FIC: Diversion Tactics, Oshitari/Atobe, NC17
Title: Diversion Tactics
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 3100
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Atobe is sick and tired of Oshitari's laziness.
Author's Notes: Long-overdue fic written for serenia for all her help. &hearts
Oshitari Yuushi was the laziest person Atobe ever had the displeasure of knowing.
Mukahi was the second laziest, probably, but at least he showed up to tennis practices.
Oshitari was missing. For the fourth day in a row and Atobe had had enough.
The Oshitari house was easy enough to find. It stood out on the Tokyo street block like a sore thumb, covered in pink primrose bushes and packed with so many ginko trees that Atobe could barely find the buzzer. It stunk like okonomiyaki and mayonnaise. Atobe hated mayonnaise. He pulled his Burberry handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to his nose.
Even the buzzer was tainted. Atobe pressed the buzzer, thinking he’d hear a bzzz (or, in the case of his home, classical strains of Mozart). But no. Here, it was the Kinki Kids.
(Not that Atobe knew what the Kinki Kids were, mind you. Or so he would have claimed to anyone who dared to ask him)
Atobe did not like to be kept waiting. People were hired to wait on him not the other way around, so when no one answered his buzz, he grew impatient. He tapped his foot. He ground his teeth. He swatted at one of the flies zigzagging up from a primrose bush towards his nose. His mole twitched.
Oshitari was so off the high school team next year. Atobe would make sure of it.
But then, just as he was about to ring the buzzer again (he’d suffer the Kinki Kids once more, but that was it!), lo and behold who but Oshitari Yuushi stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a faded pair of plaid boxers. His hand was down the back of his boxers, scratching his ass. His hair was a mess of flyaways. His glasses were crooked and his eyes bloodshot.
“What the hell have you been doing all day?” Atobe snapped. He let himself inside. Oshitari closed the door behind Atobe and shrugged.
Atobe sniffed at Oshitari as discreetly as he could. No smell of alcohol lingered on his skin, just mayonnaise. And sweat. It could have been worse.
Swells of music- so not classical and more like bad adult contemporary- drifted in from another room of the house. Atobe pushed past Oshitari and stalked towards it. Oshitari sauntered along, as though he had nothing better to do with himself.
One thing was for certain, there were no signs of anyone else home. Past Oshitari’s kitchen, Atobe could see a half-eaten pizza box and an empty plastic take-out sushi container. A bottle of mayonnaise sat between them, and beside that, three dirty juice glasses, all reeking of watermelon soda. Food of the masses.
Atobe curled his lip.
When he finally got to the source of the music, he sneered even more. Oshitari ignored Atobe and flopped down on the couch. The room was dark, but Atobe could see the stacks of rental DVDs. He picked up an empty case and tossed it back down as soon as he saw the title: Titanic.
“Want to join…me?” Oshitari asked.
Atobe snorted. Like hell he did! “What the hell have you been doing?” he repeated himself. “You’ve skipped tennis practice all week!”
“Do you really think,” Oshitari said, as he lazily flicked the remote and skipped a scene in the DVD he was watching. It was full of kissing faces and girls crying and relatively-attractive gaijin actors who Atobe may or may not have heard of, “…that it’s necessary to practice when the season is over?”
Atobe blinked.
Then, he blinked again and narrowed his eyes. “How else do you think one- not you, obviously,” Atobe said pointedly. Oshitari just shrugged and flicked the remote some more. “-will make the Senbatsu team?”
Oshitari hummed. The LCD tv screen went black and the DVD he’d been watching popped out of the player. Oshitari brushed Atobe’s calf to fish around his stack of DVDs for another. Atobe stepped out of the way, his skin crawling from the touch. It felt like lazy, mayonnaise-coated Kansai germs were crawling over his skin.
The stack of DVDs toppled over and Oshitari, lazier than ever, couldn’t even be bothered to get off the couch to reach. “Pass me the Steel Magnolias,” he said.
Atobe didn’t move. “Did you even hear what I said?” he snapped.
Oshitari hummed again. He scratched his chin, and then in a long, slow drawl, he said, “No, wait…the Hana Yori Dango.”
Atobe glared.
“Season one,” Oshitari said. He grinned, sloth-like and itched his belly where he was stretched on the couch. “It’s really very good,” he said.
Atobe continued to glare.
Oshitari continued to smile. Then, when Atobe didn’t move, he toed Atobe in the knee. His foot was scratchy, dead dry skin catching Atobe’s leg before he dragged it away. “Please?” he asked. “It’s not as though…hn…like Shishido or Hiyoshi will miss you at practice…”
Atobe chucked the first DVD case within reach at Oshitari’s head. It hit a bowl of popcorn instead, tipping it over onto Oshitari’s stomach. Oshitari barely even seemed to register it, he just picked at the kernels over his chest and licked his lips.
***
Never, ever would Atobe admit to watching shoujou dramas with Oshitari. So it was true and he was fully aware that Shishido and Hiyoshi preferred it when he was gone. But Kabaji cared. Kabaji sent a text message half-way through episode three. It was blank, stating nothing but sender: Kabaji Munehiro. Still, it was the thought that counted.
Sometime, between throwing the DVD and episode three, Atobe ended up on the far end of the couch, as far as he could get from Oshitari and his bowl of stale popcorn. Unfortunately, Atobe had the box of Kleenex on the table by his elbow. Oshitari sniffled. Atobe tried to ignore it. Oshitari wiped his eyes. Atobe tried to ignore it. Oshitari tried to wipe his eyes on the hem of his boxers and there was no way Atobe could ignore it, not when there was a bit of a dick sticking out the bottom and eugh!
“Put it away!” Atobe snapped.
Oshitari inhaled deeply, then he pulled his boxers down, just enough to keep his dick from hanging out the one leg.
Not only was Oshitari extremely disgusting and lazy, but he was a waterfall. The music swelled. The heroine angsted. Oshitari blubbered his eyes out.
Atobe rolled his eyes. “How can you watch this junk?” he asked.
Oshitari waved his hand. His fingertips were shiny with grease and popcorn smell. “Shhhh! This is almost my…favourite part.” He sniffed and turned the volume up on the tv. Again.
“We have practice,” Atobe said. Again.
Before Oshitari could not say anything and keep munching, the telephone rang. Oshitari groaned and flapped his hand around behind his head. The phone rang twice more before the voice of a woman cut over the sound of the tv:
“Yuushi, are you home? It’s Mom. I can’t find the plum juice you wanted at the store, so I’m going to head into Ginza to go shopping. Put some shorts on before Dad gets home tonight.”
“Yeah yeah,” Oshitari mumbled. “Lazy woman.”
Atobe raised an eyebrow. Said the boy who sprawled across the couch, dirty and greasy and watching DVDs in the dark in the middle of summer when he could be outside, at practice, being a useful member of society. Or at least the tennis club.
“She nags,” Oshitari explained.
“You are the laziest person I know,” Atobe said.
Oshitari smirked. “Hn…” he grunted. Then, he pawed Atobe in the stomach with his big toe. “Pass me the coke beside you.”
Atobe pretended not to hear. He extricated Oshitari’s leg from his lap and squashed himself further into the corner. The Kansai germs were rubbing off onto him. In the dark, at least Oshitari couldn’t see his frequent yawns. Or the flutter of his eyelids. The A/C was far, far too cool and comfortable for the summer. Atobe should be outside in the heat, working up a dripping sweat and working on his Tannhauser serve. It was good in the Nationals, but not good enough for Tezuka.
Or Sanada.
Atobe narrowed his eyes at the tv, thinking of the smirk and crazy man’s laughter that Sanada had the last time they met, when Atobe showed up in Kanagawa. Of course, Yukimura had to spoil Atobe’s fun right when he was about to turn the game around and show Sanada his prowess.
But the Senbatsu was coming. Less than a month and they’d play again. Atobe would make sure of that.
Which is why they needed to practice as much as possible so that as many players from Hyoutei as possible went to the training camp. “We have practice,” Atobe said. His voice seemed drowned out by the sound of the tv. Oshitari wasn’t listening to a word Atobe was saying, either, not when he was mouthing, word for word, everything that the heroine and her skeevy rich boyfriend were saying to each other.
Atobe cleared his throat.
Oshitari’s glasses reflected the bright tv screen.
Atobe elbowed Oshitari’s leg. And then cleared his throat a second time, even louder. “We have practice,” he said.
“Pass me the coke beside you,” Oshitari said.
“Get it yourself!” Atobe snapped.
Oshitari sighed. The motion itself seemed to be effort and his stomach moved. Or rather, the little roll of fat of his stomach moved when he pushed himself, ever so agonizingly slowly, to sit up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he drawled.
“Why not?” Atobe asked. He crossed his eyes.
Oshitari looked at him, glasses sliding down his nose. The look he gave Atobe was suggestive, the tilt of his head just creepy. In the meantime, the episode had finished and silence descended between them.
Any battle of wills Atobe could win. He glared back at Oshitari.
With a heavy shrug, Oshitari gave in. Then, he slid across Atobe’s lap.
Atobe yelped. Oshitari had flung himself across Atobe in some lazy, smart-ass attempt to grab his coke can without actually getting up off the couch and walking over. If anything could be worse than a lapful of heavy, sweaty, sticky, half-naked Oshitari Yuushi, then it was a lapful of heavy, sweaty, sticky, half-naked and hard Oshitari Yuushi.
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Oshitari said.
Atobe stared at him, shocked and stiff and unable to move. Or process any thought except Oshitari. Dick. On. Thigh. Oshitari. Dick. On. Thigh.
Oshitari hummed. The sound was far, far too low and leisurely for this situation. The vibrations sounded in Atobe’s ears and send shivers through his body, even more when Oshitari turned around, achingly slow, onto his back and stared up at Atobe.
“Aren’t there better things to do than practice tennis?” Oshitari asked.
Atobe’s leg was burned with the imprint of Oshitari dick. He could feel the phantom hardness as Oshitari reached his hands up to Atobe’s chin and chucked it. He could feel the heat of it when Oshitari closed Atobe’s mouth with his index finger and thumb. He could feel it when Oshitari sat up, still on his lap, and leaned in close.
His breath smelled of popcorn when he murmured, “Don’t you think, Atobe?”
It was an automatic reaction when Atobe opened his mouth to say no, no it wasn’t and get the hell off me, you lazy Kansai freak! except for whatever reason, Oshitari took it for something else as he hummed in the back of his throat. His hands were on Atobe’s jaw, tilting his head up and then his hot, popcorn breath was exhaling into Atobe’s mouth and Atobe didn’t realize what was happening until he tasted the spice of wasabi sushi on his tongue, only….
It wasn’t his tongue. It was Oshitari’s tongue, sliding over his. Atobe just about gagged when this thought finally processed because ew gross! and oh god NO! I am NOT like Shishido I do NOT like this sort of indecent activity!, but Oshitari’s tongue curling over his, Oshitari’s lip on his, hot and salty and fishy from sushi, they were…they were sending shivers down Atobe’s spine and making his toes tingle. And Atobe’s mouth was moving against his, pushing back when Oshitari pressed harder.
A hand wound around the back of his neck, the other inching down his side, pulling him closer. The posture was awkward and the only part Atobe moved was his mouth. His hands were limp at his sides until Oshitari moaned and the vibrations passing between their mouths made Atobe shudder. They made Atobe twitch, too, right in his shorts. Oshitari shifted. He was heavy and squishing Atobe, but when he squirmed, it was right on top Atobe’s dick and-
“Oh god!” Atobe groaned. His fingers dug into the leather couch as deep as they couch, then deeper still when Oshitari’s mouth pulled away from his lips and instead settled on his cheek. That should have been gross, really, it should have been gross, only Oshitari had taken to pressing hot, dry kisses to Atobe’s mole. His charm point.
His undoing, really.
Atobe unclenched his hands and, shakily, hovered them over Oshitari’s shoulders. With one hand, seemingly fluid in his motions, Oshitari kissed his face and brought Atobe’s hands to his sides. His naked skin was hotter than his kisses, but just as sticky, especially as Oshitari kissed lower down, across Atobe’s jaw, under the dip of his chin and his neck.
Atobe threw his head back onto the edge of the couch. His body arched forward, his fingers dragged across the slick skin, feeling Oshitari’s shoulders move- muscle and bone and tendon. He’d never paid attention to this before, not on the tennis court, not in the locker room either, but Oshitari was heavy and warm and solid and he knew what he was doing. He kissed with ease, he knew just where to touch his fingertips to make Atobe moan and hiss and start to pant: the back of his neck, behind his ear, his mole, his collar, his…
Sucking in a breath, Atobe squeezed his legs, trying to close them and stop the rise of desire in his belly. But it was hard, so damn hard when Oshitari ran his tongue over Atobe’s chest, teeth grazing his nipple and making him close his eyes for a moment. Somehow, Oshitari’s glasses had been flung off. He stared at Atobe with naked, dark eyes, huge and shining in the dim light of the tv glow.
Atobe swallowed. His heart pounded in his chest, almost as hard and aching as his dick, now pushing at his shorts. Oshitari moved, rocking his hips back and down, right on his dick, making Atobe gasp and jerk up and maybe, maybe say something he’d regret if he was thinking properly with his head and not his cock.
Hands massaged his shoulders through his t-shirt. Atobe’s body leaned into the touch. He was breathing hard, panting on Oshitari’s chest, damp with the condensation of his mouth now. And maybe from the gaping kiss he made when Oshitari pressed down on his dick again, making Atobe sob from the pressure in his belly. He wanted to let go and give in, but god, no, not with Oshitari!
Oshitari smiled, that lazy, cocky Kansai grin he favoured everyone with. Then, he peeled himself off Atobe’s lap. With his hands, Atobe protested, grabbing at Oshitari’s hand, the first thing within reach. But he couldn’t explain it, not when Oshitari’s smile curled even more. His body was on fire. He wanted to strip his clothes off and lay back on the cool leather couch and just…
Atobe didn’t know quite what.
Only when Oshitari sunk to his knees, did Atobe know what he wanted. That’s right! he thought. That! It didn’t matter that Oshitari was creepy and weird and doing this was equally so- or even worse, because somewhere in the back of his mind, Atobe knew he should have been trying harder to drag Oshitari to tennis practice, but when those long, warm fingers toyed at his fly, Atobe didn’t care anymore.
There were fingers on his balls, sending electric shocks through his body. There was a hot, wet mouth curling over his dick, tongue pressed up around it and Atobe couldn’t think anymore, not with his legs shaking and his hands digging into Oshitari’s sweaty, greasy hair- but what did it matter because fuck yes god yes! Atobe panted. Oshitari slid his mouth further over Atobe’s dick, so hard and so tight he felt like he was going to explode and it would be fucking wonderful.
Finally, Oshitari had found a better use for his mouth than drawling in that awful Kansai accent. He was sending tremours through Atobe’s veins, shivers down his spine and the coils of pleasure were tightening and straining inside and he knew it was soon, but when that tongue pulled back and licked the head of his dick, the little place so sensitive that sent Atobe groaning and bucking and driving his hips forward and his hands through that dark hair and-
“Oh God!” he moaned, before one last quiver sent him over the edge and he was thrusting and coming and shuddering and grunting his release into that mouth, which only got tighter and tighter around him.
When Oshitari pulled back, Atobe was lying back on the couch, his body drooping and his mind having slithered to the floor. Oshitari wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand, then wiped that on the hem of his scummy boxers.
To top it all off, he grabbed his coke can on Atobe’s left side and took a swig.
Atobe stared at him through slitted eyes. He held up a hand, his body so replete he could barely support the weight of his own arm. Oshitari passed the coke can over and Atobe took a swig himself.
Lukewarm and flat coke. He spat it straight out, hitting the first thing in front of his mouth, which happened to be Oshitari’s chest.
“Hn,” Oshitari said. He looked down at himself, then back up at Atobe. His eyes drooped, heavy-lidded as he smirked. “I think we should clean this up,” he said.
Atobe grunted. “We have tennis practice,” he said, but his voice droned. He was too sated to care. In fact, he could lay here all afternoon with his dick hanging out of his shorts and it really wouldn’t matter.
Oshitari seemed to consider something for a moment and Atobe, finally and suddenly, felt a bit self-conscious. After all, he was hanging out and Oshitari, still-hard, was at least covered. And Oshitari was leering in that creepy, know-it-all way and…
Before Atobe could think anymore, Oshitari pushed Atobe down on the couch, hands to either side of Atobe’s shoulders and grinned. “I can think…” he said, his voice as lazy as ever, “…of much better things to do…”
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 3100
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Atobe is sick and tired of Oshitari's laziness.
Author's Notes: Long-overdue fic written for serenia for all her help. &hearts
Oshitari Yuushi was the laziest person Atobe ever had the displeasure of knowing.
Mukahi was the second laziest, probably, but at least he showed up to tennis practices.
Oshitari was missing. For the fourth day in a row and Atobe had had enough.
The Oshitari house was easy enough to find. It stood out on the Tokyo street block like a sore thumb, covered in pink primrose bushes and packed with so many ginko trees that Atobe could barely find the buzzer. It stunk like okonomiyaki and mayonnaise. Atobe hated mayonnaise. He pulled his Burberry handkerchief from his pocket and held it up to his nose.
Even the buzzer was tainted. Atobe pressed the buzzer, thinking he’d hear a bzzz (or, in the case of his home, classical strains of Mozart). But no. Here, it was the Kinki Kids.
(Not that Atobe knew what the Kinki Kids were, mind you. Or so he would have claimed to anyone who dared to ask him)
Atobe did not like to be kept waiting. People were hired to wait on him not the other way around, so when no one answered his buzz, he grew impatient. He tapped his foot. He ground his teeth. He swatted at one of the flies zigzagging up from a primrose bush towards his nose. His mole twitched.
Oshitari was so off the high school team next year. Atobe would make sure of it.
But then, just as he was about to ring the buzzer again (he’d suffer the Kinki Kids once more, but that was it!), lo and behold who but Oshitari Yuushi stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but a faded pair of plaid boxers. His hand was down the back of his boxers, scratching his ass. His hair was a mess of flyaways. His glasses were crooked and his eyes bloodshot.
“What the hell have you been doing all day?” Atobe snapped. He let himself inside. Oshitari closed the door behind Atobe and shrugged.
Atobe sniffed at Oshitari as discreetly as he could. No smell of alcohol lingered on his skin, just mayonnaise. And sweat. It could have been worse.
Swells of music- so not classical and more like bad adult contemporary- drifted in from another room of the house. Atobe pushed past Oshitari and stalked towards it. Oshitari sauntered along, as though he had nothing better to do with himself.
One thing was for certain, there were no signs of anyone else home. Past Oshitari’s kitchen, Atobe could see a half-eaten pizza box and an empty plastic take-out sushi container. A bottle of mayonnaise sat between them, and beside that, three dirty juice glasses, all reeking of watermelon soda. Food of the masses.
Atobe curled his lip.
When he finally got to the source of the music, he sneered even more. Oshitari ignored Atobe and flopped down on the couch. The room was dark, but Atobe could see the stacks of rental DVDs. He picked up an empty case and tossed it back down as soon as he saw the title: Titanic.
“Want to join…me?” Oshitari asked.
Atobe snorted. Like hell he did! “What the hell have you been doing?” he repeated himself. “You’ve skipped tennis practice all week!”
“Do you really think,” Oshitari said, as he lazily flicked the remote and skipped a scene in the DVD he was watching. It was full of kissing faces and girls crying and relatively-attractive gaijin actors who Atobe may or may not have heard of, “…that it’s necessary to practice when the season is over?”
Atobe blinked.
Then, he blinked again and narrowed his eyes. “How else do you think one- not you, obviously,” Atobe said pointedly. Oshitari just shrugged and flicked the remote some more. “-will make the Senbatsu team?”
Oshitari hummed. The LCD tv screen went black and the DVD he’d been watching popped out of the player. Oshitari brushed Atobe’s calf to fish around his stack of DVDs for another. Atobe stepped out of the way, his skin crawling from the touch. It felt like lazy, mayonnaise-coated Kansai germs were crawling over his skin.
The stack of DVDs toppled over and Oshitari, lazier than ever, couldn’t even be bothered to get off the couch to reach. “Pass me the Steel Magnolias,” he said.
Atobe didn’t move. “Did you even hear what I said?” he snapped.
Oshitari hummed again. He scratched his chin, and then in a long, slow drawl, he said, “No, wait…the Hana Yori Dango.”
Atobe glared.
“Season one,” Oshitari said. He grinned, sloth-like and itched his belly where he was stretched on the couch. “It’s really very good,” he said.
Atobe continued to glare.
Oshitari continued to smile. Then, when Atobe didn’t move, he toed Atobe in the knee. His foot was scratchy, dead dry skin catching Atobe’s leg before he dragged it away. “Please?” he asked. “It’s not as though…hn…like Shishido or Hiyoshi will miss you at practice…”
Atobe chucked the first DVD case within reach at Oshitari’s head. It hit a bowl of popcorn instead, tipping it over onto Oshitari’s stomach. Oshitari barely even seemed to register it, he just picked at the kernels over his chest and licked his lips.
***
Never, ever would Atobe admit to watching shoujou dramas with Oshitari. So it was true and he was fully aware that Shishido and Hiyoshi preferred it when he was gone. But Kabaji cared. Kabaji sent a text message half-way through episode three. It was blank, stating nothing but sender: Kabaji Munehiro. Still, it was the thought that counted.
Sometime, between throwing the DVD and episode three, Atobe ended up on the far end of the couch, as far as he could get from Oshitari and his bowl of stale popcorn. Unfortunately, Atobe had the box of Kleenex on the table by his elbow. Oshitari sniffled. Atobe tried to ignore it. Oshitari wiped his eyes. Atobe tried to ignore it. Oshitari tried to wipe his eyes on the hem of his boxers and there was no way Atobe could ignore it, not when there was a bit of a dick sticking out the bottom and eugh!
“Put it away!” Atobe snapped.
Oshitari inhaled deeply, then he pulled his boxers down, just enough to keep his dick from hanging out the one leg.
Not only was Oshitari extremely disgusting and lazy, but he was a waterfall. The music swelled. The heroine angsted. Oshitari blubbered his eyes out.
Atobe rolled his eyes. “How can you watch this junk?” he asked.
Oshitari waved his hand. His fingertips were shiny with grease and popcorn smell. “Shhhh! This is almost my…favourite part.” He sniffed and turned the volume up on the tv. Again.
“We have practice,” Atobe said. Again.
Before Oshitari could not say anything and keep munching, the telephone rang. Oshitari groaned and flapped his hand around behind his head. The phone rang twice more before the voice of a woman cut over the sound of the tv:
“Yuushi, are you home? It’s Mom. I can’t find the plum juice you wanted at the store, so I’m going to head into Ginza to go shopping. Put some shorts on before Dad gets home tonight.”
“Yeah yeah,” Oshitari mumbled. “Lazy woman.”
Atobe raised an eyebrow. Said the boy who sprawled across the couch, dirty and greasy and watching DVDs in the dark in the middle of summer when he could be outside, at practice, being a useful member of society. Or at least the tennis club.
“She nags,” Oshitari explained.
“You are the laziest person I know,” Atobe said.
Oshitari smirked. “Hn…” he grunted. Then, he pawed Atobe in the stomach with his big toe. “Pass me the coke beside you.”
Atobe pretended not to hear. He extricated Oshitari’s leg from his lap and squashed himself further into the corner. The Kansai germs were rubbing off onto him. In the dark, at least Oshitari couldn’t see his frequent yawns. Or the flutter of his eyelids. The A/C was far, far too cool and comfortable for the summer. Atobe should be outside in the heat, working up a dripping sweat and working on his Tannhauser serve. It was good in the Nationals, but not good enough for Tezuka.
Or Sanada.
Atobe narrowed his eyes at the tv, thinking of the smirk and crazy man’s laughter that Sanada had the last time they met, when Atobe showed up in Kanagawa. Of course, Yukimura had to spoil Atobe’s fun right when he was about to turn the game around and show Sanada his prowess.
But the Senbatsu was coming. Less than a month and they’d play again. Atobe would make sure of that.
Which is why they needed to practice as much as possible so that as many players from Hyoutei as possible went to the training camp. “We have practice,” Atobe said. His voice seemed drowned out by the sound of the tv. Oshitari wasn’t listening to a word Atobe was saying, either, not when he was mouthing, word for word, everything that the heroine and her skeevy rich boyfriend were saying to each other.
Atobe cleared his throat.
Oshitari’s glasses reflected the bright tv screen.
Atobe elbowed Oshitari’s leg. And then cleared his throat a second time, even louder. “We have practice,” he said.
“Pass me the coke beside you,” Oshitari said.
“Get it yourself!” Atobe snapped.
Oshitari sighed. The motion itself seemed to be effort and his stomach moved. Or rather, the little roll of fat of his stomach moved when he pushed himself, ever so agonizingly slowly, to sit up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he drawled.
“Why not?” Atobe asked. He crossed his eyes.
Oshitari looked at him, glasses sliding down his nose. The look he gave Atobe was suggestive, the tilt of his head just creepy. In the meantime, the episode had finished and silence descended between them.
Any battle of wills Atobe could win. He glared back at Oshitari.
With a heavy shrug, Oshitari gave in. Then, he slid across Atobe’s lap.
Atobe yelped. Oshitari had flung himself across Atobe in some lazy, smart-ass attempt to grab his coke can without actually getting up off the couch and walking over. If anything could be worse than a lapful of heavy, sweaty, sticky, half-naked Oshitari Yuushi, then it was a lapful of heavy, sweaty, sticky, half-naked and hard Oshitari Yuushi.
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Oshitari said.
Atobe stared at him, shocked and stiff and unable to move. Or process any thought except Oshitari. Dick. On. Thigh. Oshitari. Dick. On. Thigh.
Oshitari hummed. The sound was far, far too low and leisurely for this situation. The vibrations sounded in Atobe’s ears and send shivers through his body, even more when Oshitari turned around, achingly slow, onto his back and stared up at Atobe.
“Aren’t there better things to do than practice tennis?” Oshitari asked.
Atobe’s leg was burned with the imprint of Oshitari dick. He could feel the phantom hardness as Oshitari reached his hands up to Atobe’s chin and chucked it. He could feel the heat of it when Oshitari closed Atobe’s mouth with his index finger and thumb. He could feel it when Oshitari sat up, still on his lap, and leaned in close.
His breath smelled of popcorn when he murmured, “Don’t you think, Atobe?”
It was an automatic reaction when Atobe opened his mouth to say no, no it wasn’t and get the hell off me, you lazy Kansai freak! except for whatever reason, Oshitari took it for something else as he hummed in the back of his throat. His hands were on Atobe’s jaw, tilting his head up and then his hot, popcorn breath was exhaling into Atobe’s mouth and Atobe didn’t realize what was happening until he tasted the spice of wasabi sushi on his tongue, only….
It wasn’t his tongue. It was Oshitari’s tongue, sliding over his. Atobe just about gagged when this thought finally processed because ew gross! and oh god NO! I am NOT like Shishido I do NOT like this sort of indecent activity!, but Oshitari’s tongue curling over his, Oshitari’s lip on his, hot and salty and fishy from sushi, they were…they were sending shivers down Atobe’s spine and making his toes tingle. And Atobe’s mouth was moving against his, pushing back when Oshitari pressed harder.
A hand wound around the back of his neck, the other inching down his side, pulling him closer. The posture was awkward and the only part Atobe moved was his mouth. His hands were limp at his sides until Oshitari moaned and the vibrations passing between their mouths made Atobe shudder. They made Atobe twitch, too, right in his shorts. Oshitari shifted. He was heavy and squishing Atobe, but when he squirmed, it was right on top Atobe’s dick and-
“Oh god!” Atobe groaned. His fingers dug into the leather couch as deep as they couch, then deeper still when Oshitari’s mouth pulled away from his lips and instead settled on his cheek. That should have been gross, really, it should have been gross, only Oshitari had taken to pressing hot, dry kisses to Atobe’s mole. His charm point.
His undoing, really.
Atobe unclenched his hands and, shakily, hovered them over Oshitari’s shoulders. With one hand, seemingly fluid in his motions, Oshitari kissed his face and brought Atobe’s hands to his sides. His naked skin was hotter than his kisses, but just as sticky, especially as Oshitari kissed lower down, across Atobe’s jaw, under the dip of his chin and his neck.
Atobe threw his head back onto the edge of the couch. His body arched forward, his fingers dragged across the slick skin, feeling Oshitari’s shoulders move- muscle and bone and tendon. He’d never paid attention to this before, not on the tennis court, not in the locker room either, but Oshitari was heavy and warm and solid and he knew what he was doing. He kissed with ease, he knew just where to touch his fingertips to make Atobe moan and hiss and start to pant: the back of his neck, behind his ear, his mole, his collar, his…
Sucking in a breath, Atobe squeezed his legs, trying to close them and stop the rise of desire in his belly. But it was hard, so damn hard when Oshitari ran his tongue over Atobe’s chest, teeth grazing his nipple and making him close his eyes for a moment. Somehow, Oshitari’s glasses had been flung off. He stared at Atobe with naked, dark eyes, huge and shining in the dim light of the tv glow.
Atobe swallowed. His heart pounded in his chest, almost as hard and aching as his dick, now pushing at his shorts. Oshitari moved, rocking his hips back and down, right on his dick, making Atobe gasp and jerk up and maybe, maybe say something he’d regret if he was thinking properly with his head and not his cock.
Hands massaged his shoulders through his t-shirt. Atobe’s body leaned into the touch. He was breathing hard, panting on Oshitari’s chest, damp with the condensation of his mouth now. And maybe from the gaping kiss he made when Oshitari pressed down on his dick again, making Atobe sob from the pressure in his belly. He wanted to let go and give in, but god, no, not with Oshitari!
Oshitari smiled, that lazy, cocky Kansai grin he favoured everyone with. Then, he peeled himself off Atobe’s lap. With his hands, Atobe protested, grabbing at Oshitari’s hand, the first thing within reach. But he couldn’t explain it, not when Oshitari’s smile curled even more. His body was on fire. He wanted to strip his clothes off and lay back on the cool leather couch and just…
Atobe didn’t know quite what.
Only when Oshitari sunk to his knees, did Atobe know what he wanted. That’s right! he thought. That! It didn’t matter that Oshitari was creepy and weird and doing this was equally so- or even worse, because somewhere in the back of his mind, Atobe knew he should have been trying harder to drag Oshitari to tennis practice, but when those long, warm fingers toyed at his fly, Atobe didn’t care anymore.
There were fingers on his balls, sending electric shocks through his body. There was a hot, wet mouth curling over his dick, tongue pressed up around it and Atobe couldn’t think anymore, not with his legs shaking and his hands digging into Oshitari’s sweaty, greasy hair- but what did it matter because fuck yes god yes! Atobe panted. Oshitari slid his mouth further over Atobe’s dick, so hard and so tight he felt like he was going to explode and it would be fucking wonderful.
Finally, Oshitari had found a better use for his mouth than drawling in that awful Kansai accent. He was sending tremours through Atobe’s veins, shivers down his spine and the coils of pleasure were tightening and straining inside and he knew it was soon, but when that tongue pulled back and licked the head of his dick, the little place so sensitive that sent Atobe groaning and bucking and driving his hips forward and his hands through that dark hair and-
“Oh God!” he moaned, before one last quiver sent him over the edge and he was thrusting and coming and shuddering and grunting his release into that mouth, which only got tighter and tighter around him.
When Oshitari pulled back, Atobe was lying back on the couch, his body drooping and his mind having slithered to the floor. Oshitari wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand, then wiped that on the hem of his scummy boxers.
To top it all off, he grabbed his coke can on Atobe’s left side and took a swig.
Atobe stared at him through slitted eyes. He held up a hand, his body so replete he could barely support the weight of his own arm. Oshitari passed the coke can over and Atobe took a swig himself.
Lukewarm and flat coke. He spat it straight out, hitting the first thing in front of his mouth, which happened to be Oshitari’s chest.
“Hn,” Oshitari said. He looked down at himself, then back up at Atobe. His eyes drooped, heavy-lidded as he smirked. “I think we should clean this up,” he said.
Atobe grunted. “We have tennis practice,” he said, but his voice droned. He was too sated to care. In fact, he could lay here all afternoon with his dick hanging out of his shorts and it really wouldn’t matter.
Oshitari seemed to consider something for a moment and Atobe, finally and suddenly, felt a bit self-conscious. After all, he was hanging out and Oshitari, still-hard, was at least covered. And Oshitari was leering in that creepy, know-it-all way and…
Before Atobe could think anymore, Oshitari pushed Atobe down on the couch, hands to either side of Atobe’s shoulders and grinned. “I can think…” he said, his voice as lazy as ever, “…of much better things to do…”