THE ART OF DECEPTION
Written by Playgirl Eugene
Author's Note : Hi, all! This is the new, revised version of the story The Art of Deception. I realized that my older stories contain plenty of grammar mistakes, event mistakes, and many other errors. So, I decided to repost everything all over again. I hope with this, my old readers will continue to support me and I will attract some new readers as I tried to improve my writing style and grammar.
Standard Disclaimer : The Prince of Tennis and all of the characters, including the original plot and situations, is created and owned by Konomi Takeshi-sensei. I own nothing of it and I do not earn profit of any kind from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This disclaimer stands firm for the whole of the story. Furthermore, if I use any material that needs to be disclaimed, there will be individual credit where due.
Summary : Between love and hate, insanity and truth, the line is often dishonest. How far can the art of twisted deceptions carry them in this wretched game?
Rating : M/NC – 18/R
Warning(s) : Slash/yaoi/male x male, cussing, mentions of alcohol/drugs, graphic sexual situations/acts, dub-consensual, non-consensual/attempted, sexual fetishes (bloody play, sadism/masochism, NCS, BDSM, voyeurism, eunoterpsia and amychesis), self-harm, attempted suicide, mild case of bulimia, character death (none major). If any of the aforementioned warnings offends you, I suggest you turn back now. I will not appreciate anyone flaming me just because they didn't read this.
Setting and Timeline : Following the most of the canon storyline with modifications and progressed ten years from the end of season one. Characters are, therefore, to be adjusted ten years older with physical and mentality maturity and changes.
Character Setting : Fuji/Ryoma, Tezuka/Ryoma, others for later
Chapter Details : None in particular.
- Prologue -
"Dance with me."
It was his second morning in Tokyo after four years.
The fair autumn morning was bristling with activities of an extremely busy community that was the modern society of Japan. Tokyo was a demanding city and hectic, with its equally unpredictable and diligent, industrious inhabitants. Tokyo was filled with life, energy, pollutions, temptations, sounds and lights.
From the window of his hotel room, he could see the immaculate office workers as they hurried to work, almost frantic in their attempt to try and break through the morning rush-hour. There were women, housewives most likely, walking down the street from and to the supermarket. Children headed for their respective schools, all smiles and laughter as they ran about with a bouncy spring in their steps.
Stylish high school girls were chatting excitedly, up-to-date cell phones placed in their delicate hands; whereas the boys were lounging around the bus station, laughing at playful innuendoes and then some.
It was the preface of the day. It was what happened yesterday, a week ago, today, mostly every day, and probably even tomorrow and the day after that and it would probably go on for God knew how long.
It was a repetitive cycle when you had gotten used to it. Humans and their life could be so boring, or so the tensai thought as he witnessed the sight that he had familiarized himself with over the years growing up, being part of a society not far cry apart despite the fact that he lived in a completely different setting.
Those were his random, strayed thoughts as he sat by the windowsill adjacent to the glass panel of the hotel room. His right leg was bent against the ledge, while his left dangled to the carpeted floor. With his hands delicately placed one above the other on his lap, he slouched casually against the frame, staring distantly at the sun-kissed horizon and the bustling crowd floors beneath him.
He would've said that he missed Japan, but at the same time, he didn't. It was admittedly, he mused silently, a little monotone.
And to be completely honest, it wrenched more than guts and a little effort on his account to even think about returning there. The last word to describe Fuji was weak, alas he was only human and even he had his own devils to deal with. At times, he would also run away like any other person. With that, he applauded himself for even making it there without chickening out the first ten minutes.
Because, for Heaven's sake, Fuji was a child no longer. He was already twenty-four, technicality aside, and years of experience had matured him dramatically.
Even physically speaking, Fuji had matured considerably.
Shoulder length soft brown hair caressed his refined face, framing a pair of deep blue eyes that was almost too bright against his fair complexion. The unfathomable depth of those eyes looked back at the colourful world with intensity and carefully hidden disdain. Though his build was a little more toned than it used to be, he was still , he was even more dangerous, twice than he was attractive now than ever.
People said that most men began their life at thirty. Fuji did it at eighteen when he moved out of his house not a year after his graduation. From there, it was easy. He was Seigaku Valedictorian who scored into the top thirty in the whole country during the national examination, earning himself a one-way ticket into the famed Tokyo Daigaku. Like how it had been for Tezuka, many had hoped for Fuji to accomplish greater things in life; his family, his teachers, his friends didn't stop believing in him, they never did. Not even when it was glaringly obvious that the disastrous incident which took place in the two years that followed soon after nearly destroyed him whole.
He was a flux of nature, that Fuji Shusuke; a spark of brilliance, cunning as a fox and sleek as if he was a natural born predator in disguise.
He was envied by many, admired by the rest. Some might be wary of his deceptive, somewhat dubious gentleness. Many had come to love, and hate, his smile and the seemingly mild demeanours. He was well aware of his gift and had learned how to take the confident advantage of it; either his talent or his mind shattering smiles. But he knew better than to take full credit of the fact. Humility had saved him more than a few times from making stupid mistakes.
That was made Fuji different, because he graciously took what he was given, didn't flaunt it, and used it only when people were not looking.
However, like any other people, there were a few conceited sides of him; one of them being the part that refused to believe in fate.
Fuji was not a faithful believer, but he did accept the presence of higher beings in this world. Romantic he as was, but never really played on the idea of karma before this, which was unsurprising seeing the lack of anything that resembled a cult in his life. Fuji never believed that some supernatural power would wield any kind of control over him, forcing him to make decisions he wouldn't have made otherwise. He determined his own life, or so he believed. It was his ideal, his secret romance.
But that fitfully sleeping young man on the bed, tangled between rumpled sheets, was perhaps the only karma he had to deal with in his lifetime. Someone up there must be having a good time on his account.
Well, Fuji failed to see what amused them so.
Almost like it had happened only yesterday, Fuji could still remember everything about him from ten years ago with vivid clarity. Like fleeting dream, he reminded Fuji of everything that was untouchable and undeniable. And all these years had done nothing to rust, if it hadn't been exceedingly kind to him.
The sheer, deceptive innocence he possessed was almost artificial as his peers, seniors, and friends raced their ways to their corporal maturity, to adulthood.
At the age of twenty-one, his hair was long enough to brush against his thin, rounded shoulders. Fuji knew from personal experience how it felt like to run his fingers through the soft locks, from the most innocent of sense to the time when he had gripped them in the throes of passion whilst the boy went down on him, taking all that he was worth into his delightful mouth.
The small, gaunt face was coupled with sensitive features. His pert and narrow nose made him look more than a little pretty. His cheekbones stood out almost too harshly that Fuji thought that he looked a little too thin and could do with a few more pounds, but his succulently plump lips did add a particular softness to his otherwise too sharp visage.
His eyes were big and haunted, almost irrationally bright. His long legs and narrow waist were effeminate on a man, but they strangely suited him.
He was adorable.
The tribal thin black tattoo that curled down from behind his left ear down to curve of his neck and the silver loop around on his right ear gave a slightly rebellious image to his otherwise gullible person. So did the black lacquered nails that added a touch of danger to him.
Fuji once again attempted the act to count the dark, lush eyelashes that cast longish shadows on his cheek as he watched the other sleep and as expected, it turned out to be another effort wasted.
He heard a groan that pulled him out of his reverie. Turning his face to the general direction of the bed, he caught sight of the sleeping male, one that was completely nude if it wasn't for the white sheet draped over him carelessly.
Slender, arched eyebrows furrowed together as the face scowled, reflecting a disturbed dream. His bruised lips parted, gasping sharply every now and then. It wasn't such an unfamiliar sight to Fuji.
There were nights in the past when they were still a couple where he'd caught Ryoma twisting and sobbing in his sleep before he'd shot up wide awake, sweating and trembling, to a point that he'd hyperventilate. If Fuji hadn't known any better, he'd have said that his younger lover was frightened. Fuji sometimes thought that Ryoma was afraid to go to sleep, to a point where he resorted to pills or strenuous bedroom exercise for his insomnia.
It had worsened when Ryoma grew out his puberty. Apparently, it had gotten only worse now judging from the distressed moans he emitted.
Perhaps the only nights that he got any decent sleep at all were the nights when he exhausted himself with sex. Considering how ravenous he was when it came down to sex, that was a difficult feat to accomplish.
But he knew better than to try and wake the younger male when he was like this. The last time he tried, Ryoma had shot off the bed with a vengeful cry, pushing and straddling Fuji on the floor before he tried to quite literally crush Fuji's windpipe like he was possessed.
Still, it was a little hard to believe that Fuji was there at all to witness it one more time.
He had thoughts, of course, fantasies, whims; he couldn't deny that. In the recent years he spent away from Japan, attempting to recollect himself again, he was aware that fantasized the other male excessively.
It never mattered what he was doing. Everything just plainly reminded him of him.
When he slept, he'd dream of him. The tennis and rain would remind him of intense golden eyes glaring at him from across the court, the passion they shared under the pouring rain. Autumns were even worse. Ryoma always smelled like the autumn and their bedroom.
It was down to the point when he tried to have sex with someone else. It mattered not who they were or how attractive they were, male or female made little difference, younger or older. Despite his best effort to keep a reality hold on who it was that he shared the intimacy with, they'd only fade away leaving the images of his former boyfriend to invade his mind. He'd try to chase them away, but every time the opposite would happen. Those images would gain even sharper clarity until Ryoma took over completely, leaving Fuji breathless and dazed.
Later on, he learned to accept the fact and resigned to it. And even though it hurt to know that Ryoma wasn't there, but Fuji could pretend that he was, sad as it was.
Beneath him, above him, around him. He was everywhere, and there was no escaping him. He missed him so much. His missed Ryoma's body, his heat, his eyes. He missed the flirting, his adorable voice, and even his demanding insolence.
He missed Ryoma. Everything else in between was just an added bonus.
Still, waking up to the reality that he had just had a brutal, mean, dirty, almost ugly romp with the said ex just because Vodka was being a tease with fucked up mind could be a little unnerving.
Honestly, as far as the many past conquests that one could ever took pride in went, to have your first and ex-boyfriend in bed, reeking of alcohol and sex and everything else that was wrong and shouldn't be, wasn't something you want to screw up.
The annoyingly bright morning sunlight barged uninvited through the window and fell against his skin, highlighting the hickeys and bright red marks littered across it.
Fuji hadn't given too much thought about how things might turn out to be like in the following morning, after the alcohol subsided, leaving him sane and fully conscious about the problem at hand. He couldn't believe how good it still felt, how they still complemented each other after so long.
Speaking of which, his companion from last night wasn't about to get up just yet apparently. He didn't know if he should be relieved that he didn't have to face the music yet or shouldn't he. Knowing that the infamous Echizen was not exactly what one would call as a morning person, he'd rather not think about it.
Blue eyes studied the boy, greedy and possessive. He was confused, angry, hurt as he recalled how their relationship crashed down years ago. He felt a myriad of explosive emotions, one more time, especially after last night.
The night before, Fuji had gone down to a popular night club in Shibuya, in dubious hope to distract himself, as his so-called boyfriend had suggested, and perhaps to look for a little fun. It was so much easier to relax when you had alcohol blazing a path through your system after all. Imagine his surprise when he found his ex there instead.
Beneath the display of lasers, smog and fumes, Echizen Ryoma did not look a bit like the supposedly pristine doctor he was going to be. He wasn't the lover of the straight-laced former honorary student, and he certainly wasn't the naïve little boy from back then.
Despite the rumours of his now restricted life, obviously Ryoma's body definitely hadn't forgotten how to dance. Not that club dancing needed any skill of sort. Just as long as you knew how to gyrate your hips, rub against someone else and touch yourself while looking dirty at it, you'd do.
On the dance floor, he was a dance fiend unleashed, high on strong liquors and high-octane music trashing through the subwoofers, and he obviously consumed some mild drugs of a kind. The cargo pants he wore rode low on his slim hips, as his sleeveless hoodie flashed pale skin every now and then. He was dancing like the music was fucking him and he was thoroughly enjoying every minute of it.
Eyes closed, his face was flushed with exertion and ecstasy. His dark hair damp with sweat, matted to his forehead as those luscious lips glistened moistly and impossibly red, parting in a silent moan. He made such a sight to sore eyes feasting on his wrenchingly seductive that practically oozed sexuality.
There were faceless people gravitating towards him, rapt by his roaring flame, needing to touch, needing to sample but a little lost on how to approach him.
But Fuji, effortlessly as usual, took his place behind Ryoma after overcoming the shock on his nerve system. He wrapped his arm around the narrow waist, pulling him flush against him as he whispered against the shell of Ryoma's ear.
"Keep dancing, Ryoma."
Fuji was sure that Ryoma didn't even realize who he was dry humping against; otherwise he'd have done something drastically painful to Fuji already.
Perhaps it was the alcohol pumping his adrenalin, causing Fuji's blood to rush southward. It made him heedless of consequences, like a hormonal teen who thought more with his dick than anything else. Perhaps he simply missed Ryoma too much.
Ryoma was going to make his balls as earbobs for this, but the tensai was willing to risk it though, and he was certainly above taking advantage of this… situation.
"Dance with me."
As their hips moved together, Fuji's hands roved over the other's body, touching and groping teasingly on Ryoma's erogenous zones knowledgeably. He pressed his lips to the smooth nape, a secret pleasure spot he knew, and trailed his tongue upwards until he reached the delicate shell of the younger male's left ear.
"See those people watching us?"
He could feel Ryoma's sharp inhale of anticipation at his words. With a satisfied smirk, he squeezed and playfully smacked on the tight, rounded cheek of Ryoma's arse with one hand. He looped the fingers of his other hand on the dark string of the cargo pants that held the piece of clothing on the younger male's slim hips; grazing the skin suggestively as he tugged on the string.
"See how their eyes just widened? They're hoping, Ryoma, for me to fuck you right here, right now on this floor. Whether I'll pull this string loose…"
When they finally kissed, it was ravenous and feral. Wet, warm tongues slid against one another sensuously, messily, tasting like Vodka and a mixture of strong flavours. Fuji could feel their semi-hard phalluses rubbed against the other through the layers of their clothes.
He didn't realize when Ryoma's hand had dropped to the fly of his jeans, but he was knew it with startling clarity when the hand began to work on his zipper. He could feel it reaching down to rub the member trapped underneath the cloth of his boxers. Wicked fingers worked their magic, and he was hard as a rock in seconds.
It didn't take long for Fuji to come to a decision. He hauled Ryoma out of there and hitched the first taxi he could get. The cabby had either understood the situation or was being simply indifferent to the fact that they were having dry sex at the backseat on the way to the hotel.
When they stumbled out of the taxi and into the hotel, the elevator doors hadn't even closed properly when Ryoma looped his slim arms around Fuji's neck, practically climbing on him.
Ryoma's every curve and limbs had squirmed beneath him in wanton abandon. The taste of his soft skin was heavenly. Fuji especially loved how passion glazed his eyes. The chorus of pants and moans that demanded for more, harder, faster, deeper were music to his ear.
The young Echizen had circled his legs around Fuji's waist in an attempt to pull him even further into that inviting, moist sheathe that gripped and sucked so salaciously. Intense, hard kisses were exchanged. Nails raked and broke through his back, drawing blood. Those lips had tasted incredibly bittersweet, that mouth had been so warm.
As always, Ryoma was an eager, almost greedy lover in bed. He had lost patience somewhere in the middle of it and decided to take things at his own stride because Fuji was being a damned tease. So he flipped their position.
Pushing Fuji against the bed, he smashed an open-mouthed kiss against the willing brunet's lips. His hands worked accordingly to tie Fuji's hands to the bedpost using Fuji's shawl.
Fuji knew that Ryoma was a downright fiend in bed, worse than when he was dancing. He liked it hard and rough, he liked it kinky. He even liked it dry.
The tensai watched unflinchingly how Ryoma's lips curled into a sadistic smile, something that he should've been worried about considering his slightly disadvantageous position. But instead, it had excited him. Sex with Ryoma had always been explosive and violent. Unlike the nature of their playful, but rather quiet relationship, when they had sex, both knew what they were looking for.
Gentle and sweet lovemaking worked for girls and perhaps some guys, but not them.
Ryoma leaned down and started to lick a path of wet flame down Fuji's neck, to his chest, grazing his right nipple, before he finally grabbed hold of Fuji's neglected member with both hands and started to suck teasingly on the head.
Fuji groaned as he felt that naughty little tongue flicked his slit and uncovered sensitive veins at the base of his cock before inhaling him into the much too small throat. As usual, his tongue and gag reflex were amazing. Ryoma's hand never stopped stroking and squeezing the angry red organ as he sucked on Fuji's ball.
Fuji let his guard down for a second in pleasure and suddenly, Ryoma pulled away, much to his disappointment. It took a minute for Fuji to process that Ryoma had crawled on top of him, sliding sensually against his body, as he made a move to straddle Fuji's hips and positioned himself above Fuji's turgid cock.
When he felt the blunt tip of his cock kissed the inviting opening, he grunted. Ryoma's wet heat then sunk down and his narrow walls started to clench every inch of him, squeezing and swallowing him whorishly, until he was buried to the hilt. He propelled his hips upward in response, not wanting to relinquish complete control to the little minx just yet.
Both of them were dominant in bed, and he wasn't talking about the roles either. Ryoma might be the bottom when it came down to sex, but he was a wicked one.
Ryoma had set a furious, violent pace. His thighs trembled violently as he bounced on and rocked Fuji's organ, leaning his slight weight against the broader chest. With his flushed in ecstasy and eyes darkened with lust, he was a sight to behold.
Fuji nearly came when it turned exceptionally erotic when Ryoma reached down and started to touch himself and the place they were joined at.
Stopping that dangerous ground of thoughts, he looked back at the window, finding a reflection of himself staring back at him. Or at least, someone whom he thought was himself. What he saw was a face that bore no resemblance to one last night. Which one was the stranger, he wasn't sure. Was it the one looking back at him now, or was it the one that possessed him last night?
Unconsciously, Fuji's right arm flew to his left shoulder in a flippant attempt to sooth the wounds caused by sharp nails when they dug into his skin as they surged together for release. Touching it when he knew who left it somehow made him more than a little excited.
As if it had a reversed effect, instead of draining him, the intense copulating last night only left Fuji raw and wanting for more, tickling at his more primitive instinct.
The hardness of his nether region threatened to double him over. It almost felt like mounting a vicious passion that had been repressed for years and was now demanding to burst out of its confines like a broken dam. But he really didn't think that he could entertain his morning erection with someone who obviously wouldn't hesitate in using his femur as toothpick when he found out that Fuji had been taking advantage of his state of… unconsciousness.
He knew that he shouldn't be doing this. He knew that he shouldn't bet more than what he could bargain. This thing between them was supposed to be over a long time ago. Ryoma could reject him again, hurt him again. He could break him again, and this time, Fuji wouldn't be able to stand anymore. This was wrong and he knew it.
The thought somehow made him smile.
He didn't care and he never did, he never would. If his desire for the boy was a mistake then, then he didn't want to be right. Rather, he was more than willing to be the sin incarnate if he had to. Fuji never really one to bow down to rules. Oh, he might knew them and he might act to fool people into believing that he obeyed them, but in actuality, Fuji was just a self-centred bastard who would do anything to get what he wanted, even if it was to break all the laws and rules existed.
Fuji always put things into categories. One of them being the possible was when he knew that it was possible. Then, the impossible was when he thought that it was not. He was a smart man, as well as he was practical and realistic. But to his justification, even he could sometimes make some very humane decisions from time to time.
As a healthy man in his twentieth, he had his own needs and settled for one-night stands and casual flings. But would he be able to pretend that he could forget about his ex anymore and went back to his life? He didn't think that he could. He spent so long and so much trying to recover from their failed relationship and to it this thrown to his face again was pushing it. He almost lost his sanity the last time. Picking up the scattered pieces of himself after that was like living through a merciless hell, and he feared that he might not make it if history was to repeat itself.
Fuji was left with no real choice really. He couldn't go back and pretend that everything was alright after this, since living without Ryoma was not alright. Or, he could try to take Ryoma back, with the consequences that he might be hurt again.
Both choices were bound to hurt him in a way. The only difference was that the former would lead him to live a life of pretences. As for the latter, well… it had a fifty-fifty chance. He could win it all, or die the second time.
Fuji chose to wager on the better death, the lesser evil.
Ryoma stirred again, snapping Fuji's train of thoughts. He slowly surfaced from the trance, almost deliberately drawing out the return to consciousness and prolonging the silence. Hooded by his long, sensuous lashes, he blinked blearily as his eyes fluttered open. He tried to focus, but instead felt a dull, throbbing pain on his head like he was being hit by a hundred Scud Serves at the same time. A string of colourful languages automatically flew from his lips. Fuji wasn't surprised that his invectives were extremely creative, wildly varied, and was enough to make Kawamura in Burning Mode blush like a school girl.
After all, when you knew how Ryoma bedroom-talked people during sex and the words he used, everything else would sound like sermons coming from him.
Fuji felt his inside as if it was plunged into a pit of fire at the sight before him and a tug of painful arousal throbbed settled on his southern organ. His commonsense dispersed into thin air, and with it so was his last string of self-control.
The room was already redolent by the scent of him. There was faint scent of his favourite body foam, and Ryoma always did smell like the cool autumn night after a storm, and the slightly humid air was hung with the thick, heady scent of sex.
Confusing mix of substances stained the sheets and blanket. There were traces of blood, cement, saliva, salty sweat, and dried tears of pain and bodily pleasure
Fuji moved like a dancer, moving with the quiet and familiar rhythm of seduction, as he approached the bed. A dark promise of pleasure was left unsaid and profound, straggling and suffocating him of the needed oxygen for their lungs. Like a predator closing in on his prey, he was stealthy and dangerously unpredictable.
Ryoma, sprawled on the bed with careless abandon, stretched almost immorally languid.
Fuji licked his own lips as his blue eyes darkened with morbid lust and anticipation, eager for another round of with steamy passion and burning pleasure. He was a starved glutton and Ryoma was his heavenly sumptuous buffet.
Ryoma's back arched sharply off the bed as he wantonly exposed his body further for Fuji's debauchery and curious exploration with his tongue. Fuji crawled on top of his night-time companion, sliding his terry blue bathing suit to the floor, not caring where it landed as it joined the pile of scattered clothes strewn haphazardly across the room.
Knowing that he had loosened Ryoma more than enough throughout the night, Fuji slid though rather jaggedly into the moist, velvety heat that clamped down on him almost painfully in welcome.
After five continuous rounds, without pulling out, one would think that he'd have been sated. But as those rounded, pale cheeks offered him a heaven of pink loveliness, Fuji thought he'd come prematurely.
Ryoma moaned heatedly at the sudden intrusion. The sound made Fuji's cock twitch, and it nearly pushed him over the edge.
At a glance, Echizen Ryoma could've passed as an innocent boy masquerading in the body of a young man. At the same time, he could've been the angel of the porn industry and no one could've said otherwise.
White hot pleasure nearly smothered Fuji, as he was engulfed in the encompassing tightness. Fuji jabbed and rubbed Ryoma's prostate harshly, persistently pressing against that sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again. Knowing just how fast, how hard Ryoma liked it.
Ryoma trembled under him, writhing and gasping in an enticing combination of pain and pleasure under the man that mastered him with the mischief of a trickster god and overwhelming worship of an obsessive lover. Fuji's hot, throbbing organ caressed his walls and pleasure ripped through him with vindictive vengeance.
Ryoma, as he remembered it well, was very sensitive and extremely responsive to even the slightest stimulations when he was turned on. As if their body recognized one another, everything came naturally. Both acted with firm knowledge about every contour in the other's body. They knew just where to touch, how, when.
He was sure that Ryoma would never admit it, but his hand seemed to remember that secret pleasure spot Fuji had around his collarbone and nipples.
"Tighter," Fuji murmured seductively into Ryoma's ear, nipping the lobe as he slid his eyes shut, ramming urgently into the consuming, wet heat with frantic urgency.
Ryoma clawed Fuji's glistening back, leaving red half moon impression on them, causing Fuji to bite his neck until he tasted blood in response. He had always preferred the rougher side of sex after all.
"Then you… harder…" Ryoma demanded back in a whispery, desire laden voice. His shapely, white thigh sensuously moved against Fuji's side as he spread his legs invitingly for the older brunet to go deeper, milking him for all he was worth.
Impatience overcoming him, Fuji threw those shapely legs against his shoulders, and pinned the other boy down. This was indeed, came Fuji's blurred thought as he moaned low on the back of his throat, one of his best mornings ever.
End Note : Ahaha, now that I think about it, this story really was changed dramatically from the original concept I had in mind when I first wrote this. But, this plot suited my storyline better and so I hope that you don't mind reading it once more, just to catch up with the many changes.