Fade (Yami no Matsuei, Tsuzuki/Hisoka)
Here's the first porn_battle repost. I didn't intend to write Yami no Matsuei, but what with the crossover eating my life and what with the fact that the prompter asked for BDSM with Hisoka on top -- yeah.
Fade. Yami no Matsuei, Tsuzuki/Hisoka. 500 words, hard R. Prompt was, as stated before, BDSM with Hisoka on top, which gives you some idea of what to expect. (Though it is surprisingly functional, given my usual fare and proclivities?)
oh god I hope I do not fail at writing for this fandom oh god oh god
Hisoka winds his fingers through Tsuzuki’s hair-it’s damp, or the hairs clustered at the nape of his neck are, damp and slicked down with sweat. He pulls, not hard, he doesn’t think, and Tsuzuki follows his hand, arches his neck back, bares his throat. He’s not smaller than Hisoka like this, Hisoka’s fist still looks tiny curled in his hair, but Tsuzuki’s not smiling or laughing or eating or slinging an arm around Hisoka or doing any of the thousand things that make him seem like so much more than he actually is, he’s just looking up at Hisoka with his lips parted and no sound coming out. Only breath, shallow and slow. He’s waiting.
Hisoka digs his nails into the hollow of Tsuzuki’s throat, twists, pinches. Tsuzuki’s cry cuts through the air and stutters, halts almost as soon as it’s begun. The feelings don’t fade as fast, though-layered, always so layered, always so many things swimming beneath the surface, guilt and shame and want over top of them all, drowning them, he’s drowning in it. Hisoka’s mind goes white.
He can’t say sorry. “Do you want me to-”
“Please,” Tsuzuki says. His wrists hang almost limp in the ties anchoring him to the bedposts-they’re wide enough to cover the scars, Hisoka thought that would be good, but now he sees the red pinpricks dotting Tsuzuki’s skin where the rope’s chafed him. He kisses the abrasions, runs his tongue over them, thinks he can taste the blood swelling up underneath. Tsuzuki’s hips snap up at that, roll, and a tiny low sound flies out between his lips. He grinds up against Hisoka and Hisoka’s breath catches, seizes; warmth spikes through his groin and he trails his nails down Tsuzuki’s arm, traces the veins, claws the crook of his elbow. His-desire-shivers up Hisoka’s fingertips, thrums in his blood.
If Hisoka digs in deeper, presses hard enough to bruise…
The sound that comes out of Tsuzuki’s mouth-it’s almost too high to be human, high and needy and vulnerable, but it’s Tsuzuki and it’s Tsuzuki wanting this and it’s his want mingling with Hisoka’s and that makes everything all right, or all right enough. Tsuzuki’s skin reddens, purples, fades back to white.
“I’m fine,” Tsuzuki murmurs, smiling. “I’m made for this.”
Hisoka can’t say anything to that, except maybe you idiot, so he doesn’t. He scrapes his teeth along Tsuzuki’s collarbone instead, sucks hard and tastes salt, sweat, need. His thumbs on the sides of Tsuzuki’s neck, Tsuzuki pushing into his touch as much as he dares.
“You can move,” Hisoka says. “If you need to.”
Tsuzuki’s nod is slight. He strains against the ropes when Hisoka bites his hipbone, drives his knuckles into Tsuzuki’s side; his emotions push back even harder, yes and it’s fine and like that and want-want is a thin high note trembling over all of them. Hisoka doesn’t understand it, not quite, but he feels it. His breath dies somewhere deep in his chest, and Tsuzuki moans.
The marks swell and disappear.
Fade. Yami no Matsuei, Tsuzuki/Hisoka. 500 words, hard R. Prompt was, as stated before, BDSM with Hisoka on top, which gives you some idea of what to expect. (Though it is surprisingly functional, given my usual fare and proclivities?)
oh god I hope I do not fail at writing for this fandom oh god oh god
Hisoka winds his fingers through Tsuzuki’s hair-it’s damp, or the hairs clustered at the nape of his neck are, damp and slicked down with sweat. He pulls, not hard, he doesn’t think, and Tsuzuki follows his hand, arches his neck back, bares his throat. He’s not smaller than Hisoka like this, Hisoka’s fist still looks tiny curled in his hair, but Tsuzuki’s not smiling or laughing or eating or slinging an arm around Hisoka or doing any of the thousand things that make him seem like so much more than he actually is, he’s just looking up at Hisoka with his lips parted and no sound coming out. Only breath, shallow and slow. He’s waiting.
Hisoka digs his nails into the hollow of Tsuzuki’s throat, twists, pinches. Tsuzuki’s cry cuts through the air and stutters, halts almost as soon as it’s begun. The feelings don’t fade as fast, though-layered, always so layered, always so many things swimming beneath the surface, guilt and shame and want over top of them all, drowning them, he’s drowning in it. Hisoka’s mind goes white.
He can’t say sorry. “Do you want me to-”
“Please,” Tsuzuki says. His wrists hang almost limp in the ties anchoring him to the bedposts-they’re wide enough to cover the scars, Hisoka thought that would be good, but now he sees the red pinpricks dotting Tsuzuki’s skin where the rope’s chafed him. He kisses the abrasions, runs his tongue over them, thinks he can taste the blood swelling up underneath. Tsuzuki’s hips snap up at that, roll, and a tiny low sound flies out between his lips. He grinds up against Hisoka and Hisoka’s breath catches, seizes; warmth spikes through his groin and he trails his nails down Tsuzuki’s arm, traces the veins, claws the crook of his elbow. His-desire-shivers up Hisoka’s fingertips, thrums in his blood.
If Hisoka digs in deeper, presses hard enough to bruise…
The sound that comes out of Tsuzuki’s mouth-it’s almost too high to be human, high and needy and vulnerable, but it’s Tsuzuki and it’s Tsuzuki wanting this and it’s his want mingling with Hisoka’s and that makes everything all right, or all right enough. Tsuzuki’s skin reddens, purples, fades back to white.
“I’m fine,” Tsuzuki murmurs, smiling. “I’m made for this.”
Hisoka can’t say anything to that, except maybe you idiot, so he doesn’t. He scrapes his teeth along Tsuzuki’s collarbone instead, sucks hard and tastes salt, sweat, need. His thumbs on the sides of Tsuzuki’s neck, Tsuzuki pushing into his touch as much as he dares.
“You can move,” Hisoka says. “If you need to.”
Tsuzuki’s nod is slight. He strains against the ropes when Hisoka bites his hipbone, drives his knuckles into Tsuzuki’s side; his emotions push back even harder, yes and it’s fine and like that and want-want is a thin high note trembling over all of them. Hisoka doesn’t understand it, not quite, but he feels it. His breath dies somewhere deep in his chest, and Tsuzuki moans.
The marks swell and disappear.