Title: "Make You Mine"
Author: Xiao
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Type: soft-core yaoi
Pairing: Atobe / Jirou
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Shueisa, Konomi, and Tokyopop.
Notes: A short but sweet "what if." I
wouldn't call it AU, but it –does- jump the timeline by quite a few (okay, ten)
years. Sort-of-kind-of a character
musing / development blurb.
---
In the ten years Atobe had known Jirou, Jirou had slept approximately forty-seven thousand and five hundred hours total, and nearly one fourth of that in Atobe's arms, if you started counting from the night they first shared a bed. (A plush, perfumed one.) Atobe knew this because, out of sheer boredom and curiosity, he had called Kabaji on the red cell phone (solely for calling Kabaji) and musingly wondered aloud. The brute of a boy, who was now a monster of a man, calculated this statistic in seconds flat, and after Atobe was satisfied and his curiosity sated, the two hung up.
And Jirou was still snoozing beside him. Phone conversations, trains, earthquakes, violent kicking, screaming with gusto- nothing seemed to wake him up anymore, after years of deliberate practice in ignoring the bothersome world. Not that Atobe used any of those techniques, of course. The young man stared down at his partner, probing gaze roaming freely over the soft-looking locks and deeply tanned skin. (They did have their own private beach, after all, and Jirou did have a tendency to fall asleep while sunbathing on it.) Nothing had changed since their Junior High days, not even the blonde's waking demeanor; he was just as energetic, kinetic, and flamboyantly fangirlish as ever. But Atobe could swear that when once the boy woke with a thorough shaking, it now took either the dumping of ice water or a blowjob to get him up, neither of which Atobe was very fond of executing.
"Mmmbuh." Jirou moaned gravelly in his dreams, shifting his lanky weight to the opposite side, sending wrinkles out across the silk comforter like glass cracking. Atobe unconsciously smoothed the minor seismic disturbances out, then leaned back on his elbows to continue watching his lover. Jirou had always talked in his sleep, but never as much as in the last few years; the recent development proved for an interesting hobby, too, whenever Atobe was bored, and his cell phones were busy charging. As if on cue, Jirou opened his mouth wide, yawning, licking the lips once before murmuring, "I swear I didn't… I didn't pee in your rose garden Keigo-kun… it was the pony. I saw her… I could hear it, it was funny ne…" He trailed off and Atobe was almost glad he had. He could remember that day very clearly, and could remember his horror at having a boyfriend that peed outside. But then again, Jirou always swore he never did, and even after the gardener forked over incriminating evidence, the two Hyotei alumni still fucked like mad bunnies all night long. Jirou always managed to stay awake for that.
Atobe reached gingerly out to brush a random strand of hair from the pink sleeping face, and tucked it behind Jirou's ear. He kept on, too, running his slim-fingered, pale hands through the curling tresses, marveling at their warmth, the way they shifted color, turned orangey in the dark and white-hot under the sun. Here, under candlelight, they were a murky dirty-blond, and this was the color Atobe loved most. He leaned forward and buried his face in the locks, inhaling deeply, letting the soft-fuzzy smell fill his lungs, expand them. Jirou moved under him, again, slinging an arm around his torso. Atobe would've twitched, ten years ago, from the unexpected invasion of his personal bubble, but after all this time with Jirou, things were different. He realized that he liked being touched with warm, broad hands, and that his arrogant scolding could never get through the sandman's thick wall anyway. It was a useless, entirely too pleasurable situation. So Atobe let the arm be, and relaxed down into the sheets, wedging himself up against the sleeping young man. Twenty-five and still growing, Jirou had far surpassed him, and Atobe almost didn't mind, just resigned himself to tucking the crown of his head up under Jirou's chin, and inhaling the hot, clean smell of the nape of his lover's neck. Hell, as rich as he was, you'd think he would have been as spoiled as they came back in the Junior High days. Not so. Falling in love with Jirou and spending ten years, ten years and counting with him, had spoiled Keigo beyond belief.
"Nnnn… guh." Jirou blew warm air out softly, face pink in his dream. Atobe smiled. "I'm sorry… sorry…" Jirou fisted the pillow he had been loosely gripping. "But it was so cool… you should've seen it, I couldn't stop… it was so shiny and, and Keigo-kun didn't have one already so I wanted to get it for him…" Jirou's words blurred a little here, and he began making tiny unconscious euphonies instead, causing Atobe to glance upward in suspicion, then shake his head resignedly and muse on how strange his partner was. He'd have to resort to earplugs soon, if he favored getting any sleep at night.
There was a tentative knock on the bedroom door. Atobe swore softly as he propped himself back up; Jirou went on entirely unbothered. He really would've liked to roast the poor maid with a few well-aimed, snide remarks, but it was his fault for not mentioning earlier that there would be no interruptions that evening. He rose gracefully from the bed and padded to the door, opening it quietly. Why he bothered with this delicacy was still beyond him, considering that his lover could sleep through the apocalypse.
"Yes?" His inquiry was haughty and cold. The maid blushed faintly, but managed to not stutter, which was good because Atobe hated the "I-am-not-worthy" bit, as much as he did love to be pampered.
"Sir, the bath is ready."
Oh. So that's why he was wearing a bathrobe and bored. He was waiting on the water to be drawn. Of course.
"Thank you." He dismissed her and began to gather his toiletries fluidly, only the more personal effects that he didn't want the staff laying out for him, touching, displacing.
With his foot almost out the door, on his way down the hall to the grandiose bathing facilities, Atobe was taken completely and utterly by surprise when a sleepy voice called out, "M'come too?"
Jirou was yawning as he crawled out of bed, unwittingly dragging the blankets along with him. Atobe watched silently as his partner, seeming to have invited himself to bathe as well, shed various articles of clothing on his way to the hall and his lover. By the time Jirou had reached him, he was nude, a trail of abandoned clothing marking his path from the rumpled sheets. He let go of the blanket and stretched liquidly, like a cat, rubbing at his eyes. "I wanna bath. With Keigoooo-kun." He draped his long, dark toned arms around Atobe's neck, and Atobe turned his head slightly to kiss the inside of an elbow, nip at the velvety skin.
"You need one." He murmured, and Jirou nuzzled him happily before the pair began walking down the hall. The maid, accustomed to her master's lack of inhibitions and decency, scurried into the plush bedroom to clean up the mess.
Atobe slid open the door to the bath and stepped out of his slippers and up onto the raised wooden floor, Jirou sticking close behind him, still trying to sleepily nuzzle that creamy neck, and only pausing in his attempts to shut the door behind them, locking it for privacy. He perched unabashedly on the edge of the large, circular steaming tub, watching fixatedly as Atobe mechanically removed his robe and silk shorts, hanging the fuzzy thing up and folding the latter. Jirou waited until Atobe joined him at the edge and slid down into the water before following, eyes open and awake, glued to that long, lithe expanse of white white flesh, unmarred, inhuman. Small tidal waves rippled out from around their leisurely soaking bodies, and crashed minutely up against the glossy sides. Atobe smiled becomingly at his blond lover, and Jirou, drinking up the come-hither, moved silently forward through the clouds of steam, his body's image warbled under the surface, nearly slithering up onto Atobe's lap.
"I had a dream about'chuu." Jirou murmured huskily. Sleep still blurred his spoken words, but the effect was also wearing off, albeit slowly, with the steam.
"A lot of people dream about me." Atobe replied, bringing his hands up from the underwater bench, moving them swiftly through the water to Jirou's hips, grasping the sides. Jirou wiggled slightly, every little tremor, every little touch felt wholeheartedly throughout the both of them. Jirou's arms re-wrapped themselves around Atobe's neck.
"Mine's different from everyone else's. Mine had you in my arms, hot, wet… moaning." He licked at the tip of Atobe's nose, then placed a chaste kiss on those full pink lips. "And that wasn't just a dream version of you. That was you, the real you, and I bet I can make you do what you did in my dream again, right now."
Atobe smirked. Jirou was particularly cocky today. He couldn't let this get too out of hand, or he might end up on the bottom later on. He hated being the bottom, but a deal was a deal. He'd never been an unfair person. Just an… ambitious one.
"I bet..." Atobe began, raising one delicate eyebrow, "that you'll try, you'll fail, and I'll bend you in half tonight, fucking you so hard that you're too sore to sleep." Atobe concluded with a leer. Jirou's expression was priceless, one of slightly stunned awe and anticipation.
"You really think… I couldn't sleep after that?" Jirou was definitely awake now, Atobe could see the burning want, the raw need in his honeyed eyes. "I could fall asleep while you fucked me." He teased, slinking up and down Atobe's lap, stirring his lover's flaccid length to semi-hardness. "You're boring." He leaned forward and latched onto that pale neck, sucking fervently, then broke away and grinned. "I want the best you've got to offer. Make me scream. Prove me wrong."
Atobe looked into Jirou's eyes, staring intently into those murky depths, and fought for his composure as Jirou moved, and moved, and brought his whole length to rigid salute, teasing, teasing, placing the cocktip at his ring, promising, pleasing.
Prove me wrong.
Atobe glared, smirking determinedly. He never could back away from a challenge.