A Little Death [Prince of Tennis: assassin!au, Fuji/Tezuka, NC-17]
Continued from Weapon fetishization assassin!au. Fuji/Tezuka. "T is for Toys/Devices": part of april kinks/cliches and etc., and wherein there is a little nc-17 content. 1648 Words.
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A Little Death
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Fuji reacts so quickly to there being a figure in the bed beside him that he actually draws blood with the blade grabbed quickly from the nightstand and plunged barely an inch through the back of Tezuka's shirt.
He stops himself at that point; his reactions are lightening speed, and his thought process just as swift. Anyone out to harm him wouldn't be laying fully dressed next to him and turned away from him on the bed. Wouldn't be breathing out of their nose enough to snore a little, and wouldn't have flinched at the pain, but simply rolled onto their front and hissed in response.
No, he would've been dead already.
"Jesus, Tezuka." Fuji says, gasping and laughing together. "I'm so sorry."
Tezuka looks up at him with bleary eyes, and Fuji leans over him to pluck glasses from the edge of the bed where they have settled after easing off of Tezuka's face during the night, and hands them to Tezuka.
"I uhm, ripped your shirt." Fuji mumbles. And, "Why did you stay?"
Tezuka sits up, grimacing as the throbbing and light bleeding of the wound on his back probes his consciousness. He shrugs in response to the question, his face gives nothing away. Belatedly Fuji realises it might have come across a little dismissive and rude.
In this life, he no longer bothers with sincere apologies. He watches with hawk-like precision as Tezuka shuffles to the end of the bed and, still sitting, begins to unbutton his shirt and ease it off his shoulders. It bothers neither of them; he is still more highly dressed than Fuji.
He absently inspects the small fray between the shoulder blades, the stain of blood that has soaked into the fringes of the slit. The morning sunshine peaks through the dirty window through the clear gaps, streaking the room in irregular golden light.
Fuji still has the dagger in his hand, clutching it tighter than he had realised, and not for safety's sake.
"It doesn't look bad." He says, crawling across the bed on hands and knees until his breath is on the back of Tezuka's neck. Tezuka, who makes no response except to nod slightly. Not even the most sensitive of hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"It's the shallowest of cuts, I stopped when I realised what I was doing." Fuji says. Laughs a little. "You're lucky."
"I can fix it up." He says. "I have a first aid kit and everything."
Under the bed. He leans over onto his belly and fumbles for it, fingers scratching the surface of the little case. Tezuka shivers, perhaps, where he sits. There is no heating, and though the sun shines, the warmth of it doesn't penetrate a sealed room.
Still, Fuji will never leave a door or window open.
He wets a cotton wool ball using the water on his nightstand, and wipes away the excess blood. His dagger sits beside him on the bed, and Fuji looks at it thoughtfully.
"This is what I used," he says, picking it up and pressing the cool blade down the centre of Tezuka's back so that it covers the nick in his skin. Uses the tip of one finger to press the flat coldness harder against Tezuka.
"Aesthetically pleasing, don't you think?" Fuji says, drawing it away so that he can sweep it round into Tezuka's vision, right in front of his face. "Streamlined, symmetrical. Elegantly simple, and highly successful at it's job."
"So I'm led to believe." Tezuka replies dryly. Fuji can't see his face, but presumes Tezuka is frowning. His chest is almost touching Tezuka's back.
"You disapprove?"
Tezuka shrugs again. His shrug doesn't mean 'I don't know', so much as it means, 'I don't want to talk about it'.
Over time, Fuji has learnt to appreciate the usefulness of silence. He moves away and puts the blade to one side, reaching instead for another of the myriad of objects relegated to his beside table. He sits behind Tezuka, wrapping his legs around Tezuka's mid-section tightly before he can protest, feet slipping into Tezuka's lap, and presses the barrel of the gun to the back of Tezuka's neck.
"Is this better?" He asks, and he can't believe that even Tezuka could be immune to the feel of a gun pressed against him from behind. And if not the gun, then hell, the feel of another body curled into him, skin touching skin.
The only problem is that when Tezuka's breath hitches, then precedes to quicken from that point on, Fuji isn't one hundred percent sure which action caused it. He muses briefly, and can't decide which he would prefer, since both are so appealing to him.
He tilts the gun just a fraction so that half of it comes away from Tezuka's skin, and drags it lightly down his spine, feeling it connect with almost every vertebrae as it slips further and further downwards.
"It's loaded you know." He says. Speaks his words quietly right into Tezuka's ear. He hasn't moved, but his hands are avoiding Fuji's bare legs around his waist, steadily tightening their grip on his own jeans. Fuji can't see this from where he sits, but he's picturing it nonetheless.
Though he is leant back, resting his weight on one arm, his hips are still fused to Tezuka's backside. He wonders if Tezuka can feel his steadily growing erection through the back of his jeans. Not that he's embarrassed, just curious. If Tezuka had wanted to leave he would have long before now.
"If I just put my finger to the trigger, your life would be in serious jeopardy." Fuji says. "Accidents happen, mistakes happen."
"Not if you know what you are doing." Tezuka replies, his voice strained but constant. "Who were you running from last night?"
His hands move to Fuji's ankles, grasping in an attempt to unlock them from around himself, but Fuji's grip is keen. Fuji laughs.
"I was running from what I'm always running from, Tezuka." He says, holding his legs ever-tighter the more Tezuka attempts to push them away, as subtly as his frustration increases. Then, all of a sudden, he lets go and snakes his legs away. Tezuka almost propels himself off the bed with the force of trying to break free. He leans down to snatch up his ripped shirt, and glances at Fuji with a curious hunger in his eyes. He dares Fuji to finish his sentence.
"Death." Fuji says, cocking his head and letting his legs spread just a little bit wider. His hair is half obscuring his face, but mostly his eyes, not his dirty smirk.
This time when he draws the gun upwards, it is pointed right between Tezuka's eyes.
It is the first thing to be knocked out of Fuji's hands after Tezuka lets his shirt fall back out of his grip and onto the floor again. Before he even places a knee onto the bed, or a hand to Fuji's thigh to push his legs further apart again, his hand is closing around the barrel of the gun and twisting it out of Fuji's grip. Which isn't terribly fierce anyway.
Tezuka's hands cup Fuji's face and draw him upwards in a silent demand, manoeuvring their lips together. And when their mouths meet, Tezuka bites down hard on Fuji's lower lip.
And then Fuji's hands grab Tezuka's waistband and propel him forwards into a deep, appreciative moan that begins down in Fuji's chest, which Tezuka can feel everywhere as they press together on the bed. Fuji's fingers are swift, unbuttoning and unzipping Tezuka's jeans and plunging inside his boxers before Tezuka can so much as take his hands away from Fuji's face. The kissing is taking up all his thoughts, strong and heated one-upmanship, until he feels fingers around his cock.
That's when all the force in his lips gives out and he can feel the blood draining from every body part and all rushing in the same singular direction. To hell with reciprocation, it's suddenly all he can do to hold himself steady, using his arms to support his weight so that he doesn't collapse completely on top of Fuji. Who is, of course, smiling in satisfaction.
Tezuka grits his teeth to try and hold back the deep breaths his body insist on shuddering right out of him, and it doesn't work. His head dips down, consumed by the effort of keeping it up when there's Fuji's hand working at him, pumping him steadily like there's no tomorrow, encouraging him to thrust and buck his hips for all he's worth. His glasses slip away from his face and fall on Fuji's chest, and Fuji's plucks them away with his free hand, casually discarding them. As an afterthought, it seems, his hand then goes up to brush some of Tezuka's hair out of the way, and look at his eyes without anything to hide behind.
Tezuka's eyes are squeezed shut. Fuji has to brush his thumb over Tezuka's eyelids to remind him to open them. Which he does, when all of a sudden Fuji's hand gives a harsh sort of squeeze, and Tezuka comes hard right over Fuji's stomach. He doesn't seem bothered, just looks at the intensity in Tezuka's eyes and removes his hand from Tezuka's pants. Fuji sweeps a finger idly over his stomach, watching it as intently as Tezuka does as he brings it to his own mouth and sucks it inside.
Suddenly Tezuka is overcome with the urge to pull Fuji's boxers down and off completely, and wrap his lips around Fuji's cock. Which he does. Fuji becomes a mess of writhing, moaning and squirming, and Tezuka almost believes for once Fuji has been reduced to incoherency, until he is on the verge of coming, and asks, almost as a reminder,
"Tezuka, you know what the French call an orgasm, don't you?"
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A Little Death
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Fuji reacts so quickly to there being a figure in the bed beside him that he actually draws blood with the blade grabbed quickly from the nightstand and plunged barely an inch through the back of Tezuka's shirt.
He stops himself at that point; his reactions are lightening speed, and his thought process just as swift. Anyone out to harm him wouldn't be laying fully dressed next to him and turned away from him on the bed. Wouldn't be breathing out of their nose enough to snore a little, and wouldn't have flinched at the pain, but simply rolled onto their front and hissed in response.
No, he would've been dead already.
"Jesus, Tezuka." Fuji says, gasping and laughing together. "I'm so sorry."
Tezuka looks up at him with bleary eyes, and Fuji leans over him to pluck glasses from the edge of the bed where they have settled after easing off of Tezuka's face during the night, and hands them to Tezuka.
"I uhm, ripped your shirt." Fuji mumbles. And, "Why did you stay?"
Tezuka sits up, grimacing as the throbbing and light bleeding of the wound on his back probes his consciousness. He shrugs in response to the question, his face gives nothing away. Belatedly Fuji realises it might have come across a little dismissive and rude.
In this life, he no longer bothers with sincere apologies. He watches with hawk-like precision as Tezuka shuffles to the end of the bed and, still sitting, begins to unbutton his shirt and ease it off his shoulders. It bothers neither of them; he is still more highly dressed than Fuji.
He absently inspects the small fray between the shoulder blades, the stain of blood that has soaked into the fringes of the slit. The morning sunshine peaks through the dirty window through the clear gaps, streaking the room in irregular golden light.
Fuji still has the dagger in his hand, clutching it tighter than he had realised, and not for safety's sake.
"It doesn't look bad." He says, crawling across the bed on hands and knees until his breath is on the back of Tezuka's neck. Tezuka, who makes no response except to nod slightly. Not even the most sensitive of hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"It's the shallowest of cuts, I stopped when I realised what I was doing." Fuji says. Laughs a little. "You're lucky."
"I can fix it up." He says. "I have a first aid kit and everything."
Under the bed. He leans over onto his belly and fumbles for it, fingers scratching the surface of the little case. Tezuka shivers, perhaps, where he sits. There is no heating, and though the sun shines, the warmth of it doesn't penetrate a sealed room.
Still, Fuji will never leave a door or window open.
He wets a cotton wool ball using the water on his nightstand, and wipes away the excess blood. His dagger sits beside him on the bed, and Fuji looks at it thoughtfully.
"This is what I used," he says, picking it up and pressing the cool blade down the centre of Tezuka's back so that it covers the nick in his skin. Uses the tip of one finger to press the flat coldness harder against Tezuka.
"Aesthetically pleasing, don't you think?" Fuji says, drawing it away so that he can sweep it round into Tezuka's vision, right in front of his face. "Streamlined, symmetrical. Elegantly simple, and highly successful at it's job."
"So I'm led to believe." Tezuka replies dryly. Fuji can't see his face, but presumes Tezuka is frowning. His chest is almost touching Tezuka's back.
"You disapprove?"
Tezuka shrugs again. His shrug doesn't mean 'I don't know', so much as it means, 'I don't want to talk about it'.
Over time, Fuji has learnt to appreciate the usefulness of silence. He moves away and puts the blade to one side, reaching instead for another of the myriad of objects relegated to his beside table. He sits behind Tezuka, wrapping his legs around Tezuka's mid-section tightly before he can protest, feet slipping into Tezuka's lap, and presses the barrel of the gun to the back of Tezuka's neck.
"Is this better?" He asks, and he can't believe that even Tezuka could be immune to the feel of a gun pressed against him from behind. And if not the gun, then hell, the feel of another body curled into him, skin touching skin.
The only problem is that when Tezuka's breath hitches, then precedes to quicken from that point on, Fuji isn't one hundred percent sure which action caused it. He muses briefly, and can't decide which he would prefer, since both are so appealing to him.
He tilts the gun just a fraction so that half of it comes away from Tezuka's skin, and drags it lightly down his spine, feeling it connect with almost every vertebrae as it slips further and further downwards.
"It's loaded you know." He says. Speaks his words quietly right into Tezuka's ear. He hasn't moved, but his hands are avoiding Fuji's bare legs around his waist, steadily tightening their grip on his own jeans. Fuji can't see this from where he sits, but he's picturing it nonetheless.
Though he is leant back, resting his weight on one arm, his hips are still fused to Tezuka's backside. He wonders if Tezuka can feel his steadily growing erection through the back of his jeans. Not that he's embarrassed, just curious. If Tezuka had wanted to leave he would have long before now.
"If I just put my finger to the trigger, your life would be in serious jeopardy." Fuji says. "Accidents happen, mistakes happen."
"Not if you know what you are doing." Tezuka replies, his voice strained but constant. "Who were you running from last night?"
His hands move to Fuji's ankles, grasping in an attempt to unlock them from around himself, but Fuji's grip is keen. Fuji laughs.
"I was running from what I'm always running from, Tezuka." He says, holding his legs ever-tighter the more Tezuka attempts to push them away, as subtly as his frustration increases. Then, all of a sudden, he lets go and snakes his legs away. Tezuka almost propels himself off the bed with the force of trying to break free. He leans down to snatch up his ripped shirt, and glances at Fuji with a curious hunger in his eyes. He dares Fuji to finish his sentence.
"Death." Fuji says, cocking his head and letting his legs spread just a little bit wider. His hair is half obscuring his face, but mostly his eyes, not his dirty smirk.
This time when he draws the gun upwards, it is pointed right between Tezuka's eyes.
It is the first thing to be knocked out of Fuji's hands after Tezuka lets his shirt fall back out of his grip and onto the floor again. Before he even places a knee onto the bed, or a hand to Fuji's thigh to push his legs further apart again, his hand is closing around the barrel of the gun and twisting it out of Fuji's grip. Which isn't terribly fierce anyway.
Tezuka's hands cup Fuji's face and draw him upwards in a silent demand, manoeuvring their lips together. And when their mouths meet, Tezuka bites down hard on Fuji's lower lip.
And then Fuji's hands grab Tezuka's waistband and propel him forwards into a deep, appreciative moan that begins down in Fuji's chest, which Tezuka can feel everywhere as they press together on the bed. Fuji's fingers are swift, unbuttoning and unzipping Tezuka's jeans and plunging inside his boxers before Tezuka can so much as take his hands away from Fuji's face. The kissing is taking up all his thoughts, strong and heated one-upmanship, until he feels fingers around his cock.
That's when all the force in his lips gives out and he can feel the blood draining from every body part and all rushing in the same singular direction. To hell with reciprocation, it's suddenly all he can do to hold himself steady, using his arms to support his weight so that he doesn't collapse completely on top of Fuji. Who is, of course, smiling in satisfaction.
Tezuka grits his teeth to try and hold back the deep breaths his body insist on shuddering right out of him, and it doesn't work. His head dips down, consumed by the effort of keeping it up when there's Fuji's hand working at him, pumping him steadily like there's no tomorrow, encouraging him to thrust and buck his hips for all he's worth. His glasses slip away from his face and fall on Fuji's chest, and Fuji's plucks them away with his free hand, casually discarding them. As an afterthought, it seems, his hand then goes up to brush some of Tezuka's hair out of the way, and look at his eyes without anything to hide behind.
Tezuka's eyes are squeezed shut. Fuji has to brush his thumb over Tezuka's eyelids to remind him to open them. Which he does, when all of a sudden Fuji's hand gives a harsh sort of squeeze, and Tezuka comes hard right over Fuji's stomach. He doesn't seem bothered, just looks at the intensity in Tezuka's eyes and removes his hand from Tezuka's pants. Fuji sweeps a finger idly over his stomach, watching it as intently as Tezuka does as he brings it to his own mouth and sucks it inside.
Suddenly Tezuka is overcome with the urge to pull Fuji's boxers down and off completely, and wrap his lips around Fuji's cock. Which he does. Fuji becomes a mess of writhing, moaning and squirming, and Tezuka almost believes for once Fuji has been reduced to incoherency, until he is on the verge of coming, and asks, almost as a reminder,
"Tezuka, you know what the French call an orgasm, don't you?"
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