Little Death
by Rana Eros
So a discussion arose in Brigdh's LJ
about Tsusoka, in which I opined that what the fandom
needed was more frottage, as does every fandom. Someone else mentioned still-clothed!smutfic, and many images
were offered up of rumpled shirts and loosened ties and askew glasses and
undone trousers. These are all lovely images, but I felt compelled to point out
many of them don't apply to Hisoka. I ended up
writing comment smut. Here is the slightly cleaned-up version.
His back was pressed
up against the wall, his shirt rucked
up to the bottom of his ribcage and only the top button of his jeans undone. It
allowed just enough room for a hand to slip inside, pressed too close to tease
by confining denim, long fingers curling around his cock and flexing, just
slightly, just enough to suck all the air out of the room and make lightning
shoot up Hisoka's spine. He
arched back, gasping, and there was laughter from the mouth tasting his skin
above the collar of his shirt.
"You like
that?" The voice was like the fingers, warm and knowing,
and he didn't answer, because he knew it wasn't really expected. All that was
expected was this, his permission and his pleasure, and it was as unlike Muraki as possible, because Muraki
only wanted his pleasure as a form of surrender and Muraki
would never have stood in this darkened room still dressed and just touching
him.
"You're thinking
too much," the voice chided him lightly, and then the fingers curled,
brushing against his balls, and he tightened his grip on well-defined arms and
just felt it. His pleasure, theirs, the desire that had nothing to do with red
moons or curses and everything to do with this, with them, with darkened rooms
and warm fingers and the way he tasted, salt-sweet, the way he felt, hot and
silken; the way he moved into the hand around him and his head fell back and he
felt it, like an entire storm streaking through his nervous system, touching
him every place the curse had and feeling nothing like a curse and everything
like that first moment when death freed him.
Being kissed was like
breathing anew, except the air of Meifu always tasted
faintly of sakura. The mouth on his tasted of many
things, but sakura was not one of them. And so he didn't mind at all when the kiss lingered.
~END~