I confess, I wanted to write a direct Masochist! Ryoma for some time now, and this was a good time as any (and an excuse as a present!fic). But no, it's not angst. It's more about a mental breakdown! Ryoma.
Warning: No explicit scenes, but still dirty enough to be rated T. No bloodplay and those hardcore scenes, but enough, I suppose. Some cutting to oneself.
Set in high school, so I may have the dirty excuse to use ties of Seigaku High.
This is for abhorsen3, who should have received a fic from me waaaaay earlier considering she had reviewed every one of my poorly written fics. If you don't like it, say so, and I'll be happy to take up a request!
It was Momoshiro who first noticed the scars on Ryoma's wrist. After an intense training session by Oishi-buchou (and it was strange to call him that, but Tezuka-buchou was long gone to train to become a pro in Germany), Momoshiro wanted nothing more than to stop by a hamburger joint with Ryoma tagging along and going home to watch a couple of movies. He was about to call out, "Oi, Echizen! Hurry up!" when he saw those scars.
The red lines were barely visible but they were red and thin, almost as if he had been tied down by something. They were covered by Echizen's sleeve, but when Momoshiro tilted his head to the right angle, he could see those fine lines making their way up Ryoma's upper wrist.
"Hey, Echizen," he said loudly, pointing to the scars and squinting, "You have scars!"
"Hm?" Ryoma glanced down at Momoshiro's fingers and saw the red lines. He blinked for a minute, and then shrugged. "Hm."
"Don't hm me, brat!" Momoshiro protested, locking Ryoma into a headlock, "Not cool, not cool at all!" He leaned towards him to inspect those lines closer. "Looks like you got tied up or something. Some kind of a new training menu?"
"It's nothing," Ryoma muttered, shoving Momoshiro away feebly. Momoshiro grinned and ruffled his black hair; Ryoma swatted the hand away.
"Not cute anymore, Echizen," Momoshiro fake-whined, an evil grin pasted on his face, "Suppose that means I won't be buying your lunch today."
Ryoma snapped his head up and glared at Momoshiro. "Momo-senpai, you promised," he grumbled, shoving Momoshiro outside the clubroom. Ryoma's eyes flicked back on his wrist for a brief minute, then let it go.
Momoshiro was about to ask about those scars again, but he bumped into Kaidoh and it went all downhill from there.
"No marks," Ryoma hissed in the shadows, straddling a figure that was too dark to decipher clearly, "I told you, no marks."
The shadow chuckled, and pulled him closer to seal him in a kiss. Ryoma bit those lips in annoyance. He got a slap for his troubles.
"You got careless," the darkness whispered to him, next to his ear as a tongue flicked out and licked him. Ryoma gritted his teeth. "You should have worn a wristband." The other one chuckled again and pulled Ryoma closer. "Undress."
The words, you got careless, could have never been spoken in more mocking tones.
Inui was the next one to notice.
"Echizen. Your neck," he observed, reaching out to skim over a red lash on Ryoma's neck; Ryoma jerked away instinctively, his hands clutching at the said neck. Inui blinked. "Ah, my apologies," he said, straightening out his glasses, "But it seems as if your neck has been infected with something. Bug bites, perhaps?" His tone carried a small tone of disbelief; August was gone after all, and chill was in the air.
Ryoma hesitated for a split second before nodding slightly. "It's nothing," he mumbled, shoving his jersey in his locker and straightening out his uniform tie, not meeting Inui's eye once. "Bye, Inui-senpai."
"Ah," Inui said, his glasses gleaming. He knew too much about his data on Echizen to know that Echizen was lying, 100%.
Still, darkness. He was blindfolded, tied, and gagged. Only his ears could guide him to hear the shuffling of the person next to him. He tried to let out a gasp but none would come out. He strained his wrists, but they only hurt; he hissed as an old wound broke apart on his left wrist. The thick smell of blood seeped through his nostrils.
"I told you, don't move so," murmured a voice, a finger stroking his cheek gently. The digit left a small trail in its wake as it brushed along his blindfold, his cheek, and then his lips. A soft mouth followed after. "You'll only make it worse."
He gave no response.
The person laughed slowly, his hands coming up to untie Ryoma's hands halfway, not entirely loosening the knot, only enough so he could rub out the blood in Ryoma's hands. The blood had already dried, but when the fingers pressed down on the wound, new blood began to flow out slowly. Ryoma bit down on the gag.
"Your fault," the person whispered again, only this time it was more dangerous and silky, his voice making Ryoma shiver slightly, "I told you to not do this again." He flicked a finger toward the vulnerable wound; Ryoma couldn't help but let out a cry, muffled as it was in the gag. Another hand reached up to yank his black hair, fisting the strands tightly. Ryoma sucked in a whimper.
"No sounds," the figure reprimanded, his tone still that dangerously low voice, "Honestly, boy, must we go through the rules over and over? Your metal capabilities clearly need some work."
Ryoma's eyes began to water as the person refused to let go of his hair; lips attached to his neck and he strained back, and the figure took that as an invitation to bite his already bruised neck, licking the red marks Inui had questioned about earlier. His heard his school uniform's buttons popping off and his buckle unclasping, a finger roughly probing his ass, two fingers, and then something too large to be called three. He fainted after his release, but the pounding didn't stop as he slowly blacked out. He forgot how to breathe, and the gag wasn't helping.
No one noticed after that, but that was because on his part, he didn't get careless.
What he failed to see was Fuji's eyes opening slightly as Ryoma missed an easy return during practice. It could happen, he supposed, but not to the freshman known as Echizen Ryoma. He cocked his head to one side and saw Ryoma's legs shaking, ever so slightly, as he ran across the court. Surely not from tennis. Then from what?
The person didn't call him the next night.
Which was perfectly fine. Ryoma knew he wouldn't have, and it only allowed him to sneak down to his kitchen and back to his own bedroom, clutching a sliver blade which gleamed in the moonlight. He closed the door of his room very quietly and sat down on his bed. He tore out those bandages wrapping his wrists and opened up a healed wound with a flick of the knife. The knife adjusted perfectly as it sank into his skin once again, oozing dark red liquid. He hissed, his eyes gleaming. The smell of copper wafted through his room and comforted him.
His cell phone next to him vibrated, but he ignored it. The person could wait; the knife could not. He slashed out another wound and had the pleasure of seeing the drips of blood land on his thigh and dripping down to his knees. He stared at his bloodied hands for a moment, then cleaned himself quietly and went to bed.
One missed call from Atobe Keigo, the cell phone blinked.
"Atobe, you're out of it." Shishido snapped his fingers in front of Keigo. Keigo blinked, and shook his head a little. "Geez, can't a guy get some attention around here? Practice is over."
"Ahn," Keigo replied, his eyes scanning around the courts. "Tell the first years to pick up the balls."
"The coach already did." Shishido rolled his eyes as he yanked Keigo to his feet. "What's up with you today? You've been in the fourth dimension today or something ever since this morning."
Keigo shot an amused glance at Shishido. "Fourth dimensions?"
"His euphemism for lala-land, I suppose," Oshitari pointed out, slinging an arm around his captain; Keigo swatted it away. The three of them climbed up the bleachers not quite side-by-side. "You're not one to talk Ryou; your cute and innocent Choutarou is waiting for you right now. Ah, what young love does to people!" He smirked as he pointed to the tall silver-haired boy a few miles ahead of them. Ootori met Oshitari's eye and grinned sheepishly. Shishido scowled.
"Oh, shut up, you and your fucking meaningless romance," Shishido grumbled, shoving past Oshitari and shooting another glance at Keigo, "But seriously, he's been out of it today. Go tell him to play tennis or something." With that he waved a hasty good bye and ran up to catch up with his doubles-partner-who-really-was-his-boyfriend. Worst kept secret in the world.
"Play tennis, as he says it," Oshitari murmured, "I wonder, Keigo."
"You wonder nothing," Keigo said dryly, "And kindly get off my shoulders. Contrary to what Mukahi might say to you, you are quite heavy."
"You wound me so," Oshitari mourned, his hand still slinging onto Keigo's body determinedly. Keigo shot him an ugly look. "But pray tell me, Ryou does come up with an interesting point. You've been out of it, as he tells it. Something bothering you, captain?"
"No," Keigo said, rolling his eyes, "No, everything in my life is perfectly fine now, thank you, although it would be nice if you—Yuushi, dammit, I'm choking!"
Oshitari laughed, as he released his hold on Keigo. Keigo glared at him as he kicked Oshitari in the knee.
"Such abuse, Keigo," Oshitari drawled, rubbing his knee, "I don't think my poor heart could take it all in."
Keigo ignored him and continued to walk. His cell phone was eerily silent, and it was getting on his nerves.
His hands hurt. He shouldn't be the one to complain, but his wrists ached every time he returned a ball, a serve, or whatever ball Momoshiro threw in his way, He pressed his lips quietly and smacked each receive without any noise.
Momoshiro scratched his head. Return balls, check. Powerful receives, check. All inside the court, check. He couldn't figure out what was wrong then, since Echizen was Echizen all around, but something was missing. His jersey? Nope, there. His racket? Obviously. His smirk? Oh yeah, his smirk! And his cap too, come to think of it, but Momoshiro wasn't going to say something along the lines of "Hey Echizen! Where's that cocky smirk of yours! And your damn hat, too!" That sounded very gay and very un-captain-like. He was going to be captain next year; he really should meet the standards Oishi-buchou set up for him and rub it in Kaidoh's face about how he hadn't been this good in his own middle school captaincy. He frowned a little. But still, a no-smirk Echizen really wasn't Echizen. He decided he would nag about it to his friend later.
"Your serve is off, Momo-senpai," Ryoma deadpanned, his racket twirling around his fingers. "Mada mada da ne."
Momoshiro growled and hit an especially powerful serve for yours truly and didn't get the satisfaction of flying off the handle of Echizen's racket. What was he thinking? Echizen was a cocky little shit as ever.
When practice ended however, Echizen was nowhere to be seen, his uniform still tucked away in his lockers, and that uneasy feeling started to creep up to Momoshiro again.
"You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?"
The voice was an angry one this time, hardly controlled to refine it into a low one, as hands slammed him down onto the car seat. He bit his lips from making a sound.
It wasn't night yet. It wasn't even on the bed. It was inside a car, large it might be, and the seat was hard and cold, and if he could twist his head in the right way, he could see the person looming over him, those eyes flashed with unconcealed anger. He chose not to and closed his eyes instead. The grip on his wrists tightened painfully. He sucked in a breath.
"I leave you alone for a day and you had to go do this—"here Atobe dragged a nail across the fresh wounds, leaving his nail to be coated in red—"this stupid act that you seem to be addicted to no matter what I do to you. What do you suggest we do next, hmm? Bloodplay? Rape?" The last word was followed by his other hand yanking down Ryoma's tennis shorts, and an unprepared finger up his entrance, prodding more roughly than the other night. It was dry, and he never did dry before, but he chose to press his lips all the more tightly and refused to scream.
"I see we've decided to start reviewing our lessons," Atobe drawled, adding in another finger. He closed his eyes tighter and bit his lips so hard that he could taste the familiar copper. "Try not to faint like last time, ahn?"
Ryoma sucked in another breath, feeling his body sweating slightly from the sheer pain he was feeling in his lower regions. He choked back a cry, and bit his mouth harder, only to have his mouth fill up with blood. A trickle of red seeped from the corner of his mouth.
Atobe saw. He stared at Ryoma's face for a moment, and then sighed, withdrawing his fingers gently and releasing his wrists. Ryoma used his aching hands to cover his mouth, preventing the blood from spilling out of the car seat that was filling up his mouth slowly. His body wouldn't stop shaking. Damn his body functions. Atobe rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhausted.
"Honestly," Atobe said tiredly, "You always seem to take this a little further than necessary, don't you think?" He pulled up the younger boy's shorts, as Ryoma was incapable of doing so at the moment, for he was coughing up the rest of the blood out of his mouth. He made him sit up and produced a handkerchief from nowhere and handed it to Ryoma. "Here."
Ryoma mumbled a small thanks and wiped his mouth with it, his eyes downcast and his hair rumpled. Atobe ran his hands through the untangled black locks gently, smoothing out the knots and brushing it until it was an acceptable state.
"You promised," Atobe said, a hint of warning in his voice after Ryoma wiped away any presence of blood.
"I didn't," Ryoma grumbled, flexing his wrists and flinching at the pain, "I was gagged, asshole, how do you know I consented? You weren't supposed to stop," he accused the last part, his head snapping up to glare at Atobe. He raised an eyebrow.
"I wasn't? I didn't know that was part of our agreement. I make all the rules, remember?"
"Yes, and I pinned the first one down: don't stop whatever you do." Ryoma glared at Atobe for a moment longer and sighed, slouching in the car seat. "Whatever. I didn't die from it, did I?"
"You could have."
"I'm careful. I didn't get careless," Ryoma drawled, waving his intact wrists in front of Atobe's face. "See, all fit and sound."
"You obviously have some eye problems as well as some mental ones," Atobe muttered, holding those said wrists and examining them critically, "What did you do, use the kitchen knife? I thought I confiscated the last one."
"Nanako needed it. So I brought another one."
Atobe rolled his eyes. "I might have to just buy the whole lot at the market then."
"The world still needs knives to cook, Keigo," Ryoma snickered, leaning up for a kiss; Atobe made a face but still met him halfway, "And besides, I could always use a razor." Atobe chose not to answer that, the lurking fear of something known as a next time. He pushed the fear out of his mind.
"You taste of blood," Atobe said, wrinkling his nose and pulling away to leave a small kiss on the side of Ryoma's neck instead.
"You said, no sounds," Ryoma remarked dryly even as he tilted his head back, "I aim to please."
Atobe snorted. "No, you aim to be the death of me," he corrected, rubbing his fingers to work on a muscle at the back of Ryoma's neck. Ryoma hummed contently, closing his eyes at the relief.
"You didn't pick up last night," Atobe murmured, his hands not stopping as they worked out on the nerves of Ryoma's back, "From doing this?" He indicated to Ryoma's wrists.
"Mmm." Ryoma rested his head on Atobe's shoulders; Atobe shifted his position to make the both of them comfortable. "Sorry," he added as an afterthought.
"I'm sure," Atobe said sarcastically, but his hands stopped momentarily before they picked up pace again. "You've never fainted before," he continued in a softer voice; Ryoma had to strain to hear it.
He shrugged. "Yeah, well." He really didn't have an answer for that; he really didn't know either, and trying to come up with an answer wasn't going to help. "Are we going to do it tonight?" he asked instead, smirking when Atobe sent him a Look. Not the kinds Tezuka had sent him saying I-am-the-captain-and-you-shall-obey-me look, but the you-are-an-idiot-if-I-ever-saw-one-how-the-hell-do-I-put-up-with-you look. Atobe relented with a frustrated sigh, kicking Ryoma's feet. "If by all means it'll get you to stop slashing your damn wrists at every turn, then yes," he muttered. Ryoma didn't let his smirk grow wider, but he did kick Atobe back. Harder, for good measure.
He was never meant for Seigaku.
Seigaku promised him teammates, warmth and a friendship he was all too unfamiliar with. They asked him of a team's victory, a team's loyalty, and a team's love. He had complied thorough all this in junior high, and had even accepted, and understood (or thought he understood) the mechanisms of Tezuka Kunimistu's brain about the pillars and support. His father brought him to Seigaku in the hopes of trying to change his kid. Put a fire in him, letting it burn. Taking tennis seriously. And he did all this, and understood at the time. He brought Seigaku into nationals and shared that glory of defeating Rikkai, and the cheers were something he heard to this day.
But no, he was never meant to play the blossoming youth passions Seigaku was entitled with. He never had understood Oishi's need for team-bondings and the team family dynamics. Tennis was tennis. It was a game, a competition, not a bubbly drama where people sacrificed their arms and asked him to be in the limelight at the last moment.
He ceased to understand when he was the captain himself, as he saw tried to lead a team not even fit for the regionals. Wonders of all wonders how they even managed to win the fucking Nationals, but Oishi-senpai had been there and blabbing along the lines of 'Tezuka's spirit among us' or some other sort of blasphemy. He just shrugged and agreed to avoid further argument, and he didn't try to scout out the next captain like Tezuka had. He didn't tell anyone to become the next pillar or something. It was something that someone with a lot of responsibility would do, and he was never good at being responsible. Youth passions. Something he never really quite understood.
If he pretended he was crazy enough, he could admit to saying that he was perhaps, meant for Hyotei a bit better. The thought came to him while he was in this crazy-not-quite-so-an-affair with Atobe Keigo. It just struck to him one day, while Keigo had tied him up and was fucking him quite senselessly, that Keigo had never cared how twisted and warped his mind was, he just shrugged and met up to his needs. Would Tezuka have looked away in disgust? Probably; Ryoma wouldn't have put it past him. So would the rest of the Seigaku regulars. They would have asked him what was wrong, tell him to talk about it, anything but hurting himself more, and that they would help him by whatever needs necessary, no matter what, because they were more than teammates, weren't they? Moral gods, the lot of them.
If he had been in Hyotei, he would have just played tennis, and that would have been it. Keigo proved that on numerous occasions. Keigo never said any of that I-care-for-you bullshit, he just gave him what he needed. He saw those slashes on Ryoma's wrists and looked at him quietly, but didn't venture for an explanation. Because he didn't care? Probably not. Keigo just slammed him against the nearest wall and pushed him to his limits, fucked him until he was hoarse from screaming, and carried him to the master bedroom when he was too weak to stand up properly, ordering a hot bath to the maids that he could sink into to relieve his sore body. Keigo joined him, rubbing his back in soothing circles and not saying anything, his eyes carefully blank.
Whatever Ryoma did to himself, it was something he couldn't explain in exact terms, but he couldn't stop. He knew that, and Keigo knew that, and they didn't try to fight the inevitable.
Ryoma was an insane little bastard.
Keigo could have fallen for someone who had normal standards, a normal life, and a normal personality who smiled at him and swooned at how handsome and perfect he was. He could have settled for that. But no, for some cursed, unknown reason, he had to go and fall head over fucking heels for one twisted brat who liked to beat tennis players and shave hair in his daytime and cut down his life in his nighttime.
The sex was good, he could admit to that. That was, the sex was good when they were playing their little games. It was even better when he didn't have Ryoma tied up and was responding mutually, gasping and panting in his ears while those lithe hands roamed along his body. But Ryoma never had much stamina when it came to sex, and Keigo accepted that. He accepted pretty much all of what Ryoma's terms when they started this little "thing."
What the hell was it? They weren't dating, to be exact—they never went outside beyond Keigo's house—but they weren't solely playing S+M either, else Keigo would do more with his liberties. Such as cracking out the brat's brains out until they were void of stupid thoughts such as killing himself, really. Keigo sighed inwardly. That alone led to other dangerous thoughts when he sometimes wished he could strangle the brat himself and be done with it.
Fine, then, where the hell did they stand?
"Keigo?" Ryoma peeked his head out of the bathroom, his hair dripping wet and covered with sods. "Your soap is out."
"You never cared for your cleanliness before," Keigo muttered, before standing up and sauntering over to the bathroom. He plucked a bottle from the cabinet. "Here, use the liquid one." He wagged the little bottle.
Ryoma made a small face before snatching it out of Keigo's grasp. He slammed the door shut again. Keigo rolled his eyes.
Still a kid.
"You're a pervert," Ryoma would have declared. Oh, he would too, when this little stunt was over, but right now all he could do was moan when Keigo traced his hand on his thigh, which had stockings on.
The rough fabric rubbed between his legs, evoking a weird yet sensational feeling. It aroused him, and it really shouldn't, but he was, and damn Keigo and his small smirk for consistently tracing down—fuck him.
He let out another small whimper when Keigo didn't rip off those stocking and continued to just touch him, kiss him, all the while his eyes hidden because the lights were out (as they should be, Ryoma though darkly). There was no gag or knots to tie him up in place, and he was free to writhe however he liked, if only it weren't for the hand entrapping his arms.
"You should cross-dress more often, Ryoma," Keigo told him, amused. He reached out to finger the red ruffles that covered Ryoma's upper thighs. Ryoma glared at him. "It suits you."
Humiliation had always been part of the game, whether he was willing it or not.
"Go to hell—mrppph!" He tried to spit out, but his mouth was covered by Keigo's hand.
"Language, boy," Keigo smirked, his fingers rubbing at Ryoma's lips. Ryoma opened his mouth grudgingly. "Suck," Keigo ordered, and Ryoma complied, fastening his mouth on Keigo's slender digits, and lapping his tongue at them. The fingers moved in and out of his mouth slickly, an anticipation of what was about to come.
It sometimes surprised Ryoma that Keigo could act the thoughtful boyfriend role one moment and the sadistic maniac the next. With his overwhelming arrogance and captain duties to boot.
Keigo's face leaned closer and those fingers were replaced by a hot mouth, tongue invading his senses and numbing his brains. He groaned into the kiss, as he tried to trap Keigo's heat body with his legs, but Keigo twisted away, laughing. Ryoma shivered at the loss of contact.
"Now, tell me what I want to hear," he purred, his voice low and his fingers slick and teasing as they—goddamn, finally—ripped off the black stockings and circled around his hole. Ryoma hissed, bucking up to the touch.
"F—fuck me," he panted, damn all dignity to hell, because in this game he had always succumbed to losing, "Fuck me, fuck—Keigo—"
A small groan escaped Keigo's lips as they crashed with his own mouth again, and he sought eagerly for the hot, wet warmth, letting out another sound when the fingers entered him, stabbing him again and again, and another hand, pumping his own neglected erection roughly. He came almost immediately, and then Keigo entered him, and all he remembered was that he was clutching Keigo's arms as if they were his lifeline and going insane with pleasure.
"Fuck, so tight, Ryoma, Ryoma—" Keigo mumbled, his breath ghosting along Ryoma's neck and nibbling at it as his pounded into him, again and again and all he could think of then was whiteness.
"I hate you."
"I mean it, monkey king. Cross-dressing? Even you can't be that perverted."
"And you're the one to talk. If you don't like it, by all means, offer a suggestion. I'd be happy to oblige."
"You do that too much yourself, so no."
"How is it rape when you're opening your legs and willing?"
"Echizen, don't hit me in my house with my pillow."
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
"Your insults are becoming limited each day." Atobe groaned and plopped to his side to face Ryoma. He was met with a glare. "Well?"
"Well what?" Ryoma snapped.
"Any more innovative suggestions? I'm afraid to say I'm not an expertise in this area, so go home and look it up."
"Hmph." Ryoma thought for a moment, then he let his eyes wander to the torn dress lying down on the floor. "Where did you manage to snag a dress anyway? A hobby of yours?"
Atobe rolled his eyes. "No, I had it ordered in your size. I thought you'd look fetching." A smug look crossed over him. "And I was right. Pity we didn't tie you down. I could have enjoyed foreplay a bit more."
Ryoma sat up from the bed. He stared at Atobe. "You are a pervert," he accused, jabbing a finger on Atobe's chest. Atobe grabbed the offending finger.
"And you're a masochist, but I've learnt to deal with that," he said dryly.
A/N: Yes there's a second chapter for this because I can't just let Seigaku appear for only a measly couple paragraphs and bam! be done with them. Next up is Seigaku's confrontation about said relationship. Judging from my writing, it can't be too good. I have to say, I never was a fan of go!Seigaku and the whole pillar business, so expect to see some bashing and ambitions rolling about next chapter.
And yes, there is a plot. If I wanted a PWP, I would have but…well. You'll see the twisted philosophy behind it soon enough.
Reviews and Criticism are always welcome!
I hope you like this, abhorsen3!