Negative Space

Tsuzuki does all the things Muraki didn’t.

Tsuzuki undresses him slowly, carefully, and drapes Hisoka’s clothes messily over the nearest chair. Tsuzki’s hands stroke over and over his body, open and gentle, soothing his skin with body-heat. Tsuzuki kisses down his thighs lightly, lips brushing the inside of Hisoka’s knee.

Tsuzuki’s mouth is hot and eager when it closes over Hisoka’s cock, and he makes little humming sounds when Hisoka thrusts up. His fingers, stroking Hisoka’s back and the curve of his ass, encourage and coax Hisoka to let himself go into slick sensation, to brace his feet and flex his hips up hard.

Tsuzuki stretches out on his stomach, contented smile as good as a purr, and squirms with pleasure as Hisoka’s hands trace his body. He closes his eyes and moans, pushing his ass up in the air, when Hisoka’s fingers work into him, stroking and twisting. He whimpers low in his throat when Hisoka opens him up, and spreads his legs wider.

And that’s why, when Tsuzuki leans over him, Hisoka wraps his legs around Tsuzuki’s hips and rocks into the hard slide of Tsuzuki’s cock inside him. Why he fastens his mouth on Tsuzuki’s, breathing in every gasp. Why he holds Tsuzuki close and lets the man’s emotion soak into every inch of his skin. Why he whispers for Tsuzuki to fuck him harder and tosses his head back and moans openly with the pleasure of each thrust, each rush of sweet feeling.

Hisoka knows what sex is. He knows what love is. He knows what Muraki is, and he knows the difference.

And that’s why he smiles as they lie together in a sweaty tangle, and strokes Tsuzuki’s hair. Tsuzuki is different. Tsuzuki is his. He will never let Muraki have what’s his.

End