Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Word Count: 1130
Disclaimer: I own neither Prince of Tennis nor the characters therein.
AN: Written for rukariel for the silentlikestone exchange.
“Show me,” Yukimura says, and his voice is insistent. “Show me how to draw the kanji for ‘stone,’ Genichirou.”
Sanada shuffles over and reaches for the brush, but Yukimura smiles and keeps his fingers curled around it.
“Show me,” he says, and takes Sanada’s hand and puts it over his.
Sanada stiffens and blushes and feels hot all over, eyes moving reflexively to make sure no one is around. There’s no one, of course, just him and Yukimura alone on the porch, his family safe inside. Except for the stone. The family stone is on the bench where he left it earlier, and he feels as if it’s staring at him – at his hand on Yukimura’s – and disapproving.
“I don’t think I-”
“Show me,” Yukimura says again, and smiles more and glances at the stone out of the corner of his eye.
Sanada swallows and looks at the stone and looks back at Yukimura and tightens his grip around Yukimura’s fingers. It’s just calligraphy, he thinks, wants to tell the stone. It’s nothing.
He makes it through the character with a steady hand, somehow, Yukimura’s fingers feeling so warm under his, and leans low to make the last long slanting line on the paper. It brings him close to Yukimura, so close he can feel Yukimura’s hot, humid breath on his forehead.
Just calligraphy, he tells the stone in his mind, but the stone keeps looking at him. He’s still trying to reassure it – reassure himself – when Yukimura puts his lips on his forehead and sucks, traces little circles with the tip of his tongue. Sanada shivers and puts his hand on Yukimura’s shoulder, but doesn’t quite push him away.
“You’re dripping paint,” Yukimura says a minute later, and Sanada opens his eyes in horror to find he’s smeared the brush and the paint all over the painstakingly drawn character. He reaches down to move the paper, but Yukimura grabs his hand and brings it down, crushes the brush against it so the paint smears even more. “Leave it,” Yukimura says, and brings his hand up to Sanada’s chest.
Sanada feels a trickle of sweat on his forehead and takes a look at the bench again as Yukimura slides his hand down, down, down and into the folds of Sanada’s hakama. Generations on generations of Sanadas seem to stare at him and shake their heads in disapproval, and Sanada wraps his fingers around Yukimura’s wrist.
“Don’t,” he says. He looks Yukimura in the eyes. “The stone…”
Yukimura stares back, smiling, and brings his other hand down and slides his thumb across the base of Sanada’s cock.
Sanada gasps, and his fingers tighten around Yukimura’s wrist so much he’s surprised it doesn’t break. He lets go reluctantly. Shameful, the stone says in his head, shameful. Sanada hangs his head and clenches his fists. He must stop this before it goes any further. He must.
“I wonder,” Yukimura says as he runs his finger down to the head with a light touch that makes Sanada’s skin burn, “What your brother would say if he came outside and saw us.”
Sanada doesn’t have to look up to know Yukimura’s looking at the stone. His cheeks burn. The pride of the family brought down to this, for shame. It’s almost enough to ask Yukimura to stop, for real, and he can’t help but take another look at the stone on the bench, but he’s already hard and Yukimura’s fingers are nimble and teasing and – oh, perfect, and Sanada stifles a moan and thrusts his hips into Yukimura’s hand.
But still the stone looks down on him and disapproves, and still Sanada can’t help looking at it every time Yukimura looks down.
“Don’t look at it,” Yukimura leans forward and whispers, and he wraps his hand around the base of Sanada’s cock and squeezes and it feels glorious and Sanada can barely breath. “You’re not going to find what you want,” he continues, and loosens his grip before settling into the slow, rhythmic pumping they’ve perfected together, fingers practiced so they know how best to make Sanada’s breath hitch.
But Sanada can’t stop looking at it, now. Wanton hedonism, it chides him, even as his insides start to clench and his breath becomes short and he swallows a groan from the need for release. Such acts are a disgrace to the family.
He’s still staring at it when Yukimura leans forward and ties the blindfold around his eyes with one hand and his mouth, the other hand never wavering in its rhythm, up and down and up and down firmly, with determination, but in no rush to finish.
It’s the tie from Yukimura’s kimono, the material a dark, dark blue that blinds Sanada so the only things that exists are Yukimura’s hand and the sense of shame that’s growing deep within him, the stone’s voice in his head urging it on.
“Don’t think of it,” Yukimura says. He tightens his grip just the slightest bit, and Sanada bites his bottom lip. He’s close, so close, and it shames him but he nods his head because he can’t help it.
“If you want its approval,” Yukimura whispers, leaning forward so their noses touch, “It’s not the stone you’re going to have to ask.” He rubs his thumb across Sanada’s head fleetingly. Sanada almost whimpers. “Is that what you want?”
The stone’s voice is in Sanada’s head still, raging at him, the voice his father’s and mother’s and brother’s and hundreds of ancestors’, but it’s not nearly enough to make him ask Yukimura to stop, not now.
“No,” he chokes out, almost sounding like a sob. Almost there.
“What do you want, Genichirou?”
And then Yukimura squeezes him just so, and Sanada grits his teeth and grabs a handful of Yukimura’s kimono and comes hard, head thrown back, sticky semen splattering inside his hakama.
It takes a bit before he can speak again, can think again. Yukimura unties the blindfold and slides it off, runs his fingers over Sanada’s head. Sanada’s hair is soaked in sweat. Yukimura leans forward and rests his head against Sanada’s shoulder. Sanada puts one arm around him, then the other. They ache as if he just played a five-set game.
“You,” Sanada mutters when he can focus his eyes again. It’s difficult to get the word out, but he does. Yukimura says nothing but brings up his hand and traces his finger down Sanada’s cheek.
The stone is still sitting on the bench, Sanada sees when he turns to look at it. Still as disapproving and formidable as ever.
Sanada stares at it, and feels Yukimura breathing deeply against his neck, and shuts his eyes and ignores the voices.
He and Yukimura do not get up for a long, long time.