It was Sunday morning, and though Tezuka was usually an early riser, he was tired, having gone to bed at an absurd time the previous night. The person to blame was sleeping beside him, or rather, half draped over him. He stroked Fuji's hair, absently marvelling at the dazzling array of colours that appeared whenever sunlight hit it. He was musing over the series of events that had taken place the night before that had led to Fuji sleeping over, when a muted tune began playing, startling him.
He recognized the tune. It was the ringtone from Fuji's cell phone. He tried to rummage around for it without waking the sleeping tensai up, but failed. Fuji wasn't that sound a sleeper, although he did sleep deeper than Tezuka did.
"Mm, 'Mitsu?" Fuji mumbled, his sleep-slurred voice a sexy drawl.
"Your phone's ringing."
"Oh." Fuji slowly pried himself off Tezuka and reached down, past the edge of the bed. He nudged aside a hastily discarded pair of pants and withdrew a cell phone, its backlight blinking on and off. He pressed the call button and answered, voice still thick with sleep. "Fuji Syuusuke."
Tezuka heard a voice speaking on the other end—it was loud enough for him to make out an excited squeal of "Fuji-kun!" He wondered why on earth Hyotei's volley specialist was calling Fuji, not to mention so early in the morning.
Tezuka was serving when he heard a familiar chant. He caught the ball and gestured for his opponent to wait a moment while he dealt with the distraction. He walked over to the court entrance, not noticing that the rest of the tennis club had also heard the noise and had stopped practicing along with him.
"Ore-sama no bigi ni yoina!"
Tezuka sighed and leaned his racket by the wall. "Atobe, why are you here?"
"Ore-sama can go anywhere he pleases," Atobe replied, in his best 'let's-humour-the-peon' voice. It was so fun to irritate Seigaku's stern-faced buchou.
"You're disrupting our practice. If you have no good reason to be here, please leave."
Atobe pretended to look affronted. He looked away, nose in the air, and said with a hurt huff, "I'm insulted. What a way to speak to someone about to invite you to a birthday party."
"What?"
"Kabaji, the envelopes," he said, still in his offended lord-of-the-manor pose.
"Usu," the brown-skinned behemoth said. He dug inside his backpack and withdrew nine pristine envelopes. He handed the stack to Atobe, who took them and fanned them out like playing cards with one quick movement.
"I'm holding a party this Saturday, to celebrate ore-sama's birthday, and your team's invited." Atobe presented the thick, creamy-coloured envelopes to Tezuka. "Be honoured, Tezuka, we'll be celebrating yours as well." He shrugged, the gesture both arrogant and elegant. "You're only three days younger than me, anyway."
Oh, right, his birthday was next Tuesday. He'd totally forgotten about it. Then he remembered Fuji asking him the day before to keep his weekend free, and realized that his boyfriend hadn't.
A slender hand appeared suddenly into his field of vision and took the pale envelopes. He looked over to the owner of the arm and saw Fuji smiling, the tensai's smile free of the malice that he had been expecting. He wondered why Fuji was so happy when his plans to celebrate Tezuka's birthday had been spoiled.
"We'll be glad to attend your birthday party, Atobe," the tensai said smoothly. "It's rather sweet of you to remember Tezuka's birthday too."
"Your buchou's a fun opponent to play against," Atobe replied with an indolent shrug.
"Who else will be there, if you don't mind my asking?"
Atobe thought for a moment, mentally tallying up all the invites he had sent out—some personally, some not. "Hyotei, of course, will be in attendance. So far I've received confirmation from Yamabuki's Sengoku and Akutsu—who will, of course, be bringing along his little boyfriend—as well as Fudomine's Tachibana, Ibu and Kamio. Rokkaku's entire team will be there, as will Saint Rudolph—save Kaneda and Nomura." Atobe noticed the tensai's eyes narrow at the mention of Saint Rudolph and was glad that he had invited them.
"That's all?"
Atobe sniffed with disdain. "Of course not! There's Seigaku, of course. I've also invited Rikkai, but I doubt their captain will be able to make it."
Not very happy that Mizuki was going to be there, Fuji said, "But that just means that you'll have Sanada all to yourself." Atobe scowled at him.
"Fuji, why have you stopped practicing?" Tezuka interrupted, feeling the tension in the air. He had no real wish to see his boyfriend and his rival facing off over a small thing like Atobe's on-again-off-again boyfriend. There weren't many who didn't know about Sanada and Atobe, but you didn't talk about it, all the same.
"Nobody else is," Fuji pointed out.
Tezuka looked around and found that everybody was, indeed, watching the two buchous and lone tensai. He arched one slim brow, and his glasses gleamed as he said, "Everybody, thirty laps now, for slacking off!" Then he turned back to Fuji. "This means you too."
"Mm, I'm terrified," Fuji murmured.
"Fuji…" Tezuka said, his tone enough warning that if the tensai didn't get moving, the laps were going to multiply.
"Mou, Tezuka, always so strict," Fuji purred. He handed the invites to Tezuka. "We're all going," he told Atobe, before he left to run his laps.
"Has you on a leash already, doesn't he?" Atobe smirked.
"Atobe, if you really wanted me to get Fuji and Inui to help me bake you a birthday cake, all you had to do was ask."
Atobe stared for a moment, then snickered. "I'll be damned, I think that was actually an attempt at a joke." With everyone too busy running laps, Atobe patted Tezuka's shoulder reassuringly. "It was only a matter of time anyway, Tezuka."
He walked off, then looked back with a grin. "I'll have a room prepared for you and your tensai in case you both feel like…staying over."
Tezuka was rather proud that he resisted the overwhelming urge to slam his head repeatedly into the chain-link fence. The idea involving Fuji and Inui's combined culinary skills suddenly held great appeal.
Saturday came swiftly, and on the morning of Atobe's party, Tezuka wondered just how his tensai and Hyotei's diva had managed to get him to attend. Apart, of course, from the fact that it was also partly his own birthday celebration and that it would have be downright rude not to attend. Getting Atobe a birthday present had not been easy. After all, what did one get for a boy rich enough to have whatever he wanted?
Fuji had made him follow him shopping though, and helped Tezuka pick out a reasonably suitable present for the affluent diva. Said presents were also being wrapped by Fuji, who was amazingly skilled at decorating gifts.
Tezuka was ready to leave, and he couldn't understand why Fuji was taking so long. Sometimes, his boyfriend acted so much like a girl—plus he looked pretty enough to pass off as one as well—that it was downright scary.
"Fuji, are you ready yet?" He asked, uttering a phrase that had been passed down through the generations ever since man began dating woman—and men who had a tendency to act like women.
"Give me a minute, 'Mitsu!" Tezuka sighed, and decided to find out what was taking Fuji so long.
"Fuji, what's taking you so lo-" His words caught in his throat as he stared at Fuji. "You are not wearing that."
"Why not?"
Tezuka stared pointedly at the skin-tight leather showcasing his boyfriend's slender legs. And excellent ass. It was tight enough for Tezuka to realize that there was no way that Fuji was able to wear any form of underwear without the seams being seen. "Fuji, you're not wearing any-"
Fuji sauntered towards him and leaned into Tezuka until their chests were brushing. "Underwear?" He finished for Tezuka. His smile was slow and sly. "Want to find out for yourself?" He asked, his breath hot on Tezuka's cheek.
"We're already going to be late," Tezuka managed to say.
"Exactly, so what's another half hour?" Fuji purred, trailing one finger down Tezuka's arm.
Tezuka managed to shove aside the fog of lust clouding his brain and kissed Fuji's cheek. "Atobe said he'd have a room prepared for us in case we wanted to, uh, stay over," he said, willing to say anything to prevent them from being any later. No doubt Atobe would guess the reason for their late arrival. And then there would be no living with him.
Fuji opened his eyes in surprise. Then he laughed. "Why, Kunimitsu, I would never have expected to ever hear you say something like that." He returned the chaste kiss. "All right, then, I'll wait." He walked back to his bag, and when he smiled again, it was tinged with a bit of sadistic glee. "By the way, 'Mitsu," he said from across the room. "You're right. I'm not wearing any underwear."
Jiroh mentally paced, as he waited for the rest of Atobe's guests to arrive—he couldn't really pace around the room, since he was supposed to be perpetually asleep. Most of the guests were already here, but there were still a few who were late. Atobe did not like late-comers. But then again, two of the late-comers were Seigaku's tensai and buchou, and Atobe was pretty tolerant when it came to them. Jiroh, unfortunately, was not as tolerant, since the tensai was one of the guests he was waiting so eagerly for.
Outwardly, he looked like he was simply shifting in his sleep, as he tried not to fidget too much. Where was that boy?
Probably busy jumping Tezuka, he thought with some envy. He wondered how his buchou would react if Jiroh jumped him. Probably sic Sanada on him, Jiroh mused glumly. This was his last chance to safely lure Atobe away from Sanada. He'd delayed and failed too many times, and Yukimura was not happy. There was only so much the incapacitated buchou of Rikkai could do while in hospital. The rest was up to him.
Where was Fuji?
Then the doorbell rang, the musical peal floating through the air discreetly. Jiroh perked up, although to the untrained eye, it seemed as if he'd found a particularly uncomfortable spot and was trying to get comfy. Atobe's butler inconspicuously announced Tezuka and Fuji, and Jiroh fought the urge to immediately leap off the sofa and onto Fuji. He waited until they were closer before mock-sleepily cracking one eye open, then yawning and blinking tiredly.
As if only just noticing Fuji, he widened his eyes, shedding sleep like a duck shaking off water, and bounced to his feet.
"Fuji-kun!" He exclaimed, his tone excited, as it always was around Seigaku's tensai. He draped his arms around Fuji, finding the way Tezuka scowled very funny. "You're so cool, Fuji-kun! What about a match? I brought my racket, and if you didn't bring one, I could lend you my spare, or I'm sure Atobe would lend you one of his!"
Fuji didn't bother peeling the seemingly bipolar volley specialist off, enjoying the irritation and poorly concealed jealousy on Tezuka's face. "Ah, Jiroh-san, it's Atobe's birthday. I think it would be rather disrespectful to wander off on such an occasion, ne?"
"Atobe won't mind, I'm sure!" Jiroh insisted. He peered at the gift bag that Fuji was carrying. "Ne, is that Atobe's present? What is it? Can I take a look? Tell me!"
Fuji laughed. "It's wrapped up, so I don't think you could tell what's inside even if I took it out of the bag. And I'm not telling you what it is, because I'm sure somehow Atobe will find out what it is if I do." And then, in a seemingly innocent gesture, he moved his mouth closer to Jiroh's ear. "Akutagawa, I think you're overdoing the hyper bit just a little."
Jiroh pretended not to have heard Fuji say anything. Instead, he simply looked disappointed. "Fuji-kun, you're cool, but no fun at all!" He grabbed the cushion that he had been lying on from the sofa, then flounced off, in search or either more fun, or a different place to sleep.
"What was that all about?" Tezuka hissed, once Jiroh was out of sight.
Fuji pretended not to know what he was talking about. "What was what, 'Mitsu?"
"You, and Akutagawa," he snorted, eyes narrowed.
Fuji chuckled, pressing closer to Tezuka. "Mm, 'Mitsu, are you jealous?" He asked, peering up at Tezuka through partially lowered lashes.
"You're doing all of this on purpose, aren't you?"
Fuji smiled angelically. "I have no idea what you're talking about." With a slightly evil grin, he twitched his hips against Tezuka's groin, then sauntered off with an excuse about seeing if he could help out with any last-minute preparations.
What did I do to deserve this torment? Tezuka couldn't help but wonder, even as he stared appreciatively at his boyfriend's gently swaying butt.
Atobe wasn't really upset that Tezuka and Fuji had been late. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't already expected it. But he was fuming over someone else's late arrival. That someone else had yet to arrive, although the rest of his team mates had.
Sanada, where the hell are you? He scowled as Jiroh offered him a glass of punch. "No thanks," he said curtly. Focused only on Sanada's absence, he missed the look of jealousy and hurt that crossed the volley specialist's face.
"It's pretty good," Jiroh tried again. "Just one glass? I'm sure you'll like it."
Really annoyed at not being able to mope, Atobe glared at Jiroh. "And you dare presume to know what ore-sama would like?" With a dismissive shrug, his said, "Go find a nice, soft place to light and go and sleep or something."
For a moment, Jiroh stared at his buchou in shocked hurt. Then his eyes narrowed and he slammed the glass down on the table before Atobe. Some of its contents splashed beyond the rim and onto the gleaming polished surface of the table. He didn't bother to wait for Atobe to regain his senses, angrily storming away instead.
Atobe watched as Jiroh marched off, then glanced at the glass of punch. He'd never seen Jiroh so angry before. The volley specialist usually had only two moods: sleepy, or excited. Jiroh wasn't the type to get angry over words said in frustrated haste. In fact, he was actually rather patient with Atobe. Even Oshitari tended to tune him out after awhile. Kabaji…well, Atobe didn't assume that his team mate-slash-bodyguard-slash-yes-man was brainless, but sometimes he had no idea if Kabaji was capable of sentient thought. But Jiroh always happily listened to him—unless, of course, he fell asleep. But that was quite a normal occurrence, so Atobe never let it bother him.
He picked up the glass, and sniffed its contents suspiciously. You could never really trust a random gift. Especially one from Hyotei, Atobe mused. The Trojans did, and look where it got them. Even if it was from a team mate. Then again, it was Jiroh, who seemed to be able to give Ohtori a run for him money when it came to guilelessness.
It smelt okay, just fruity, with a hint of something else that didn't seem out of place. But there were such things as scentless substances.
He touched the tip of his tongue to one of the droplets spattering one side of the glass. It tasted…
Actually, it tasted pretty good.
Interested, he took a small sip from the pinkish-peach-coloured concoction. It was a little bit too sweet for his liking, but it was nothing a few cubes of ice couldn't remedy. The blend of fruit juices and sparkling soda was very well done. He couldn't quite list what was inside, but it blended very smoothly together. He thought he tasted a faint hint of alcohol, but it was so minute that he didn't really bother about it. He wondered if he could get the recipe for his cook. He loved fruit cocktails, and they were so nice to drink on hot days, when all others were out in the sun hitting tennis balls and running laps.
Suddenly, he felt rather bad about snapping at Jiroh. But then he heard a distant voice announce Sanada, and the extremely rare impulse to apologize vanished. He leaned back into the sofa and sipped his punch. There was no need to hunt down Sanada. The Rikkai player would come and find him eventually.
And Sanada did. But only after Atobe had refilled his glass about four times.
"Atobe," Sanada said shortly.
Atobe pretended not to have heard Sanada. He continued watching his guests mill around, sipping his fifth glass of punch.
"There was a traffic jam on the way from the hospital," Sanada continued, knowing what Atobe was doing.
Atobe turned sharply to glare at Sanada. His boyfriend—although they were currently in the 'off-again' stage of their relationship—had been late because he had been visiting his buchou? Had Rikkai's team captain been anyone else, Atobe wouldn't have cared, but said captain was Yukimura. And Atobe had kind of stolen Sanada away from the indigo-haired buchou—even if there hadn't been anything official between them at the time.
"How dare you arrive late for ore-sama's birthday party!" He asked, furious.
"Yukimura said he wasn't feeling very well. I had to find the doctor to make sure he wasn't suffering from any complications."
"Sometimes I think you like Yukimura more than me!"
Sanada sighed in exasperation. Yukimura was a very sore point between them. But ensuring Rikkai's future victory was more important than soothing Atobe's ruffled feathers. "If Yukimura loses the ability to play tennis, it will break him. Tennis is his life. I can't let that happen."
Atobe downed the last of his punch and slammed the empty glass on the table. "I cannot stand you!" He snarled. "Yukimura this, Yukimura that!" He stood up and glared at Sanada. "It's my birthday today!"
Sanada knew what Atobe was up to, but was surprised to see a hint of hurt in the diva's glittering eyes. "Atobe, Yukimura is a close friend. I have to take care of him."
"Don't you use that patronising tone with me! You spend more time with him than you do with me! He has his family to take care of him, you don't have to be with him every moment of every day!"
Very surprised by Atobe's fury—since the diva, while occasionally melodramatic, wasn't one to frequently raise his voice, especially not with others around—Sanada didn't have anything to say in reply.
"It's true, isn't it?" Atobe growled.
"What's true?"
"You've decided to go back to Yukimura."
"I was never with Yukimura to begin w-"
Atobe's cheeks were flushed with anger and he leaned forward to speak into Sanada's face. "Nobody, and I mean nobody, dumps Atobe Keigo!"
"Atobe," Sanada sighed in frustration. "I'm not dumping you, and besides, we're not even really going out anymore. Furthermore, Yukimura has nothing to do with this."
"Don't you mention his name to me!"
Sanada smelt something and sniffed. "Atobe," he said with growing realization. "Have you been drinking?"
"Don't change the subject! If you mention his name to me one more time-"
Sanada glanced at the empty glass sitting on the table. He wondered what had been in it. There was no mistaking the whiff of alcohol in Atobe's breath.
"You're underage, you know," he sighed. "And I think you're on your way towards getting drunk."
"I am not remotely drunk!" Atobe protested heatedly. "And who cares if ore-sama is underage? It's my house!"
"I think you've had a little too much to drink, Atobe. Really, I think you do." He reached for Atobe's shoulder, but Hyotei's buchou slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch me!"
Sanada wondered if he'd ever had to deal with anyone so childish in his entire life. He knew that Atobe was beginning to suffer the effects of alcohol, but still… "I think you should just relax and lie down somewhere for a little while," he began, but was interrupted by Jiroh.
"What do you think you're doing to Atobe?"
Atobe blinked curiously at Jiroh, having never heard Jiroh speak in that tone of voice before. The blond volley specialist's voice was hard and flat, simmering with anger. He wondered why Jiroh was so upset with Sanada—infuriating as the Rikkai student could be sometimes—when it was he, Atobe, who had pissed him off earlier.
"I think he's getting a bit drunk," Sanada tried to explain to the frowning Hyotei player.
"Sanada, I think you'd better leave him to me now," Jiroh said warningly.
"Gladly. He's not very reasonable in his current state." He took a step back when Jiroh glared at him. "Well, he isn't. All I did was pay my buchou a visit and he snapped."
Jiroh eased a bit of the snarl off his face. "And how is Yukimura?"
"Fine. He's getting better everyday, although he gave me a small scare today when he said he wasn't feeling well." He sighed and glanced at Atobe. "I think I'd better leave now." He ran a hand down Atobe's smooth hair. "Happy birthday, Keigo."
After Sanada had left, Jiroh glanced at the glass he had given to Atobe earlier. Just how much had Atobe drunk? He knew his buchou liked fruit cocktails and other fruity drinks, but had thought that Atobe would have been too pissed off to really drink a lot of it. Furthermore, he had no idea just how much alcohol Fuji had put inside the punch. He'd said 'enough to loosen Atobe up a bit', but somehow, he had a faint nagging thought that Fuji's estimate of 'just enough' was quite different from his own.
"Atobe, how much punch did you drink?"
"Oh, not too much. You spilt quite a bit when you slammed the glass down, you know. Only about…five glasses."
Five glasses?... Oh dear. He only hoped that Atobe had a good tolerance for alcohol. There was no telling how much he had ingested, since Seigaku's tensai could be rather evil at times. He took Atobe's hand in his. "Come on, Atobe. I think we should get you to your room before anything happens.
"Okay," Atobe agree without protest. He quite amiably followed Jiroh, not caring how the blond knew the way to his room. "I want another glass of punch," he said halfway along the way.
"I think you've had quite enough."
"Ore-sama wants punch. Now."
Perhaps Sanada had been right about Atobe not being very reasonable. But then again, Atobe was always giving orders like this anyway.
"Jiroh…" Atobe batted his eyelashes at him. "Just one more glass? It tastes really good. Who made it?"
"Uh, I'll tell you another time." When Atobe continued staring pleadingly at him, he sighed. "Only one more."
He returned with a fresh glass of punch, but didn't hand it to Atobe. "You can have it when you're safe in your room." With that, he continued leading the mildly inebriated buchou to his room.
Atobe's room was plush and very comfortable. Jiroh would know, since he loved falling asleep in here. Thankfully Atobe didn't know that, since Jiroh had made an agreement with Kabaji. The giant wouldn't reveal to Atobe exactly where he'd found Jiroh sleeping, and Jiroh wouldn't let it be known to the tennis team that Kabaji was smarter than they thought.
Jiroh sat on the bed and patted the space beside him.
"I'm not tired."
"Don't you want your drink?"
Atobe snorted, a little bit more sober now. "You'll just mother me and say that I should rest a bit. I'm not drunk, Jiroh. Just a bit…high."
Jiroh rolled his eyes. Now that was an understatement. Atobe's emotions and moods were all over the place, although he did seem a bit better now that Sanada had left. Perhaps… Jiroh smiled inwardly.
He touched the rim of the glass to his lips and smiled slowly. "Hm, Atobe, are you sure you don't want your drink?" He took a minute sip of it, thankful that he'd had Fuji whip this glass up with very little alcohol in it.
"Hey, it's mine!" Atobe protested.
"Then come here and get it." Jiroh held the glass up temptingly for Atobe to see. "Nice and chilled and sweet." He shifted his position and ended up spilling a few drops of it. Eyes fixed on Atobe, he conscientiously licked up the drops, pink tongue trailing up the side of the cold glass. "Tastes so good, ne Atobe?" He murmured.
"Now you're acting drunk," Atobe retorted, but still not able to take his eyes off Jiroh and the glass of spiked punch.
"Hmm? Well, maybe just a bit high, ne?" Jiroh replied, throwing Atobe's words back at him. He leaned backwards slightly, forgetting that the wall wasn't behind him. He managed to right himself before really spilling the punch, but a small splash was trickling down the side of the glass. "Whoops!" He ran a finger up the glass, wiping a clean trail through the punch.
Teasingly slow, he lapped the punch off his finger, tongue swirling to clean the sticky digit. Then he sucked it with a small, feline smile. Atobe was beginning to turn a lovely shade of red, although Jiroh wasn't very sure if it was because of him, or the alcohol.
"Mm, Atobe, you look a little hot there. He set the glass on the floor and walked over to Atobe. He trailed his fingertips over the reddened skin of Atobe's neck. "Yeah, you're feeling a bit hot." He undid the first button, and then the second, on Atobe's shirt. "Feeling a bit better now?"
"Not really," Atobe said in a strangled voice. He felt strangely light-headed as Jiroh 'ahh'ed and undid another two buttons. Then the curly-haired blond ran his fingers down Atobe's chest.
"You still feel very…hot," Jiroh murmured, pausing in his movements. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Atobe's throat. "You're starting to sweat a bit."
"Ore-sama does not sweat outside of tennis," Atobe replied, sounding even more stifled than before.
"Oh?" Jiroh licked the hollow between Atobe's collarbones. "I think you are." He resumed his previously abandoned task of unbuttoning Atobe's buttons—not that there were all that many to undo, since he'd already slipped four buttons out of their holes.
"Jiroh, what do you think you're doing?" Atobe asked, with growing apprehension, as Jiroh nudged the edges of his shirt aside. But his voice lacked its usual imperious tone, sounding more curiously perturbed than actually commanding.
"Getting rid of your shirt," Jiroh replied, not stopping as he slid the sleeves off his buchou's shoulders and down a pair of strong arms. The shirt dropped to the floor in a silken puddle, pooling in a faintly shimmering mass around Atobe's feet. Then he stood back and examined Atobe. He made a few humming noises.
"What?" Atobe demanded.
Jiroh returned to stand before Atobe. He dug his fingers into Atobe's hair, then messed up the perfectly styled coiffure until Atobe looked like he'd just woken up.
"Jiroh! Do you have any idea how long it took to get my hair-"
Jiroh decided to shut his ranting buchou up in the most appealing way. He leaned forward and clamped his lips over Atobe's in an exasperated kiss. With tongue. Atobe tasted of fruit juice, with a mild aftertaste of whatever alcohol Fuji had mixed into the cocktail.
Even as he and Atobe duelled for dominance, he ran his hands over Atobe's exposed torso, eventually ending up at pinkish-brown nipples. He brushed them with fingers callused from years of tennis. Atobe gasped, and Jiroh smirked. He plucked the hardening nipple and rubbed it between thumb and index finger. Atobe moaned, surprising even himself with the wanton tone of it.
"Mm, like that, eh, Atobe-sama?" Jiroh said, purring the last bit.
Atobe was convinced that Jiroh had imbibed in whatever Sanada had thought he'd been drinking. Honestly, he'd never seen Jiroh act even anywhere near this…'seductive' was the only word that would come to his lust-hazed brain at the moment. And then Jiroh bent lower and captured the pebble-hard nub between his lips and Atobe ceased to think of anything at all.
He made an odd mewling sound as Jiroh suckled and swirled his talented tongue over and around his nipple. Eyes shut and cheeks deeply flushed, he arched his back, pressing closer to Jiroh. With a glint in his eyes, Jiroh, reach down for the front of Atobe's pants and stroked him through the soft linen of the trousers. Unable to form neither coherent thought nor speech, he simply panted Jiroh's name softly, gently stroking the blond curls tickling his chest.
Jiroh smiled as he felt elegant fingers combing through his hair. Atobe could be so sweet sometimes. He shifted his attention to the other much-neglected nipple and undid the button on Atobe's trousers. There was a soft, metallic purr as he slowly tugged the zipper down.
Atobe wore silk boxers.
Not that it was something Jiroh didn't already know. He'd wandered around the diva's room numerous times before, had run his fingers carefully over the fine silk when he'd discovered the shorts in one drawer. But feeling it on Atobe's hard body was another thing altogether. He fondled Atobe through the delicate maroon silk, listening intently to the responses garnered from the stroking caresses, and pleased with every gasp, every hitching breath, every moan that he wrung from those tempting lips.
Jiroh released the berry-red nipple, giving it one last lick before he laid his head on Atobe's chest, listening to his buchou's thundering heartbeat. With a tender smile, he slid to his knees before Atobe, letting his curling hair glide through Atobe's fingers. He ran one finger down the silk-covered length of Atobe's erection, before finally freeing him from the constraints of the silk.
"Mm, Atobe, you're very beautiful," Jiroh whispered, blowing a puff of air onto the reddened head. The tip of his tongue darted forward for a quick taste.
"Jiroh!" The sound was half incredulous cry, half wailing moan. Jiroh grinned and leaned forward slightly for a small kiss. He wasn't very surprised when Atobe thrust into his mouth. He felt Atobe, withdraw, and held his buchou's hips still.
"I didn't mean-I-" Atobe broke off in a long, drawn-out moan when Jiroh lick him from base to tip. "Jiroh, I-I mean, you-"
Jiroh pulled away slightly. "Buchou, you talk too much." He smiled felinely. "Looks like I'll have to find a way to shut you up again." He rose to his feet, for which Atobe was sorely disappointed, and then kissed Atobe again.
When Jiroh finally broke the kiss, Atobe was panting and very surprised to find Jiroh's shirt slipping to the floor. Then the volley specialist took his hands and guided them to the front of his pants.
"Want to find out what's behind there?" Jiroh asked in a husky whisper.
Atobe gulped down the lump in his throat as Jiroh stroked his own chest with his free hand. The blonde's eyes were mostly closed, throat arched and lips parted and he rubbed his own nipples and thrust slowly against Atobe's hand.
"Mm, go ahead, Atobe, we both know you want to." Refusing to let Atobe back out of his little game, Jiroh undid the button for Atobe. "Just the zipper left, Atobe, and then all you have to do is reach inside." He leaned forward, his lips brushing Atobe's ear. "Touch me, Atobe."
Jiroh's words, crooned huskily into his ear, proved too much for Atobe to handle. He forcefully yanked down the zipper of Jiroh's trousers, pushing the garment down to the floor with one foot. He was surprised to find a pair of very familiar-looking silk boxers beneath the discarded pants. He fingered the burnt-saffron silk, examined the discreet print.
"Jiroh, this looks like mine. In fact, very much like the one that went missing from my drawer last week."
"Does it?" Jiroh cursed mentally, wondering how he ever thought that Atobe wouldn't miss the pilfered underwear. He decided that the denial technique probably wasn't going to work well for him. Atobe was way to smart to be taken in by such obvious lies. Instead, he averted his eyes, suddenly shy. "I wondered…" He let a deep blush surface. "I wondered what they'd feel like… If they were really as soft as they looked and felt…" He bit his lower lip as he reached down and rubbed the silk against himself.
"And are they?" Atobe brushed Jiroh's hand aside and began caressing the volley specialist with his own hands.
"Nn! H-Hai…" He drew in a shaky breath and smiled slyly. "If you want it back…you'll have to take it off yourself."
"No, you can keep it." Atobe watched with slightly sadistic glee as Jiroh's smile faded somewhat. But then he saw the embarrassment creeping in, sneaking in behind the furious blush, and he relented. "But I still want it off."
"You're mean, Atobe," Jiroh snorted, his smile returning.
Atobe slid one hand beneath the elastic waistband of the boxers, deliberately avoiding contact with Jiroh's eager erection. Instead, he rubbed his thumb against the bone jutting out at Jiroh's hip, trailing his thumb down the faint furrow that led from hip to groin.
"Mou, Atobe, don't be such a tease!" Jiroh reached down to guide Atobe to where he wanted to be touched, but Atobe's words stopped him halfway.
"If you be a good boy and stay still, I'll let you have your way with me later."
"Since you put it that way…" Jiroh sighed with pleasure as he felt Atobe's fingers comb through the crinkly hair there, occasionally brushing sensitized skin. "Ne, Atobe?"
"Hn?"
"You… You aren't doing this simply to get me to leave you alone, are you?"
"What?" Atobe stopped and glared at Jiroh.
"I mean, you aren't doing this just to humour me, are you?" Jiroh looked away, his blush quickly becoming one of mortification, rather than lust. "It's alright if you don't want to… I never meant to…"
Atobe rolled his eyes heavenward, wondering where the forward, seductive Jiroh who had slipped him spiked drinks had vanished to. He slipped his hand out, at the same time knowing that Jiroh might take it the wrong way. He immediately crushed Jiroh to him and thrust his hips against the blonde's.
"Does this feel like I'm just humouring you, Jiroh?" He snorted with mild derision. "Ore-sama doesn't have to humour anyone. I do what I want, Jiroh." He smiled against Jiroh's heated cheek. "And I think I want you."
"Mm, in that case… By all means, Atobe, do me." Jiroh tugged the boxers down, since Atobe seemed to have forgotten about the now-damp silk. He kicked the underwear off, and yanked Atobe towards the bed. Unbalanced, Atobe, flailed his arms, trying to grab Jiroh's arm for balance, but the blonde simply swatted Atobe's hands away. He gave Atobe a hard shove, sending the bewildered buchou sprawling all over his plush bed.
Under normal circumstances, Atobe would have ordered whoever pushed him to run laps until the order to stop was given, but he was enjoying this new Jiroh far too much to stop him. Naked, Jiroh padded up the bed, straddling Atobe's hips with his knees.
"The red only enhances the paleness of your skin," Jiroh murmured, stroking the dark crimson silk. Atobe shifted, trying to get Jiroh's fingers to touch his erection. "You're beautiful, Atobe, really beautiful."
"Of course I am," Atobe said, his breath escaping in a slow hiss when Jiroh's wandering fingers finally found their intended target.
As Jiroh stroked and fondled and brought Atobe to greater and greater heights of pleasure, Atobe absently mused that no wonder Jiroh's racket listen to him and produced such excellent volleys. With hands and fingers like those, who—what—wouldn't? Oshitari might be Hyotei's resident tensai, but Jiroh had magic fingers.
Jiroh suddenly stopped, and muttered a long string of curses under his breath. Atobe pushed himself up slightly, resting on his elbows. "Jiroh? What's wrong?"
"N-Nothing. Wait a second." The curly-haired blonde slipped off the bed and dived for the piles of clothing on the floor. Atobe watched with amusement as Jiroh rummaged through all the garments in search of something. "Close your eyes, Atobe," Jiroh murmured, his voice finally not as frantic as before.
Deciding that Jiroh wouldn't do anything bad or humiliating to him, unlike most of Hyotei, Atobe obediently shut his eyes. He heard the faint rustling of fabric as Jiroh climbed back up onto the bed, felt the mattress dip slightly, alerting him as to where Jiroh was.
"No peeking, buchou." Jiroh's voice was suddenly by his ear. A callused hand covered his eyes, and Atobe wondered how Jiroh had known that he'd wanted to open his eyes, even just a tiny crack. He felt warm lips touch his in a chaste kiss, and then descend again in a deeper, fiercer kiss. He happily parted his lips, allowing Jiroh entry. He dug his fingers into the thick mass of Jiroh's hair.
It's really soft, almost like angora, but finer, softer, he mused. He ran his fingers through the springy golden locks, winding a lock around his fingers every now and again as he accepted Jiroh's kiss.
Suddenly Jiroh broke off, but before he could speak, Atobe felt Jiroh touch one finger to his lips. Now what was the blonde up to? After a moment of stillness and silence, he was about to speak when he felt wet heat enveloping the tip of his erection.
"Kami-sama, Jiroh!" He cried out in a mixture of extreme pleasure and surprise. He heard muffled sounds in reply and managed a shaky chuckle. "Jiroh, weren't you taught…not to speak with your mouth…full?" Atobe said, in between pants, as Jiroh took more and more of him into his mouth.
Jiroh massaged Atobe's balls with one hand as he lapped and licked his buchou into a writing frenzy. He noticed, distantly, that Atobe was beyond coherence, since every other thing the buchou was moaning seemed to be his name. With his free hand, he managed to squirt a decent amount of lubricant onto his fingers from the tube he'd finally found in one of the pockets of his trousers. And then he reached back.
"Jiroh, stop it! I refuse to come just like this!" Atobe growled.
Jiroh quirked one eyebrow at him, noticing that Atobe's eyes were still closed. "But you're enjoying it so much." He smiled somewhat evilly. "Who am I to take Atobe-sama away from his pleasure?"
"And what if I demand you to stop?"
"Didn't you just?" Jiroh bent down once more and continued with his chosen task. In between licks, he murmured, "I'll make you come in my mouth, Atobe."
Atobe clenched and unclenched his fists as the throbbing heat became increasingly harder to bear. Against his own will, he began thrusting into that hot, wet cavern. Jiroh didn't do anything to stop him, except maybe to gentle his movements a bit. He tried to hold himself off—it would be too demeaning to let Jiroh see how he could make his buchou come just with his hands and mouth alone—but the blonde refused to allow it.
"Jiroh!" With a final thrust, Atobe let himself go.
Atobe lay there, dazed, not feeling very inclined to move. He felt Jiroh get off the bed, heard the sound of running water coming from the direction of his private bathroom. Jiroh eventually returned, footfalls barely audible padding on the carpet. He tenderly washed Atobe with a warm, damp cloth. And then he lay down beside Atobe.
"Ne, Atobe?" He whispered, his voice still that erotic purr.
"What?" Atobe muttered, not very pleased that Jiroh had indeed shattered his control.
"Want to go another round?"
"What?"
Jiroh nuzzled Atobe's chest, curling hair tickling Atobe as he moved. "Mm, unless you can't, then well…"
Atobe's eyes flew open. He glared at Jiroh. "You dare-"
Jiroh moved his head up slightly such that he was able to meet Atobe's glare with amused eyes. "I think we've already established what I dare and what I don't dare to do." His tongue darted out from between reddened lips, the tip of which flicked over Atobe's lush lips. "So?" He grinned.
"Ore-sama can match you in anything, Jiroh," Atobe said, in his best master-to-servant voice.
"Good." And Atobe suddenly found Jiroh's knees on either side of him again. He blinked with surprise. "I was hoping you'd say something like that, or else all my efforts would have gone to waste."
Jiroh reached down to where Atobe was already semi-hard again. He ran fingers along the veins just beneath the skin, tracing its dark bluish path. Atobe stiffened at the contact. Jiroh laughed. "Yeah, I suppose you really can match me." He leaned forward slightly so that his face was a little bit closer to Atobe. "You know what I was doing just now?"
"Just now, when?"
"When? When I got you off with my mouth." Jiroh licked his lips.
Atobe fisted his hands again, that wanton, seductive look on Jiroh's face… He'd never really considered the blond particularly sexy before, but now… "What were you doing, then?" He asked, speaking the word through gritted teeth.
Satisfied that Atobe was fully hard once more, Jiroh leaned away from his buchou. "Getting myself ready for you, so that I could do this." He sank down on Atobe's slick erection, impaling himself with a slow moan.
Whatever Atobe had been about to say got stuck in his throat as Jiroh's heat enveloped him. Oh, kami-sama, he's tightAtobe grabbed Jiroh's hips and felt the blonde's fingers caress his own.
"Mm, as hard as you like it, Atobe." Jiroh undulated his hips excruciatingly slowly, one hand bringing himself pleasure, the other resting on the bed for balance. "I'm yours for the taking." He raised himself until only the tip of Atobe lay inside him, and then sank down again. "You fit so well…"
"Mine for the taking, Jiroh?"
Jiroh smiled felinely. "You were such a good boy just now, buchou. Let's call this a reward." He sighed as a slow bolt of pleasure arrowed throughout his body. "So, anyway you want it, this time." He was laughing even as Atobe flipped him onto his back. "This way, is it, buchou?" Atobe slipped out of him, and Jiroh blinked in confusion.
"On your knees, Jiroh. Now."
"Hm? Oh, okay." The smile returned. So that's the way hi buchou wanted it, was it? He went up on his knees, sitting back with his legs slightly parted. Innocently, he placed his hands behind him.
"Touch yourself."
Jiroh reached for himself, shyly looking up at Atobe through gilt-edged lashes. He rubbed himself with his thumb first, spreading the leaking fluid over himself with slow passes of his thumb. "Mm, it would feel so much better if it was Atobe-sama's hand, though…" Then he wrapped his fingers around himself with a slight shudder and shut his eyes.
Atobe watched as Jiroh's cheeks grew increasingly flushed. He noticed the volley specialist's lips moving silently, moving faster as he pumped himself faster, until at last he made a faint noise.
"Atobe-sama…"
All the blood in Atobe's head seemed to have flowed downwards to pool in a certain organ and he coaxed Jiroh to kneel upright. He positioned himself behind the blonde, one hand reaching around to still Jiroh's hand.
"Beg, Jiroh. What do you want?" Atobe bit down on the curve of Jiroh's shoulder. "Let me hear it."
There was a muffled whimper as Jiroh chew on his lip in an effort on to scream Atobe's name. When the urge passed, he sucked in a deep breath, releasing it in a shuddering sigh.
"You know what you need, Jiroh, let me hear to beg for it." Atobe stroked Jiroh's loosened hole teasingly with one finger, toying with the lubricant dripping from it.
"You, Atobe, in me, right now. Please?" Jiroh thrust backwards, but Atobe pulled his finger away before it penetrated. He smirked at Jiroh's whine.
"You can do better." He pressed down on Jiroh's upper back, urging the blonde onto his arms as well. "Let me hear you say it."
Jiroh remained silent for a moment, but when the tip of Atobe's finger swirled teasingly in him, he cried out, "Fuck me, Atobe-sama, fuck me right now!"
"Good boy, Jiroh." Atobe spread wide the cheeks of Jiroh's ass and thrust deep in. Jiroh's answering moan was long and lingering. "Kami-sama, Jiroh, you're so tight…"
Jiroh clenched himself even tighter, wringing a groan from Atobe. "Buchou, please, don't stop, not now." His breath hitched. "I need it, please."
Atobe's reply was a tight grip and a rough thrust. Figuring that he had tortured his volley specialist enough, he sped up his movements, ramming home hard and deep, hitting Jiroh's prostate on almost every other pass.
"Atobe-sama…Atobe-sama!" Jiroh buried his face in the pillow, but Atobe could still hear his muffled scream. Lost in the tight heat, Atobe, let his orgasm wash over him. He collapsed onto the bed, flipping onto his back and bringing Jiroh along with him just in time.
When he finally came to his senses, he looked down and found Jiroh already asleep. He brushed aside the sweaty curls and pressed a gentle kiss to Jiroh's cheek. "That was a very nice birthday present, Jiroh. Thank you."
Jiroh barely stirred enough to speak. "It was fun seducing you anyway."
Atobe snorted. "You seduce me?" But Jiroh had already fallen back asleep. Atobe stroked the damp golden curls and sighed, draping one leg over Jiroh. "Yeah, you did, didn't you?" He murmured with a faint smile.