(no subject)
Just a Feeling
by xerricara
It all started in Cincinnati.
The previous week, Marc had inadvertently gone on court with the tag still attached to his brand-new shirt. When he'd asked Marcel to take it out he'd used his teeth, which not only kept everyone waiting but caused Marc to squirm at the caress of Marcel's breath against the back of his neck. When Marc had complained about this after the match, Marcel had retorted that it wouldn't have happened if Marc had organised his match clothes properly.
Consequently, Marc had agreed to let Marcel take charge of this in future.
It seemed a reasonable thing to do. Marcel was always very keen matching their clothes as much as possible ('It makes us look like a real team'), despite their wearing different brands and, coupled with the superstitions that he carried around his own clothes, it made sense to minimise his fussing and let him deal with it all.
Except… it wasn't quite as straightforward as that.
Their first match was fine but, as he got ready for their quarter-final, Marc noticed that his shirt didn't quite fit.
'I think this shirt's too small, it feels ever so tight'
Marcel looked up from where he was carefully matching his socks the exact same length up his shins and shrugged nonchalantly. 'It looks fine to me.'
Marc gave a couple of experimental wriggles and shook his head.
'No, it's definitely too small, they must have sent the wrong size. Where are the others? I'll change it.'
When some serious rummaging unearthed not a single spare shirt, Marc looked at Marcel in exasperation.
'Marcel? I thought you were packing our bags! There aren't any other shirts in here!'
'Oh, aren't there? I must have forgotten, sorry.'
He looked so crestfallen that Marc couldn't be mad at him. Instead, he determined to eat a bit less ice cream that week and followed Marcel out onto the court.
During the warm-up, however, it became clear to Marc that his shirt was definitely tighter than normal. It felt restrictive, especially when he was reaching for a shot, but he knew that he was stuck with it for the match.
What he was going to have to do, he decided, was stretch it.
So, to the amusement of the crowd and his opponents, he spent the rest of the warm-up tugging at his shirt.
The contortions this involved ranged from putting his elbows inside his sleeves and stretching it laterally, to crouching down and pulling it over his knees to stretch it in every direction. But, by the time he was finished, his shirt felt better, and they were able to win their match.
Moreover, Marcel seemed to enjoy the spectacle too. In fact, he enjoyed it so much that he couldn't even wait to get back to their hotel, but led Marc through the grounds to an overgrown maintenance shed where he proceeded to show Marc in no uncertain terms just how much he'd appreciated all Marc's writhing and squirming. Marc was amazed at how forceful he was about it and concluded that, all things considered, no harm had been done.
Until it happened again. And again.
Exactly the same thing, each time: from the tight shirt, to the wriggling, to Marcel dragging them off to secluded spots in the grounds and being uncharacteristically dominant.
It was no wonder Marc couldn't concentrate during the final.
They had a week off before the US Open, and Marc resolved to use this opportunity to ensure he got match clothes that that fit. Partway through a day's sightseeing, he diverted them to Niketown.
'What… what are we doing?' Marcel's confusion was palpable, and Marc patted his arm reassuringly.
'Don't worry, nano, we'll go straight to the zoo after, you'll get to see the penguins soon. I just want to check sizings for my clothes order for the US Open: I want shirts that fit this time!'
'Ohhh.' Marcel shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, and Marc tutted at him.
'I said you should have visited the little boys' room before we left Carnegie Hall! I'm sorry, but you'll just have to wait, now.'
Marcel frowned. 'Huh? Ohhh, right. Um, yeah, I suppose I should have, silly me! But, uh, you do know US sizes are… different from European sizes, don’t you? They're-they're smaller, so that'll probably be why your shirts didn't fit, won't it? So shall we-'
He made to walk out of the store, but Marc grabbed his hand.
'Maybe they are, but the thing is I don't know what size I got, as there were no labels in them!' He rummaged furiously through the racks of shirts, picking out several in a variety of sizes, and headed off to the changing rooms. Marcel hurried after him.
'But I cut them out so they didn't scratch you! Remember? After Montreal, when that tag was rubbing, I thought I'd cut them out to make it more comfortable for you! That's all, that's the only reason why!'
Marc missed most of this monologue as he was fighting with a shirt that was patently two sizes too small. 'Not that one, then. Sorry, Chelo, what were you saying?'
'Um, nothing.' Marcel shuffled his feet some more, then continued brightly, 'That one looks OK, doesn't it?'
'Nonsense, that wouldn't even fit you. What about this one?'
Having extricated himself, Marc managed to find a shirt that was the right size; he twisted around like a dog chasing its tail trying to read the size on the label.
'Look at that, it is the right size!' he exclaimed.
'Fancy that!' Marcel blurted. 'They must have sent us a dodgy batch-here, why don't you try this one?'
Without giving Marc chance to reply, he tugged off the plain shirt and pulled on a blue one with horizontal stripes, pointing out that it'd be good if they both wore blue, and how lucky blue proved to be for them last year. When it was on, Marc looked in the mirror.
'I don't think so, nano. I shouldn't wear hoops, they make me look chubby.'
'Mmm, that's rubbish-look, it shows off all your muscles perfectly, it's kind of hot, actually.' The things Marcel was now doing with his hands lent truth to his statement.
'I don't know what's got into you lately, you're insatiable!' Marc wriggled out of Marcel's embrace and looked in the mirror again. 'Wait, is this the wrong size, again? It's way too tight, I look like a sausage in a skin.'
'Nonsense.' Marcel was looking at him like he wanted to eat him, and Marc wondered what had got into his meek, biddable boyfriend. 'You look amazing, come here, I'm definitely ordering this one for you.'
'Yes, but, wait!' Marc was finding it difficult to speak as Marcel 's mouth roamed his throat and his hands pulled aside his clothing, but he carried on valiantly, 'Just make sure it's the right size!'
'Oh, don't worry, I will,' Marcel murmured, before words became too much effort for both of them.
They were still out of breath when they got to the zoo.
A couple of days later, when Marc's brain had unfogged, he had chance to really think about what had been happening. The more he did so, the more his suspicions were aroused.
Marcel had definitely been gabbling in the Nike store and, with Marcel, garrulousness was a sure-fire indicator of nervousness and guilt. His protestations of innocence had been unnecessarily vehement, his forwardness in the changing rooms had been atypical (sometimes, Marc thought Marcel should have been born British, he was that prudish and repressed): it was all enough to set alarm bells ringing.
But, Marc wondered, why would Marcel give him too-small shirts to wear?
And then Marc thought about the display he'd put on trying to stretch out his shirts-the wriggling and flexing, and the look on Marcel's face as he'd watched-and light began to dawn as to the motivation for Marcel's scheming.
What he needed now, however-to be completely sure-was proof.
When they got up on the morning of their first-round doubles match, Marc made a big show of checking the laundry.
'I've run out of white underwear,' he explained when Marcel looked at him enquiringly. 'Some of my shorts are pretty see-through, and I don't want to get kicked out for flashing anyone!'
'Oh. Really?' There was no mistaking that sly look on Marcel's face, no matter how hard he tried to hide it with genuine concern. 'Don't worry,' he went on, 'I'll deal with that. Leave it with me!'
Sure enough, when Marc got ready for that afternoon's match, he found that the shorts Marcel had picked for him were the thinnest pair he owned. Smiling inwardly, Marc went along with it, shrugging off Marcel's apology ('Oh no! I must have picked up the wrong pair!'), and put them on.
For his own amusement, though, he made a point of always being the one on the baseline.
'You're better at the net than me,' he told a somewhat sulky Marcel. 'You should be the one who goes forward.'
Marcel's efforts to justify why he should be the one to stay back were highly entertaining. When Marc made a show of finally acceding to the exhortations, he made sure to reward Marcel with a few extra shakes of his backside.
So, he thought, he wasn't mistaken. His boyfriend was definitely demonstrating a hitherto unsuspected talent for deviousness. Marc was mildly perturbed by this-but, at the same time, grudgingly impressed: after all, Marcel could only have learned it from him.
The question now was whether or not he should be allowed to get away with it.
Marc gave it some considerable thought and eventually decided that, although it was tempting to go along with it-after all, he too was benefitting from Marcel's efforts-it was the principle that was important. A point needed to be made.
He just needed to work out how.
The answer came to him during Marcel's second round singles match the next day. He didn't do it intentionally, he just happened to be stretching his legs over the back of the seats in front of him when Marcel looked in his direction. Marc would have thought nothing of it, had Marcel not immediately fluffed the point dramatically. It reminded Marc of Marcel's match against Nishikori in Cincinnati the year before; how badly Marcel had played, and how much he had complained afterwards about his loss being down to the way Marc had been sitting.
Marc smiled slowly. There was his plan.
He started off gradually, canting his hips forward, spreading his legs, resting his shoeless feet on the seat in front of him and, to his delight, it worked a treat. For Marcel's next match he stepped up his efforts, including sucking lingeringly on a lollipop and giving his hips the occasional thrust when he shifted position after sitting still for too long. He always, of course, sat still, small and quiet during the final set-he wasn't that mean-but by the end of it he felt almost as though he was playing Marcel like a puppet.
Marcel certainly seemed to think so.
'You were doing that on purpose, you bastard!' Somehow, Marcel had managed to keep a lid on his simmering indignation until they got back to the hotel, but now it spilled forth, an almost comically childish expression on his face as he shoved Marc like they were kids on a school playground.
'What?!' Marc could feign innocence as well as-in fact, better than-Marcel could.
'You know what! Distracting me, that's what! Sitting with your legs splayed, thrusting your hips forward, sucking that lollipop-I'm surprised you didn't start jacking off!'
'Actually, I did consider that,' Marc confessed, 'but I was sat next to Fernando, and that's enough to stop anyone getting hard.'
'You still rubbed it, though,' Marcel grumbled, and Marc beamed with pleasure.
'You saw that? I wondered if that was too subtle!'
Marcel scoffed, 'Subtle, my ass. What the hell is wrong with you?'
'Oh, I don't know,' Marc drawled. 'Perhaps the same thing that was wrong with you when you gave me tight shirts, horizontal stripes and see-through shorts?'
'…Oh.' Marcel blushed and shuffled his feet. 'You… you noticed?'
Marc chuckled fondly, 'Of course I noticed, nano. You're about as transparent as my shorts.'
'Oh,' Marcel said again, then pouted, 'And I thought I'd got it all worked out, too.'
His bottom lip was practically dragging on the floor; Marc snorted with laughter and gathered him into his lap (or, as much of him as he could manage).
'You nearly did, actually. I was pretty impressed by how smart you were. It's just… I'm smarter.' Marc's smile was confident and smug. 'However devious you might think you are, I'm more devious. You'd do well to remember that.'
'Really?' Marcel's sulks suddenly vanished as he pushed Marc back onto the bed and crowed triumphantly, 'Well, look at that: I've got you right where I want you, and now I'm going to do what I want with you.'
It transpired that what Marcel wanted to do with him as, with a flourish, he pulled two ties from beneath the pillows, was bind his hands to the bedhead.
'Not bad, Chelo,' Marc raised his eyebrows in respect. 'In fact, I'm rather proud of you.' And he was: this unexpected side to Marcel promised to be all sorts of stimulating.
Nevertheless, ground rules needed to be laid.
As Marcel leaned forward to kiss him, Marc darted his head forward and latched onto the spot just below his left ear that always turned him to putty. 'You'll never beat me, though,' he murmured softly.
Marcel gasped and his eyes rolled back in his head. 'Won't I?' he moaned.
'No.' Marc said firmly. 'You won't.'
As he let Marcel win this time, though, he had to admit that he was quite looking forward to watching him try.
FIN
Notes:
Marc really did spend half his time stretching his shirts at Cincy. No, really. He did. And then he wore hoops and see-through shorts at the USO. So, naturally, he had to get revenge. By doing things like this. (He also did similar stuff when Marcel played Nishikori at Cincy last year, the little tease). Oh, and the shirt thing in Montreal's true, too. Many, many thanks to caaare who took the Cincy photos, and nimrudivory who took the USO ones ♥
by xerricara
It all started in Cincinnati.
The previous week, Marc had inadvertently gone on court with the tag still attached to his brand-new shirt. When he'd asked Marcel to take it out he'd used his teeth, which not only kept everyone waiting but caused Marc to squirm at the caress of Marcel's breath against the back of his neck. When Marc had complained about this after the match, Marcel had retorted that it wouldn't have happened if Marc had organised his match clothes properly.
Consequently, Marc had agreed to let Marcel take charge of this in future.
It seemed a reasonable thing to do. Marcel was always very keen matching their clothes as much as possible ('It makes us look like a real team'), despite their wearing different brands and, coupled with the superstitions that he carried around his own clothes, it made sense to minimise his fussing and let him deal with it all.
Except… it wasn't quite as straightforward as that.
Their first match was fine but, as he got ready for their quarter-final, Marc noticed that his shirt didn't quite fit.
'I think this shirt's too small, it feels ever so tight'
Marcel looked up from where he was carefully matching his socks the exact same length up his shins and shrugged nonchalantly. 'It looks fine to me.'
Marc gave a couple of experimental wriggles and shook his head.
'No, it's definitely too small, they must have sent the wrong size. Where are the others? I'll change it.'
When some serious rummaging unearthed not a single spare shirt, Marc looked at Marcel in exasperation.
'Marcel? I thought you were packing our bags! There aren't any other shirts in here!'
'Oh, aren't there? I must have forgotten, sorry.'
He looked so crestfallen that Marc couldn't be mad at him. Instead, he determined to eat a bit less ice cream that week and followed Marcel out onto the court.
During the warm-up, however, it became clear to Marc that his shirt was definitely tighter than normal. It felt restrictive, especially when he was reaching for a shot, but he knew that he was stuck with it for the match.
What he was going to have to do, he decided, was stretch it.
So, to the amusement of the crowd and his opponents, he spent the rest of the warm-up tugging at his shirt.
The contortions this involved ranged from putting his elbows inside his sleeves and stretching it laterally, to crouching down and pulling it over his knees to stretch it in every direction. But, by the time he was finished, his shirt felt better, and they were able to win their match.
Moreover, Marcel seemed to enjoy the spectacle too. In fact, he enjoyed it so much that he couldn't even wait to get back to their hotel, but led Marc through the grounds to an overgrown maintenance shed where he proceeded to show Marc in no uncertain terms just how much he'd appreciated all Marc's writhing and squirming. Marc was amazed at how forceful he was about it and concluded that, all things considered, no harm had been done.
Until it happened again. And again.
Exactly the same thing, each time: from the tight shirt, to the wriggling, to Marcel dragging them off to secluded spots in the grounds and being uncharacteristically dominant.
It was no wonder Marc couldn't concentrate during the final.
They had a week off before the US Open, and Marc resolved to use this opportunity to ensure he got match clothes that that fit. Partway through a day's sightseeing, he diverted them to Niketown.
'What… what are we doing?' Marcel's confusion was palpable, and Marc patted his arm reassuringly.
'Don't worry, nano, we'll go straight to the zoo after, you'll get to see the penguins soon. I just want to check sizings for my clothes order for the US Open: I want shirts that fit this time!'
'Ohhh.' Marcel shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, and Marc tutted at him.
'I said you should have visited the little boys' room before we left Carnegie Hall! I'm sorry, but you'll just have to wait, now.'
Marcel frowned. 'Huh? Ohhh, right. Um, yeah, I suppose I should have, silly me! But, uh, you do know US sizes are… different from European sizes, don’t you? They're-they're smaller, so that'll probably be why your shirts didn't fit, won't it? So shall we-'
He made to walk out of the store, but Marc grabbed his hand.
'Maybe they are, but the thing is I don't know what size I got, as there were no labels in them!' He rummaged furiously through the racks of shirts, picking out several in a variety of sizes, and headed off to the changing rooms. Marcel hurried after him.
'But I cut them out so they didn't scratch you! Remember? After Montreal, when that tag was rubbing, I thought I'd cut them out to make it more comfortable for you! That's all, that's the only reason why!'
Marc missed most of this monologue as he was fighting with a shirt that was patently two sizes too small. 'Not that one, then. Sorry, Chelo, what were you saying?'
'Um, nothing.' Marcel shuffled his feet some more, then continued brightly, 'That one looks OK, doesn't it?'
'Nonsense, that wouldn't even fit you. What about this one?'
Having extricated himself, Marc managed to find a shirt that was the right size; he twisted around like a dog chasing its tail trying to read the size on the label.
'Look at that, it is the right size!' he exclaimed.
'Fancy that!' Marcel blurted. 'They must have sent us a dodgy batch-here, why don't you try this one?'
Without giving Marc chance to reply, he tugged off the plain shirt and pulled on a blue one with horizontal stripes, pointing out that it'd be good if they both wore blue, and how lucky blue proved to be for them last year. When it was on, Marc looked in the mirror.
'I don't think so, nano. I shouldn't wear hoops, they make me look chubby.'
'Mmm, that's rubbish-look, it shows off all your muscles perfectly, it's kind of hot, actually.' The things Marcel was now doing with his hands lent truth to his statement.
'I don't know what's got into you lately, you're insatiable!' Marc wriggled out of Marcel's embrace and looked in the mirror again. 'Wait, is this the wrong size, again? It's way too tight, I look like a sausage in a skin.'
'Nonsense.' Marcel was looking at him like he wanted to eat him, and Marc wondered what had got into his meek, biddable boyfriend. 'You look amazing, come here, I'm definitely ordering this one for you.'
'Yes, but, wait!' Marc was finding it difficult to speak as Marcel 's mouth roamed his throat and his hands pulled aside his clothing, but he carried on valiantly, 'Just make sure it's the right size!'
'Oh, don't worry, I will,' Marcel murmured, before words became too much effort for both of them.
They were still out of breath when they got to the zoo.
A couple of days later, when Marc's brain had unfogged, he had chance to really think about what had been happening. The more he did so, the more his suspicions were aroused.
Marcel had definitely been gabbling in the Nike store and, with Marcel, garrulousness was a sure-fire indicator of nervousness and guilt. His protestations of innocence had been unnecessarily vehement, his forwardness in the changing rooms had been atypical (sometimes, Marc thought Marcel should have been born British, he was that prudish and repressed): it was all enough to set alarm bells ringing.
But, Marc wondered, why would Marcel give him too-small shirts to wear?
And then Marc thought about the display he'd put on trying to stretch out his shirts-the wriggling and flexing, and the look on Marcel's face as he'd watched-and light began to dawn as to the motivation for Marcel's scheming.
What he needed now, however-to be completely sure-was proof.
When they got up on the morning of their first-round doubles match, Marc made a big show of checking the laundry.
'I've run out of white underwear,' he explained when Marcel looked at him enquiringly. 'Some of my shorts are pretty see-through, and I don't want to get kicked out for flashing anyone!'
'Oh. Really?' There was no mistaking that sly look on Marcel's face, no matter how hard he tried to hide it with genuine concern. 'Don't worry,' he went on, 'I'll deal with that. Leave it with me!'
Sure enough, when Marc got ready for that afternoon's match, he found that the shorts Marcel had picked for him were the thinnest pair he owned. Smiling inwardly, Marc went along with it, shrugging off Marcel's apology ('Oh no! I must have picked up the wrong pair!'), and put them on.
For his own amusement, though, he made a point of always being the one on the baseline.
'You're better at the net than me,' he told a somewhat sulky Marcel. 'You should be the one who goes forward.'
Marcel's efforts to justify why he should be the one to stay back were highly entertaining. When Marc made a show of finally acceding to the exhortations, he made sure to reward Marcel with a few extra shakes of his backside.
So, he thought, he wasn't mistaken. His boyfriend was definitely demonstrating a hitherto unsuspected talent for deviousness. Marc was mildly perturbed by this-but, at the same time, grudgingly impressed: after all, Marcel could only have learned it from him.
The question now was whether or not he should be allowed to get away with it.
Marc gave it some considerable thought and eventually decided that, although it was tempting to go along with it-after all, he too was benefitting from Marcel's efforts-it was the principle that was important. A point needed to be made.
He just needed to work out how.
The answer came to him during Marcel's second round singles match the next day. He didn't do it intentionally, he just happened to be stretching his legs over the back of the seats in front of him when Marcel looked in his direction. Marc would have thought nothing of it, had Marcel not immediately fluffed the point dramatically. It reminded Marc of Marcel's match against Nishikori in Cincinnati the year before; how badly Marcel had played, and how much he had complained afterwards about his loss being down to the way Marc had been sitting.
Marc smiled slowly. There was his plan.
He started off gradually, canting his hips forward, spreading his legs, resting his shoeless feet on the seat in front of him and, to his delight, it worked a treat. For Marcel's next match he stepped up his efforts, including sucking lingeringly on a lollipop and giving his hips the occasional thrust when he shifted position after sitting still for too long. He always, of course, sat still, small and quiet during the final set-he wasn't that mean-but by the end of it he felt almost as though he was playing Marcel like a puppet.
Marcel certainly seemed to think so.
'You were doing that on purpose, you bastard!' Somehow, Marcel had managed to keep a lid on his simmering indignation until they got back to the hotel, but now it spilled forth, an almost comically childish expression on his face as he shoved Marc like they were kids on a school playground.
'What?!' Marc could feign innocence as well as-in fact, better than-Marcel could.
'You know what! Distracting me, that's what! Sitting with your legs splayed, thrusting your hips forward, sucking that lollipop-I'm surprised you didn't start jacking off!'
'Actually, I did consider that,' Marc confessed, 'but I was sat next to Fernando, and that's enough to stop anyone getting hard.'
'You still rubbed it, though,' Marcel grumbled, and Marc beamed with pleasure.
'You saw that? I wondered if that was too subtle!'
Marcel scoffed, 'Subtle, my ass. What the hell is wrong with you?'
'Oh, I don't know,' Marc drawled. 'Perhaps the same thing that was wrong with you when you gave me tight shirts, horizontal stripes and see-through shorts?'
'…Oh.' Marcel blushed and shuffled his feet. 'You… you noticed?'
Marc chuckled fondly, 'Of course I noticed, nano. You're about as transparent as my shorts.'
'Oh,' Marcel said again, then pouted, 'And I thought I'd got it all worked out, too.'
His bottom lip was practically dragging on the floor; Marc snorted with laughter and gathered him into his lap (or, as much of him as he could manage).
'You nearly did, actually. I was pretty impressed by how smart you were. It's just… I'm smarter.' Marc's smile was confident and smug. 'However devious you might think you are, I'm more devious. You'd do well to remember that.'
'Really?' Marcel's sulks suddenly vanished as he pushed Marc back onto the bed and crowed triumphantly, 'Well, look at that: I've got you right where I want you, and now I'm going to do what I want with you.'
It transpired that what Marcel wanted to do with him as, with a flourish, he pulled two ties from beneath the pillows, was bind his hands to the bedhead.
'Not bad, Chelo,' Marc raised his eyebrows in respect. 'In fact, I'm rather proud of you.' And he was: this unexpected side to Marcel promised to be all sorts of stimulating.
Nevertheless, ground rules needed to be laid.
As Marcel leaned forward to kiss him, Marc darted his head forward and latched onto the spot just below his left ear that always turned him to putty. 'You'll never beat me, though,' he murmured softly.
Marcel gasped and his eyes rolled back in his head. 'Won't I?' he moaned.
'No.' Marc said firmly. 'You won't.'
As he let Marcel win this time, though, he had to admit that he was quite looking forward to watching him try.
FIN
Notes:
Marc really did spend half his time stretching his shirts at Cincy. No, really. He did. And then he wore hoops and see-through shorts at the USO. So, naturally, he had to get revenge. By doing things like this. (He also did similar stuff when Marcel played Nishikori at Cincy last year, the little tease). Oh, and the shirt thing in Montreal's true, too. Many, many thanks to caaare who took the Cincy photos, and nimrudivory who took the USO ones ♥
