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RP Log
Who: Fuji Syuusuke and Zaizen Hikaru
What: Directly after this post, a post-war debriefing turns into a rather physical breakdown of negotiations. Is it ever really over?
Where: Zaizen's room
Rating: R
Warnings: Zaizen and Fuji. Also, there's kissing.
After an afternoon hunched over the toilet in a bum-wasabi induced bought of dry-heaving, Zaizen took the longest shower in the history of the Karura. At least it seemed like it. He hadn’t even eaten the wasabi, but just smelling it on his plate made him feel so unclean. Though he certainly never wanted to eat again, his body needed to hold its shit together for the final sprint of the war on Fuji.
Or at least the final sprint for this round, because when was it ever really over. Their points scored were at least even. Fuji was just rudely taking advantage of timing, like a little kid declaring a game of tag over the second he was no longer it. Really, he often wondered who was supposed to be the older officer.
It was simple enough. Eat something and it was a draw. He could manage. While he waited for Fuji to come for dinner, Zaizen put on his battle earrings (a set with studs and red star on one ear and a chain that went from lobe to cartilage on the other).
Fuji arrived at Zaizen’s quarters carrying a plate of rice balls: plain ones, since he hoped to be able to pack them with the promised remains of Zaizen’s wasabi. Until the Karura was able to stop at space-station or planet, his own supplies remained zero’d out. Fuji felt he had not tasted food in eons. He touched the buzzer to Zaizen’s quarters, cheerfully fantasizing that he could smell the illness he had caused before even walking through the door. Revenge always tasted sweet.
The buzzer automatically triggered the retreat of Zaizen’s extra screens and gadgets to an illusion wall. He considered applying some kind of illusion to himself as well, to hide his pale features and deep bruises under his eyes, but Fuji was likely to see through them.
“Come in,” he said, as he looked through his small shelf of canned food. The red bean soup had been in his room, unopened. Surely it was safe.
Fuji stepped into the tidy quarters and smiled warmly at Zaizen’s turned back. He had not even turned around yet and Fuji could already tell he looked terrible. The room had a slightly muggy feel to the air, as if hot water had been running for an unusually long time. It was impressive; the air conditioning system on the Karura was very good.
Walking into the room properly, Fuji placed his plate of rice balls on the table. “How are you feeling?” he asked. This evening was really like visiting an art exhibition of work you had produced. It represented so much time but it was oh, so, satisfying.
“Hungry,” Zaizen lied, tossing a bland glare over his shoulder. Fuji was such a shithead. Usually Zaizen liked that about him, but today, he wanted to smush the smile off of the tensai’s face.
His shadowed eyes honed in on Fuji’s mouth. A horrible, wonderful plan hatched in his mind. With that, they would be truly even.
“I have your wasabi,” he said.
Fuji’s face did not change expression but Zaizen’s unexpected helpfulness in the face of what had to be serious discomfort lifted his interest level. He did so dislike a dull meal time. “I am grateful you kept some,” he said. “Rice ball?” he added, innocently, gesturing at the plate he had put on the table.
Tube in hand, Zaizen approached Fuji. “No, thank you,” he said, more polite to Fuji than he had been in a long, long time.
Instead of continuing that string of politeness to pass over the wasabi, his outreached hand took hold of Fuji and dragged him closer for a kiss that was anything but civil. His tongue was eager to share the suffering with Fuji (before he tasted of wasabi).
Fuji had to admit that was surprising. And the surprise in itself was surprising. Of all the (usually failed) revenge strikes people (usually Zaizen) had attempted, none had involved kissing him. It could be because Fuji normally tasted of wasabi. It could also be raw fear at the prospect of being that close to him.
He remained frozen to the spot for a moment before registering that this was part of their competition. It was a contest he had already decided to win. Before Zaizen could pull back, Fuji had reached out and hooked his fingers into the computer expert’s belt, pulling his hips against him as he kissed him back.
As he had recently upended a few days worth of meals, Zaizen had anticipated a reaction that more closely resembled revulsion. Then Fuji pulled him closer and Zaizen realized that he should have accounted for exactly the opposite of his expectation.
The glove had been picked up. Trying to recall how people did this, because he most certainly didn’t, Zaizen slid his hands up Fuji’s chest to twine them in the smooth locks of hair at his nape. It was almost pleasant, slanting his mouth against his rival’s to bring about velvet friction at every angle. Then he remembered to give Fuji a taste of teeth to answer for the hold on his hips.
It was the sharp pinch that really did it for Fuji. Like the nose-bleed sensation of wasabi, Zaizen’s bite was more effective that an Ice Bar’s worth of oysters. He stepped forward, pushing Zaizen up against the table while his free hand deftly pushed away the plate of rice balls. His hand slid down the back of Zaizen’s thigh, pushing upwards to encourage the other man to sit table top.
Zaizen didn’t have to be a genius to catch onto that cause and effect or to appreciate it. Though he dropped a hand to follow the urging of bold fingers, the one remaining on Fuji’s neck worked double, kneading smoothly, but for the moments he teased his keyboard blunted nails along delicate skin.
“You’re lucky that I brushed my teeth,” he murmured breathlessly in the small space between them. He crossed his ankles behind Fuji’s thighs, using the newly gained height of the table to trap his companion.
“For a computer enthusiast, you have always been surprisingly clean,” Fuji noted in reply, his breath ghosting along Zaizen’s neck. “Although if you vomit into my mouth, I will make sure this wasabi goes deeper than anything Atobe enjoyed.” He followed up the threat by pushing his own tongue into Zaizen’s mouth as one hand pulled open the top buttons of his shirt.
Only Fuji’s honeyed voice and hot breath on his neck alto persuaded him from taking offense for computer enthusiasts everywhere. Fuji’s words dipped his lashes low over his eyes and his conquest shut them. Zaizen took his time sucking on Fuji’s tongue, savoring the threat on his palate. The tensai’s fingers exposed him, button by button. Zaizen wasted no time to slide his hands down to Fuji’s crotch, untuck his shirt, and wrinkle it in his fist.
Zaizen swirled and curled his tongue with Fuji’s until the perfect opportunity came to nip at his mouth and whisper, “Use that wasabi against me, and I will make sure that you don’t enjoy it again for a long, long while.”
Were more seductive words ever spoken than an unveiled threat involving radish-based condiments? Fuji had certainly never heard them. Mentally awarding Zaizen an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, he used his leverage to tip the other officer back-down on the table. Sliding one knee onto the table top so his face was once again level with Zaizen’s, he reclaimed his mouth before whispering, “Why doesn’t my photoshop license work anymore?”
“Mmm,” it was only a slight surprise to fall back, but even if Fuji hadn’t joined him, the tensai was no more than a sharp tug away. Still, he was in no hurry to answer the question. He parried with another long, lingering kiss, taking the opportunity to explore Fuji’s mouth while he was wasabi deprived. Then, he let his head fall back to deadpan at Fuji, “I’m conspiring against you.”
Zaizen’s fingers were in on it too, from the way they pried at Fuji’s buttons from the bottom up.
Nothing in Fuji’s actions as his fingers dragged down the front of Zaizen’s shirt suggested he was perturbed by the admission his frequent partner in crime had other partners in crime. Theirs had never been a monogamous syndicate. The buttons sprang open beneath his fingers. He kissed Zaizen again, drawing his nails up along the bare stomach. “Who with?”
Zaizen inhaled sharply against Fuji’s lips. He licked them in the wake of their kisses and pushed the unbuttoned shirt down Fuji’s back.
“Tezuka-buchou,” he drawled, “Every Tuesday we paint our toenails and gossip without you.”
Cerulean eyes flashed with delight as Fuji lifted his eyebrows in impressed surprise. Tezuka was conspiring against him with Zaizen? It was almost like having a three-some with the captain of the Karura. He would be the envy of the ship.
“Saaa… I didn’t know he was that into me,” he said, transferring his weight onto his knees to allow his shirt to fall from his back. His hands reached for Zaizen’s belt, flicking open the catch. “Then I guess we’ll have to do this with just the raw material.” His hands dragged the trousers over Zaizen’s boxers. Bending over Zaizen again, he brushed his lips lightly with his own. “What colour does Tezuka like on his toenails?”
“I thought you’d like that.” Zaizen sighed and skated his fingertips down Fuji’s back to slide them neatly into uniform pockets. Though he gave the ass under his hands an appreciative squeeze, his true aim was the little bottle that he couldn’t quite trust Fuji to hold.
While Fuji made short work of his trousers, Zaizen tilted his head to avoid his lips. He scraped his teeth along Fuji’s jaw, threatening to leave a mark that the genius might like explaining later. “Lavender,” he nipped at Fuji’s ear. “With little star stickers.”
The plastic wasabi tube rolled off the table, both safe and harmless onto the floor.
Fuji gasped. Either at the nip or the image of Tezuka’s toenails. Both were nearly too good to bear. The precious tube bounced against his ankle. Without taking his hands from Zaizen’s hips, Fuji lifted his foot out of his shoe and grasped the bottle between sock-covered toes.
“I shall picture such adornments every time I see our good captain,” Fuji murmured. His lips trailed the length of Zaizen’s neck as his foot moved to drop the wasabi tube safely into his shoe. At the soft skin between neck and shoulder, he pressed down to leave his own distinctive mark.
Zaizen hoped that Tezuka would someday hear about his own toenails from Fuji, but not more than he hoped that Fuji would make that sound again. Then Fuji bit down and the next moan turned out to be Zaizen’s. It was good, sending down little shockwaves of sensation that had Zaizen writhing in Fuji’s hands.
His hand knit tightly in Fuji’s hair, pulling his head to the side to whisper harshly in one ear. “Wasabi on my desk, where I can see it, happy feet,” he gave Fuji’s bottom a light whack. “Take your pants off while you’re at it.”
Eyes flashed with amusement as Fuji adjusted his position, pinning Zaizen’s legs between his own even as the rearrangement allowed his trousers to fall to the floor. “No.” he told him in a tone that suggested the most romantic of sweet nothings.
“No?” Zaizen repeated, gaze flat and untelling as he stared back at Fuji. Being pinned was fine, but there was nothing so boner killing as an increased possibility of wasabi somewhere very unpleasant. Or anywhere on his person, at the moment. He was also quite sure that his body couldn’t afford continuing to be that physically ill.
“Then shoes at the door, with the wasabi. If not, you can let yourself out with both,” he dropped his hold on Fuji’s hair completely.
Fuji slid off both the table and Zaizen so his feet rested back on the floor. He tugged his trousers back up around his waist and lifted the shoe. “Really, Hikaru,” he told him with smiled. “Do you truly think I’d waste the last wasabi on the ship on any orifice that was not my own mouth?” He stepped towards the door, glancing back. “I believe this victory is mine.”
Zaizen sat up and crossed his bare legs with a lazy sort of grace. Popping the can of red bean soup he prepared, he peered at Fuji and said wryly, “Really, Syuusuke. Getting kicked out of my room as soon as you get to taking off your pants…I would call that your loss.”
Though the decision had been more about the wasabi in his vicinity than Fuji’s comely legs, Zaizen felt that his point held up. A point which he emphasized with a long drag of red bean soup. It did not feel good going down, but he cleared the can without showing as much. “Now shoo. You’re lucky that my mechanical arm didn’t steal your clothes. I was considering it.”
Fuji briefly considered the merits of walking to his own quarters in only his underpants and blaming the situation on Zaizen’s inventions. It was somewhat tempting, although most of the camera around the ship were controlled by the computer guru, so perhaps there was little fun to be had.
“The man who backs down first….” he pointed out, lifting his shirt and pulling if back over his shoulders. The precious wasabi he claimed from his shoe before sliding his foot inside. Perhaps he would get the small bottle made into a pendent, like the ones for teardrops worn in the wicca or voodoo communities.
He paused by the door, “Enjoy the soup. They often use radish extract in the sauce.” With a parting smile he left.
After Fuji’s retreat, Zaizen tipped the rest of the can into his mouth. It wasn’t easy to swallow.
“I’m saving that in my stomach to throw up on you next time,” he said to the empty room, and lay back down on the table for a nap. He had to make the most of his hard earned sick day, after all.
What: Directly after this post, a post-war debriefing turns into a rather physical breakdown of negotiations. Is it ever really over?
Where: Zaizen's room
Rating: R
Warnings: Zaizen and Fuji. Also, there's kissing.
After an afternoon hunched over the toilet in a bum-wasabi induced bought of dry-heaving, Zaizen took the longest shower in the history of the Karura. At least it seemed like it. He hadn’t even eaten the wasabi, but just smelling it on his plate made him feel so unclean. Though he certainly never wanted to eat again, his body needed to hold its shit together for the final sprint of the war on Fuji.
Or at least the final sprint for this round, because when was it ever really over. Their points scored were at least even. Fuji was just rudely taking advantage of timing, like a little kid declaring a game of tag over the second he was no longer it. Really, he often wondered who was supposed to be the older officer.
It was simple enough. Eat something and it was a draw. He could manage. While he waited for Fuji to come for dinner, Zaizen put on his battle earrings (a set with studs and red star on one ear and a chain that went from lobe to cartilage on the other).
Fuji arrived at Zaizen’s quarters carrying a plate of rice balls: plain ones, since he hoped to be able to pack them with the promised remains of Zaizen’s wasabi. Until the Karura was able to stop at space-station or planet, his own supplies remained zero’d out. Fuji felt he had not tasted food in eons. He touched the buzzer to Zaizen’s quarters, cheerfully fantasizing that he could smell the illness he had caused before even walking through the door. Revenge always tasted sweet.
The buzzer automatically triggered the retreat of Zaizen’s extra screens and gadgets to an illusion wall. He considered applying some kind of illusion to himself as well, to hide his pale features and deep bruises under his eyes, but Fuji was likely to see through them.
“Come in,” he said, as he looked through his small shelf of canned food. The red bean soup had been in his room, unopened. Surely it was safe.
Fuji stepped into the tidy quarters and smiled warmly at Zaizen’s turned back. He had not even turned around yet and Fuji could already tell he looked terrible. The room had a slightly muggy feel to the air, as if hot water had been running for an unusually long time. It was impressive; the air conditioning system on the Karura was very good.
Walking into the room properly, Fuji placed his plate of rice balls on the table. “How are you feeling?” he asked. This evening was really like visiting an art exhibition of work you had produced. It represented so much time but it was oh, so, satisfying.
“Hungry,” Zaizen lied, tossing a bland glare over his shoulder. Fuji was such a shithead. Usually Zaizen liked that about him, but today, he wanted to smush the smile off of the tensai’s face.
His shadowed eyes honed in on Fuji’s mouth. A horrible, wonderful plan hatched in his mind. With that, they would be truly even.
“I have your wasabi,” he said.
Fuji’s face did not change expression but Zaizen’s unexpected helpfulness in the face of what had to be serious discomfort lifted his interest level. He did so dislike a dull meal time. “I am grateful you kept some,” he said. “Rice ball?” he added, innocently, gesturing at the plate he had put on the table.
Tube in hand, Zaizen approached Fuji. “No, thank you,” he said, more polite to Fuji than he had been in a long, long time.
Instead of continuing that string of politeness to pass over the wasabi, his outreached hand took hold of Fuji and dragged him closer for a kiss that was anything but civil. His tongue was eager to share the suffering with Fuji (before he tasted of wasabi).
Fuji had to admit that was surprising. And the surprise in itself was surprising. Of all the (usually failed) revenge strikes people (usually Zaizen) had attempted, none had involved kissing him. It could be because Fuji normally tasted of wasabi. It could also be raw fear at the prospect of being that close to him.
He remained frozen to the spot for a moment before registering that this was part of their competition. It was a contest he had already decided to win. Before Zaizen could pull back, Fuji had reached out and hooked his fingers into the computer expert’s belt, pulling his hips against him as he kissed him back.
As he had recently upended a few days worth of meals, Zaizen had anticipated a reaction that more closely resembled revulsion. Then Fuji pulled him closer and Zaizen realized that he should have accounted for exactly the opposite of his expectation.
The glove had been picked up. Trying to recall how people did this, because he most certainly didn’t, Zaizen slid his hands up Fuji’s chest to twine them in the smooth locks of hair at his nape. It was almost pleasant, slanting his mouth against his rival’s to bring about velvet friction at every angle. Then he remembered to give Fuji a taste of teeth to answer for the hold on his hips.
It was the sharp pinch that really did it for Fuji. Like the nose-bleed sensation of wasabi, Zaizen’s bite was more effective that an Ice Bar’s worth of oysters. He stepped forward, pushing Zaizen up against the table while his free hand deftly pushed away the plate of rice balls. His hand slid down the back of Zaizen’s thigh, pushing upwards to encourage the other man to sit table top.
Zaizen didn’t have to be a genius to catch onto that cause and effect or to appreciate it. Though he dropped a hand to follow the urging of bold fingers, the one remaining on Fuji’s neck worked double, kneading smoothly, but for the moments he teased his keyboard blunted nails along delicate skin.
“You’re lucky that I brushed my teeth,” he murmured breathlessly in the small space between them. He crossed his ankles behind Fuji’s thighs, using the newly gained height of the table to trap his companion.
“For a computer enthusiast, you have always been surprisingly clean,” Fuji noted in reply, his breath ghosting along Zaizen’s neck. “Although if you vomit into my mouth, I will make sure this wasabi goes deeper than anything Atobe enjoyed.” He followed up the threat by pushing his own tongue into Zaizen’s mouth as one hand pulled open the top buttons of his shirt.
Only Fuji’s honeyed voice and hot breath on his neck alto persuaded him from taking offense for computer enthusiasts everywhere. Fuji’s words dipped his lashes low over his eyes and his conquest shut them. Zaizen took his time sucking on Fuji’s tongue, savoring the threat on his palate. The tensai’s fingers exposed him, button by button. Zaizen wasted no time to slide his hands down to Fuji’s crotch, untuck his shirt, and wrinkle it in his fist.
Zaizen swirled and curled his tongue with Fuji’s until the perfect opportunity came to nip at his mouth and whisper, “Use that wasabi against me, and I will make sure that you don’t enjoy it again for a long, long while.”
Were more seductive words ever spoken than an unveiled threat involving radish-based condiments? Fuji had certainly never heard them. Mentally awarding Zaizen an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, he used his leverage to tip the other officer back-down on the table. Sliding one knee onto the table top so his face was once again level with Zaizen’s, he reclaimed his mouth before whispering, “Why doesn’t my photoshop license work anymore?”
“Mmm,” it was only a slight surprise to fall back, but even if Fuji hadn’t joined him, the tensai was no more than a sharp tug away. Still, he was in no hurry to answer the question. He parried with another long, lingering kiss, taking the opportunity to explore Fuji’s mouth while he was wasabi deprived. Then, he let his head fall back to deadpan at Fuji, “I’m conspiring against you.”
Zaizen’s fingers were in on it too, from the way they pried at Fuji’s buttons from the bottom up.
Nothing in Fuji’s actions as his fingers dragged down the front of Zaizen’s shirt suggested he was perturbed by the admission his frequent partner in crime had other partners in crime. Theirs had never been a monogamous syndicate. The buttons sprang open beneath his fingers. He kissed Zaizen again, drawing his nails up along the bare stomach. “Who with?”
Zaizen inhaled sharply against Fuji’s lips. He licked them in the wake of their kisses and pushed the unbuttoned shirt down Fuji’s back.
“Tezuka-buchou,” he drawled, “Every Tuesday we paint our toenails and gossip without you.”
Cerulean eyes flashed with delight as Fuji lifted his eyebrows in impressed surprise. Tezuka was conspiring against him with Zaizen? It was almost like having a three-some with the captain of the Karura. He would be the envy of the ship.
“Saaa… I didn’t know he was that into me,” he said, transferring his weight onto his knees to allow his shirt to fall from his back. His hands reached for Zaizen’s belt, flicking open the catch. “Then I guess we’ll have to do this with just the raw material.” His hands dragged the trousers over Zaizen’s boxers. Bending over Zaizen again, he brushed his lips lightly with his own. “What colour does Tezuka like on his toenails?”
“I thought you’d like that.” Zaizen sighed and skated his fingertips down Fuji’s back to slide them neatly into uniform pockets. Though he gave the ass under his hands an appreciative squeeze, his true aim was the little bottle that he couldn’t quite trust Fuji to hold.
While Fuji made short work of his trousers, Zaizen tilted his head to avoid his lips. He scraped his teeth along Fuji’s jaw, threatening to leave a mark that the genius might like explaining later. “Lavender,” he nipped at Fuji’s ear. “With little star stickers.”
The plastic wasabi tube rolled off the table, both safe and harmless onto the floor.
Fuji gasped. Either at the nip or the image of Tezuka’s toenails. Both were nearly too good to bear. The precious tube bounced against his ankle. Without taking his hands from Zaizen’s hips, Fuji lifted his foot out of his shoe and grasped the bottle between sock-covered toes.
“I shall picture such adornments every time I see our good captain,” Fuji murmured. His lips trailed the length of Zaizen’s neck as his foot moved to drop the wasabi tube safely into his shoe. At the soft skin between neck and shoulder, he pressed down to leave his own distinctive mark.
Zaizen hoped that Tezuka would someday hear about his own toenails from Fuji, but not more than he hoped that Fuji would make that sound again. Then Fuji bit down and the next moan turned out to be Zaizen’s. It was good, sending down little shockwaves of sensation that had Zaizen writhing in Fuji’s hands.
His hand knit tightly in Fuji’s hair, pulling his head to the side to whisper harshly in one ear. “Wasabi on my desk, where I can see it, happy feet,” he gave Fuji’s bottom a light whack. “Take your pants off while you’re at it.”
Eyes flashed with amusement as Fuji adjusted his position, pinning Zaizen’s legs between his own even as the rearrangement allowed his trousers to fall to the floor. “No.” he told him in a tone that suggested the most romantic of sweet nothings.
“No?” Zaizen repeated, gaze flat and untelling as he stared back at Fuji. Being pinned was fine, but there was nothing so boner killing as an increased possibility of wasabi somewhere very unpleasant. Or anywhere on his person, at the moment. He was also quite sure that his body couldn’t afford continuing to be that physically ill.
“Then shoes at the door, with the wasabi. If not, you can let yourself out with both,” he dropped his hold on Fuji’s hair completely.
Fuji slid off both the table and Zaizen so his feet rested back on the floor. He tugged his trousers back up around his waist and lifted the shoe. “Really, Hikaru,” he told him with smiled. “Do you truly think I’d waste the last wasabi on the ship on any orifice that was not my own mouth?” He stepped towards the door, glancing back. “I believe this victory is mine.”
Zaizen sat up and crossed his bare legs with a lazy sort of grace. Popping the can of red bean soup he prepared, he peered at Fuji and said wryly, “Really, Syuusuke. Getting kicked out of my room as soon as you get to taking off your pants…I would call that your loss.”
Though the decision had been more about the wasabi in his vicinity than Fuji’s comely legs, Zaizen felt that his point held up. A point which he emphasized with a long drag of red bean soup. It did not feel good going down, but he cleared the can without showing as much. “Now shoo. You’re lucky that my mechanical arm didn’t steal your clothes. I was considering it.”
Fuji briefly considered the merits of walking to his own quarters in only his underpants and blaming the situation on Zaizen’s inventions. It was somewhat tempting, although most of the camera around the ship were controlled by the computer guru, so perhaps there was little fun to be had.
“The man who backs down first….” he pointed out, lifting his shirt and pulling if back over his shoulders. The precious wasabi he claimed from his shoe before sliding his foot inside. Perhaps he would get the small bottle made into a pendent, like the ones for teardrops worn in the wicca or voodoo communities.
He paused by the door, “Enjoy the soup. They often use radish extract in the sauce.” With a parting smile he left.
After Fuji’s retreat, Zaizen tipped the rest of the can into his mouth. It wasn’t easy to swallow.
“I’m saving that in my stomach to throw up on you next time,” he said to the empty room, and lay back down on the table for a nap. He had to make the most of his hard earned sick day, after all.