Greece

Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis (Tennis no Ohjisama), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Greece

Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Coach Saotome/Kite
Warning: this story contains themes and happenings that are NOT suitable to minors. This fic contains graphic and brutal Non-con. You have been warned


Saotome Hiromi was a big believer in Spartan Training. Not the weak, open handed training that some seemed to claim. Not throwing balls at a player until they dried. Not slapping them. No. He believed in true Spartan training. He had always been enamored by those strongest of warriors. He loved their prowess on the battle field. He studied their tactics and he embraced their techniques. Because tennis was not a game. It was not a sport. It was not fun. Tennis was war. The court was the battle field. The ball and the racket were weapons. And the players. The players were his soldiers. Strong, certain, brutal. And loyal. Loyal to a fault to their general. He had never seen a tennis player that he could not mold through his training. There had not been one boy who had not come out of the training weak. They came out strong and they came out obedient. They followed orders and they did as they were told. They won or they lost at his word. They attacked and destroyed at his mere gesture. He was their general. He was Caesar before the gladiators.

He had sent teams to great heights through his training. By his smallest gesture they sent other generals…line coaches, other players, to the hospital with bleeding and concussion. They would all go on toe great things. But they would never forget him. They would see him again, months, years from now, and they would still be his. His mindless obedient soldiers, waiting eagerly for his next order as if it were the world of god unto them. It had always been that way. It would always be that way. And the power was intoxicating. It was the kid of power that made him hard.

There had never been a boy who could not break. Never. Not until he came to coach on the islands of Okinawa. He had coached in many other areas. And when he came to Higa Chuu, he had been beset by a loss record the likes he hadn’t seen in a very long time. Their tennis had not been seen in a championship in over 20 years. It was weak and pathetic tennis. It needed to be altered. Changed. Molded. He kept only the best and discarded the rest. Throwing old pathetic regulars to the wolves in order to build himself a warrior team to fight his war on the clay. But even they were weak. Not warriors. Just little boys who wanted to have fun.

But then, the boy came. He swept in like a tsuanmi. Polite…almost too polite, as if he was insulting Saotome. Slender and strong. Attractive with his carefully swept hair and his fashionable glasses. He had thought nothing of such a young man. Higa had no warriors. They had only weakness. And then the boy had played. He had picked up a racket and Saotome had felt that desire. Hard and heavy against his thigh. This…this was a warrior, hidden under the calm. A volcano of passion and strength and fire. He seized that dark horse that had entered the race and knew…this would be his warrior. His loyal, obedient fighter. And with the fighter soon came others.

Kite brought others. No one else played tennis. But they were all fighters. Each one did martial arts. Each one was strong and steady and powerful. Each one was worthy of the name of Spartan and Saotome would look forward to molding these boys into his weapons each and every practice. But he had never accounted for the challenge.

No boy had ever challenge him. No boy had dared look him in the eye and snarl into his face. No boy had ever treated him as if he was just there for show and nothing more. No boy but that slender, strong, attractive captain. He couldn’t have it. He wouldn’t have it. He had the power here. Not the captain. He was the coach. He was the general. And the boy would learn it. The boy would learn his place in the hierarchy. The boy was strong, but Saotome would make him stronger. Saotome would make him invincible. Saotome would make him obey. He would break the captain as he had broken every other boy who had come his way. And the idea of doing so brought him nothing but the deepest pleasure.

Each blow of the shinai against the boy’s back was a thrill to him. Harder than he had ever hit anyone before. Because Kite was a martial artist. He could take a blow. The stoic silence. The boy would never cry out. Even when strike broke skin and his nostrils were filled with the smell of sweat and blood and his own arousal. The boy never flinched. He never cried. He just adjusted his glasses, smirked and returned to what he had been doing…even if that had been the exact thing Saotome had been punishing him over.

Kite did what he wanted. He played how he wanted. He was brutal on the court. He won the name Hitman. Ace killer. But it had not been Saotome’s doing. And Kite took no little pleasure in reminding the coach in little ways that it was his own talent and not the coach. He took pleasure if being a better leader, a better friend to his fellow teammates. It was weakness. And Saotome would not have that. The boy needed broken so that he could be rebuilt the way Saotome desired. He knew how. It was just as the Spartans did to their boys. Just as those strongest of warriors. All it took was a strike of the shinai to the side of the temple as hard as he could swing when no one was around to defend. Taking advantage of the megane weakness…taking advantage of poor peripheral vision. The boy who never tripped; Never fell. The boy with the inhuman since of balance; he fell, crumpled to the dirt.

He took time to bind the boy. Because Kite was too dangerous to keep free when he came too. And as much as he would have loved to, this was a lesson he had to give this captain while he was conscious. He had to teach the other the cost of being disobedient. Of stealing away his warriors and making himself their general instead. There was no leader but him. The boy would learn that. He waited. Waited until those dark eyes opened. He wanted for the snarl. He watched the boy struggle against his ropes. Tied so tight there would be bruises. He felt himself hardening at the threats. Because he knew there were pointless. This, his warrior was powerless before him. Defiant to the last. Defiant even after Saotome grabbed that perfectly styled hair and slammed the boy’s head down into the hard floor. Once…Twice…As many times as it took until that hair was messy. So sexy with messy hair. Until the boy could no longer make threats.

He took the shinai he always used on the boys and let the tip of it touch the boy’s back. Then he struck. Again…Again. Harder, faster. Cry out…break…conform. Obey. Blood and pain but nothing. Just a defiant mouth and a killing gaze. Saotome dropped the sword and went behind the boy. Large hand over the swell of ass. Displayed so beautifully in those pants….Those sexy sinful pants. They left nothing to the imagination…Not that he needed it because he was going to see it all.

Finally, a sound from his captive captain as he ripped the pants away leaving the boy bare. Not from the humiliation, but for the pants. Cool and confident and detached. A true warrior even now. No lube. Who needed lube when he had blood. And finally…what he wanted. A cry of pain from the boy. Each trust into that warm, torn body. Pleasure for him and pain for the other. It was beautiful and perfect and he could feel it. The way the boy was shattering under him. Under his weight and his thrusting. Under the feel of lips against his neck. A harsh hand in his hair. Saotome climaxed, still inside and pulled out to watch the beauty of the blood and his passion seeping out as the boy lay on the floor shoulders shaking. Sobbing? Was the boy sobbing? Yes…he had done it. He had broken his warrior. The boy would do what he wanted now…

He cut the ropes and started away. “Let that be a lesson to you…” He purred.

But he froze at the sound before he shut the door to the locker room. It was not a sob. It had been a laugh. Kite was laughing at him. Bleeding, broken…and laughing. Even as he lay there, hurt and humiliated. “Is that…the best you can do? You…are…weak…” Saotome had to slam the door to hide the fear in his own eyes and the look Kite had given him… Some boys, he supposed…were beyond Spartans. Some of them…were gods of death.