fic: want you to want me
title: want you to want me
pairing: marat safin/juan carlos ferrero
rating: r
disclaimer: fiction
takes place during the barcelona masters in 2000
for slyreflection's prompt sexual tension
This is different for Marat - not getting his way.
He knows on court nothing will ever come easy, doesn’t expect it to and that is why he puts in long hours and strenuous effort. Slams and titles will never just lay at his feet but he is determined to win as much and as many as he can. However when the court falls away and the rules of society comes back into focus, Marat isn’t going to deny that he likes a little fun; mostly because he gets his way. He’s good looking - more so than others - and knows how to exploit this. Flirting comes naturally. His charm is easy and carefree, a little on the wild side and that just adds to the appeal. As soon as he lays his eyes on a woman or man he knows they will be leaving with him at the end of the night despite the resistance some may futilely put up.
Juan Carlos though is entirely... different. He still gives him attention, still tilts his head, laughs accordingly, and smiles easily at anything the Russian says. He flirts back. Which isn’t new or different than the others Marat sets his sights on. It’s the fact that nothing has come out of it, that he resists Marat when it comes down to what really matters. He won’t give in, won’t let Marat play with his body and mind like he does with so many others.
It turns on Marat that much more.
{*}
Juan Carlos is drunk. He had wanted nothing more than to win especially in his home country where he wears his heart on his sleeve. His team tells him to take solace in the fact that he made the finals, that he’s the runner up and it means something. But he can’t. He can only imagine the feeling of hoisting up the winner’s trophy in front of his people. It hurts. Too much.
“There you are.”
There’s a heavy weight on his shoulders, a warm breath on the shell of his ear. Juan Carlos turns with a drunk and happy smile on his lips to see Marat - the man that is the reason why he’s drowning in his sorrows. He doesn’t say anything, just raises his shot glass in salute before knocking it back.
Juan Carlos is a small man but that doesn’t mean he’s one for limitations. He has lost count of how much alcohol he has consumed a long time ago (though he really isn’t keeping tabs) but it doesn’t matter because Marat is sitting next to him, the smell of his shampoo strong in his nostrils.
Settling his free hand on Juan Carlos’ thigh, Marat inches closer. “Buy you another?”
His voice is low and gravelly, the epitome of sex and Juan Carlos’s eyes slip shut for a moment.
“Take me up to my room?”
Marat nods before sliding his hands under the drunken man’s arms and helps him out of the hotel bar. He’s not stupid and uses this opportunity to press their bodies close - very close - together. A hand settles on the small of Juan Carlos’ back nonchalantly, while the other curls protectively around a slim shoulder.
It doesn’t take long to get them to the room. Juan Carlos is happily singing a song his mother used to sing when he was younger, his head now comfortably against Marat’s larger body. Marat places him on the bed and laughs when the younger man just flops onto his back. The sound however has Juan Carlos motioning for the Russian to come over.
Marat climbs onto the mattress, laying flat on his back next to Juan Carlos, all the while being hyper aware of their arms touching. They don’t say anything; Juan Carlos’ relaxed breathing is the only sound that floats around them.
Picturing how to approach this exactly, Marat seems himself turning onto his side before placing his hand on the Spaniard’s cheek. He would then give Juan Carlos a second to pull away if he chooses to before kissing him the only way Marat knows how. From that point on... well the sky’s the limit.
Implementing the first step, Marat is met with resistance and surprise as Juan Carlos rolls himself on top of the bigger man, straddling his hips and not wasting a second to press their lips together. Shock fills Marat for a quick moment before he realizes he has Juan Carlos on top of him, pressing their hardening lengths together, moaning wantonly into his mouth. Marat reasons that he can he stunned some other time.
Juan Carlos moans against his lips when Marat slips a hand into the back of his jeans, sliding a finger down his crease. Consequently, the Spaniard writhes against him, grinding their cocks together. It’s too much yet not enough all at once.
Of all the women he has had - men too - nobody has every piqued his interest like Juan Carlos. Nobody has ever turned down Marat, never not paid him any attention and instead of outright angering him, he’s never wanted someone as he does in this moment with the Spaniard’s arching against him, moaning against his lips, his mouth tasting of tequila and lime.
Marat slides his fingers up and under Juan Carlos’ shirt effectively pushing the material away from the body he has craved for what seems like ages. When he moves his lips from Juan Carlos’ to the column of his throat, he feels the skin underneath his lips jump with a hitch of a breath. Fingers are in his hair and the fact that Juan Carlos isn’t passive at all (especially being drunk) has Marat pulling back to shed his own clothes hastily.
Once he has them both completely bare, Marat climbs back on top and kisses Juan Carlos with everything he has, carnal lust getting the better of him. It isn’t chaste at all. Teeth nip and bite, promising to leave bruises for the next few days to follow. It’s desperate. It’s needy. And it’s completely them.
Marat wraps his fist around both of their hard lengths and begins to stroke. The reaction it causes is heady. Juan Carlos gasps against his mouth, his hips bucking up into the touch. There’s a stream of words but Marat can’t hear any of it, not over the sound of his heart pacing in his ears.
It isn’t until Juan Carlos puts a hand on his chest and pushes lightly does Marat hear him.
“Fuck me.”
This time it is Marat who can’t contain a moan. His eyes flutter shut before snapping open again when he feels a finger tracing a nipple. Juan Carlos is looking up at him, his eyes glazed over by intoxication and lust, a tiny smirk curling the corner of his lips. Breathing deeply, Marat slams his arms against the mattress before stealing a forceful kiss.
“Don’t move.”
Hastily, Marat gets up and goes in search of something he can use as lubricant, retrieving the condom he keeps in his wallet on the way. He all but turns the bathroom upside down before successfully finding the complementary bottle of lotion. It’ll work.
Giving his cock a few strokes on his way back, Marat pictures exactly how he wants this to go: Juan Carlos spread out underneath him, hard and tight. He breathes in, attempting to calm himself down just a little. He’s wanted this far too long to have it end all so quickly and lack lustrously.
Smiling at the sight of Juan Carlos laid out on the bed, Marat climbs on top and crawls his way to the Spaniard. However when he reaches him, Marat clenches his jaw.
Juan Carlos softly snores, his face content and peaceful. A thought floats through Marat’s mind for a split second to smack him awake but the rational part in him decides against it. Instead he settles on the unoccupied side of the mattress, tosses the condom aside and pops open the cap to the lotion.
He sighs. This isn’t exactly how he had pictured the ending to this night.
pairing: marat safin/juan carlos ferrero
rating: r
disclaimer: fiction
takes place during the barcelona masters in 2000
for slyreflection's prompt sexual tension
This is different for Marat - not getting his way.
He knows on court nothing will ever come easy, doesn’t expect it to and that is why he puts in long hours and strenuous effort. Slams and titles will never just lay at his feet but he is determined to win as much and as many as he can. However when the court falls away and the rules of society comes back into focus, Marat isn’t going to deny that he likes a little fun; mostly because he gets his way. He’s good looking - more so than others - and knows how to exploit this. Flirting comes naturally. His charm is easy and carefree, a little on the wild side and that just adds to the appeal. As soon as he lays his eyes on a woman or man he knows they will be leaving with him at the end of the night despite the resistance some may futilely put up.
Juan Carlos though is entirely... different. He still gives him attention, still tilts his head, laughs accordingly, and smiles easily at anything the Russian says. He flirts back. Which isn’t new or different than the others Marat sets his sights on. It’s the fact that nothing has come out of it, that he resists Marat when it comes down to what really matters. He won’t give in, won’t let Marat play with his body and mind like he does with so many others.
It turns on Marat that much more.
{*}
Juan Carlos is drunk. He had wanted nothing more than to win especially in his home country where he wears his heart on his sleeve. His team tells him to take solace in the fact that he made the finals, that he’s the runner up and it means something. But he can’t. He can only imagine the feeling of hoisting up the winner’s trophy in front of his people. It hurts. Too much.
“There you are.”
There’s a heavy weight on his shoulders, a warm breath on the shell of his ear. Juan Carlos turns with a drunk and happy smile on his lips to see Marat - the man that is the reason why he’s drowning in his sorrows. He doesn’t say anything, just raises his shot glass in salute before knocking it back.
Juan Carlos is a small man but that doesn’t mean he’s one for limitations. He has lost count of how much alcohol he has consumed a long time ago (though he really isn’t keeping tabs) but it doesn’t matter because Marat is sitting next to him, the smell of his shampoo strong in his nostrils.
Settling his free hand on Juan Carlos’ thigh, Marat inches closer. “Buy you another?”
His voice is low and gravelly, the epitome of sex and Juan Carlos’s eyes slip shut for a moment.
“Take me up to my room?”
Marat nods before sliding his hands under the drunken man’s arms and helps him out of the hotel bar. He’s not stupid and uses this opportunity to press their bodies close - very close - together. A hand settles on the small of Juan Carlos’ back nonchalantly, while the other curls protectively around a slim shoulder.
It doesn’t take long to get them to the room. Juan Carlos is happily singing a song his mother used to sing when he was younger, his head now comfortably against Marat’s larger body. Marat places him on the bed and laughs when the younger man just flops onto his back. The sound however has Juan Carlos motioning for the Russian to come over.
Marat climbs onto the mattress, laying flat on his back next to Juan Carlos, all the while being hyper aware of their arms touching. They don’t say anything; Juan Carlos’ relaxed breathing is the only sound that floats around them.
Picturing how to approach this exactly, Marat seems himself turning onto his side before placing his hand on the Spaniard’s cheek. He would then give Juan Carlos a second to pull away if he chooses to before kissing him the only way Marat knows how. From that point on... well the sky’s the limit.
Implementing the first step, Marat is met with resistance and surprise as Juan Carlos rolls himself on top of the bigger man, straddling his hips and not wasting a second to press their lips together. Shock fills Marat for a quick moment before he realizes he has Juan Carlos on top of him, pressing their hardening lengths together, moaning wantonly into his mouth. Marat reasons that he can he stunned some other time.
Juan Carlos moans against his lips when Marat slips a hand into the back of his jeans, sliding a finger down his crease. Consequently, the Spaniard writhes against him, grinding their cocks together. It’s too much yet not enough all at once.
Of all the women he has had - men too - nobody has every piqued his interest like Juan Carlos. Nobody has ever turned down Marat, never not paid him any attention and instead of outright angering him, he’s never wanted someone as he does in this moment with the Spaniard’s arching against him, moaning against his lips, his mouth tasting of tequila and lime.
Marat slides his fingers up and under Juan Carlos’ shirt effectively pushing the material away from the body he has craved for what seems like ages. When he moves his lips from Juan Carlos’ to the column of his throat, he feels the skin underneath his lips jump with a hitch of a breath. Fingers are in his hair and the fact that Juan Carlos isn’t passive at all (especially being drunk) has Marat pulling back to shed his own clothes hastily.
Once he has them both completely bare, Marat climbs back on top and kisses Juan Carlos with everything he has, carnal lust getting the better of him. It isn’t chaste at all. Teeth nip and bite, promising to leave bruises for the next few days to follow. It’s desperate. It’s needy. And it’s completely them.
Marat wraps his fist around both of their hard lengths and begins to stroke. The reaction it causes is heady. Juan Carlos gasps against his mouth, his hips bucking up into the touch. There’s a stream of words but Marat can’t hear any of it, not over the sound of his heart pacing in his ears.
It isn’t until Juan Carlos puts a hand on his chest and pushes lightly does Marat hear him.
“Fuck me.”
This time it is Marat who can’t contain a moan. His eyes flutter shut before snapping open again when he feels a finger tracing a nipple. Juan Carlos is looking up at him, his eyes glazed over by intoxication and lust, a tiny smirk curling the corner of his lips. Breathing deeply, Marat slams his arms against the mattress before stealing a forceful kiss.
“Don’t move.”
Hastily, Marat gets up and goes in search of something he can use as lubricant, retrieving the condom he keeps in his wallet on the way. He all but turns the bathroom upside down before successfully finding the complementary bottle of lotion. It’ll work.
Giving his cock a few strokes on his way back, Marat pictures exactly how he wants this to go: Juan Carlos spread out underneath him, hard and tight. He breathes in, attempting to calm himself down just a little. He’s wanted this far too long to have it end all so quickly and lack lustrously.
Smiling at the sight of Juan Carlos laid out on the bed, Marat climbs on top and crawls his way to the Spaniard. However when he reaches him, Marat clenches his jaw.
Juan Carlos softly snores, his face content and peaceful. A thought floats through Marat’s mind for a split second to smack him awake but the rational part in him decides against it. Instead he settles on the unoccupied side of the mattress, tosses the condom aside and pops open the cap to the lotion.
He sighs. This isn’t exactly how he had pictured the ending to this night.