1 A.M. by Halrloprillalar / prillalar
Prince of Tennis, Sanada/Atobe, 1000 words, R.
PWP. Future-ish. Sanada's head hurts.
Sanada puts down his glass. He doesn't like champagne. He leans back on the couch, covers his eyes with his hand.
He can hear them, between the treble and the bass: laughing, teasing, purring. The words don't matter, just the way they're spoken. He doesn't know their names, he won't remember their faces.
They're all over Atobe.
Atobe's laugh is quiet and his words are halfway to insults, but that doesn't stop the throaty voices, the parted lips, the hands slipping onto his thigh.
Sanada's head hurts. He stands up. "Come on," he says to Atobe. "We're leaving."
Atobe sips his drink. "I don't think so." More laughter, like it's funny.
"I'm not kidding." Sanada crosses his arms.
"Neither am I." Atobe takes out his wallet and flips a few bills at Sanada. "Get a cab if you're bored."
Sanada lets them drop onto the floor. He can pay for his own cab. And maybe he will. Atobe can be such an asshole.
"Suit yourself, then." Atobe raises his glass to Sanada, then drains it.
They all laugh. Sanada's face burns. This is it, he's walking out, like he should have done a long time ago.
A hand slips onto Atobe's thigh.
Every headache in the world spikes behind Sanada's eyes. "Atobe," he says.
Atobe watches him for a moment. "Get out," he says, but he's not talking to Sanada. No more laughter, just a few muttered curses and a shoulder into Sanada's on the way past. "You too," Atobe says to the bartender and then they're alone in the VIP.
Atobe pours another glass. He leans back into the cushions and rests one arm along the back of the couch. He smiles. "Is there something you want to say to me?"
There are a hundred things Sanada wants to say, fighting their way up from his belly, crowding in his throat, choking him.
He grabs Atobe by the collar and yanks him to his feet. Champagne splashes Sanada's face. He pulls at Atobe's shirt and it tears open.
"This is why I have to buy two of everything," Atobe says.
Sanada topples them both onto the couch. He's got Atobe beneath him and he stretches out so his entire body is pressing down on Atobe.
"You're putting on weight." Atobe pushes at Sanada. But Sanada doesn't move, except to rake his hands down Atobe's sides. He covers Atobe's mouth with his own, sucks at Atobe's lip. He pushes his tongue into Atobe's open mouth.
All Sanada can feel is the pressure -- inside his skull, his chest, his dick. He's going to split open, tear like Atobe's shirt. He thrusts his hips, pushing his erection into Atobe's groin, until he feels Atobe gasp.
He grabs Atobe's shoulders, digging hard with his fingers. He presses his face into Atobe's neck. He bites down.
Atobe shoves him away. "Don't you dare mark me."
Sanada shoves back, gets his mouth on Atobe's throat. Atobe thrusts beneath him, arm, leg, and hip. Sanada spills onto the floor.
His elbow hits the table. The bottle topples, champagne splashes Sanada's face. His arm tingles down to his fingertips. He braces to flip himself up, back onto the couch.
Atobe kneels on his shoulders.
Sanada looks up at him. Atobe pulls off the ruined shirt and drops it on the floor. He runs a hand through his hair. He slides down and unzips Sanada's pants.
The bass pounds through the floor, through Sanada, throbbing so it's hard for him to breathe. He closes his eyes. Atobe has one hand around Sanada's dick, the other holding Sanada's balls, just firmly enough that Sanada feels an icy thread wrap around his spine.
Atobe sucks him. Sanada's hips move and he tries to keep them on the floor. Atobe's mouth is hot, Sanada's face is hot, his blood is hot. Atobe's hand grips Sanada's thigh, too hard, fingers digging in.
Sanada throws out an arm, tries to get some air into his lungs, tries to think about something other than Atobe's mouth sliding over his dick.
He comes instead, hips thrusting, fist clenching. Paper crackles between his fingers. Noise escapes from his throat. Then he's limp, breathing. He drops the crumpled bill. He rubs his elbow.
Atobe puts his mouth over Sanada's, pushes with his tongue. Sanada opens up and gets a mouthful of his own jizz, slippery and a little salty.
He gags a little, turns his head to spit. Atobe puts his thumb over Sanada's lips. Sanada swallows. It's awful.
Atobe wipes his mouth on his torn shirt. He pours the last of the champagne and takes a swallow. Sanada sits up and rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. "Fuck," he says. "Atobe."
"Hold still." Atobe puts down his glass. He straddles Sanada's lap and leans in, running his cheek along Sanada's jaw, pushing back his head, teasing Sanada's neck with his lips. Sanada slides one hand down Atobe's bare back, thumb bumping over vertebrae.
Then Atobe bites down, crushing the skin and sucking hard. Sanada clenches his teeth with the pain. His arm tightens around Atobe.
Atobe pulls back, shrugging out from under Sanada's arm. Sanada touches his neck. It's throbbing, starting to swell. Tomorrow it will be livid. "Asshole," Sanada says.
"Give me your shirt." Atobe holds out his hand. Sanada looks him in the eye, counts to ten. Atobe waits.
Sanada takes off his shirt. Atobe wrinkles his nose and puts it on. "Why don't you wear the shirts I buy you?"
"I buy my own shirts." Sanada pulls on Atobe's torn shirt, buttons it as far as he can. It's too small, too bright. There's a stain on the front from Atobe's mouth.
"We're leaving," Atobe says.
Sanada's headache is gone.