Author: tigersilver
Pairing: Leon/Count D
Rating: R
Word Count: 893
Summary: There is no denying the Detective is very much a sensual man, so why ever deny a certain Count appreciates that quality in him, very much? For ani_mama and yellowhorde my old friends, and true.
The Detective is a sensual man, of this Count D is certain. But he, perhaps, is the more sensate.
The Detective likes very much the cool smooth of old denims encasing his long, long legs, he loves his ratty old t-shirts with their offensive logos and his broken-down shoes, the ones he claims are the best for chasing down criminals—and the luckiest.
As if it were luck; D knows better, and smiles into the light whiffling ruffle of Leon's hair. If Leon is so much a creature of earthly pleasures so must be D, now, and at that notion he ceases smiling abruptly. Presses himself more closely to the reassuring throb of heart muscle in tanned chest beneath the ancient shirt, twines a strong slim ankle more tightly about a hard calf, so the Detective's beaten-thin old denim rubs his stretched-thin skin, just roughly, just there, over the cupped curve of bone. It's far too late for any passing slight or irritation. It's gone and spilt over, all that comprises the Count's Leon, and it's drenched D down, from tip to toe, and he's allowed it, and is allowing it, and the hum of blood moving through vein and artery is his perpetual reward. The Detective, breathing.
Not to mention the kisses, for there's always the kisses. Day, noon and night, and sometimes entirely unexpected, even for D. The ones which wander over his midnight-silk pate, for example, a feathering of two lips only, and generally result in the smallest of tongue-tip damp licks to any faint frown gracing D's smooth brow. The ones which scramble the whole of D to nothing more than a whirl of wild particles and leave him torturously full down below and then dangerous whilst seeking his relief, any way he can get it—any way his Detective will give. Those, too, are sensations burnt into the Count's brain, much as anything is.
But this—this is a moment devoted to little more than ease-and-comfort, both. Spent on a brief pause of peace snatched from a wild world, stolen away like treasure. This is D sighing and closing his too-bright burning eyes, ducking his chin down tight so he may rest his head upon the tattered collar of his man's t-shirt. This is Leon with a fond firm arm draped about D's waist and flexing hip, securing him into position, and then extending his forearm and broad, wide hand beyond that, around and down, gently rubbing nonsensical designs into the silk covering D's flank with thumb and four blunt fingertips. This is D musing over the sky-blue of Leon's eyes and thinking that he much prefers them over his own colours—that this blue in particular suits his Detective, and that his eyes speak for him, even when his words are rude or crude or simply foolish.
This is Leon struggling to fold his section of newspaper with one hand, while never letting go of D with the other. Him squinting down at the scores for sport with the tiniest of irate headshakes, just enough to send his longish blond hair tickling against D's temple, teasing. The movement sends up a cloud of heat from Leon: a warm man's body temperature after a long day of toil, rising strong. It fills D's nostrils with a trace of cheap aftershave; he can nearly taste the rime of it settling upon his pursed lips, so he licks them: tangy, with a sodium afterglow. As with Leon's eyes, D is inordinately fond of the aroma of Old Spice, and is far too pleased to be imagining he's tasting it. But he is, or rather he wishes to be, and it's very little effort to poke his nose more deeply into the shadowy area beneath his Detective's hard jawbone and actually steal a sample bite.
It sets off his Detective. One spark and suddenly there's a conflagration, flames blue-hot and all-consuming. The Detective's flapping newspaper is tossed over back of the sofa with nary a glance to where it lands with a papery flutter; D's parted lips are assaulted, battery-style. Two hard hands are at once roaming down the supple length of D, roughed up fingernails scraping tiny tugs in the knap of his cheongsam as they go. Doesn't matter, not in the least; garb is replaceable, but this is not and will never be, this moment.
D delves his tongue straight back into the depths of Leon's mouth with a groan and a stabbing foray, and that wanting, needy noise is met and matched by a growl from a slightly larger pair of lungs. His eyelids tense, determined to stay shut tight, and he blocks out as much as he possibly can, all the other goings-on between and about them, which attempt to stimulate his senses, all in favour of this one single one—the taste of Detective, undiluted.
Words, the Count has often thought, can be foolish, or crude, or pointless. They may be incredibly incisive, razor sharp or dreadfully, delightfully cutting. They may convey the most delicate of emotions, or the boldest—they may inform the listener, or…not at all. The Count and his Detective tend to bypass them altogether, at least when it comes to communicating to each another what's truly important. The mating of willing mouths and eager tongues speak a secret language, direct from the source, after all.