for: canarycreams

[mountainpeople]

Pairing: Joaquín/Cesc
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: Dirty filthy sex in a nightclub bathroom. And how they got there.
Preferences: Bass, alcohol.



Kisses with Teeth

They've just finished with some dire press session - Cesc is good enough at these things, he is good at it in English and he is great at it in Spanish, bright and quick and cheerful like a crayola ray of sunshine, but Joaquin is kind of awful, he smiles and gives vacant answers and smiles again, as if the smile were full of things implied, things that could be read off the shine of his gums, the spread of his teeth, making the smile itself enough and invalidating the need for words. Which, Cesc thinks, works fine with a lot of things. Just not with strangers. Who get paid to write down what you and not what your smile says.

He says as much, but Joaquin only undoes the knot from his neck and shucks the suit from his shoulders.

"It's over, isn't it," he says briefly.

Cesc is still struggling with his. "I hope Aragones never assigns us together again," he informs Joaquin.

Who smirks, predictably. "Don't say that."

"What? You know you'd think you'd be good at it, you run your mouth off every other time, to everybody else-"

Joaquin makes a move towards him and Cesc almost ducks, but he only bats Cesc's hands away from his tie.

"Stop talking about work," he says, and Cesc opens his mouth indignantly to say the work is my fucking life but Joaquin jerks the knot a little harder than necessary and the words scoot off, suddenly disappeared. He feels the corresponding tug in his chest and he almost sways forward, but doesn't. Joaquin grins at him. His fingers move silkily at the base of Cesc's throat.

"That's better," he says.

In time the tie comes unraveled. He pulls. The fabric slithers liquid from around Cesc's neck and pours into Joaquin's hand. Brusquely, he crushes it into a ball and stuffs it into Cesc's pocket.

"You need help with the jacket too?"

"Shut up," Cesc advises him.

So they go. It's high summer in Spain and the air is sweet, rhythmic with music. In the city girls come out in heels and print skirts; the shops unroll acres of flowers, foods, cheap goods; the streets tick and climb with life. It's heady, ambling through this, and so familiar he imagines he can close his eyes and just walk, feeling with his feet. In some cluttered corner restaurant he tucks into a meal, livid with hunger, and the warmth of home foods is so new after months of living in London it's almost exotic. He's a foreigner now, he says sheepishly, toying with his fork; it's like that. Joaquin laughs at him, Joaquin who didn't go to England because he didn't want to live shackled by ice or change, and sneaks a bite of his dessert. But Cesc can only joke about it because it's true.

They go to a club afterwards, Joaquin with his hands shoved casually into his pockets and Cesc keyed up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Here they play the loud stuff, the hot, rough stuff; and as Joaquin says this he isn't looking at Cesc, but his laugh is dirty and low.

So they go dancing - the discotheque, Cesc says, pertly, which actually sounds a lot less cool in Spain than it does in England, with Joaquin looking at him like that and not even bothering to hide his smirk - and it's good, right, the thump and jar of the bass system in the dark. He likes the girls - the Spanish girls he can actually sweet-talk without sounding like some laboring foreign ass, plump ones he can fuck and cuddle, thin ones he can practically lift one-handed. He likes the dancing - the way the music forces something in him open and siphons it off, the roll and grind of hips in his hands, everything imbued with a lavish, erotic pulse. In the center of a mass he touches and is touched, switching off partners every other minute. They come and go, sweet or untameable, graphic or naive, but all of them leave him bathed in sweat and wholly, contagiously happy.

But there is this one part where they are dancing and Joaquin is looking at him. There is a girl and he winds a hand through her hair, tugs it up, breathes in the blonde spray bursting the seams of his fist. His head dips with a deliberate slowness. He bends to kiss, to kiss her somewhere and Cesc can't not see, being less than a foot away, the nudity of her shoulder rounding softly into Joaquin's mouth.

The lights have locked into a permanent sort of stutter; they go black, then white, then black again. It's a zebra kind of dark, one that gives Cesc a pleasantly dislocated feeling in his chest, the same way alcohol and foreign countries do.

"Where's the girl?"

They are leaned against the bar.

"Which one?" Joaquin grins. "Guess."

He's willing to play along. "The blonde," Cesc suggests.

"Makeup couldn't cover her crowsfeet," he says callously. "No."

"Her friend?"

"Tiny. Would've snapped her in half."

"You talk like you know."

"I do." He plays into it.

"But you could always be gentle."

"What fun is that?" Joaquin says.

Cesc makes a face at him. "The brunette?"

"Cute. But no."

"Who then? Sounds like a bad night."

"No," Joaquin says. "You forget one."

In his head, Cesc ticks off a laundry list of girls; girls with swaying fawn rumps and leather halters, long legs cased in boots. "You're wrong," he says, rueful. "I forget them all."

Joaquin pauses, then leans closer. His voice is hushed, sunk low to the ground of Cesc's ear. "I'll help you remember," he says. In this light he turns, he looks at Cesc from inches away, his thumbnail scraping the benign bottom curve of his own smile.

"Dark eyes," Joaquin says.

He thinks of girls. Skin tones, pleated kohl eyelids, lashed and wide.

"Pouts."

The glass sweats in the humid dark. Joaquin scoops drops off the curve of it, examines them pearled on his fingers. Scrutinizing this, his mouth curves in a dreamy smile. The smile is framed by a five o'clock shadow, dark and coarse-looking. Cesc thinks of it chafing the soft underparts of a throat, a belly. He thinks of it and knocks back another shot, swallowing furiously. "Cheekbones," Joaquin is saying. "Flat, sort of jutting. Rude bones. Long, everywhere.

"Long mouth,"

He pauses.

"Black hair," Joaquin says, and drops his hand onto the table, palm down. His fingers circle, stroking wet shapes into existence.

A girl passes by. The variable light glows, a nimbus, in her hair. She's got a pierced lip: kind of sexy, kind of tragic, mostly trashy. Joaquin looks after her. He takes a pull of his drink and sets it down, then runs his finger around the brim of it, coaxing a song out of the glass.

She backtracks eventually. Her full name - when she says it - is something florid, but she lops off the second half, fastens it into a single androgynous syllable and presents it to them with a flourish, eyebrow cocked and painted mouth smiling.

"Do you like it here?" Cesc asks her. She looks foreign, exudes the smug, entitled uncertainty characteristic of tourists and other wandering miscreants.

She looks at him. "I have been to this club every weekend for the past two years. Of course I do." But she smiles to soften the sting of her words. "I haven't seen you here before. Only on the television."

"Francesc Fabregas," Joaquin says, rolling the name in his mouth.

"Yes," she agrees placidly.

"Yes," Cesc agrees, but his voice is belligerent as if he doesn't.

He smirks. "Arsenal's young star." It sounds like an insult. Joaquin's voice can make white into black but Cesc has never heard it do the reverse.

"How old are you now, Cesc?" Joaquin asks.

He knows, the shit. "Twenty."

"That's not so bad," the girl says.

He directs his question at Joaquin. "What about you?"

"Twenty-six."

Cesc grins. Joaquin looks at him. Then he gives him that smile, the great smile, white in his tanned face, the one that says he's just playing. He's only ever playing.

They squabble some more, harmlessly, making the girl laugh.

"You have a pretty laugh," Cesc tells her.

"Thank you." She pats his hand, fondly. On impulse, he seizes hers and lifts it to his mouth.

"We should dance," he suggests.

(This is Cesc. He flounders shamelessly in cliches and he knows it. He makes a fool of himself and hopes it charms - knows it charms, for all the vanities of his youth, the socked feet in sandals and funny mouth motions, the idolization of video games and the little dance he does after scoring a goal -)

She looks at him. "Sorry," she says, tugging her hand from his regretfully. She leans back and tosses her head and Cesc is okay with this, he really is - he is that type of guy, hurts glance off him like light off glass - until Joaquin settles his arm around her shoulders.

Her neck is a long arch and fits snugly into the grip of his hand.

"Cover your eyes," Joaquin says.

But Cesc has forgotten his drink.

When he goes back, the girl is sitting up, rearranging herself back into her clothes. Not looking at Cesc, Joaquin kisses her neck, mouth open and messy. Her small brown hand tugs in his hair. She looks at Cesc unapologetically as Joaquin's head descends down her sternum, roves over to dwell at the shallow dip of her cleavage.

Joaquin is a tease. He teases women, men, bed hair, the rival goalkeeper, your laughable penalty kick, hitched-up shorts, young girls, prudish dress, skanky dress, no dress, your ineptitude as a dead-ball specialist, sloppily made tackles, married women, marriage, the squalling products of marriage, old cynical farts, pedantry, and the starch-collar prigs who pay for the way he lives.

He teases the ungainly teeter that England has imparted to your speech when you come back to Spain in the summer.

He manhandles your reluctant affection into a small corner and then proceeds to alternately abuse and serenade it. He has a dreadful, wobbling contralto.

He never kisses you on the mouth. Or he does so as a way to introduce himself to strangers.

The nature of the tease is to halve the distance. The distance is always halving but never closed.

(He hasn't touched Cesc all evening.)

"Don't pout," Joaquin said. "It makes you look your age."

"Don't drink," Cesc countered. "It makes you look double yours."

"Don't," he says when Joaquin bends over him.

He does anyway. His fingers fumble for a pulse. "Ha ha," Cesc says, petulantly, and knocks his hand away. Next thing he knows, a wet paper towel flops into his face. Joaquin Sanchez, mother hen. Hell. Cesc is amused. And by amused he means really drunk, actually. And filing this incident away for future noble endeavors, like outings with the national team or blackmail or possibly both. At once.

First time Joaquin lays a hand on him all night and it's to check if he's still conscious. His broad palm burns into the back of Cesc's neck.

Cesc thinks he might hate him, just a little. The alcohol swills in his head, slops around in his brain and he thinks, vividly, of the girl. In Joaquin's lap. Under his mouth.

Now Joaquin's saying something dumb and obnoxious, bending over him. Fingers tousle his hair. The condescending ass. His shadow blots out the light, falls in a curve on the floor. Cesc looks at the tile pattern, looks at the play of light on the floor and the cigarette butts wrecked on it and hairs corkscrewed into helixes and the iron tangle of pipes under the sink and then he realizes he's looking at Joaquin's ankle.

He puts a hand out and touches it.

"Cesc- " he's saying, exasperatedly -

Cesc's fingers tighten, flex. He pulls himself up swaying to his knees, hooks fingers into the waistband of those jeans and in one sharp motion, jerks Joaquin near.

It's the same thing that drives him to spit in opponents' faces; the same noxious feeling that goads him, shoving, into the center of a violent fray, that lets the barbed taunts in the tunnel after the match hit their mark, that lights his eyes with childish rage. The same thing that lulls him into a sense of entitlement and jeers him on when it's left unfulfilled is the same thing that's got Cesc on his knees, before Joaquin, looking up at him with his cheek pressed lightly to the front of his jeans.

Joaquin looks down at him, his face undecipherable. Slowly, slowly, Cesc eases his hand up and tucks fingers into the zip of his pants.

That's it, that's enough. Joaquin's hands come up to cup his face and he's fighting the buckle now, jerking it out. Past the alcoholic haze, something like fear or anticipation floors in his stomach. "Hey," Joaquin says mildly, but his hips surge forward when Cesc gets his pants open. The first lick yields something like musk, and the salt taint of it fills his mouth. Joaquin makes a startled, appreciative sound and drags fingers through his hair, holds Cesc tight by the skull as he swallows him down.

After awhile he says something.

Cesc is not listening. He swirls his tongue over the tip of him, lazily probing, and Joaquin makes a noise in his throat like lazy thunder and starts yanking on his hair.

"Stop," he's saying, even as he rocks into Cesc's mouth.

Cesc mumbles something that may or may not sound like why but Joaquin puts his hand on his forehead and pushes him off and looks down at him. Cesc licks his lips, shamelessly, making a show of it, and Joaquin's eyes go unfocused. He closes them.

"Cesc," he says clearly. "You're on your knees," his fingers tighten and Cesc shivers, "in the public restroom of a dance club, blowing Joaquin Sanchez," and if Cesc weren't so drunk or so critically aroused, maybe that'd shock him back to reality, the reality where Joaquin Sanchez is a lecherous, egotistical bastard who refers to himself in the third person and Cesc is his national team teammate and they are both very, very famous and therefore very, very dead if someone were to walk in that door and recognize the two of them, say, right about now.

But as it is he nuzzles the crease of Joaquin's thigh and feels vaguely triumphant when the muscles of his legs jump, so he puts his hands on those hipbones, one on either side, and presses both thumbs into the base of his cock and angles his open mouth up and -

Joaquin's dragging him back by the hair. There's a fine tremble in his hand. Cesc is enormously pleased with himself. "The least we can do is get a stall," he says.

After awhile Cesc pushes him over, straddles him, looking down at Joaquin who looks back up at him smiling whose eyes blink dark and drowsy who pulls him down puts a tongue in his ear and two fingers up his ass.

"Ah," he says, quaking, as Joaquin licks the corner of his swollen mouth.

In time he lies back again, licking his own mouth, tongue quick and pink, the only part of him - Cesc realizes this with a distant mortification - that's remotely that color. Joaquin grins at him as if guessing the nature of his thoughts. The taut flutter of fingers inside him and he's arching his back, hissing.

"Wait," Cesc says. "Wait, just- "

He balances atop him, legs spread and hand pressed onto his chest like an anchor, head hanging limply, his body full of a dark hot ache. He moves on those fingers, bites down on his lip, moves again and it feels sinful, the slick wicked glide of it and Joaquin is gathering his hips in one hand, letting him twist and gasp and fingerfuck himself good and ready. Then he's stopping him, holding him rigid, and Cesc almost yells but then he doesn't, and it makes him pissed, he greets the hinge of Joaquin's jaw with insolent teeth. He whispers, "I could retire from football in the time it takes for you to fuck me," and Joaquin laughs, slaps him lightly on the thigh. "Brat," he murmurs. Then he's hauling both of them up - Cesc stumbles, impatience making a fool of his limbs - flipping him around and positioning him against the wall. His body makes a line of heat from the base of Cesc's spine all the way up to the nape of his neck.

"Don't," Cesc says, as Joaquin parts his legs, grips him roughly. His fingers are slick.

"Don't what," he hums. Presses a knuckle hard into his perineum and Cesc bucks up violently, his insides go shocky and bright and Joaquin makes a satisfied sound and then he's sliding in, slow and full and right, the motion full of a barely restrained violence. Everything inside him coils. Don't stop, he mouths, but Joaquin does, patting his cheek. He's waiting, balanced there at the rim of him, fingers chasing the tremors in his belly in slow hypnotic circles, doing this until the tremors reverse and chase his fingers. He feels his body pull towards that touch.

Joaquin's mouth opens blood-hot on Cesc's neck. He's still paused.

"Never thought," Cesc's breath hitches but he plows on, "you'd have the patience." His voice filed to a rasp.

"The patience for what?" Teasingly, he rocks in, a bare inch, there and gone. Cesc jerks in response, doesn't, doesn't say, his voice gone to dust,

"c'mon,"

(but of course he'd have the patience - all this for a fuck)

Joaquin fists a hand in his hair and tugs his head back. Watches Cesc's face as he moves into him, slowly.

There're people outside - were there always people? the faucet's tired drip, shoes tramping sopping towels into mush on the ground - but Cesc is moaning now, fuck, making frantic throaty noises in time to Joaquin's thrusts, even and steady, and the friction like a brutal tease wants to cut his knees out from under him but there are people and. Suddenly Joaquin's hand is broad and heated over his mouth. Cesc can't breathe. He takes two fingers in, tongues and sucks them like candy. Joaquin's thumb smoothes over his cheek, rubbing, like how he'd rubbed Cesc's temples earlier as he'd fucked his mouth. The shudder rises somewhere between his arousal and his resentment. It turns bad and he's biting down, hard, feeling a feral feeling hook in his stomach when the fingers spasm and Joaquin inhales sharply against his neck.

He presses his face into Cesc's shoulder, shuddering, and doesn't stop moving this time.

He's working a hand down to his own cock when Joaquin intercepts it, traps it straining to the wall.

His pinned fingers flex, outraged. He lets his head fall back onto Joaquin's shoulder and his tongue play across his lower lip. Knows his eyes are glazed, his lips open and inviting, swollen from use or overuse. "Fucking bastard," he breathes. Then his cock brushes against the wall and he stuffs down a wail.

Very tenderly Joaquin moves his free hand down. Touches him, barely.

"Say that again," he murmurs.

Cesc wraps his tongue around the obscenity and spits it out. Joaquin laughs and lets go, perhaps liking the sound of it in Cesc's mouth. He gathers himself, shoves and there's no more teasing now. His hips move hard and greedy. Almost as an afterthought, Joaquin smooths a palm down the center of his body, collects him in his hand and begins to jerk him off, rough and practiced. Cesc's head tosses back, orgasm aching in his teeth and tight behind his eyes and tense in his cock.

There is a rhythm now, ragged, intoxicating. There is a sweet spot and Joaquin finds it, guided by the helpless quake in Cesc's thighs when he locks his fist and pushes in just so, finds it and fucks it ruthlessly and it is possibly the most depraved thing that Cesc has ever felt, the most depraved and the most glorious. He all but claws the wall. Laughing, Joaquin whispers something in his ear -

(he says the dirtiest things or the most laughable ones and sometimes it is both at the same time, in hindsight mostly it is the second, but in the heat of the moment it can be like a single finger in you or a hand around you or a tongue hot between your legs, and)

Cesc clamps down on a cry just as Joaquin's grip clenches exquisite, explicit and it's too much, his own hips roll up into that fist and he's done.

He has to be held up. Joaquin noses his shoulder, skates a light wet kiss over his neck and his hips snap forward again, and again. He's close, close, Cesc can tell, and then he's there and he pulls out, groans, shakes, crushes them both into the wall and stills, breathing hard.

When it's done he wipes himself off on Cesc's thigh and flips him back around.

"What," Cesc says, and hates that his voice is thready, his knees lurchy. Joaquin palms his cheek and looks at him, and Cesc looks back, knows his hair is shot and his gaze glassy and his mouth bruised and not caring, closing his eyes because his body is already beginning to protest, he is going to hurt horribly in a day or even in an hour and he's got a whole week of things to do lined up ahead of him and Cesc is still desperately thinking about all this when a warm mouth settles against his.

His eyes fly open but Joaquin is already kissing him, firmly and sloppily and making this pleased purring sound in his throat, and that's the first time Joaquin Sanchez ever kisses Cesc Fabregas, in the grimy public restroom of a dance club, after having fingered him and fucked him and put his mouth almost everywhere else, and it is good, Cesc is kissing him back with Joaquin's hand cradling the base of his skull, and in that moment with his body aching and his thighs a tacky mess and Joaquin's mouth on his, Cesc feels drowsy and sated and, well, kind of happy.