Ship: Shiraishi/Kirihara Fandom: Prince of Tennis Major Tags: tags omitted Other Tags: tags omitted Word Count: 458
I am so weak for junkie fic, yikes. Warnings for drugs (OBVIOUSLY), sexual exploitation, uneven power dynamics, unhealthy relationships.
***
Ecstasy’s a mild pill, as far as drugs go. Shiraishi always tells that to nervous new-comers. There’s no chemical addiction in the brain, there’s no permanent damage as long as you use it safely.
You don’t need that speech. You haven’t needed it for months now.
“Kirihara,” he says with that slow smile he reserves for his special customers. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to. Just having him address you is the precursor to a high; like Pavlov’s dog, you respond to the sound of his voice with a jolt of excitement.
“Shiraishi,” you answer with a smile, hips canted slightly to the side. “Spot me a pill?”
His smile disappears. “No credit, Kirihara. You know the rules.”
Your pout is genuine as you lean in and nuzzle your cheek against his jacket. “Not even for your angel?”
“If I started giving you freebies, all my other regulars would want one,” he points out reasonably and you feel your good mood start to disappear.
(Ecstasy isn’t addictive, you remind yourself. Just because you like that high, the sensation of being out of yourself and so relaxed, doesn’t mean you’re psychologically addicted. It’s no different to people who like a few drinks to calm down.)
“I won’t tell anyone,” you promise, resisting the temptation to sneak your fingers into the jacket pocket where you know the little baggies of pills rest. “Please, Shiraishi? Just this once? I’ll pay you back on Friday when I get my prize winnings.”
He shakes his head and you bite your lip in vexation. Is there anything on you that you could trade for a hit? It’s not like he needs another coat. You don’t wear jewelry and you can’t part with your phone.
His thumb runs over your lower lip and you relax into the touch automatically before realizing how odd it is. When you tilt your head up and look at him, his eyes are a little darker and his gaze is fixed on your mouth.
Oh. Maybe you do have something you can trade after all.
Something flutters in your stomach, dying butterflies tangling together, and you swallow hard. You wet your lips, then nip at his thumb, trying to suck at the tip of it. His skin tastes like salt and grime, blunt nail tip scraping at your tongue.
“Could we work out a trade?” You ask, pitching your voice low and rough, and he laughs.
“I’ll decide how it much it’s worth,” he says, hand slipping from your mouth to your shoulders to push you down. You go willingly, dropping to your knees and looking up at him through lowered eyelids.
“Sure,” you agree. “Long as you give me as much Ecstasy as I give you.”
FILL: Team The Prince of Tennis, M
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Major Tags: tags omitted
Other Tags: tags omitted
Word Count: 458
I am so weak for junkie fic, yikes. Warnings for drugs (OBVIOUSLY), sexual exploitation, uneven power dynamics, unhealthy relationships.
***
Ecstasy’s a mild pill, as far as drugs go. Shiraishi always tells that to nervous new-comers. There’s no chemical addiction in the brain, there’s no permanent damage as long as you use it safely.
You don’t need that speech. You haven’t needed it for months now.
“Kirihara,” he says with that slow smile he reserves for his special customers. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to. Just having him address you is the precursor to a high; like Pavlov’s dog, you respond to the sound of his voice with a jolt of excitement.
“Shiraishi,” you answer with a smile, hips canted slightly to the side. “Spot me a pill?”
His smile disappears. “No credit, Kirihara. You know the rules.”
Your pout is genuine as you lean in and nuzzle your cheek against his jacket. “Not even for your angel?”
“If I started giving you freebies, all my other regulars would want one,” he points out reasonably and you feel your good mood start to disappear.
(Ecstasy isn’t addictive, you remind yourself. Just because you like that high, the sensation of being out of yourself and so relaxed, doesn’t mean you’re psychologically addicted. It’s no different to people who like a few drinks to calm down.)
“I won’t tell anyone,” you promise, resisting the temptation to sneak your fingers into the jacket pocket where you know the little baggies of pills rest. “Please, Shiraishi? Just this once? I’ll pay you back on Friday when I get my prize winnings.”
He shakes his head and you bite your lip in vexation. Is there anything on you that you could trade for a hit? It’s not like he needs another coat. You don’t wear jewelry and you can’t part with your phone.
His thumb runs over your lower lip and you relax into the touch automatically before realizing how odd it is. When you tilt your head up and look at him, his eyes are a little darker and his gaze is fixed on your mouth.
Oh. Maybe you do have something you can trade after all.
Something flutters in your stomach, dying butterflies tangling together, and you swallow hard. You wet your lips, then nip at his thumb, trying to suck at the tip of it. His skin tastes like salt and grime, blunt nail tip scraping at your tongue.
“Could we work out a trade?” You ask, pitching your voice low and rough, and he laughs.
“I’ll decide how it much it’s worth,” he says, hand slipping from your mouth to your shoulders to push you down. You go willingly, dropping to your knees and looking up at him through lowered eyelids.
“Sure,” you agree. “Long as you give me as much Ecstasy as I give you.”