Prince of Tennis, Didn’t Do Much For the Rabbit

Title: Didn’t Do Much For the Rabbit [Sengoku/Momoshiro]
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 for the most mellow sex that ever was. Ever was.
Summary: Sengoku has this theory about luck, and Momoshiro looks like he could use a little of it right now.
AN: Sengoku’s so mellow and sexy, writing him was a pleasure. Thanks to marksykins for the beta and the sexy relevant icon.

Didn’t Do Much For the Rabbit

Sengoku Kiyosumi always had to chuckle when girls gushed about how lucky he was. He had a theory about luck, that everybody had the same amount, it was just that some people used it in tiny pieces all the time, and others saved it all up until some crucial moment.

Sure, it was great when the match point ball wobbled just a little too much and tipped onto the other side of the net, or he stumbled trying to reach the smash that went just barely out anyway, and the smile he flashed along with his two-fingered V was certainly real enough. But sometimes he thought it was the worst kind of luck, the kind that made people shake their heads and say “fluke” and “how ’bout that” rather than talking about how long Sengoku had worked on his tennis, how much he sweated for it.

Other people, Sengoku reflected as he looked down at Dan Taichi’s great big eyes, had all the luck.

“Don’t you want to come, desu?” Dan asked, the ‘pweeeeease?’ a sort of waver in his eyes rather than something he vocalized. “Ryoma-kun’ll be bored if it’s just me.”

Dan had the other kind of luck, the kind where Sengoku bumped right into him when he was looking for a Yamabuki regular to sucker into tagging along with him to the street courts. And since Sengoku’s luck wouldn’t dream of bestowing an out upon him for something so minor, he found himself trotting alongside the freshmen, chuckling gently at a never-ending stream of “desu, Sengoku-sempai?”

Sengoku had half-suspected that this would be a wild goose chase, but sure enough, when they climbed the steps to the street court only a few blocks away from Seigaku, they indeed found Ryoma, beating some street-doubles thugs unmercifully with the second year, Momoshiro.

“Yo, Sengoku-sempai,” Momoshiro grinned, but his eyes didn’t quite light up like Sengoku remembered as Momoshiro wiped his hand off on his tennis shorts to shake hands. Ryoma tugged the brim of his cap slightly in greeting over the shoulder of Dan, who was clutching his racket and bouncing on the balls of his feet so earnestly at Ryoma that his headband slipped down over his eyes with a schuff.

“Ah, Momoshiro-kun!” Sengoku grinned and shrugged a shoulder towards the frosh. “We can play doubles then. Lucky! Seigaku vs. Yamabuki, ne? Just like Kantou. Well,” Sengoku made a little sour face, “maybe not just like…”

And that wrung a more honest laugh out of Momoshiro as he and Echizen headed to the other side of the court, Momoshiro knuckling Ryoma’s head lightly as Ryoma sauntered along, one hand shoved deep in his pocket and the other tapping his racket against his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sengoku-sempai,” Dan apologized before they had even started, “I’m not very good, desu…”

“That’s what practice is for!” Sengoku said heartily, wishing that half the people on this court would stop looking so forlorn. And on such a gorgeous summer day, too! Good thing tennis could fix anything.

They played about half a match that way, but it wasn’t the most exhilarating tennis ever, since they played lightly enough that Dan could return a few balls. Sengoku eventually suggested gently to Dan that they let Ryoma and Momoshiro get back to their game. Momoshiro stared at a point over Sengoku’s shoulder and sighed that he probably ought to get going anyway.

“I want to stay longer,” Ryoma announced, surprising everyone, especially Dan, who looked like he might faint from glee when Ryoma said they could go on practicing if the sempai wanted to sit out.

Sengoku and Momoshiro thumped down on the bench on the edge of the court to tuck their rackets away, and Sengoku wasn’t oblivious to the way that Momoshiro’s eyes strayed to Ryoma and stuck there as his fingers lingered motionless on his shoelaces. He tapped his water bottle against Momoshiro’s shoulder, and Momoshiro gave him a wry smile, caught, as he took it and gulped a few swallows, head tilted back and the line of his throat strong.

Sengoku wanted to put the grin back in Momoshiro’s eyes suddenly, and asked casually, “Do you have some time?”

“I…” Momoshiro started, but was interrupted by the jangling of a phone at their feet. Without hesitating, Momoshiro dug into Ryoma’s bag and pulled out the freshman’s cell. He stared at the screen for a second, corners of his mouth curling down, then jabbed the ‘ignore’ button with his thumb and all but flung the phone back into Ryoma’s bag. “Yeah,” he grunted, “I have some time.”

“Ah, lucky!” Sengoku nudged Momoshiro with a shoulder as he stood up. “Then you can show me where to get some grip tape around here, I’m not satisfied with the kind I’ve been using.”

Sengoku kindly pretended not to notice the way Momoshiro’s shoulders tightened when Ryoma tossed out a distracted ‘later’ to Momoshiro’s call that they were leaving, and made the usual smalltalk as they reached the bottom of the concrete steps, about who had the meanest volley and the fastest serve on the circuit.

“Ohtori Choutarou,” Momoshiro said immediately as soon as serves came up, and mentioned Akutagawa Jiroh for his Magic Volley, amending, “Well, if you can wake him up.”

“You know an awful lot about Hyoutei!” Sengoku laughed, running a hand through his hair. “But it’s to be expected since you just played them, hm?”

“Hm,” Momoshiro answered blandly, then slowed to a stop in front of a shop. “This is it.”

The store seemed to soothe Momoshiro a little, as did the casual debate about the merits of some brands over others, and the wariness seeped out of his eyes as he finished extolling the virtues of his favorite sort of grip tape, tapping the top of the plastic box with strong, callused fingers.

“It even comes in green!” Sengoku exclaimed, making Momoshiro chuckle. “It’ll match my uniform, make the girls swoon, huh? Lucky.” He elbowed Momoshiro a little, got another laugh, and felt good about what he had accomplished here today.

When they stepped back outside, Sengoku caught his sneaker on a corner of the sidewalk unexpectedly and tripped a bit. When he glanced down, he realized that Momoshiro must have the other kind of luck, the kind that meant there’d be a crumpled 1000 Yen bill on the ground just when he was looking like he didn’t exactly want to go home yet.

“Geez, you are lucky, aren’t you?” Momoshiro shook his head as Sengoku bent to scoop the bill up. Sengoku smoothed it between his fingers and grinned at Momoshiro knowingly because it was really Momoshiro’s luck after all, wasn’t it?

“You should spend found money on things that are bad for you,” he said, smiling easily. “So now you should tell me where we can get the biggest ice cream sundae possible.”

Momoshiro didn’t disappoint in the ice cream department, nor in the luck department, as the coveted corner booth opened just as their order was ready, and Momoshiro ran ahead to secure the table as Sengoku followed with the ice cream, the metal bowl big enough to make both of his hands go numb.

No doubt designed for such purposes, the corner booth meant that no one saw when Sengoku reached across the table and wiped a streak of fudge off the corner of Momoshiro’s mouth with his thumb, then sucked the thumb clean.

“S—Sengoku-sempai!” Momoshiro stuttered, eyes wide and violet like the raspberry ice cream dripping off his spoon.

“Momoshiro-san?” If Momoshiro wanted to play the honorific game, Sengoku could play too.

“Ne, it’s Momo-chan,” Momoshiro said after a second or two, eyes dropping back to his ice cream, and he shoved the spoon of melting ice cream in his mouth quickly, as if afraid of what else might come out of it. Sengoku encouraged him with more smiles as they leisurely finished the mountain of ice cream, and an occasional foot-nudge under the table.

“Come over?” Momoshiro said when they were outside again, hands shoved his pocket and staring down the street. Sengoku squinted at him, eyes still re-adjusting to the summer sunlight, and realized that Momoshiro’s cheeks were just a tiny bit pink.

Huh, Sengoku thought to himself, here was a surprise. Somebody already taught Momoshiro this game? It sure hadn’t been that freshman.

“Sure,” Sengoku said, keeping his smile easy and bumping Momoshiro’s—Momo-chan’s—shoulder again. Momoshiro gave him a smile in reply that wasn’t quite a smile and set off down the sidewalk.

Sengoku gave a soft ‘hmm’ of pleasure when the central air of Momoshiro’s house brushed over his sun-warmed skin, and he noted that no one else’s shoes seemed to be in the alcove he and Momoshiro kicked their sneakers off in. They had the house to themselves, then; more of Momoshiro’s littler, better luck.

Leading the way to his bedroom with a tilt of his chin, Momoshiro was silent on the way up the stairs, and started when Sengoku hopped a few steps quickly to catch up and seize Momoshiro’s hand, twisting his long fingers along Momoshiro’s rougher ones.

“Ne, it’s supposed to be fun!” Sengoku couldn’t help but tease, and he did such an exaggerated impression of Momoshiro’s resigned face that Momoshiro snickered too and relaxed just a bit under his hand.

Momoshiro loosened up more when they were in his room with the door shut, stripping off their shirts, but Sengoku wasn’t fooled into thinking it was just nerves. He ran appreciative eyes over Momoshiro’s chest and arms, the time spent on the power of his forearms alone obvious to Sengoku’s practiced eye. Momoshiro stiffened just a little when Sengoku took a step closer to put his hands on Momoshiro’s elbows, but practically melted when Sengoku rubbed circles on the pale side of Momoshiro’s forearm with his thumbs, in just the right spot.

Hn, Sengoku purred internally in self-satisfaction, he knew what he was doing.

What Momoshiro was doing, however, was anybody’s guess, and Sengoku flailed a little as Momoshiro planted a firm hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him backwards to trip into Momoshiro’s bed. He had barely pulled himself back to a sitting position before Momoshiro was kneeling in between his legs, the not-smile still kind of disturbing, but in this instance totally hot.

Not that he was protesting or anything, as Momoshiro hooked thumbs in Sengoku’s shorts and tugged them down and off, then slid strong hands back up Sengoku’s thighs. This was definitely a familiar game to Momoshiro, Sengoku thought hazily as Momoshiro bent his head to lick the underside of Sengoku’s cock in a slow stripe.

“A-ah!” Sengoku twisted his fingers in the sheets as Momoshiro slid lips over his head and swallowed almost half of him in one shot. Man, someone had taught this kid what he was doing, if the way his fingers dropped to tease at Sengoku’s balls was any indication.

Momoshiro tensed when Sengoku propped himself up on one elbow to slide fingers into Momoshiro’s hair, but he relaxed again after a few seconds when all Sengoku did was rub circles with his fingertips against Momoshiro’s scalp. Relaxed enough that Sengoku slid another inch or two into Momoshiro’s mouth, and tipped his head back to give a long, low moan.

“Mmm,” Sengoku did tug Momoshiro’s hair just a little, to get his attention, when the tugging of his fingers and the twist of his tongue was nearly too much, “gonna…”

Momoshiro drew back, but only enough that he would be sure not to choke when Sengoku spilled across his tongue, and Sengoku shuddered harder at that, cock throbbing at the thought of what Momoshiro’s previous lessons must’ve entailed.

“Hunnnnh,” Sengoku groaned happily as Momoshiro finished cleaning him off with a last lick, and he reached down to draw Momoshiro up beside him, nuzzling his shoulder and enjoying the blunt press of Momoshiro against his hip.

But when he started wriggling down to return the favor, Momoshiro caught at his shoulder to stop him.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said softly, eyes trained at that same spot over Sengoku’s shoulder. “Don’t have to.”

He shouldn’t seem so sad, Sengoku thought as he reached up to seize Momoshiro’s chin and forced Momoshiro to look at him. Clearly he needed a few more lessons, since his last teacher had left such a bad impression.

Lucky for Momoshiro, Sengoku had some time.

Rather than actually argue, and it was a shame, Sengoku thought as he snuck a look down, because Momoshiro did look to have a very suckable cock, Sengoku kissed him instead, keeping his own eyes open until Momoshiro’s fluttered shut.

Momoshiro kissed back, forceful and too wet, and Sengoku felt a jolt of indignation for tennis players everywhere that whoever had taught Momoshiro to suck cock like that had not bothered to teach him to kiss first.

Who the hell was that moron, anyway?

Setting out to rectify the problem immediately, Sengoku pulled his lips away from Momoshiro’s and waited until Momoshiro blinked at him before moving back in and starting all over again. He kissed Momoshiro long and slow, slipping a hand over the back of Momoshiro’s neck so he could show him how to move, tug him back when he pressed forward too hard.

He felt Momoshiro chuckle into his mouth after a few minutes, and was pretty sure Momoshiro had caught onto his plan, but he had always heard that explicit instruction was essential to more thorough learning anyway, and it sure didn’t seem like Momoshiro minded. Momoshiro’s mouth fell open in a gasp when Sengoku just barely brushed his tongue over Momoshiro’s lower lip, and Sengoku groaned with smug pride at having been the first person to use that trick on him.

“Hah,” Momoshiro panted, breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead against Sengoku’s neck, and Sengoku realized dimly that they had started to rock against each other at some point and that he was hard again. “I want you, Sengoku-sempai.”

A full-body shudder ran down Sengoku’s limbs as Momoshiro repeated in that low voice, “Want you.”

“Do you have…” Sengoku started, trying to get a grip on whether this was the worst or the best idea ever, but Momoshiro was already pressing a tube into his hands and rolling over onto his stomach, and what idiot would say no to all that toned, tennis-golden skin stretched out in front of him?

He laid a series of open-mouthed, sucking kisses along Momoshiro’s spine as he warmed the clear gel over his fingers and then brushed them into the cleft of Momoshiro’s phenomenal ass, and there was a comment in there someplace about training regimens and squat-thrusts that Sengoku figured went without saying.

The kisses got a little harder, little wetter when Momoshiro didn’t respond at first, and even when he finally did get the idea that, yes, he was supposed to like it and say so, at first all his soft noises came out “nngh?”, like they had question marks at the end. It wasn’t until Sengoku slipped the second finger in that Momoshiro gave a moan that sounded more pleasured than puzzled.

“Sengoku,” Momoshiro whimpered finally, begging, and Sengoku relented, urging Momoshiro up onto his knees and settling in between them, slicking his own erection as quickly as possible, not trusting himself to keep from going on if he stroked longer than that.

He curled over Momoshiro’s back, strong and warm, as he pressed slowly inside, and Sengoku felt every inch of Momoshiro’s ragged exhalation up against his chest. When he was about halfway inside, Momoshiro’s body balked, and Sengoku paused to run reassuring hands down Momoshiro’s trembling arms, tracing the curves of the muscles.

When he reached Momoshiro’s right wrist, where he ridiculously still had his wristband on, Sengoku wrapped fingers around it and squeezed lightly.

He blinked when Momoshiro stiffened underneath him and gave a low grunt of pain.

“It’s nothing,” Momoshiro protested when Sengoku wrapped a steadying hand around Momoshiro’s chest so he could lift the hand and slide the wristband off, then turned Momoshiro’s wrist to see.

It was an ugly bruise, fading into a dirty yellow, but with ragged edges that looked as if the same spot had been hit over and over. It was Momoshiro’s racket wrist, Sengoku realized, and suddenly a lot of things made too much sense. Setting Momoshiro’s hand back on the bed as it had been, Sengoku kissed the skin between Momoshiro’s shoulder blades and pushed the rest of the way inside him.

Sengoku took it slow, which was hard when Momoshiro was pushing back against him, but it was worth it when the surprise that curved Momoshiro’s spine melted into warmth and Sengoku didn’t have to hold his hips back with tight hands anymore.

He could use one of his hands to slide down around Momoshiro’s cock instead, and tugged a stream of curses out of Momoshiro that made Sengoku grin. He’d always figured Momoshiro would be loud in bed, even a talker, maybe, and the silence had been starting to get to him.

He applied himself to finding the angle that would make Momoshiro curse like that again, digging in with his knees and twisting the head of Momoshiro’s cock with still-slick fingers, until Momoshiro arced like a perfect return, slamming girigiri on the paint, and Sengoku was the baseline.

Momoshiro’s arms gave out, collapsing them into a comfortable tangle, both of them panting. Sengoku shifted just enough to slip out of Momoshiro, then slumped down against his back again, smiling as he pressed his nose into the damp hair against the back of Momoshiro’s neck.

Momoshiro’s breath hitched when Sengoku reached over to pick up his wrist, but he didn’t struggle as Sengoku took a better look at the bruise. Nothing to be done, though, was there? It would fade. But Sengoku made a soft noise of displeasure anyway as he ran his thumb lightly over the tender skin.

Sengoku let Momoshiro have the shower first, because it was Momoshiro’s house after all, and Sengoku was a gentleman. Sengoku took his clothes into the bathroom with him when Momoshiro was finished, but he did give into the urge to pinch the warm skin of Momoshiro’s hip where it peeked out from the towel on his way by.

When he returned, squeezing some of the damp out of his hair with his fingers, Momoshiro was dressed and sitting on the bed, which had been smoothed out, the pillow turned over. Momoshiro had opened the window a little, and the heavy taste of sex was already clearing out of the air.

Momoshiro looked up at Sengoku and was opening his mouth to say something well-meaning and utterly destructive of the moment, no doubt, when his cell phone rang loudly in his pocket.

Ah, lucky.

“Yeah?” Momoshiro said into the phone after he’d fished it out of his pocket and hit the button. “Ah, I’ll be there then.” He turned the phone off and looked up at Sengoku, but Sengoku was already smiling warmly.

“Ne, I have to go anyway,” he said, tilting his chin towards the door. “Walk me out?”

Sengoku was the one who was surprised, and pleased, when Momoshiro caught at his hand on the stairs and squeezed it tightly in his tennis-rough, strong fingers.

They paused by the door as Sengoku shoved his feet back in his sneakers, then stood awkwardly together for a moment longer. Momoshiro smiled at Sengoku and didn’t drop his eyes, and Sengoku hoped some of Momoshiro’s luck would rub off on him sometime.

They both shifted forward at the same time. It was the kind of hug teenage boys exchange, quick and with back-slapping, but Momoshiro’s neck was warm against Sengoku’s cheek and his palm was strong where it thumped between Sengoku’s shoulders.

Backing up until his fingers touched the doorknob, Sengoku shot a final, easy grin at Momoshiro. “Don’t let the freshman top you, ne, Momo-chan?”

Momoshiro’s spluttering, and then his laughter, pressed comfortably against Sengoku’s back as he pulled the door shut behind him and blinked in the late afternoon sunlight.