Warning: m/m slash. Please do not read if it bothers you. Cheers.

A/N: I was asked to write ReiSaru smut, so here it is. One-shot smut, nothing too explicit. I don't do explicit, and neither would FF allow it as far as I know.

Disclaimer: I do not own the K universe or its characters.

More Than A Little Kiss

Fushimi lay on his side, dressed in a bathrobe and curled up around a pillow-shaped lump that was his blanket. He did not seem to be sleeping, and yet a thoroughly awake Fushimi would never, ever do anything that remotely resembled lying down unless he was tucked up in the sanctuary of his bedroom.

He lay on a couch in what appeared to be a changing room - the sort attached to a communal shower where people undress before going in - except that there existed few changing rooms where couches were part of the asset. And he was very, very alone, which perhaps explained his temporary lack of poise, or bearing, or both.

The door opened by a sliver. The sound of approaching footsteps did not rouse Fushimi. He curled up a little tighter and his face disappeared, half into the couch and half under the rolled-up blanket. The shadow that fell on top of him was tall and lithe and bending over, as though to check if he was asleep.

After what seemed like seconds, Munakata slid to the side and sat down near Fushimi's head. Beneath the dressing gown he was naked and wet from the bath. He ran a hand through his equally wet hair; drops of water trickled down his forehead and glasses. He waited.

Fushimi stirred. He had been hovering between waking and sleeping, and had vaguely sensed someone sitting down next to him when the end of the cushion sank with a weight that was not his own: it tilted his head down a bit and kept it there. The scent of shampoo permeated the air. It smelt oceany and citrusy and warmly comforting. Fushimi breathed into his blanket, ending in a drawn-out sigh. He felt groggy; he rarely took afternoon naps, and when he did, the post-nap grogginess lingered like the worst of hangovers.

Munakata studied Fushimi. There wasn't much to study - Fushimi's face was covered by the blanket - so Munakata settled to studying his hair instead. It was lighter under the afternoon sun, and fell in smooth strands across the side of Fushimi's face. Where the hair ended, the skin of the neck was white to the point of translucent. Munakata could see the vein beneath - a thin trail of blue, throbbing gently, delicate yet full of life. Munakata wondered what it would be like to feel the flow of blood within, and did so, using the back of his hand instead of the tip of his fingers to avoid looking overly clinical.

The touch sent a shudder down Fushimi's spine, and he woke, uncurling himself as he turned to lie on his back. When he saw Munakata's face upside down, he let out a yelp and sprang up.

'S-Sir…?!'

The touch on the side of his neck still lingered, a trace of warmth mingled with the scent of ocean and citrus and … something. Fushimi looked up into the smiling face in front him. It was blurred as he didn't have his glasses on, so he couldn't tell if the smile was a little different than it usually was. It might damn well be, because he would rather throw himself out the window than lean in closer and confirm.

'My apologies,' the blur was saying. 'You look worn out from your nanna nap, so I thought you might need a bit of pick-me-up.'

'It's not a - I wasn't - I didn't take a nanna nap!'

Fushimi was usually quite fond of his brain except in situations where it was groggy and fuzzy and refused to function. Such as right now. He swallowed a portion of insults aimed at his brain and scrambled for cover, which didn't help matters because bodily instincts were all that remained when the brain went off duty. His better judgement, for better or for worse, was telling him to get away, but his bodily instincts took over and sat him still, wide-eyed and hyperventilating, as the blur in front of him - Munakata, to be precise - approached and closed the distance.

Everything shimmered into heart-stopping focus. Munakata's lashes were dark and damp and casting shadowy half-rings under his eyes, and then everything went blank again as Fushimi closed his eyes to the impending contact. The kiss was hesitant for the briefest moment, then turned tangible. Munakata tasted like calm, languorous sea before a looming thunderstorm; where their mouths touched, ripples of sensation swelled and seeped through Fushimi's skin until every particle in his body simmered with throbbing, tingling heat.

A hand was on him, fingers touching the side of his neck where the vein pulsated and the skin grew moist. Fushimi's bathrobe slid down his shoulders as his upper body was tilted back. Munakata was doing something funny with his fingers that Fushimi could not formulate - they seemed to be everywhere, on his neck, chest, stomach, and further down. The warmth nibbled at his skin and before he knew it he was clutching Munakata's shoulders and exhaling half-suppressed keening sounds into the fabric of his dressing gown.

Munakata drew back a little. Fushimi gazed into the liquid amethyst eyes, saw his own face reflected in them, and recognised the silent longing that he didn't remember putting on at all. He wanted to say something, anything if he could so as not to be held still in Munakata's arms, but his mouth had somehow lost the ability to form words, and the sound fighting to get out of his throat was not helping the slightest despite being far more indicative of his wishes.

Munakata moved again. A touch of his fingers drew the sound Fushimi had been suppressing like a chemist unstoppering a steaming vial. Fushimi gasped as his whole body was seized with an involuntary shudder. Munakata was breathing words into Fushimi's ear, something about letting go and what-not, Fushimi didn't know and wasn't by any means capable of knowing. The feathery-light touches were driving him mad and he thrust hard against Munakata, seeking pressure where desire fuelled him, and let out a sharper gasp when Munakata finally took pity on him with renewed tightening of his fingers.

The pretence was gone; Fushimi's gasp turned into a moan he could no longer hold back. As if on cue, Munakata chose this moment to resume nibbling at Fushimi's earlobe; then his free hand went round Fushimi's waist to settle at the small of his back, cradling him. Heat engulfed Fushimi in tidal waves; he buried his face in Munakata's shoulder as it overtook him, spiralling him into a panting, upheaving crescendo until it spilt over and catapulted him over the edge. A fleeting moment of tension, and then spasm after spasm of tingling, mind-shattering pleasure.

When it was over, Fushimi slumped heavily against Munakata, his face still buried in Munakata's shoulder, breathing in the warm, oceany and citrusy scent. His brain was growing fuzzy again, albeit due to a very different cause. He was hoping to say something - something he hadn't been able to say since he woke up to find Munakata right next to him - but he couldn't muster the courage and didn't want to move in case Munakata pulled apart.

Munakata did not pull apart. He held Fushimi until Fushimi became quiet, and kissed Fushimi on the neck where it met the tip of his collarbone. Fushimi was cooling down, but the hollow of his neck was warm and moist and tasted of lingering desire and fading resistance.

'… Sir?'

'Yes?'

Fushimi fidgeted a little against Munakata's chest. When he next spoke, his voice was less muffled if equally high-pitched, as if he had forgotten what his voice sounded like and was struggling to tune it.

'Let go, will you?'

Munakata smiled into Fushimi's shoulder, 'I was under the impression that you wished to be held.'

This close, Munakata could sense the heat of the blush creeping up Fushimi's neck and spreading to his ears.

'I need a shower, sir.'

'Feel free.'

'Let go, then.'

Munakata complied, straightening his perfectly straight dressing gown. Fushimi stood up and pulled his bathrobe tight, his gait a little unsteady as he went to the shower room. A moment later, Munakata got to his feet and followed the trail of damp footprints on the floor, bolting the shower room door behind him with a soft click.