interlude; Prince of Tennis, ana!Fuji
fandom: prince of tennis
pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
notes: 892 words. Can you believe I searched for ages and still couldn't find a word for someone who is sexually attracted to or obsessed with insanely skinny people (or sometimes in relation; people with eating disorders)? There's totally got to be a word for it somewhere.
Subsequently, this fic is untitled and unfinished. And written back in March my computer informs me, back when I had an urge for ana!Fuji (though not completely of his own choosing). No, it wasn't going to be an angst-fest. Think more along the lines of a d/s relationship, but with food. Willing submission.
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i.
His mother is not a fan of online shopping, and still has catalogues delivered to the door periodically. A couple of the companies sell the exact same items, using the same models, just present them in different layouts, and so Tezuka can easily procure the discarded ones after they are put aside, intended for the trash.
He supposes it's a compulsion; the way his fingers turn to the pages and pages of denim, low-waisted jeans on shirtless bodies. If it were a debate, he would no doubt be inclined morally to oppose the size of the models, female and male alike, but in private he marvels over waists really a little too tiny to support broad shoulders. He licks his lips at the sight of protruding ribs before licking his finger to turn the page for more. Wrists, too. Some of the boys slip their hands into the pockets of the jeans and he can see how slim their wrists are, how breakable they look, and how deceiving that is, because bone is such a strong substance.
Where other boys his age stash magazines of topless women under their beds and in the back of their cupboards, Tezuka hoardes fashion magazines and lusts after boys with drained skin and eyes too large for their faces.
Perhaps it's the fact that Fuji rarely opens his eyes that first makes him stop and think.
Echizen, for example, is a great source of pleasure for Tezuka to watch on the tennis court, for the obvious reason that he has amazing skill, as well as the lesser known reason that the boy is wonderfully awkward when he isn't playing; he isn't particularly tall yet, but his limbs don't seem to notice this fact. His arms and legs seem to go on forever compared to his body, and the stretch of them spreads the flesh thin on his skeleton.
His penchant for burgers is off-putting, however; when his shirt rides up during a match you can see the protrusion of a tiny belly. Tezuka prefers concave to convex, like his lenses.
Kikumaru seems like a promising specimen; he is slight to begin with, and flexible beyond belief if what he does on the courts is any indication of what he is capable of in the bedroom. He is one of those people who are constantly chewing and nibbling away at all sorts of food; eating to keep their energy levels high enough to jump and race around all day long. Tezuka feels it would be too easy to reduce Kikumaru to little more than a shell, and so he does not hold much appeal.
Tezuka has always enjoyed a challenge.
Fuji is slight, but his build is deceptive; Tezuka has seen and felt the strength of the returns from Fuji's racket. Though Kikumaru must support himself as he jumps and flips around the court, the impact is usually only seconds and so the weight he supports does not shift entirely in the time. Fuji definitely appears to have more strength than he should for his size. It's entirely too intriguing for its own good.
It is possible Fuji could put up a fight; be capable of resistance. This appeals to Tezuka.
He watches with a hawk-like gaze, scrutinizing Fuji's body whenever he changes out of his shirt. It is far from perfect, but it's more promising than anyone else Tezuka has yet to come across. He thinks of eventually being able to run a finger over Fuji's plainly outlined ribs in succession, like playing music upon a beautifully crafted instrument, and a wave of inordinate pleasure washes over him.
"Fuji," he says when most of the other club members have left. The ones who remain don't even look his way; the quiet ones are the smartest. "Will you wait for me while I lock up? I'd like to talk with you."
Fuji nods an easy acceptance, though Tezuka knows he is confused; he has done nothing wrong. It can't be about schoolwork because they aren't in the same class anymore. Whatever else it could be, it is outside of his ability to speculate.
Tezuka straightens his books in his bag, folds his uniform again and packs it in tightly ready to be placed with the laundry at home. He refuses to stand idly while he waits for the others to leave, whereas Fuji is just standing with arms wrapped around himself, staring somewhere near Tezuka's feet and wondering, waiting.
When the last footsteps fade away outside of the locker room door, Fuji looks up at the same moment Tezuka turns to give him his full attention.
"You wanted to speak to me?" Fuji asks neutrally. He will not betray worry or curiosity. Even when Tezuka steps forward once, and then again, drawing ever closer to his personal space.
"Ah well," he says regretfully, "I lied about that. I didn't really want to talk at all."
Fuji's face screws up; it is not often he gets confused by Tezuka's words. He is about to open his mouth to question, and so Tezuka makes his will known; he cups his hands around Fuji's cheeks and pulls him into an insistent kiss. One hand snakes its way around to the back of Fuji's neck, and so easily his mouth is opening, gasping for more.
To begin; it is that simple.
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pairing: Tezuka/Fuji
notes: 892 words. Can you believe I searched for ages and still couldn't find a word for someone who is sexually attracted to or obsessed with insanely skinny people (or sometimes in relation; people with eating disorders)? There's totally got to be a word for it somewhere.
Subsequently, this fic is untitled and unfinished. And written back in March my computer informs me, back when I had an urge for ana!Fuji (though not completely of his own choosing). No, it wasn't going to be an angst-fest. Think more along the lines of a d/s relationship, but with food. Willing submission.
-
i.
His mother is not a fan of online shopping, and still has catalogues delivered to the door periodically. A couple of the companies sell the exact same items, using the same models, just present them in different layouts, and so Tezuka can easily procure the discarded ones after they are put aside, intended for the trash.
He supposes it's a compulsion; the way his fingers turn to the pages and pages of denim, low-waisted jeans on shirtless bodies. If it were a debate, he would no doubt be inclined morally to oppose the size of the models, female and male alike, but in private he marvels over waists really a little too tiny to support broad shoulders. He licks his lips at the sight of protruding ribs before licking his finger to turn the page for more. Wrists, too. Some of the boys slip their hands into the pockets of the jeans and he can see how slim their wrists are, how breakable they look, and how deceiving that is, because bone is such a strong substance.
Where other boys his age stash magazines of topless women under their beds and in the back of their cupboards, Tezuka hoardes fashion magazines and lusts after boys with drained skin and eyes too large for their faces.
Perhaps it's the fact that Fuji rarely opens his eyes that first makes him stop and think.
Echizen, for example, is a great source of pleasure for Tezuka to watch on the tennis court, for the obvious reason that he has amazing skill, as well as the lesser known reason that the boy is wonderfully awkward when he isn't playing; he isn't particularly tall yet, but his limbs don't seem to notice this fact. His arms and legs seem to go on forever compared to his body, and the stretch of them spreads the flesh thin on his skeleton.
His penchant for burgers is off-putting, however; when his shirt rides up during a match you can see the protrusion of a tiny belly. Tezuka prefers concave to convex, like his lenses.
Kikumaru seems like a promising specimen; he is slight to begin with, and flexible beyond belief if what he does on the courts is any indication of what he is capable of in the bedroom. He is one of those people who are constantly chewing and nibbling away at all sorts of food; eating to keep their energy levels high enough to jump and race around all day long. Tezuka feels it would be too easy to reduce Kikumaru to little more than a shell, and so he does not hold much appeal.
Tezuka has always enjoyed a challenge.
Fuji is slight, but his build is deceptive; Tezuka has seen and felt the strength of the returns from Fuji's racket. Though Kikumaru must support himself as he jumps and flips around the court, the impact is usually only seconds and so the weight he supports does not shift entirely in the time. Fuji definitely appears to have more strength than he should for his size. It's entirely too intriguing for its own good.
It is possible Fuji could put up a fight; be capable of resistance. This appeals to Tezuka.
He watches with a hawk-like gaze, scrutinizing Fuji's body whenever he changes out of his shirt. It is far from perfect, but it's more promising than anyone else Tezuka has yet to come across. He thinks of eventually being able to run a finger over Fuji's plainly outlined ribs in succession, like playing music upon a beautifully crafted instrument, and a wave of inordinate pleasure washes over him.
"Fuji," he says when most of the other club members have left. The ones who remain don't even look his way; the quiet ones are the smartest. "Will you wait for me while I lock up? I'd like to talk with you."
Fuji nods an easy acceptance, though Tezuka knows he is confused; he has done nothing wrong. It can't be about schoolwork because they aren't in the same class anymore. Whatever else it could be, it is outside of his ability to speculate.
Tezuka straightens his books in his bag, folds his uniform again and packs it in tightly ready to be placed with the laundry at home. He refuses to stand idly while he waits for the others to leave, whereas Fuji is just standing with arms wrapped around himself, staring somewhere near Tezuka's feet and wondering, waiting.
When the last footsteps fade away outside of the locker room door, Fuji looks up at the same moment Tezuka turns to give him his full attention.
"You wanted to speak to me?" Fuji asks neutrally. He will not betray worry or curiosity. Even when Tezuka steps forward once, and then again, drawing ever closer to his personal space.
"Ah well," he says regretfully, "I lied about that. I didn't really want to talk at all."
Fuji's face screws up; it is not often he gets confused by Tezuka's words. He is about to open his mouth to question, and so Tezuka makes his will known; he cups his hands around Fuji's cheeks and pulls him into an insistent kiss. One hand snakes its way around to the back of Fuji's neck, and so easily his mouth is opening, gasping for more.
To begin; it is that simple.
-