Happy Santa_Smex, Knw!

[reposoir]

To: knw
From: emmayori

Title: Soft Light
Recipient's name: knw
Rating: Hard-R/NC-17
Pairing(s): Oshitari/Fuji
Warnings: Mild exhibitionism, mild art snobbery
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy this, knw! It's not a pairing I've ever written before, but it was so much fun to write I might have to tackle them again someday. Happy Santa Smex!



The jingle of the bell on the door has a strangely familiar tinkle to it, so Oshitari looks up from the shelf of picture frames he’s been studying. Fuji Shuusuke breezes into the camera shop with the same porcelain smile and flax hair that Oshitari remembers from junior high. He heads for the counter and exchanges a few inaudible words with a clerk, who gestures toward the very wall before Oshitari. As Fuji moves in that direction, a spark of recognition lights up his face and he beelines.

"Oshitari-kun, it’s been a while," he says, amiable but still formal. "I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you still playing tennis?" Are we still rivals? is what Oshitari hears. He smiles sheepishly and adjusts his glasses.

"The college team isn’t very well-organized," he concedes, and Fuji nods. It’s no fun if your teammates aren’t a challenge. No fun if you can’t win.

"That’s too bad." Fuji’s eyes have begun to wander, as though without some sort of reason for competition Oshitari isn’t worth his attention. "Our team has been undefeated this season, so it’s been very exciting." His gaze lands on a shelf about two meters from where Oshitari is standing, and Fuji excuses himself and makes his way past. Oshitari returns to examining picture frames, now attempting to squelch the feeling of being snubbed. Within five minutes, Fuji is gone from his sight and his thoughts.

They meet again at the checkout counter, though, while Oshitari is waiting on a handful of prints. Fuji approaches with a single, sharply-cornered box and places it delicately on the countertop. Oshitari gives him a half-hearted smile barely worth a hello, which Fuji returns. They wait awkwardly for a few moments while the clerk is busy with Oshitari’s photos.

The silence recedes like smoke from a fan when he returns with the envelope of pictures. He slides them across the glass to Oshitari and begins entering the purchase into the register. Oshitari can feel Fuji’s eyes burning curiosity through the package.

"I didn’t know you liked photography," Fuji says placidly, as though it’s an innocent comment. The subtlety of Fuji’s stare is enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

"I’m just starting, actually. The Intro to Photography course at my university is supposed to be really excellent, so I thought I’d give it a try." Fuji’s interest in the shielded photos has become so acute that Oshitari finally offers them up. "These are from my first assignment, if you’d like to take a look." Of course Fuji would like a look; it’s woven like wires through his spine and shoulders. Oshitari can’t help the smile that curls the corners of his lips as he passes the packet to Fuji, who opens it gently despite his wolfish eyes.

Truth be told, Oshitari had never thought himself particularly artistic, never mind gifted with a camera. This first assignment had been to photograph shadows, and he felt his work had been fairly middle-of-the-road. The way Fuji was devouring each image with hungry eyes, however, suggested that the assemblage of images might be more sophisticated than Oshitari had imagined. The genuine interest, sharp as a scalpel in Fuji’s expression and stance, filled Oshitari with a strange swell of pride and superiority. Genius recognized by genius.

After an intensely thorough examination, Fuji replaces the photographs within their sleeve and hands them back. He’s regained a lot of his composure and seems more at ease, flashing another paper-doll smile for Oshitari.

"Shadows," he confirms, nodding slightly to the envelope he’s just released. "Was this your first assignment?" The ball is back in Oshitari’s court, and he takes a careful swing.

"Not very interesting subject matter. It’s been done many times." Oshitari feigns a classic sigh and readies his bait. "I must be doing something right, though. My professor asked me to have extra copies printed." It’s just the right trap for Fuji, who has never stood for being outshone in anything. As expected, Fuji responds.

"Your assessment of negative space is definitely worth noting," he says casually, as though he’s just observed the color of a t-shirt or the weather outside. "And your light values are…interesting." This brings another upward tug to Oshitari’s smile; this tone is identical to Fuji’s assessment of Oshitari’s tennis back when they were rivals. Tennis rivals. Fuji’s interest in his photography suggests that there may be new competition afoot.

The tension seems to have come to a head, however, for once Oshitari pays for the photos, Fuji says goodbye and turns to attend to his own purchase. Oshitari buries the sleeve of photographs in his messenger bag and heads out of the shop and onto the street. He’s checking his watch when he feels an inquisitive tap on one shoulder.

"Oshitari-kun." It’s Fuji, brandishing a more intrigued version of his signature smile. "Running into you has actually proven to be an opportune coincidence. I’m starting a new project this afternoon, and I could really use another set of hands." It smells and sounds like a trap, but Oshitari is all too eager to make his own move in response.

"I have some time this afternoon. What sort of project?" Fuji’s smile warps coyly.

"It’s a series of self-portraits, but I’m working with some unusual lighting." His eyes drop to Oshitari’s messenger bag, boring through to the photos he leafed through moments ago. "Some of your shots were close enough to what I’m looking for that I thought you might be interested." Oshitari notes that Fuji never once asks for help. He’s about to refuse when Fuji adds a final thought.

"I promise," he says with the sincerity of a fox, "it’ll be an experience."

It catches Oshitari off guard, an unexpected move that he’s not sure how to interpret. He deliberates momentarily, but decides that the match against Fuji is something he’d like to relive. To do that, he’s got to stay in the game.

"When and where?"

"My apartment, between four-thirty and five." Fuji hands him a card and heads off down the street. He disappears into the throng of traffic like a wisp of smoke.

*****

The apartment complex isn’t all that far from where he himself is living, and it’s surprising that it has taken until now for them to run into one another. Oshitari is punctual and finds himself standing in Fuji’s kitchen just after four-thirty. It’s quite different from the nook Oshitari has in his own place; it’s meticulously clean and unusually spacious, with room enough for a tile-topped table and a pair of chairs to sit comfortably in a corner alcove. Three windows illuminate the room with warm, natural light, with a handful of healthy cacti perched on each sill, swelling happily in their ceramic pots. Photographs in sharp black frames dot the wall above the table, still dark and crisp even in the fading light.

Fuji is at the counter, putting the final touches on two cups of black tea. The air in the room has an electric excitement as both young men pay homage to social custom before moving to the next level of their competition.

While the tea steeps, there is some pleasant but frivolous conversation passing back and forth, like a series of soft volleys. Warming up while they catch up. They’re both in their third year of college, both living in the Tokyo suburbs. Updates on junior high teammates are offered: Atobe in Germany, romancing all of Europe; Tezuka touring the Andes on a study abroad. Almost everyone else is still in the area.

When the small talk and the tea have been thoroughly drained, Fuji rises with both sets of cup and saucer. After placing them carefully in the sink, he invites Oshitari into the back room of the apartment, where he’s erected his studio.

Like the kitchen, Fuji’s studio is stark and spotless. The bleached walls are free of decoration, and the few pieces of furniture have all been painted white as well. Five tripods break up the pale desert, starved black skeletons with perching cameras posed in a circle around a mattress clad in white linens. It’s here that the only disorder in the room can be found; the top sheet has been twisted and pulled so that it is splayed almost violently across the bed.

While Oshitari is examining his setup, Fuji circles the room, pulling the blinds on the handful of windows. The light dims until the room is illuminated only by two bands of fluorescent strips hanging from the ceiling. Fuji takes a pole from one corner and uses it to center the lights over the mattress.

"What sort of project did you say this was?" Oshitari asks with some trepidation. He’s not ready to consider backing out, but it’d be nice to know and understand the stakes for this particular game.

"Self-portraits," Fuji reiterates, standing on the mattress to check the final position of the overhead lights.

"With compact fluorescents?" It seems an odd choice; soft light reduces shadows and drowns contrast. Fuji seems to shrug this question off, as though it’s not relevant to their game.

"I wanted to try something new," he finally offers as he climbs off the mattress. Fuji surveys the spindly forest of tripods once more before moving back to the room entrance, where he leans back against one wall and proceeds to tug his white t-shirt off and over his head. Oshitari watches with piqued curiosity and wonders again about the true nature of this project.

"I’ve learned that photography, and art in general, is actually not that different from tennis," Fuji says purposefully, words blunt-edged. "You can put a camera, or a racquet, into anyone’s hand, but that doesn’t make them an artist or a tennis player." He folds the shirt into a stiff little square before draping it over a short, white bookcase squatting just beside the doorway. His hands move to his belt buckle.

"You need to be willing to go that extra mile and truly give yourself to the project." This is it, a direct challenge to Oshitari that dares him to follow through and pursue this to its climax. Fuji elaborately slides the brown leather belt from the loops in his pants, provocative and taunting.

It’s one thing to notice a person’s attractiveness in passing, when they’re sitting a few seats down at a bar, or jogging past, or serving from the opposite end of the tennis court. Oshitari remembers watching Fuji play Akutagawa, and how every move had been so carefully executed; it was tantalizing and beautiful then, and continues to be now. His eyes follow the soft line of Fuji’s torso down to his hips as Fuji pulls at the fly of his jeans. It’s not the cheap thrill of watching a stripper with desire programmed poorly into each movement. This, with the seductive intensity of Fuji’s daring eyes and smooth motion, is much more erotic. The hairs stand at attention on the back of Oshitari’s neck and the air in his lungs begins to feel more fluid.

Fuji’s pants rumple around his ankles and Oshitari’s eyes are now free to explore the entire line of his body. The heat in Oshitari’s chest spreads down to his groin and radiates into his thighs. This is supposed to be a curve ball, but Oshitari is enjoying the view all too much to be surprised. Fuji, unabashed in his nakedness, is like a curving marble statue, and like a spectator at a museum, Oshitari feels the overpowering urge to see with his hands.

At length, Fuji turns and makes his way over to the mattress, and Oshitari realizes that Fuji is at least as aroused as he is himself. In his mind’s eye, Oshitari can see himself pressing his lips against the inside of those pale thighs and moving his hands over every inch of flesh. He can practically feel the arch of Fuji’s back in his arms, and licks his lips searching for his taste there. Oshitari’s khakis are now nearly unbearably tight across his crotch, and the arousal rushing blood there shows no sign of stopping, but he stays rooted to his spot. The game is still afoot, and restraint is an unspoken rule here.

"Readjust the cameras," Fuji calls, sitting and then reclining on the mattress with a cat’s smile on his fair face. "I’m not making you nervous, am I? You’re comfortable like this, right?" Do you want to forfeit? Not a chance; Oshitari has at least one ace still up his sleeve.

"I might be more comfortable without my clothes," he taunts back, watching Fuji through the viewfinder of the first camera. Fuji doesn’t laugh, but the shape of his smile changes, commending Oshitari’s move.

"I think I might know now why people at museums always want to touch the paintings," Oshitari offers as follow up, checking the second camera and then moving to the third. Through the viewfinder, Fuji seems to shrug slightly as if this is obvious.

"Art is participatory, so it’s natural for the spectator to want to touch." He tugs at the sheets once more before relaxing. "True mastery is achieved only when the line between creator and viewer is thoroughly blurred. Bring me the shutter switch?" Oshitari follows Fuji’s finger to a black tube of plastic dressed in five red rubber buttons, resting on the same shelves where Fuji’s clothes now reside. A solid black cord snakes from its base, splitting into five branches: one for each camera. He plucks it from its perch and carries it over to where Fuji is prone on the mattress.

As Oshitari presses the switch into Fuji’s open palm, his eyes follow the scant and strategic sheet hems along Fuji’s thighs and abdomen. What an exciting image; the fabric of his clothing feels ever more unwelcome as heat fills Oshitari’s body. Fuji’s fingers curl around the switch, sliding up along the black plastic until they are brushing delicately, coaxingly, invitingly against the skin at Oshitari’s exposed wrist.

If this is the game, and Fuji wants to play dirty, Oshitari is only too happy to comply. He leans into Fuji’s provocation and snares his lips with his own.

Fuji’s lips are sweet and plush, and they move with slick eagerness against Oshitari’s mouth. It’s hungry and wet but not desperate, sexy in its restraint and unhurried pace. His tongue is smooth as it works its way between Oshitari’s lips, tasting him without hesitation or reluctance. Oshitari’s hands wander to Fuji’s bare shoulders and crush his fingers into them, kiss picking up with matched fervor as he climbs onto the mattress and onto Fuji.

The first thing he’s aware of is just how hard Fuji’s cock is pressed into the hollow of Oshitari’s hip. The naked skin heat is burning up through his trousers, filling Oshitari’s head with fever. As he releases Fuji’s shoulders to remove the itch of clothing, Fuji’s own fingers find Oshitari’s tie and collar and set to work.

The necktie comes away easily, a pale snake of blue silk that crumples into the sheets. As Fuji pulls at the buttons at the collar of the white shirt, Oshitari unhooks his pants and tugs them down. His erection hits the cooler air of the room with a shiver, but Fuji’s warm hands have pulled away his shirt and are now making their way down his chest. It takes one well-angled kick, and Oshitari’s khakis retreat to the floor.

No sooner is he finally free of the constraints of his clothing that Oshitari finds himself pressed down against the mattress, Fuji straddling his waist and examining him with hungry wolf eyes. There’s a dangerous excitement flitting about him, as though rolling Oshitari onto his back has put Fuji within sight of the finish line and victory. Hand raised so Oshitari can see it clearly, Fuji’s thumb folds against the red buttons again, and the cameras sound off. With each shutter snap, Oshitari’s dick gets harder.

This has not escaped Fuji’s notice, and he rolls his own hips against Oshitari’s by means of acknowledgement. He leans forward with a second sway, sliding his slick lips over Oshitari’s and delving his tongue into Oshitari’s mouth. Their kiss is teasing and insatiable, both parties vying for an edge while trying to slake the lust boiling just beneath their skin. It’s exotic, like the bittersweet bite of a wet dream. Oshitari frees his hands from the sheets and braces them against Fuji’s thighs, pressing his greedy fingers into the soft flesh.

"That won’t do," Fuji says, pulling himself up and straightening his spine. "You’ve got to learn to participate without touching." He produces the moon-blue strip of silk that was Oshitari’s tie, then pins Oshitari’s hands just above his head.

"No fair changing the rules," Oshitari manages half-heartedly as he allows Fuji to pull and bind his hands together with the silk. It’s the best complaint he can muster, considering that the part of his body he most wants touched is brushing the fine curve of Fuji’s ass.

"This is my project," Fuji replies. I make the rules. His quarry restrained, Fuji relaxes back and fishes into the sheets once again. The cameras have stopped clicking. Momentarily, Fuji produces from the stark whiteness a thin, plastic tube and spins the cap off. Oshitari nearly groans with anticipation. He can barely feel anything but the pull and pulse between his legs, and every moment Fuji spends teasing him is exquisitely aggravating.

For the first time since Oshitari climbed onto the mattress, Fuji puts the shutter switch down. His mouth returns to Oshitari’s sharing one more sloppy kiss as he squeezes the lubricant onto his newly freed hand. The air clinging to them seemed to shudder and twitch with anticipation as Fuji righted himself again and pressed his slicked fingers into his ass.

Oshitari’s eyes found Fuji’s and stayed there as he stretched himself. Fuji was daring him not to look, to control and restrain himself and his arousal simply on the knowledge of what was to come. It felt like an eternity, feeling Fuji’s hips move and imagining those glossy fingers pulling in and out. Oshitari’s mind wandered far enough to picture Fuji alone in his studio, pleasuring himself with all of his cameras watching.

Eternity breaks and Fuji tugs his fingers from his ass, once again allowing his eyes to roam across Oshitari’s body. He revisits the tube of lubrication and empties it into his palm before reaching for Oshitari’s dick. Cold fingers curl tightly around his length, and this time, Oshitari really cannot help but watch as Fuji begins to pump him slowly. The grip is just perfect, pressure tingling in all the right places and Fuji’s thumb brushing the head of Oshitari’s cock with expert grace. His hips respond involuntarily, rising to meet Fuji’s talented hand with every stroke.

This seems to please Fuji immensely, for soon Oshitari can hear the snap-click of cameras firing around him as Fuji’s smile tightens into a grin. His hand leaves Oshitari’s length, and Oshitari balks at the lost stimulus. Their game is reaching the home stretch, and Fuji is definitely commanding first place. At this point, though, it’s hard to focus on the competition through the thick fog of arousal, and Oshitari isn’t really sure which is speaking when he opens his mouth.

"You’ll run out of film if you spend too much time on foreplay." This snaps Fuji’s attention to him completely, as though Oshitari’s last pitch for victory has surprised him. After a moment, his smile slips back into place and he raises himself over Oshitari, bracing himself with one hand on Oshitari’s bare chest.

"I appreciate your concern," he says, positioning himself at the tip of Oshitari’s swollen cock, "but I’m really rather good at pacing myself." No sooner has the final word fallen from Fuji’s tongue than he is sliding himself onto Oshitari’s length. He’s confident and completely without hesitation, filling himself completely and coming to rest atop Oshitari’s hips.

The shutter is definitely snapping again, but Oshitari can barely hear it over the rush of heat in his own ears. It’s impossible not to move his hips; Fuji is so warm and tight around his dick, like every fantasy that has ever teased him to orgasm. Fuji himself has the air of ecstasy about him, his head lolling back so that his straw bangs part over his forehead. His mouth is open and his breath is ragged-edged.

Fuji drops his shutter switch hand to Oshitari’s hip, using the resistance of Oshitari’s body to raise his own. The firm pressure around Oshitari’s cock moves as he rises, and Oshitari lifts his hips instinctively to push back in. The line between friction and slickness is so fine he’s not sure which side of it they’re both on. Fuji rises again and Oshitari matches him and soon they have found a dangerously pleasurable rhythm.

When they’d played each other before Nationals in junior high, Oshitari hadn’t imagined that he’d end up on his back beneath his opponent, watching as Fuji pleasured himself on his increasingly-hard cock. Although, the potential has been there all the while, he realizes; there’s nothing sexier than a well-matched game, and he and Fuji have always been masters of driving their opponents to a teetering edge.

At this point, Oshitari is definitely going to lose. Fuji’s free hand has enclosed his own length and is exercising the same skill he displayed earlier. Oshitari can only delight in his loss as Fuji drags them both toward that rapturous end with every rise and fall of his body. Pressing his fists into the bed, Oshitari thrusts his hips up with ever-increasing passion. He’s going to lose it here, but when he comes, he’s taking Fuji down with him. The sound of the cameras fills his ears as Oshitari releases himself to and inside Fuji.

Fuji, pinnacle of art and arousal, leans back into Oshitari’s orgasm with a pleased little half-moon smile. He allows his head to roll back and forth with each jerk of Oshitari’s hips. Both of his hands are still moving, one along the shutter switch and the other pulling at his own length with an erotically practiced elegance. It’s only when Oshitari’s body shudders with completion beneath him that Fuji steps up his own pace. His eyes slide open and trap Oshitari’s as Fuji brings himself over that final edge to climax.

He collapses gracefully onto Oshitari’s chest, shoulders heaving and breath ragged. His thumb is still moving against the shutter control.

When Fuji finally rouses himself several minutes later, he makes an initial move for the camera on the closest tripod but stops short, reconsidering. He rotates at his hips before sliding back down beside Oshitari.

"Do you want to see our work?" he breathes across Oshitari’s lips. Fuji’s eyes are still sharp, but he carries the confidence of victory. This is equivalent to a handshake after a match, a chance for Oshitari to prove himself a good sport.

Oshitari rights himself and returns Fuji’s gaze. The frame of his glasses is crooked; he can feel it at his ears and where they pinch the bridge of his nose, but he makes no move to fix or remove them. Instead, he allows one hand to drape forward, fingers parting Fuji’s hair and moving sweetly against the porcelain curve of his jaw. It’s a brilliant move, and it catches Fuji off guard sufficiently that he subconsciously moves his cheek into Oshitari’s open palm.

Fuji’s question isn’t meant to be answered with a yes or a no, so Oshitari decides to take one more swing and see if this really is match point.

"I doubt the best of our work was caught with those cameras," he purrs invitingly and waits for Fuji’s response. Propping himself up on his elbows, Fuji lifts his neck and head enough that he’s looking down at Oshitari curiously, like a toddler wide-eyeing a tiger at the zoo. The baited smirk is gone, replaced with a smile of genuine interest.

"I hadn’t thought about that," he admits falsely, knowing that Oshitari knows he’s lying. Fuji surveys the naked stand of tripods and rises to a seat. "There’s really so much to explore with such a piece." The soft light rinses through his hair as he dips his head slightly to one side.

"You know," Oshitari says, back in the game, "five angles may have seemed like enough initially, but it might be prudent to experiment with other positioning." It’s check and now Fuji’s move, and he greets Oshitari greedy in eyes and smile. Oshitari returns the look with a slanted smirk of his own.

"Now you’re thinking like an artist."

-end-