The Greater Good [NC-17; Fuji]
Title: The Greater Good
Author: worblehat
Genre: Prince of Tennis
Character: Fuji
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters not mine, just using them to have a bit of mental fun.
Notes: Many hot thanks to regulusa for the beta.
Summary: Everyone loves Fuji.
Word Count: 1,251
The water runs in small trickles down his back and legs, warming him, soothing the now-sore muscles in his body. The extra laps have stretched his right thigh and he presses tense fingers against it, feeling the threads of pain subside as he rubs in small, determined circles.
His efforts move slowly upward and in, fingers skating over the thin, taut stomach. His fingers are moving back and forth, intentionally slower than he'd like.
He can hear the breathing.
They've spaced themselves out a little more this time. He can hear Momoshiro and Kaidoh just outside the small window, grunting angrily, each one telling the other they got there first. It is testament to their desire to watch him that they keep their voices low this time. Fuji pretends not to hear.
Eiji and Oishi are standing close together in the same space as him; Fuji closes his eyes tightly, letting them watch as he angles his body, turning enough for them to see. His fingers slide against his cock, neck bent, head lowered. The others move closer.
This is different than the first time. He can remember the more extravagant hiding places the Seigaku regulars used to try: in lockers, behind a line of tennis bags...
Under the bench.
Fuji smiles each time he thinks of how Eiji kicked Ryoma from beneath it, bruising the freshman's shin; hissing at him to move, that he was blocking his view, both too loud to possibly be ignored.
Even Takashi has begun to watch, shy and embarrassed, behind the entrance to the shower room. Taka listens more than he watches; Fuji always breathes harder for his teammate, wanting everyone to get the most out of this experience.
His hands wraps around, stroking. One hand lands, palm-open, against the tiled wall. It feels strangely cool beneath his fingers and he smiles at the contrast: he enjoys the warmth of the water, the steam of the room, the hot, embarrassed looks of his teammates.
Fuji thrusts into his own grip, head bowed low, teeth sinking into his lower lip. His breaths are soft and high-pitched, his fingers moving faster. The watchful stares on his neck, his back, and his body feel prickly-hot and he strokes faster. Momo and Kaidoh have stopped fighting when Fuji arches backward, close to finishing. He hears a muttered chorus of "baka” before the shuffle of feet on dirt tell him that they're watching. Ryoma is the only one Fuji never hears - never knows where he is until afterward.
He hears the scritch-scratch of Inui's pencil against paper when he comes, a thinly-contained moan wrenched from his mouth. Thin, watched streams of white coat his fingers and cock before they're washed away. Fuji leans against the tile in mock tiredness, listening hard for the moans of Eiji and Oishi, who are closest. His eyes open slightly and he watches the wet, stroking rhythms of the Golden Pair, takes in the closeness of Oishi's body, the way his hand is resting at Eiji's hip, close to where Eiji's hand strokes furiously, as if afraid Fuji will turn around before he can come.
Fuji wishes he could tell Eiji that he would never turn around, never break this moment: not until he hears the angry grunts from the window or the moans from further in the locker room; or sees the mixed pearls of release; of Eiji's cock and Oishi's, spurting against one another as Oishi attempts a vague, shy kiss on Eiji's neck.
Fuji doesn't move; doesn't breathe. This is their time.
This is for Seigaku.
*
Fuji walks out of the room, nodding at Ryoma who grins, a thin film of sweat at his brow noticeable.
Blue peers out from half-closed eyes as he walks outside. He can feel the others around as they pretend to be otherwise occupied, walking away in uncertain lines. He doesn't look at them. It's enough knowing they're there, watching him: a backwards sort of team effort.
He catches up to Tezuka who waits for him, out of sight from the tennis courts. When he sees Fuji's face, his barely-there frown deepens a fraction of an inch; Fuji sees it without trying and smiles, giving a small shrug.
"You shouldn't do that," says Tezuka as he turns, walking. He doesn't wait, doesn't apologise for the sudden distance between himself and Fuji, who runs to catch up and match Tezuka's faster pace. Fuji places a hand on Tezuka's shoulder, letting out a soft sigh of amusement when Tezuka stops suddenly.
"They like it," he answers. "It's for the team."
Tezuka turns his head and faces Fuji, eyes serious and cynical. He doesn't speak, but Fuji can read the thought, no, you like it, as Tezuka stares back at him.
Fuji smiles and Tezuka's gaze shifts ahead of him; away. Fuji's hold slides around, down to his buchou's waist. Tezuka's face flushes a shade of pink that Fuji can feel but can't see. "Did you watch this time?" he whispered against Tezuka's neck.
Tezuka's left hand balls into a fist; his vision still concentrated on the empty sidewalk.
Fuji sidles a little closer, his hand snaking down, fingers slipping against the plastic-like fabric of Tezuka's pants, sliding easily inside his pocket. Tezuka stands, stock-still, the soft exhalation of air - the quickest hitch - falling from his lips as Fuji's hand trails easily to the expected hardness he finds. He can feel Tezuka's desire to resist; he lets his torso move against Tezuka's hip, lets him feel the hardness in his own pants.
Tezuka looks at him. His mouth is closed tight, hands remaining at his sides. Fuji's fingers skate over the curve of Tezuka's length, enough to be felt; Tezuka's fingers dig into the skin of his palm as he fights to restrain himself.
Fuji pulls away, his lips brushing against Tezuka's neck in a ghosted attempt at kiss that can be easily mistaken for heady clumsiness. Tezuka reaches into the pocket where Fuji's hand is moving back and forth, not enough to be noticed but enough to make Tezuka's knees come close to buckling; his fingers pull on Fuji's wrist, removing the hand that makes it difficult to focus.
They are at the place where they normally split off, to walk towards their respective homes. Fuji lets himself be released, standing at the corner, watching the retreating, somber figure.
"Tezuka," he calls out, not completely surprised when Tezuka doesn't turn around, yet continues walking. His blue eyes are wide, his voice soft. "Am I going to hear another rustle in the outside bushes tonight before bed?"
Tezuka loses his footing momentarily. "No."
"Good," says Fuji. "My door will be left unlocked after nine."
Tezuka turns around to face the retreating figure, his body tense. Fuji doesn't look back once, his head inclining slightly to look at the clouds before he disappears behind a corner. Tezuka dips his head and heads home.
*
"Kunimitsu? It's almost nine! Where are you going?"
He keeps his face calm, his breath even as he reaches for the keys in the small bowl near the door. The door closes, just enough time for his mother to hear his reply.
"Out."
Author: worblehat
Genre: Prince of Tennis
Character: Fuji
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Characters not mine, just using them to have a bit of mental fun.
Notes: Many hot thanks to regulusa for the beta.
Summary: Everyone loves Fuji.
Word Count: 1,251
The water runs in small trickles down his back and legs, warming him, soothing the now-sore muscles in his body. The extra laps have stretched his right thigh and he presses tense fingers against it, feeling the threads of pain subside as he rubs in small, determined circles.
His efforts move slowly upward and in, fingers skating over the thin, taut stomach. His fingers are moving back and forth, intentionally slower than he'd like.
He can hear the breathing.
They've spaced themselves out a little more this time. He can hear Momoshiro and Kaidoh just outside the small window, grunting angrily, each one telling the other they got there first. It is testament to their desire to watch him that they keep their voices low this time. Fuji pretends not to hear.
Eiji and Oishi are standing close together in the same space as him; Fuji closes his eyes tightly, letting them watch as he angles his body, turning enough for them to see. His fingers slide against his cock, neck bent, head lowered. The others move closer.
This is different than the first time. He can remember the more extravagant hiding places the Seigaku regulars used to try: in lockers, behind a line of tennis bags...
Under the bench.
Fuji smiles each time he thinks of how Eiji kicked Ryoma from beneath it, bruising the freshman's shin; hissing at him to move, that he was blocking his view, both too loud to possibly be ignored.
Even Takashi has begun to watch, shy and embarrassed, behind the entrance to the shower room. Taka listens more than he watches; Fuji always breathes harder for his teammate, wanting everyone to get the most out of this experience.
His hands wraps around, stroking. One hand lands, palm-open, against the tiled wall. It feels strangely cool beneath his fingers and he smiles at the contrast: he enjoys the warmth of the water, the steam of the room, the hot, embarrassed looks of his teammates.
Fuji thrusts into his own grip, head bowed low, teeth sinking into his lower lip. His breaths are soft and high-pitched, his fingers moving faster. The watchful stares on his neck, his back, and his body feel prickly-hot and he strokes faster. Momo and Kaidoh have stopped fighting when Fuji arches backward, close to finishing. He hears a muttered chorus of "baka” before the shuffle of feet on dirt tell him that they're watching. Ryoma is the only one Fuji never hears - never knows where he is until afterward.
He hears the scritch-scratch of Inui's pencil against paper when he comes, a thinly-contained moan wrenched from his mouth. Thin, watched streams of white coat his fingers and cock before they're washed away. Fuji leans against the tile in mock tiredness, listening hard for the moans of Eiji and Oishi, who are closest. His eyes open slightly and he watches the wet, stroking rhythms of the Golden Pair, takes in the closeness of Oishi's body, the way his hand is resting at Eiji's hip, close to where Eiji's hand strokes furiously, as if afraid Fuji will turn around before he can come.
Fuji wishes he could tell Eiji that he would never turn around, never break this moment: not until he hears the angry grunts from the window or the moans from further in the locker room; or sees the mixed pearls of release; of Eiji's cock and Oishi's, spurting against one another as Oishi attempts a vague, shy kiss on Eiji's neck.
Fuji doesn't move; doesn't breathe. This is their time.
This is for Seigaku.
*
Fuji walks out of the room, nodding at Ryoma who grins, a thin film of sweat at his brow noticeable.
Blue peers out from half-closed eyes as he walks outside. He can feel the others around as they pretend to be otherwise occupied, walking away in uncertain lines. He doesn't look at them. It's enough knowing they're there, watching him: a backwards sort of team effort.
He catches up to Tezuka who waits for him, out of sight from the tennis courts. When he sees Fuji's face, his barely-there frown deepens a fraction of an inch; Fuji sees it without trying and smiles, giving a small shrug.
"You shouldn't do that," says Tezuka as he turns, walking. He doesn't wait, doesn't apologise for the sudden distance between himself and Fuji, who runs to catch up and match Tezuka's faster pace. Fuji places a hand on Tezuka's shoulder, letting out a soft sigh of amusement when Tezuka stops suddenly.
"They like it," he answers. "It's for the team."
Tezuka turns his head and faces Fuji, eyes serious and cynical. He doesn't speak, but Fuji can read the thought, no, you like it, as Tezuka stares back at him.
Fuji smiles and Tezuka's gaze shifts ahead of him; away. Fuji's hold slides around, down to his buchou's waist. Tezuka's face flushes a shade of pink that Fuji can feel but can't see. "Did you watch this time?" he whispered against Tezuka's neck.
Tezuka's left hand balls into a fist; his vision still concentrated on the empty sidewalk.
Fuji sidles a little closer, his hand snaking down, fingers slipping against the plastic-like fabric of Tezuka's pants, sliding easily inside his pocket. Tezuka stands, stock-still, the soft exhalation of air - the quickest hitch - falling from his lips as Fuji's hand trails easily to the expected hardness he finds. He can feel Tezuka's desire to resist; he lets his torso move against Tezuka's hip, lets him feel the hardness in his own pants.
Tezuka looks at him. His mouth is closed tight, hands remaining at his sides. Fuji's fingers skate over the curve of Tezuka's length, enough to be felt; Tezuka's fingers dig into the skin of his palm as he fights to restrain himself.
Fuji pulls away, his lips brushing against Tezuka's neck in a ghosted attempt at kiss that can be easily mistaken for heady clumsiness. Tezuka reaches into the pocket where Fuji's hand is moving back and forth, not enough to be noticed but enough to make Tezuka's knees come close to buckling; his fingers pull on Fuji's wrist, removing the hand that makes it difficult to focus.
They are at the place where they normally split off, to walk towards their respective homes. Fuji lets himself be released, standing at the corner, watching the retreating, somber figure.
"Tezuka," he calls out, not completely surprised when Tezuka doesn't turn around, yet continues walking. His blue eyes are wide, his voice soft. "Am I going to hear another rustle in the outside bushes tonight before bed?"
Tezuka loses his footing momentarily. "No."
"Good," says Fuji. "My door will be left unlocked after nine."
Tezuka turns around to face the retreating figure, his body tense. Fuji doesn't look back once, his head inclining slightly to look at the clouds before he disappears behind a corner. Tezuka dips his head and heads home.
*
"Kunimitsu? It's almost nine! Where are you going?"
He keeps his face calm, his breath even as he reaches for the keys in the small bowl near the door. The door closes, just enough time for his mother to hear his reply.
"Out."