bookwyrmling

As it is October 7th, and Tezuka Kunimitsu’s birthday, I’m posting up a fun little piece for him and Ryoma. And, yes, it is a mature fic.

This is from a project I am working on called Ineffable, which is a series of post-manga one-shots about tezuryo’s future based off of the words on The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.

The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows is a blog started by a linguist whose goal it was to create words to describe sensations, emotions or moments for which words do not exist.

Series: Ineffable
Title: Chrysalism
Rating: M (sexual content)
Characters: Tezuka Kunimitsu, Echizen Ryoma
Pairings: Pillar Pair/TezuRyo

Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis, nor do I own the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows blog. I do like to imagine, however, that the latter’s writer would appreciate their words finding use. Definitions for each word have been copied directly from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows Tumblr.

Chrysalism

n. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension you understand perfectly.

There was nothing but Kunimitsu, Ryoma and the storm. Outside, lightning flashed and, seconds later, thunder roared. Inside, the sheets rustled, the dark room punctuated by soft sighs and moans. Outside, the rain pounded against the windows and sliding glass door and the wind howled through the trees. Inside, a calloused hand ran along soft flesh and plush lips nibbled an earlobe. Gold eyes widened and gasped.

The two men had been caught mid-hike by the sudden storm and as black clouds had rushed at them over the peak, they had run for the trailhead, the waiting car and then the first inn they could find. The cold rain had been coming down in sheets around them by the time they found one and Kunimitsu and Ryoma had ran inside, soaking and shivering and asking for any room whatsoever. The lightning had flashed and thunder crashed almost simultaneously and neither man felt comfortable enough to go back to driving in that weather.

Thankfully, there had been rooms available and not even Ryoma had felt the need to argue over a rate clearly raised to take advantage of a situation that forced their hands.

It was just around the time they had dropped their bags in their room that the power went out.

The rain had soaked through their early fall hiking clothes and both men were chilled to the bone. Ryoma sighed at the realization that attempting a hot shower -- the bathroom, he’d had enough time to peek at, had no tub -- would be too dangerous in the dark and that was assuming the water heater was gas, not electric and therefore also out of commission.

The rustle of clothing and the slop of soaked fabric dropping to the ground had hit Ryoma’s ears and he turned in Kunimitsu’s direction. A flash of lightning had illuminated the drenched man now standing topless and working on the button and fly of his jeans. “Let’s get out of these wet clothes and dry off, at least,” the older man had said, “Shanghai’s in less than a week.” He did not need to add that neither of them needed to risk being on the backside of a cold. Nishikori, Djokovic and Wawrinka were all due to be competing in the upcoming tournament, as well.

Ryoma had rolled his eyes and grinned at his boyfriend’s warning before beginning to strip all the same. Thunder had rolled overhead and the rain thrummed along the roof, cutting off any other sounds from the outside world. It was nothing but the two of them and the storm and as Ryoma accepted the offered towel -- his eyes beginning to acclimate to the dark -- he brushed his fingers along Kunimitsu’s hand.

The power had returned just as Ryoma was finishing towel-drying his hair. His body, while dry, still shook with the cold and he knew it would take a very long shower to chase the last of the chill away. The generator must have started up, though even the whine of that machine was impossible to hear over the storm.

“You can hop in first,” Kunimitsu had spoken in relief at the power’s return, eyes blinking against the light suddenly turning on all the same. Walking over to the armoire, he had found two robes hanging inside but, before he could slip one on, a click had sounded and the room went dark again.

The floor had creaked and, moments later, cold arms had wrapped around a fit torso, fingertips brushing tantalizingly low. “I’ve got a better idea on how to warm up.” The words were whispered into Kunimitsu’s ear and he shuddered at the feel of Ryoma’s lips brushing against his neck.

There was nothing but Kunimitsu, Ryoma and the storm. The roar of rain and the sigh of a kiss. The flash of lightning as hands slipped lower, lower, yes. The scream of the wind and gasping moans and grasping fingers and neither man even thought to hold their voices back as thunder crashed and their world shattered.

Heavy breaths and languid kisses filled the one room universe still held firmly in place by the continuing storm and Ryoma slipped his leg between Kunimitsu’s with a chuckle. “You usually try to silence it even at home,” he murmured, lips trailing along the older man’s jaw. He felt it clench and snickered, burying his face into the man’s neck and nipping at his throat. A roaming hand pressed firmly into the small of Kunimitsu’s back and Ryoma relished the way he arched and moaned. “Again?” the brunette asked with a huff, choosing to ignore his partner’s earlier comment. Ryoma smirked and pulled away just enough to roll Kunimitsu from his side to his back, slipping both of his legs between Kunimitsu’s and spreading them. “Our hike got interrupted,” he explained, “We’ll have to get the exercise somehow.” Ryoma could practically see the older man’s brow furrowing in frustration even with his attention fully given to leaving lasting marks on his lover’s chest, strategically placed so that his preferred polos and shirts would hide their existence to public.

Kunimitsu’s sigh of surrender as he allowed Ryoma to spread his legs and slip further down told Ryoma his logic had won out and, as closing argument, he ran his tongue from the man’s pelvis, up to his belly button and shivered at the sound of his lover’s keen. “Besides,” he hid a smile in the man’s abdomen, “The storm’s still going on and no one can hear us. Feel free to make as much noise as you like.”

“Ryoma!” the rebuke was scandalized, but he had expected it and the younger man simply looked up to meet Kunimitsu’s gaze with a challenge. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold back either.” Before Kunimitsu could say another word, Ryoma slipped down the last few inches and swallowed the man, already half-hard again, whole. Kunimitsu, whose mouth had been open to further lecture against his boyfriend’s crude words dropped his jaw even further, gasped, his breath stolen from him. His eyes slid shut and head rolled back as fingers slid into soft, dark hair and Kunimitsu panted and groaned.

Ryoma smirked as he withdrew, pulling the foreskin down and swiping his tongue along the tip, giving some of his best work with his new found goal of making Tezuka Kunimitsu scream.

After all, there was nothing but Kunimitsu, Ryoma and the storm. So long as it offered them the chance, they might as well take advantage.