it's tennis
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When Gale smashes a backhand, and Egan lunges for it, but the quick bounce spins it just past his racket, he stumbles, catches himself on his hands with his racket clattering against the hard court, and he starts laughing, wet and winded—laughing still as he straightens up, cheeks reddened, glistening under the sun. He scrubs the back of his wrist, his black sweatband, over his forehead.
“See? You love it when I make your dad mad.”
“Egan,” Gale warns, but all the authority is lost in his panting. Egan wipes his forehead again, racket tapping his thigh.
“Missed playing with you, Buck.”
“We played two weeks ago, in Cincinnati. C’mon, still your serve.”
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Gale meets John Egan at a Challenger in Bordeaux when they're both 19 years old. After that, he can't seem to shake him. But what's more is, despite what his dad says about Gale's game, and what the commentators say about their rivalry, and what he's been told about tennis his whole life, Gale doesn't think he wants to.
a Buck/Bucky tennis AU
Series
- Part 1 of it's tennis
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“You wanted it so bad,” John is murmuring, not kissing Gale’s neck but doing everything else to it, inhaling and scraping teeth and licking. “It’s such a fucking rush, how much you want to wreck me. Were you thinking about what I’d give you if you did? Were you thinking about the reward?”
“Tournament’s not over yet,” Gale manages to grit out, every word husky and raw, but his palms are flat on the tiles, bracing as John manhandles him, and the feel of John’s hardened cock grinding firm into his ass through layers of fabric—
“You know I hate losin’,” John breathes into Gale’s jaw, mouthing and nipping, hand moving from Gale’s cock to the waistband of his shorts and gripping in. “What do y’ do me, Gale?"
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After beating John Egan in the quarter finals of the Paris Masters, Gale meets up with him in the locker room.
a Buck/Bucky tennis AU interlude
Series
- Part 2 of it's tennis
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“Are you scoping out the competition for your boy?”
Marge wrinkles her nose, leaning forward to rest her own arms on her crossed knee. It could be rude, the way they’re talking past at least four other people who are just here to watch the match, but there are still around fifteen minutes before gameplay is supposed to start, and after that—well, it’s Wimbledon. They won’t have any choice but silence; breathing too loud is frowned upon.
“He’s not my boy. I’m just here to watch some tennis.”
“Funny coincidence. I’m here to watch some tennis, too.” She gives Marge a look that simmers with a laugh, crystalline eyes glinting and mouth twitching at the corners, and Marge remembers what Sandra had told her about Harry Crosby another time they had run into each other at a tournament.
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a story from the love means nothing (in tennis) universe
Series
- Part 3 of it's tennis