't hop back off and swallow Jigen's dick down, on a promise, in a hot minute)

"What are you up to--"

Oh, he doesn't have to wonder long: his dick gives an interested twitch.

This Lupin is lighter than the Lupin he's used to, flightier and transient— it's a disconnect, the association with blue and calm moons in contrast to the kidlike warmth. A child's temperature in a storm-weathered body.

"Stay still," he says again, as if talking too much can open that wound in his stomach and not what Jigen is doing with his hand; it steals down, down, trailing over tightly-wound bandages criss-crossing Lupin's torso until it reaches its destination fully under the fabric of his temporary partner's underwear, to palm his dick in a measured, languid pace.

(It's affectionate, is what it is.)

The other hand moves in the opposite direction, up, up, tracing the ridges of Lupin's backbone, feeling each one until he reaches the smooth nape of the thief's neck and thumbs against it gently, rubbing light circles along the hairline.

Oh. Oh. Well that's not so bad. Not at all. His dick twitches just the slightest against Jigen while he rolls his hips into the too-little pressure of his not-partner's palm, being the rebellious child that he is, and doesn't listen. Who is surprised? No one. A little grunt gathers in his throat; turning his head, he noses at Jigen's throat, the hint of eyeteeth beneath the concentrated curve of his mouth.

"Can't. It's impossible."

He's curled up and tense, shoulders rigid, but slowly softening beneath Jigen's touch at his hairline. One shoulder droops. His eyelids droop.

(he's not used to this, genuinely this, what the fuck is this--)

(he really doesn't have the proper footing here, does he?)

(dammit, Lupin doesn't wanna fucking admit that!!)

"What happened to nothing being impossible, Napoleon."

The tone is appropriately dry, but he hides a laugh somewhere between those syllables, a hidden lilt of fondness that's tucked between the deadpan. As cool and detached as Jigen can be about many, many things, he's hard-pressed to hide his satisfaction at feeling hiked-up shoulders slowly slack against him; he encourages it with lingering presses of his lips up the side of Lupin's face, tracing a sideburn to settle at the kid's temple, breathe in and out.

(He's used to frantic scrabbling, peeling clothes off with desperate urgency, clawing and bleeding and laughing—

—but it's not bad to go back to his roots once in a while, to go for the kill with slow hands.)

(The kid is definitely out of his depth, how...endearing.)

Rough hands stroke in an even, tempered rhythm, squeezing and drawing up in what could pass as agonizing speed; like honey, molasses, melted sugar, disgustingly sweet. Circling the head with a thumb, Jigen follows the outline of Lupin's cock with an earnest attention that's not borne out of patronization but— well. Lupin is free to fill in the blanks.

His mouth draws down into an unamused frown. He tries to match Jigen's tone when he says, "A Napoleon joke from you, wow. Honhonhon...I could've stayed home for that one."

Ultimately it fails when his voice tapers off with an ahhh that shakes his very vocal cords and the cord of his neck, which turns to face Jigen, mouth seeking out his with lips and teeth that want to bruise and burn beneath the cords of pleasure in waves. Fuck this thinking. Just, fuck it.

(he can hazard a guess as to the big Why but, but, oh, but he doesn't want to, not when Jigen's fingers are so good around him, not when his heart seems to hiccup, a hiccup which spreads from chest to his knees--)

(he buries the dash of red in his mind, of shoulders he knows fit perfectly, adorned in red and proud, buries it forward)

Instead, with an arch of his hips, he tries to get Jigen to go faster, tucks his face against his not-partner's throat and releases one of those shuddersighsobs, arms finding their way around the gunslinger's neck.

"Jigen...Jigen."

The weight of those arms looped around him, holding on as if Lupin'll drown otherwise, is cloyingly endearing. It's a refreshing break from Lupin always trying to get Jigen to relent first, that tug-of-war that the gunman protests in words but is quietly thrilled by— it's not bad, to finally be the calm one watching someone close to your heart crumble between your fingers.

(Close to his heart, he's already making that association.)

"Not used to anyone giving anything to you freely, huh."

He murmurs it, a quiet statement that's almost private as he slowly gives Lupin more friction, as he moves his hand faster and keeps raining lips against hair, ears, cheekbones. A finger circles along the ridge of the erection and then drags all the way down to the base, going for all the spots that Jigen knows his Lupin likes— is that cheating?

(There's just a slight pang in his chest, but Jigen buries that, too.)

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