Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: FujiRyo
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Note: Part 1 of 5 from the Five Senses Arc.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Archive: As you will. Just let me know.

Dedication: Taste is kasugai (underscore) gummie's birthday giftfic. From a while back…

Taste
by Ryuuza

Ryoma was pinned to the kitchen counter, panting, and staring up wide-eyed at a pair of knowing blue eyes. "Fuji-senapi," he gasped out, hands clutched tight around the edge of the counter.

"I told you not to touch the cake," Fuji whispered, smirking.

The younger boy recalled walking into the kitchen five minutes ago and being warned by his senpai—dressed in a pink apron and whipping up some sort of frosting in a bowl—not to touch the chocolate cake cooling on the counter. He recalled the smudge of pink icing on Fuji's cheek, a flash of irritation at the color (hardly appropriate for Ryoma), and his ensuing attempt to swipe it off his boyfriend.

He also recalled Fuji's mouth capturing his finger and sucking it slowly, languidly, as Fuji looked at him, bangs falling over his eyes.

He remembered the twisting of his stomach and the blood rushing to his cheeks and how he jerked his finger away hastily.

Then Fuji had smiled and, swiping his own finger through the frosting, proffered the digit to Ryoma. "I'm baking you a cake, Ryoma," he'd said. "Want a taste?"

So Ryoma had leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around the finger and the frosting, licking off the sweetness of the whipped topping and running his tongue along Fuji's skin. And those blue eyes had darkened and Ryoma had found himself pinned to the counter.

"I didn't touch the cake," he protested now, after five minutes of being very thoroughly kissed.

"Hmm…is that so?" Fuji sounded only vaguely interested as he began investigating how many layers Ryoma had dressed himself in to ward off the cold. "Then I'll have to come up with a better excuse to molest you." His lips attached themselves to Ryoma's neck, sensitive and warm and only recently divested of its protective scarf.

Ryoma's breath hitched.

It wasn't always like this, with Fuji initiating things while Ryoma lost himself in a rush of dizziness and heat that left him flushed with emotions he'd come to identify with the other boy: wanting, painful and sharp, and possessiveness. Sometimes Ryoma was the one who tugged Fuji out of the line at the mall and dragged him into some obscure corner to kiss, unless it was too crowded or they had obligations to fulfill first, and then Ryoma would sit and itch and be irritable, as welcoming to whoever happened to be obstructing his freedom to touch Fuji as coming home and discovering a rhinoceros had nested on your dinner table.

But it was always the same swarm of awareness that tingled along his skin, the same heat low in his belly, the same feeling of belonging.

And, of course, it was always Fuji.

Ryoma raised his hands and attempted to slip them up the back of Fuji's shirt. Find the apron strings in his way, he untied them and pulled away from Fuji long enough to drag the apron over his head. This was far better than the homework session he'd expected today.

Fuji's tongue made a languorous trip along his jaw bone.

Ryoma's hand clenched on Fuji's shoulder momentarily, stomach tightening, and then quickly went to work stripping his boyfriend of his shirt.

"This'll be our first time in the kitchen," Fuji commented pleasantly, rubbing his hand idly down Ryoma's side and sliding between his legs in a seemingly accidental move. "I'm glad you bothered the cook."

Ryoma's breath shortened further, blood rushing away from his head and leaving him dizzy. He jerked his hips against Fuji's, grinning when he elicited a gasp.

"You talk too much," he said shortly, eyes glinting, and silenced the tensai—who was still smiling as he left a heated trail with his mouth down Ryoma's chest—by jerking him up and planting a fierce kiss on his mouth.

Who needed cake?

Ryoma had Fuji.

To go: Taste, Hear, Smell, Sight, Touch

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