Goya4U

Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis. I don’t have permission to use the characters. I am also not writing this for profit.


Kite Eishirou and goya
request granted…Kite loves his Goya…enough said
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Goya smutt. You’ve been warned”>

The sheets had long ago been tangled up at the foot of his bed. He must have kicked then of sometime during the early stages of sleep. Kite did not like sheets anyway. They were too restrictive. Sheets could be used to tie him down and render him helpless. Besides, he did not like the feel of them against his bare skin. He was still taking advantage of the warmth and sleeping n only want the good lord gave him. It wasn’t like he had a roommate. He also wasn’t so worried about being attacked here at the drop of a hat. And even if he was, Kite was more than capable of fighting and winning, even buck ass naked and sans his glasses. Fighting and winning and then burring. Because no one who saw him with his hair un-styled was allowed to live to tell about it.

Right now though, said dark locks were stuck to his face from a light sheen of perspiration. A sweat not because it was hot. He was used to napping in a hammock in positively sweltering tropical heat. The gentle breeze from his open window was more than enough to cool off any lingering heat of the day while not being so cold as to make Kite uncomfortable. No. This was a different sort of sweat. It was the sort that came when he came across a good fight or a hard tennis match against a worthy opponent. It was the sort that came from the feeling of his blood starting to boil and his passions running astray, thwarting both his politeness and his self-control. It was the sort that came from thoughts and dreams that only came in the middle of the night, when his guard was completely down and his normally tense body was finally at rest. It was the proof, that in the dead of the night, the Okinawan was still a hormonal teenaged boy like any other.

Whatever it was that Kite was dreaming, it had to have been very stimulating. That was evident in the throaty little growls he was making in his sleep and by the fact that he had grown hard. His breathing became erratic and for a moment or to, he writhed against the bed, trying to keep from suddenly jarring awake. It was not to be. Even now, years of denial and almost masochistic self-control jerked him from the dream he had been partaking in. Those same years quickly blanked out the other who had starred in that little love drama his sleeping mind had been playing at.

For a moment after he woke, Kite just lay there, trying to ignore the incessant nagging hardness between his legs. He glared blearily at the ceiling, despite the fact that he knew inanimate objects had yet to be affected by his infamous death glares. And despite the fact that death glares didn’t look half as intimidating with him squinting. He just didn’t need to reach over and fumble for his glasses just so he could give the ceiling a proper stare down. Besides, that wasn’t doing anything to make his nagging problem go away. He knew he’d not be able to sleep at all, if it did not go away soon. He was just too disciplined to reach down and take care of it himself. He was a martial artist. He was supposed to have power over his desires.

He had to think of something…Anything. Get his mind off of it. Deny himself once again the simple pleasure in life, just so that he could prove that he was in control over his body and all it’s baser functions and not the other way around. Anything at all that couldn’t be twisted by his sex addled brain. Something safe and completely impervious to perversion. Something good and wholesome… something like Goya. Yes. goya was safe. Surely, surely even in this state, he’d not be tempted…

He stood but did not bother to pick up his glasses or even attempt to slick back his hair nor pick up a sheet to hide himself. He didn’t feel he needed to do anything like that. This was his room and he could be as disheveled and unfashionable as he wanted to be at a quarter past midnight with a raging hard on that would just not go away. In fact, it was just getting worse. The movement and the slight breeze had gotten him to the point where it was actually painful. Each new step he took was a new shot of agony coming straight from straining and neglected regions on his body. Each time he crossed the floor, passing about like a caged animal, he gritted his teeth even more. He could ignore it. He was stronger than this. Physical relief was a crutch…

He needed a distraction. He needed one before he went insane and allowed the baser instincts take over. Instincts that had made a mockery of both martial arts and tennis when he had lowered himself to the normal dirty tactics Higa often employed. He refused. Utterly refused to ever sink that low again, out there, or in here by himself. His steps brought him to the window and to the small box of goya left from his little taste test.

He bent over, ignoring the fact that the shifting made the strain that much worse. He needed something to get his mind off of it. Checking his collection of the so called nastiest vegetables in the world for freshness in the dead of the night was the only thing his addled brain could come up with. But even that was hard to concentrate upon. Though he might not have remembered the key player in the dream for superhuman effort of trying to forget, he could still hear those enticing words.

Touch me there, Eichirou. Please. Please I can’t… Rough fingertips slid upon the thick bumpy surface of one of the larger pants in a rather enticing pattern. There was a dangerous smirk on his lips. Of course they couldn’t. Not with their wrists tied above their heads with the softest silk he could get his hands on. More. Once more Kite’s breathing had quickened. Once more he could feel his blood starting to warm. His hand wrapped about the thick green gourd and stated to stroke there, almost teasingly. Lazily torturing the object as he had tortured the body in his dreams. Slowly, expertly taking them right to the edge of endurance and then back off.

“Beg me for it.” His voice was a dangerous thrumming purr. He’d not even realized he’d said it out loud…Said it to the bitter vegetable he had hoped would be a distraction, not a stimulation. The goya would not beg though, no matter how much he might fondle and touch it. The goya didn’t writhe about helpless, pinned under him. The goya didn’t feel half as good in his hand as dream flesh had. As real flesh did. Kite had to bite the inside of his cheek to force himself away. Damnit. He wasn’t that desperate. He wasn’t that hard up. He wasn’t that pathetically weak and needy that he beat off to Goya in his own hand and the thought of wet dreams on his mind. The sudden coppery taste of blood did not help any at all. It made all his senses flair and his passion double. There was no stopping now. The pain would only be pleasure now. His pain…the goya’s pain…the pain of being so close in that blurred out face of the one in the dream he was replaying. He’d lost it. He’d lost control.

His tongue snaked over the green exterior even as the voice in his head was calling out is name in feeble ecstasy, begging him. Pleading. Calling his name again in again in sweet, addictive passion. The vegetable went past talented lips, trying to coax something that would never happen. His other hand was merciless upon himself. Swift punishment for losing hold of himself so easily to this. No dignity. Just animal lust and instinct and need. A bitter taste hit his tongue as he killed and licked and nibbled at the raw plant. Head tilted forwards to get the best angle, not caring about the hair in his eyes, framing his face. A soft hint of seduction for a hard man.

He jerked a moment and the vegetable fell from suddenly numbered fingers. His knees buckled and Kite stumbled a moment before coming to rest in a nearby chair. Blurry vision took in suddenly sticky fingers. The goya lay on the floor, forgotten. His blood was rapidity cooling, leaving him cold. But even more cold was his heart. Kite sat back and once again glared up at the ceiling. He knew he needed to take a shower to wash the smell of sex off of himself, but he did not want to move yet. He was too relaxed now, and a bit sleepy. He was also quite a bit disappointed in himself. He’d lost a battle against his own passions. How was he ever going to keep control of a handful of equally passionate martial artist if he couldn’t even keep control of himself in the dead of the night?

When finally his stood again, Kite had recomposed his gruff look. He used his clean hand to slick back his sweat soaked hair, though he doubted anyone would be up at that hour. A towel went about his middle and he started towards where he should have probably gone it the first place. He was going to start his frankly masochistic training regimen earlier than expected. He was going to take the first of what would probably be very many very freezing cold showers. He’d deal with the Goya he had been so affectionate with in the morning.