Prince Of Tennis Fan Fiction ❯ Rush. ❯ One-Shot

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All situations depicted in the following fanfiction, unless otherwise stated, have no bearing on the creators' original works, and are solely the creation of the author based on personal interpretation of the mentioned works or are parodies exempted from copyright laws. It is the responsibility of the reader to observe all warnings before proceeding to the fiction works in this journal, as they may contain any number of situations, themes, ideas, views, or lifestyles not suitable for those under the age of 18 or which may be contrary or offensive to the beliefs of some. In the event that the following is the author's original work, or contains an original character, the author holds the copyright and should be contacted before either is used or distributed in any way.

 

 

ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER : I don't own TENNIS no Oujisama.

 

 

 

 

Universe Title : N/A.
Story Title : Rush (1/1).
Chapter Title : N/A.
Chapter Rating : R18+.
Main Character(s) :  Tezuka Kunimitsu, Atobe Keigo.
Genre(s) : Smut.
Summary : Atobe discovers that sometimes losing can be much, much fun.
Warning(s) : M/M, Sex (Explicit), Swearing.
Word Count : +/- 3009.
Author's Note(s) : N/A.

 

 

Rush.

 

 

It always starts like this.

You invite him over for a game on your private tennis courts, because you're bored and there's really nothing else in this ridiculously opulent mansion that you want to do.

He accepts - unfailingly - even if he was already asleep cos it's three in the fucking morning.

He always looks the same - light brown hair that flops down his forehead, partially covering his bewitching, obsidian eyes which are shielded behind his glasses, stern expression etched across his fair visage, dressed impeccably in his signature cobalt blue and white.

He looks exactly the same as he always does, but you like it because it's all part of what makes him him. There is something beneath that ordinary, dispassionate mien that's wildly attractive and ever so subtly sexy.

You try not to stare too much, because it'll be seventeen different kinds of awkward if he notices, and you honestly don't think you can handle awkward right now.

You warm up in silence and then the game commences.

You forget him and everything that's happened between you before, because all that really matters is right now and goddamn if you're gonna lose this contest.

The match, of course, drags out - lasting so much longer than it really should.

Sometimes, that's your fault. Your competitive nature doesn't allow you to give in. You're always striving to outlast him, to surpass him in every way - speed, strength, endurance, skill. You resent losing, so you keep pushing yourself - even if your lungs are about to burst and your legs are gonna break - cos you have to be the one left standing.

You're a stubborn bastard that way, and you know that.

Other times, it's his fault; and you know he only does it to torture you. Cos beneath that equanimous, austere facade lurks one supercilious, sadistic son of a bitch.

And then it's your fault again, cos you're punishing him for making you wait the last time.

He lobs the ball and it sets you up perfectly for your Hametsu e no Rondo. You fail spectacularly at knocking the racket from his hand - you haven't been able to since he's figured you out - but you never stop trying anyway. It doesn't matter, though. Your second smash successfully scores the point for you and you can't halt the self-satisfied grin that skates across your countenance when the adrenaline builds and builds. This, you think, is exactly what I live for.

You always self-judge these matches - not because you want absolute control of the rules, but because you know what will happen after and you don't want anybody to see.

--

It always goes like this.

He's exhausted, you think. He has to be, cos we've been playing for two fucking hours.

Only, he isn't and you don't want him to be when he aggressively latches his lips against yours and proceeds in kissing you utterly stupid. He hungrily devours your mouth as if he's never tasted you before, when in fact he's done so a million times already.

You feel yourself being shoved backwards and you're stumbling clumsily over your own two feet.

His hands are everywhere - in your hair, on your shoulders, all over your body - and his tongue runs over yours, wet and hot and sloppy without a hint of refinement. It's as if he's trying to memorize every angle and plane of your pale body with his touch - and he never tires of touching you.

You're suddenly falling and your fingers reflexively tighten around his upper arms, seeking support.

He pushes you down to the floor - or up against the chain-link fence, or against the wall (if you're playing inside) - while still relentlessly exploring your moist cavern; running his tongue along your teeth and the roof of your mouth, biting down gently on your lower lip.

Your back brutally impacts against the coarse, unforgiving surface but you don't give a fuck because his left hand is busy snaking under your shirt and over your sweat-glistened flesh. His hand feels like fire against your already heated skin, kneading and caressing and effectively turning your bones to mush. The pad of his thumb grazes your right nipple - lightly, ever so lightly - and it's enough to draw a wanton cry from your lips.

You involuntarily arch into the touch, wordlessly begging for more.

He readily complies, pressing down on your rapidly hardening nub and rubbing in circular motions.

Your body undulates wildly, his every stimulation sending bolts of pleasure straight to your groin. Your cock twitches and jumps; you can feel his own erection rubbing against yours - the friction is utterly, deliciously sinful; even through the fabric of your shorts. He has you pinned beneath him, entirely at his mercy.

He continues to pluck at your nipple, eliciting moan after moan from your parched throat.

Your fingers spasm by your sides and you curl them to grip at - at - nothing because there's absolutely zilch to hold on to. Your clothes feel stifling; constricting uncomfortably - cruelly - around your limber frame, and you long to be rid of them. The moans continue to fall unbidden and unrestrained from your kiss-swollen lips, filling the early morning air around you. "Hahh - ! Ah - !"

You feel him smirk against the underside of your jaw and in an instant a flame ignites within you, burning bright and hot. It feels very much like the adrenaline that shoots through you whenever he matches you point for point in your games, and you really don't want him to win. You absolutely loath how easily he coerces you into writhing and moaning like some two-cent whore, just from the manipulation of your nipples alone. The cry that builds in the back of your throat morphs into a defiant growl halfway through, and you can't resist the urge to smack him hard against the back of his head.

So you don't.

In an instant, he pulls away - halting the exquisite torment - and the traitorous whine escapes your lips even before you have the presence of mind to stop it. "Te-zu-ka - !"

You inwardly cringe, hating how his name sounds so much like a broken plea when all you're ever used to issuing are commands. But your momentary loss of dignity is swiftly forgotten, because he's grabbing the hem of your shirt and tugging it upwards, all the way up to your armpits.

And then - and then - he attaches his mouth to your overstimulated nipple and sucks.

"Hahh - !!!"

Your head tilts backwards and your mouth falls open, gasping in pleasure.

The tip of his tongue lightly flicks your reddened peak before flattening against it, laving your areola. It feels so good - like sandpaper against your most sensitive flesh.

You're so completely lost in euphoria that you barely register his right hand running along your flanks, making its way to your neglected left nipple.

He grabs your bud between his thumb and forefinger, pinching lightly.

Your entire body shivers and you're writhing helplessly beneath him, crying out incoherently.

He continues to bathe one nipple with his tongue while he tweaks the other, before switching positions - he's now sucking on your left peaked nub, and strumming your right.

Every nip, every suckle, every stroke sends tremors through your entire body, shooting straight for your groin. It's as if every nerve ending in your nipples originate in your madly throbbing cock. You're suddenly light-headed - thinking about what that tongue and those fingers could do if you could just get him to move south...

As if reading your mind, he abruptly ceases his ministrations; standing and leaving you to catch your breath.

You watch him walk towards the courtside bench, kicking off his shoes and divesting himself of his clothes along the way, leaving a haphazard trail in his wake.

Sitting up, you hurry to do the same, wanting to be ready once he returns.

You observe intently while he rummages through his tennis bag and retrieves the tube of lubricant. It doesn't surprise you that he came prepared - you both knew that this was going to happen.

Your gaze refuses to leave him when he turns and strides back towards you, in all his naked glory. Your charcoal eyes rake appreciatively over his Adonic frame, admiring the sleek lines and proportions of his broad shoulders, his firm, muscular pecs, his attractive washboard abs and the sharp, chiseled hipbones, down to his lean, well-sculpted legs. Your gaze settles on his large, erect cock - on his heavy ballsack, on the long, purplish vein that runs through his length, to the crown of his head that's oozing pearly drops of precum - and you swallow hard, sending moisture to places which have suddenly gone dry.

The glint in his atramental irises tells you that he knows you're staring, only it's not at all awkward. He reaches you and crouches down, claiming your lips once again in a searing, ravenous kiss. His tongue expertly parts your mouth; plundering, tasting, licking every bit of you and swallowing your lewd moans. He's pushing you back down - gently, this time - to the ground and parting your knees.

You lie back, licking your lips in anticipation when you watch him uncap the lube and pour a generous amount onto his hand, coating his fingers.

And then he's kneeling between your legs, slippery digits probing at the cleft between your ass cheeks, seeking entrance. They slip in easily, effortlessly pushing past that ring of muscle and into your tight heat. He slicks up your inner walls, fingertips expertly locating and brushing against your prostate.

You scream and your hips buck upwards, hot precum leaking from your glans and dribbling down your tumescent length. "Hahh - ! Ah - !"

He leans forward, once again affixing his talented mouth against your sensitized nipple; sucking lightly before kissing a wet trail down your ribs and over your stomach, dipping his tongue into your navel and bathing the tender flesh. His right hand is wrapped around your cock in a loose fist, stroking excruciatingly slow.

Your heart rate hasn't decelerated from the adrenaline during your match, and it shows no sign of slowing down now.

And then, he pulls his fingers out of you just as his mouth parts from your skin and his hand from your cock.

You whimper piteously at the loss, gasping when cold air hits all the places he has so meticulously warmed. You look up at him through half-lidded, lust-clouded eyes and notice that his glasses have fogged up.

He removes them, but you know that, at this close distance, he can still see you - it isn't like he's blind or anything. A delighted grin crawls across your flushed countenance, glad that you're now afforded a better view of his alluring, obsidian irises.

He pushes your knees further apart and guides himself to your well-prepared and eagerly fluttering entrance. He grunts when he pushes in and your body provides no resistance, stretching willingly to accommodate him - you have done this a million times before, too.

He sheathes himself all the way inside you and you moan at the sensation of being so thoroughly and perfectly filled. And then, he's lifting your right leg - hooking his sinewy arm under your knee - and moving, pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in.

You clench tightly around him when he's withdrawing, almost as if you're desperately trying to not let him go. He pulls your leg all the way up onto his shoulder; your left leg wraps itself around his waist, heel digging into the base of his spine. It's not the most comfortable position - and it sure as fuck isn't romantic - but it's effective and that's all you actually give a shit about.

The angle allows each frantic thrust to accurately meet your prostate, delivering bolts of unadulterated pleasure through the length of your spine and into the base of your skull. White-hot sparks erupt in the backs of your eyes and your mouth is hanging open, lascivious cries spilling freely from your lungs.

His free hand makes its way to your engorged cock, pumping you in time with his thrusts. He runs his calloused thumb along the back of your scrotum - gently massaging first one globe, then the other - before pressing the ball of his thumb firmly against your perineum.

"Ah - ! Tezuka - !"

It's too much. Every nerve within you is aflame, every muscle is quivering and spasming uncontrollably in ecstasy. You can smell him - the tang of his sweat mingled with a scent that's earthy and spicy and so inherently him. His grunts and low growls assault your ears in a deep staccato. He leans in to kiss you, bringing your knee closer to your body, and it's at times like this that you're grateful for all those stretching exercises. He tastes like untamed passion, like uncontained desire. His lips pepper kisses along your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

You feel yourself drowning in the inferno he's created and it's all too much, too intense for you to take. You fling your left arm over your eyes, shielding them from the merciless onslaught of unremitting carnal rapture.

Immediately, his authoritative baritone reaches your ears. "Don't." His hand grips your forearm, pulling it from your face, but your eyes still remain stubbornly shut.

Your breath is coming out in ragged gasps, your chest heaving violently. Your every limb feels torpid; yet your nerves tingle madly as if they're taking on a life of their own. Your heart is pounding furiously within your chest and a streak of - of - something is pulsing and racing through you. Every bit of you is so sensitized, you think the very slightest touch would be enough to send you over the edge. You have no idea what it is you're feeling, but it's too much - too much.

And then, you feel his hand against your cheek, resting gently. "Atobe, look at me."

The gesture is soothing; almost tender - and that surprises you, because he has never been tender before. Gradually, you open your eyes and you find yourself looking into his. Beneath the haze of animalistic lust and raw want lies... reassurance.

Your senses slowly creep back to you and you feel like you can properly breathe again. And amidst it all, you suddenly realize that - while he has not ceased thrusting - his pace has considerably lessened. A strange warmth builds inside you - it's nothing like the combative, competitive flame you're so accustomed to - and you can't figure it out; only you know it makes you unusually calm. You turn your head to the side, not wanting him to see the confusion in your eyes and growling so he wouldn't detect it in your voice. "Quit being a fucking tease."

He smirks - and you get to witness it this time - before picking up speed, thrusting inside you more frantically than before. His fist is back around your cock, jerking you off hard and fast. He runs his thumb along your length, caressing the sensitive frenulum and making you buck frenetically into his touch. His fingers dig into your knee and he bends forward, parting your lips with his and fucking your mouth with his tongue just as surely as he's fucking you.

Your hand slips against his arm and you find that you can barely hold on any longer. Amidst the onslaught of salacious pleasure, you somehow find it in yourself to issue an order. "Hurry the fuck up."

His response is a sharp bite to your upper neck - you're sure the bruise he's bound to leave behind is gonna last for weeks - and he moves faster. Every thrust sends the dripping head of his cock slamming against your swollen prostate, his thumb travels from the underside of your dick over your own weeping glans.

He's nipping along your jaw, your neck, your clavicle - marking you and grunting against your skin.

Your right hand grips at his shoulder while your left scrabbles at the surface of the green clay court, your loud moans and whimpers drowning out his quiet groans.

He presses down on your slit, massaging in the same circular fashion he previously accorded to your nipples and in that instant, your entire body is spasming wildly. The all too familiar heat pools rapidly in the pit of your stomach and you clench tight around him.

One final thrust - and then you're erupting into his hand and all over your stomach, screaming his name.

You feel him spill his hot seed inside you with a low growl, and he presses his lips to yours - kissing you like he's trying to take a bite out of you and effectively swallowing your cries while robbing you of your every breath.

--

It always ends like this.

You're lying on the court in a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs - naked as the day you were born and so utterly sated.

His fingers are running through your damp, matted hair, combing and playing with the raven strands. His actions aren't romantic, nor are they sweet in any way - they just are, just like he is who he is and how this has turned into something you regularly do.

Neither of you speak - you just lay there in silence, basking in the afterglow and trying to recapture your breath along with some semblance of coherency.

Your head is pressed against his chest, and you listen to him breathe in perfect cadence with his beating heart. The rhythm is soothing, and you feel your eyelids drooping shut against your will.

You want to win - you have to - but decide that losing to Tezuka isn't always such a bad thing.

 

 

~ The End. ~