(no subject)
Title: Temptress Moon
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Rating: R
Request: reddwarfer's Tezuka/Fuji *R-nc-17* I'd like some hurt/comfort smex Fuji with a glasses fetish
future
Temptress Moon
"I hate you."
His head is thrown backwards, defiant. The man above him is all stiff smile and blurry eyes - shattered are the glasses that have occupied them for the last hour. The glass frames - snippets of the lenses remain imbedded in Fuji’s wrist - are tossed aside, ignored by the self-loathing prodigy and his knight in shining armour.
"I know, Fuji."
Tezuka's voice is quiet, almost reverent. Fuji's angry, and excited, and silent. His eyes reflect the dull luster of pain upon pain - the forever comfort of Kunimitsu's body inside his. Fuji smiles, half-heartedly. There exists thousands of words on the verge of his tongue, but Fuji's not ready to snap and throw Kunimitsu out.
He’s trapped, buckling underneath the other man’s weight. They’re not lovers, not in the traditional sense of the word. They don’t touch each other with languishing softness, indulging in hands that cup the face tenderly, or memorize the experience with deliberate intention. Tezuka doesn’t play a general departing off to war; Fuji, the role of a favored concubine, who one day will wait for her lord’s return while tonight, they immortalize their love for one another in a darkened room for the last time before duty calls.
If Fuji immortalizes the moment - the sheen of sweat on Tezuka's forehead, his elbows digging into Mitsu's back, white-powdered hands running through the captain's locks, large brown eyes blurred by near blindness - , he'll never escape the intimacy that Tezuka provides. He'll never abandon the third-rate hotel with the beady-eyed owner sleeping downstairs. Madam knows of the two men's affairs, why they insist on spending the night in a district of ill-repute even though their clothes speak of responsibility and wealth. They're not the only pair whom seeks deliverance from the world.
Fuji can’t afford it.
"You know?"
He can't pretend that he has a lover, not when it means acknowledging how badly he covets a relationship instead of casual sex. It'll be easy for Syuusuke to pretend that this farce - brown eyes slavishly following the tensai's movements, the sense of belonging existing while both of them remain silent, refusing stubbornly to cry out - was real, that Kunimitsu won't flee to Germany once the afterglow has faded. He won't retreat, hide behind his glass house and trophy wife.
Fuji wraps his legs around Tezuka’s waist.
He sinks his teeth into the bared skin, wishing that all his lovers were this lean and this white. Fuji buries his head into the nook of Tezuka's shoulders - invisible mourning trailing down the prodigy's defined cheekbones because it's impossible for Fuji to suppress the sensations churning inside him. He dares not categorize the sensations, using words such as love or soulmate to describe the bubbling emotions, because if he did, their glass house will topple over. He'll be bereft of glass - Tezuka's glasses.
"If you know, Tezuka, why do you consent to this?" The only gentleness that they know of worships bruises and pushes; shoves and slaps. Fuji remembers that they've always embraced this form of expression, shunning vulnerability because both of them are cowards - so much for the genius of Fuji Syuusuke. They rejected smoothness - why had he been so foolish at their relationship's crossroad? - and instead accepted bones rubbing against bones; the grinding of shoulders against breakable wrists, important once for tennis and childhood dreams. "You're here with me instead of celebrating your birthday with your wife in Tokyo. They planned a surprise birthday for you, Kunimitsu."
The two are too spliced - damaged bundles stained by wayward hair and calculating eyes - to endure normal courtship or behavior from their destined lovers or the casual partners that they've deliberately used in the past to forget about this intimacy. Tezuka pins Fuji downwards, abruptly inverting his hands so that his knuckles will crash into artist-blessed fingers. This time, Kunimitsu dips his head closer to Syuusuke's - inhales the suffocating perfume of sex. The tips of dirt brown hair drag along Fuji's exposed flesh in a uniformed line, stilling at the base of his throat. Their silhouettes, Tezuka thinks with his throat glued in bitterness and mind grounded in awful acceptance, blend together beautifully even if they do form a tragedy in the making.
"You know the answer to your question, Fuji." The emotions gurgle in Fuji's chest, extinguishing his ability to breathe for a moment. Tezuka sounds so clinical, Fuji despairs - the anguish circles his throat in ready execution. The withering romantic in the realistic prodigy mourns for a future lost. "Why are you asking me this? You were the one who told me not to ask questions that I didn't know the answers to, Syuusuke."
Fuji doesn't grimace or react.
He smiles, placidly, and waits for Kunimitsu to move next in their chess game. It’ll ultimately end in the immolation of Fuji and the destruction of Tezuka - not like they aren’t working toward the goal of destroying, like glass, everyone in their lives who should be concerned by the affair already. The ex-Regulars aren’t dim to the smoldering blackness that pervades between the feminine prodigy and their former captain nor the double entendres bouncing back and forth between the two former tennis players in rapid succession.
"I - "
The two are, in their own ways, terribly distant, coldly handsome, and sharply alone - of their own violations. They're selfish bastards, ignoring the speculative expression of Tezuka's father-in-law and the timid careful insinuation of Kunimitsu's wife, a woman who loves and loves so wrongly. The half-Japanese, half-German woman can't stay sane with a husband who acknowledges her in distant recited words. It would have been better for Irene to marry the starving artist determined to succeed in the professional world than to have willingly chained herself to the hardened, iced lawyer - Tezuka.
"- I understand."
Their bodies, covered in each other's selves, move in fluid gestures as Fuji guides Tezuka down to their bed, gently, and the two of them touch everywhere like they were meant to amidst the protection of the night - the praises of shadows singing their tale.
"I love you."
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Rating: R
Request: reddwarfer's Tezuka/Fuji *R-nc-17* I'd like some hurt/comfort smex Fuji with a glasses fetish
future
Temptress Moon
"I hate you."
His head is thrown backwards, defiant. The man above him is all stiff smile and blurry eyes - shattered are the glasses that have occupied them for the last hour. The glass frames - snippets of the lenses remain imbedded in Fuji’s wrist - are tossed aside, ignored by the self-loathing prodigy and his knight in shining armour.
"I know, Fuji."
Tezuka's voice is quiet, almost reverent. Fuji's angry, and excited, and silent. His eyes reflect the dull luster of pain upon pain - the forever comfort of Kunimitsu's body inside his. Fuji smiles, half-heartedly. There exists thousands of words on the verge of his tongue, but Fuji's not ready to snap and throw Kunimitsu out.
He’s trapped, buckling underneath the other man’s weight. They’re not lovers, not in the traditional sense of the word. They don’t touch each other with languishing softness, indulging in hands that cup the face tenderly, or memorize the experience with deliberate intention. Tezuka doesn’t play a general departing off to war; Fuji, the role of a favored concubine, who one day will wait for her lord’s return while tonight, they immortalize their love for one another in a darkened room for the last time before duty calls.
If Fuji immortalizes the moment - the sheen of sweat on Tezuka's forehead, his elbows digging into Mitsu's back, white-powdered hands running through the captain's locks, large brown eyes blurred by near blindness - , he'll never escape the intimacy that Tezuka provides. He'll never abandon the third-rate hotel with the beady-eyed owner sleeping downstairs. Madam knows of the two men's affairs, why they insist on spending the night in a district of ill-repute even though their clothes speak of responsibility and wealth. They're not the only pair whom seeks deliverance from the world.
Fuji can’t afford it.
"You know?"
He can't pretend that he has a lover, not when it means acknowledging how badly he covets a relationship instead of casual sex. It'll be easy for Syuusuke to pretend that this farce - brown eyes slavishly following the tensai's movements, the sense of belonging existing while both of them remain silent, refusing stubbornly to cry out - was real, that Kunimitsu won't flee to Germany once the afterglow has faded. He won't retreat, hide behind his glass house and trophy wife.
Fuji wraps his legs around Tezuka’s waist.
He sinks his teeth into the bared skin, wishing that all his lovers were this lean and this white. Fuji buries his head into the nook of Tezuka's shoulders - invisible mourning trailing down the prodigy's defined cheekbones because it's impossible for Fuji to suppress the sensations churning inside him. He dares not categorize the sensations, using words such as love or soulmate to describe the bubbling emotions, because if he did, their glass house will topple over. He'll be bereft of glass - Tezuka's glasses.
"If you know, Tezuka, why do you consent to this?" The only gentleness that they know of worships bruises and pushes; shoves and slaps. Fuji remembers that they've always embraced this form of expression, shunning vulnerability because both of them are cowards - so much for the genius of Fuji Syuusuke. They rejected smoothness - why had he been so foolish at their relationship's crossroad? - and instead accepted bones rubbing against bones; the grinding of shoulders against breakable wrists, important once for tennis and childhood dreams. "You're here with me instead of celebrating your birthday with your wife in Tokyo. They planned a surprise birthday for you, Kunimitsu."
The two are too spliced - damaged bundles stained by wayward hair and calculating eyes - to endure normal courtship or behavior from their destined lovers or the casual partners that they've deliberately used in the past to forget about this intimacy. Tezuka pins Fuji downwards, abruptly inverting his hands so that his knuckles will crash into artist-blessed fingers. This time, Kunimitsu dips his head closer to Syuusuke's - inhales the suffocating perfume of sex. The tips of dirt brown hair drag along Fuji's exposed flesh in a uniformed line, stilling at the base of his throat. Their silhouettes, Tezuka thinks with his throat glued in bitterness and mind grounded in awful acceptance, blend together beautifully even if they do form a tragedy in the making.
"You know the answer to your question, Fuji." The emotions gurgle in Fuji's chest, extinguishing his ability to breathe for a moment. Tezuka sounds so clinical, Fuji despairs - the anguish circles his throat in ready execution. The withering romantic in the realistic prodigy mourns for a future lost. "Why are you asking me this? You were the one who told me not to ask questions that I didn't know the answers to, Syuusuke."
Fuji doesn't grimace or react.
He smiles, placidly, and waits for Kunimitsu to move next in their chess game. It’ll ultimately end in the immolation of Fuji and the destruction of Tezuka - not like they aren’t working toward the goal of destroying, like glass, everyone in their lives who should be concerned by the affair already. The ex-Regulars aren’t dim to the smoldering blackness that pervades between the feminine prodigy and their former captain nor the double entendres bouncing back and forth between the two former tennis players in rapid succession.
"I - "
The two are, in their own ways, terribly distant, coldly handsome, and sharply alone - of their own violations. They're selfish bastards, ignoring the speculative expression of Tezuka's father-in-law and the timid careful insinuation of Kunimitsu's wife, a woman who loves and loves so wrongly. The half-Japanese, half-German woman can't stay sane with a husband who acknowledges her in distant recited words. It would have been better for Irene to marry the starving artist determined to succeed in the professional world than to have willingly chained herself to the hardened, iced lawyer - Tezuka.
"- I understand."
Their bodies, covered in each other's selves, move in fluid gestures as Fuji guides Tezuka down to their bed, gently, and the two of them touch everywhere like they were meant to amidst the protection of the night - the praises of shadows singing their tale.
"I love you."