Second-Hand Doll
Notes: For Tsuki, again. Spoilers; Hisoka's backstory. Pre-series. Definite non-con. And, clearly, hebephilia.
Disclaimer I, in fact, do NOT own the characters. Nor do I really own the setting. I'm not using them for monetary gain because srsly, Muraki would steal the monies if I were; song Sarah Yelling, copyright Three Doors Down. HARD R/M; sex would be a hard PG-13, rating for violence. You are WARNED.

Mother, that man took my soul away...
Father, how could you ever treat me this way?
Brother, don't ever let him do this again...

Kurosaki Hisoka awoke from a semi-waking dream, only to find himself splayed on a table. Cold, smoothly-polished wood rubbed up against his naked skin, against his chest and his cheek. His shirt was over his head, pulled up just so to keep his arms as immobile as possible. And he could feel his pants down around his ankles, his toes just barely touching the carpeted floor.

He couldn't, for the life of him, remember why he was here. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here, what had made him come here. It was a common occurrence these days, these past...two?..years.

Never the less, he was there. And there were hands on his back, tender hands that stroked him. First gently, then roughly, then gently again. Possessive and meticulous. Almost beautiful in their ministrations.

But the hatred that filled him with each touch, that cold and searing emotion that seized his heart, made him choke back tears that he swore hadn't been there five minutes ago.

And then there was physical pain, sharp claw-like nails dragging down his backside. He choked, he gasped, and he screamed at the top of his lungs. A scream that froze halfway out of his body, by a soft chuckle from somewhere above him.

"My pretty doll..." that voice breathed. Cool, calculating, warm against his neck. Teeth digging in the flesh there, tongue licking the marks.

"You'll not escape me," the good Doctor murmured, and it was then that Hisoka felt his bare skin against his own, chest-to-back, hip-to-hip...

Oh god.

Muraki's hand was between his shoulderblades, then, pushing him down, pressing him almost into that smooth table, as he began his violation. Slow to start; it wouldn't do to break his precious little doll just yet. Not when he still needed the boy, not when he still wanted to play.

He smirked, slowly, as Hisoka struggled against him with everything he had tonight. His back was still so beautiful and pale, just like that night under the cherry tree. Still such a gorgeous shade of white, smooth as silk and cool as porcelain.

He drug his hands down the boy's back, timing it for his own pleasure. Drawing on his doll, marking him, making him his. No one wants a second-hand toy, a doll that's been played with already. And with that thought, Muraki dipped his head again, biting the flesh along his shoulder, lapping up the blood he drew...

And all the while, Hisoka just whimpered.

--end;complete--