Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/566967.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Basketball_RPF
  Relationship:
      Juan_Carlos_Navarro/Ricky_Rubio
  Character:
      Juan_Carlos_Navarro, Ricky_Rubio
  Additional Tags:
      Werewolves, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Underage_Sex
  Series:
      Part 1 of moonshine
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-18 Words: 7968
****** so come on let me in, I will be the sun ******
by waferkya
Summary
     “You could work on your subtlety,” he says, his voice rich and
     rumbling like thunder in the distance, and it’s a warning that he’s
     just as dangerous as a lightning storm, only ten times over.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
“You could work on your subtlety,” he says, his voice rich and rumbling like
thunder in the distance, and it’s a warning that he’s just as dangerous as a
lightning storm, only ten times over.
Ricky freezes with his hand halfway in the air, reaching for a box of cereals;
he’d very much like to look around to see if anyone else’s in the aisle, but he
can’t really tear his eyes off of him, who’s studying the back of two different
bags of cookies like he doesn’t know already he’ll pick the ones stuffed with
apple marmalade.
“Uhm,” Ricky says. He’s painfully aware, now, of just how much his leather
jacket doesn’t fit him. It was his father’s, passed down on Ricky’s fourteenth
birthday, and even though he’s now seventeen and several inches taller than his
father’s ever dreamed to be, Ricky still can’t really fill it out so well. It
hungs too large on his shoulders, sleeves drooping way past his wrists, and
when he zips it up, he looks insanely silly.
It’s his favourite jacket, though, it smells like childhood and home and hot
hazelnut chocolate on the coldest days of winters, with enough whipped cream on
top you could dive in it.
“I’m just saying,” Juan Carlos mumbles, with half of what could be easily
mistaken as a friendly smile. He puts the chocolate cookies back on the shelf.
Ricky thinks, fuck it all. He clears his throat and walks to him.
“Hi,” he says.
Juan Carlos looks at him with a blank face and slightly raised eyebrows, but
there’s nothing really annoyed about him, which Ricky quickly lists as a
victory.
“They do teach you vocabulary in school, right?” he asks, the corners of his
mouth twitching. Ricky bites back a smile.
“Yeah, I never paid much attention in class, I liked PE better,” he says,
shrugging a little, and then he’s holding out his hand to introduce himself,
you know, like civilized people do when they’re totally not stalking other
civilized people, only Juan Carlos grabs his wrist halfway through the movement
without even taking his eyes off Ricky’s face.
Ricky realizes his mistake; right, no sudden moves or anything; he barks out
half a nervous laughter. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Juan Carlos says; slowly, he lets go of Ricky’s wrist — crap, his
grip was tight, — and shakes his hand instead. “I know who you are.”
Ricky doesn’t even want to keep himself from straight-out beaming up at him
now.
“Of course you do.” Juan Carlos laughs at that, or, well, it’s more like he
breathes out very sharply through his nose, but there’s definitely an amused
twinkle in his eyes, so Ricky rambles on. “I live around the corner.”
Juan Carlos says, “I should hope so,” looking at him from under his lashes,
which is usually Ricky’s specialty and, wow, so that’s what it feels like, even
though Juan Carlos is a total amateur at this and there’s a big possibility
he’s not even doing it on purpose. “You’re here every day.”
Ricky feels himself blush, but he tries to play it cool.
“My shopping skills suck,” he says, shrugging; Juan Carlos looks at him and
Ricky stuffs his hands in his pockets, a hot shiver running down his spine.
Did they turn up the heating in this place? The temperature seems to have
spiked up all of a sudden, and Ricky focuses on the jacket’s smell — his dad,
his family, it digs up a thousand memories from when he was a kid and Ricky
breathes a little easier.
Juan Carlos stares at him, blinking a little too much; his eyes are big and
neither brown nor green nor black, but an iridescent shade inbetween, and deep
enough to swallow the world; he tilts his head to the side, like he’s curious,
like he’s looking at something interesting, even though it’s only Ricky.
“You’re in heat,” he says, matter-of-factly. Ricky gasps, he’s so surprised he
even laughs a little.
“I’m— I’m not,” he babbles, unconvincingly. He tries very hard not to blush but
even the tips of his ears are flushing red.
Juan Carlos is still staring, adamant.
“What is it, then? Three, four days away?”
Ricky hates him because he’s so calm, and collected, and so very still. He
hates him because he likes cookies stuffed with apple marmalade, which were
Ricky’s favourite first, and maybe he even dunks them in Cola Cao milk, which
is and has been Ricky’s drug of choice since he was old enough to properly fall
in love with chocolate.
Ricky hates him because he’s right.
He nods and admits, under his breath, “Should be four days.”
Juan Carlos presses his lips into a tight, contrite line. “I can’t stop it,” he
says. “I’m sorry.”
He’s so genuinely concerned, and he’s so close and tall and his beard is
majestic and Ricky has a serious weakness for bearded men; he doesn’t think
about it, he doesn’t need to: his hands are cupping Juan Carlos’ neck and a
moment later, Ricky kisses him without a word or a breath of warning. His
impossibly long lashes brushing Juan Carlos’ cheeks, his tongue darting out to
lick at his lips; Ricky takes half a step forward, drawn into the messy warmth
of Juan Carlos’ body.
Juan Carlos reached out to grab him the moment Ricky started leaning in, but he
doesn’t push him away now; his hands end up on Ricky’s hips, keeping him still
no matter how hard the kid tries to press himself closer.
And he returns the kiss, Juan Carlos; for all he tries not to, Ricky is a
stubborn bastard himself, and there’s only so much Juan Carlos can do — keep
him steady, not stumble back into the cart, fight back the urge to shove him
across the aisle and beat him to a sorry pulp, — before he gives up and opens
him mouth against Ricky’s.
The kiss is an hungry thing, wet and needy, like everything when heat’s around
the corner; Ricky touches Juan Carlos’ beard, the short hair at the back of his
neck, he pushes his fingers against the lumps of his spine and when he tilts
his head back to draw in a breath, he’s quick to shove his nose under the curve
of Juan Carlos’ jaw.
He’s making a soft, whiny sound against Juan Carlos’ skin and he doesn’t even
realize it. Juan Carlos gives in a little more, slipping one arm around Ricky’s
waist to hug him tight, his other hand moving up to Ricky’s hair.
“Hey, Ricky, it’s okay,” he murmurs, but his voice is hardly making its way
through Ricky’s panic.
Ricky’s heart is still bouncing up and down in his chest like a crazed tennis
ball, and he pushes more into Juan Carlos, grabbing the back of his hoodie.
“Please?” he breathes out, and Juan Carlos goes very very still for a moment,
which terrifies Ricky to no end.
His heart now is pounding like it wants to punch its way out of Ricky’s chest,
and Juan Carlos must’ve heard that, of course he has.
“You’re safe with me,” Juan Carlos says. “It’s okay,” and slowly, that’s what
does the trick.
Ricky thinks, this is my Alpha; he smells the soothing, rich scent of Juan
Carlos and the terrified daze starts melting away. By the time he’s okay again,
he’s fitted so wondefully in Juan Carlos’ embrace he doesn’t really want to
move anymore.
Ricky kisses a line up Juan Carlos’ neck, the beard tickling his lips, all the
way to his earlobe, which Ricky bites a little. Shitfuckohmyfuckinggod, he
thinks, did I seriously just bite him, but Juan Carlos doesn’t even stir, so
it’s probably okay. Either that, or Ricky is going to die a painful, bloody
death in the next five seconds.
When he’s still breathing after a full minute, he relaxes a bit.
“Juanki,” he says, to which Juan Carlos doesflinch, and Ricky grins. “Can I go
home with you?”
                                       *
Everyone knows that Juan Carlos is still living in the city where he was born,
Sant Feliu, barely ten miles North of Barcelona. He could’ve moved to the best
hotels in the capital, switching houses every other day in the most expensive,
most exclusive neighbourhoods of Catalunya, he could’ve built himself a fucking
manor on the beach of Barceloneta even before he became the Alpha, when he was
still just a player for Barcelona’s basketball team; instead, for some reason,
he decided to stick to the Baix Llobregat.
He doesn’t have his address and phone number on the yellow pages, of course,
but apparently he’s the friendliest neighbour in the history of neighbourhood
since probably Peter Parker, so even though nobody can pinpoint the exact
location of his home, if you ask around it shouldn’t be so hard to find. Not
that Ricky has ever tried. Absolutely not.
The car ride is more fun than he’d expected. Juan Carlos lets him play with the
radio, probably hoping that keeping his hands busy with that, Ricky won’t make
another attempt to stuff them into his pants, which he may or may not have
tried while Juan Carlos was pulling out from the parking lot.
It works, to some extent, because Ricky finds it endlessly amusing to skip from
one station to another mid-song; he feels like a dj.
Juan Carlos doesn’t talk much, which isn’t really surprising. What’s honestly
ground-breaking impressive, though, is the fact that he actually smiles so
much. Ricky started noticing it at the grocery store, when the checkout lady
handed back Juan Carlos’ change with a broad, if maybe a bit terrified smile,
and he tipped his head down a little and his mouth was slightly curved upwards.
At first, Ricky thought he was seeing things, because he had been assuming that
the amount of kindness Juan Carlos’d shown him was due to Ricky’s undeniable
charm, good looks and overall awesomeness. Instead, his Alpha is seriously the
most lovable guy on Earth.
You look at him on TV and you just figure he’s a grumpy, wary thing that’ll rip
your throat out with his teeth in under four seconds if you so much as look at
him the wrong way; that’s the kind of aura he’s got whenever he’s dealing with
other annoying Alphas, annoying journalists or annoying talk-show hosts. And
then you meet him, and he’s so kind, and he looks so soft and huggable and he
smiles so much. It’s a subtle thing, like maybe just above the subatomic
spectre, but if you pay attention you can’t not notice it and if Ricky had a
crush before, — a crush that he mostly fed off hours of TV and newspaper
articles and reruns of Barcelona’s games from ten years ago, and all the
international competitions, — right now he’s absolutely burned.
“Juanki,” he says, as they pull out of the highway. “You know, I’ve never even
been to Sant Feliu before.”
Juan Carlos looks at him for a brief second.
“I can hear it when you lie,” he says, and he’s doing it again — his mouth,
uncharacteristically twitching up at the corners. Ricky sinks into his seat a
little more.
“I know. I like your smile, though.”
Juan Carlos’ eyebrows get tugged into a small frown.
“I’m not smiling.”
“No, now you’re frowning like I ate all your biscuits,” Ricky says, laughing.
“But you’re still adorable.”
He sticks out his tongue when Juan Carlos turns around to gape at him, clearly
outraged. It’s like there’s a neon sign blinking on his face, a bright red I’m
your Alpha, what is wrong with you?, but apparently, words are too much even
for the almighty Alpha right now.
“Why did I even let you get into my car,” Juan Carlos mutters to himself, and
maybe the next curve he takes is a bit too sharp. Ricky giggles some more.
“It’s not my fault I’m young and handsome and amazing.”
That makes Juan Carlos laugh, and Ricky beams, absurdly proud of himself.
“Right,” Juan Carlos says, slowly. And then they’re pulling into the driveway
of a pretty two story suburbian house, with a big garden on the front and a
patio with swinging chairs that look like birds’ nests and Ricky is kinda
impressed.
“I thought you’d have a gate,” he says, grinning. “You know, with your initials
ingraved on it or something.”
“I’m not Bruce Wayne,” Juan Carlos says, and he’s doing that wonderful frowny
thing again. He’s switched off the car, so Ricky reaches out to drag a thumb
over one of his eyebrows; Juan Carlos turns to look at him, and Ricky smiles,
and then he’s not exactly sure of how he does it, but he ends up straddling his
lap, stuffed inbetween his Alpha and the steering wheel, and they’re making out
like it’s the Apocalypse and making out like horny teenagers — which,
admittedly, is a category that still comprehends Ricky, — is the only way to
stop the world from collapsing.
Ricky shifts back after a while, licking his lips and they feel wonderfully
swollen and wet; Juan Carlos tips his head back against the headrest, looking
at him from under heavy lids. He must know what he’s doing, he has to, because
there’s no way he’d bare his throat like this without thinking it a hundred
times over; Ricky leans in as slowly as he manages, and drags his mouth up his
neck, baring the slightest hint of teeth.
Juan Carlos growls, his grip on Ricky’s waist tightening enough to be painful,
but he doesn’t move. Ricky sucks at his pulse point, then moves up with lazy,
open-mouthed kisses till he’s reached Juan Carlos’ chin; he stops there, his
mouth an inch away from Juan Carlos’, and he grinds his hips down until the
friction against his groin sends sparks straight to his brain.
Ricky arches back and upwards, Juan Carlos pulls him down and if in his life
Ricky Rubio’s ever thought that coming in his pants is somewhat undignified,
Jesus fuck he was so, so fucking wrong.
“Juanki,” he whines, rubbing against him a little; he feels breathless and
weirdly raw, wet and disgusting and great. Juan Carlos grunts into his ear and
shoves the door open.
“Out,” he says, his voice the thickest it’s ever been. Ricky complies, because
it’s all fun and games until your Alpha actually orders you something, and
before he knows it he’s scrambling out of the car with his head so light he
could probably start floating around, three feet from the ground.
When he catches his breath, he looks up and realizes Juan Carlos is still
sitting behind the wheel, his mouth an upside down smile. Ricky shuffles on his
feet, makes himself smaller inside his leather jacket.
“Sorry,” he says, not really looking at Juan Carlos. The garden around him
still smells vaguely like a fading autumn, even if they’re past the half of
November and the trees are little more than naked bones. The grass is brightly
green, though, clearly someone’s looking after it.
Ricky hears footsteps crunching on the gravel, and when he tears his eyes off
his feet Juan Carlos kisses him. It’s brief and dry, but Ricky closes his eyes
anyway and breathes in his Alpha’s scent.
“It’s okay,” Juan Carlos mumbles, cupping Ricky’s face and gently tipping his
head to the side, so he can kiss him a little better. When he draws back, this
time, Ricky is out of breath again, but he’s grinning.
“Okay,” he says. Juan Carlos wrinkles his nose.
“You need a shower.”
                                       *
“Do I smell a zarzuela?” Ricky asks, walking barefoot into the kitchen with his
hair still damp from the shower, dripping water down the back of his neck. He
had to wash and dry his boxers because Juan Carlos refused to hand over
underwear, but he’s wearing a t-shirt straight from his Alpha’s closet, which
is wonderful because, well, it smells amazing, but it’s also mildly
disappointing, because it’s so big Ricky’s swimming inside it.
Juan Carlos looks up from the stove for a brief moment.
“I’m sure I gave you some pants,” he says, dry as the desert. Ricky giggles,
swaying his arms around as he walks to the kitchen’s island just behind Juan
Carlos, and hops up to sit on top of it.
“Didn’t fit me,” he says, in his most innocent tone.
“Thank you for at least wearing the shirt, then,” Juan Carlos replies, and
Ricky’s pretty sure that was actually sarcasm, so he laughs. He reaches out
with a foot to the hem of Juan Carlos’ hoodie, but Juan Carlos grabs his ankle
without even turning, and shoves it back in place.
“Hey, careful, I make a living with that,” Ricky hisses, but it’s not like he
can put much force behind it because, you know, healing factors and everything.
“Do you like shrimps?” Juan Carlos asks, and he picks a colander from the sink.
“Love them,” Ricky says, swinging his legs; Juan Carlos hums quietly, and Ricky
watches him clean up the crayfish.
The TV on the other side of the room is set on the sports channel but it’s just
background noise, a low, uninteresting buzz that goes well with the rich smells
from the kitchen: the leftover saffron-and-mussel broth on the stove, the
bottle of wine Juan Carlos’ used to cook, the fish and potatoes in the oven,
the slight sting of lemon that’s probably the dish cleaner.
“You don’t have a dishwasher?” Ricky asks, because he doesn’t see one.
“I don’t mind doing the dishes,” Juan Carlos answers, not even slowing down in
his beheading-and-shelling-shrimps business. He’s a good cook, or at least he
looks the part; he doesn’t flail and doesn’t hesitate, he moves around with
purpose and he looks so focused he could probably do without all the stoves and
the oven, just cook stuff with the intensity of his glare.
Ricky likes a man who’s comfortable in the kitchen. Well, Ricky likes men, and
food, and beards. It’s a wonderful coincidence it all comes together with
Juanki, really.
He jumps off the isle and goes to press himself against Juan Carlos’ side.
“Can I have one?” he asks, looking up at him from under his lashes. Juan Carlos
does stop, now; he gives Ricky a pointed look, the tip of his tongue reaching
out to touch his lips which is very, very unfair, because Ricky was not trying
anything — well, he onestly wants a shrimp anyway.
“Subtlety, Rubio,” Juan Carlos deadpans, but he picks a clean shrimp with two
fingers and holds it out anyway. Ricky doesn’t even bother with a smile — he
won and they both know it, no need to gloat, at least for the moment, — he just
leans in and takes both the shrimp and Juan Carlos’ fingers into his mouth.
Juan Carlos closes his eyes like he’s enduring some sort of cosmic punishment
he absolutely did not deserve; Ricky disagrees, because when you go around
looking like that it’s just fair that someone might want you to stick your
fingers into their mouth. And other places, maybe.
Ricky moans under his breath, the shrimp tucked behind his teeth at the back of
his mouth, and he sucks on Juan Carlos’ fingers and wraps his tongue around
them. Maybe it’s an Alpha thing, maybe it’s because he’s been handling food for
the past half hour or maybe it’s just Juan Carlos, but he tastes amazing, and
Ricky’s second moan is even more genuine; he lets go of his fingers and moves
to Juan Carlos’ palm, mouthing along it all the way down to the wrist.
He nips at the tender skin there, licking as he watches it turn pink over Juan
Carlos’ blue veins; he wonders, very briefly, what his blood might taste like,
but then Juan Carlos’ hand is in his hair and he tugs at it until Ricky tips
his head back for a kiss.
It isn’t exactly gentle, this time either; Juan Carlos pins Ricky back against
the kitchen counter and bites and sucks at his lips until they’re swollen and
red. Only then he does kiss him, a frantic friction of lips on lips at first,
matching that of his hips against Ricky’s — the rougher fabric of his jeans
against Ricky’s naked thighs, — which Ricky sets fire to when he just opens his
mouth wide and sticks out his tongue, arching up against him.
Juan Carlos steals the half-bitten shrimp from his mouth, and Ricky breaks the
kiss to whine. Juan Carlos grins, reaches out behind Ricky’s back to get
another one which Ricky sucks from his fingers again.
Juan Carlos kisses the top of his head, and Ricky calms down just enough to
catch his breath.
“I think my heat might be a little early,” he whispers on Juan Carlos’ lips,
and he feels, more than seeing them, curve up into a small smile.
“Young and handsome and amazing,” Juan Carlos says, his tone only slightly
mocking. Ricky giggles, steals another quick kiss and wiggles out of his grip.
“I know where the bedroom is,” he says, as flatly as he can, which isn’t much
considering how his face is stubbornly trying to split into a gloating grin.
Juan Carlos frowns, “Dinner first,” and Ricky wants to hate him, honestly he
does, because he’s achingly hard in his boxers and he can’t think of anything
except how much he wants to have Juan Carlos all over him again, but Juanki
made him a zarzuela, for fuck’s sake, and you can’t possibly argue with that.
Ricky shrugs.
“I’ll set the table.”
                                       *
Dinner turns out to be a quiet affair, all things considered. Juan Carlos is a
good cook, and the salmon in the zarzuela is especially amazing; Ricky helps
himself to three servings and he simply shrugs through Juan Carlos’ amused
look.
“Young, handsome and amazing,” he reminds him. “A man’s gotta eat to keep this
up.”
“A man,” Juan Carlos repeats, disbelieving, and Ricky giggles and ducks his
head in agreement. Maybe man is a tad too much.
They don’t really talk much, what with Ricky being so busy stuffing his mouth
and Juan Carlos, well, Juan Carlos who, if only ever talked any less than he
does, would be clinically mute. Anyway, the lack of conversation is not really
an issue, because they find a rerun of last night’s NBA games, which neither of
them has had a chance to watch; they settle for the Raptors versus Celtics
match, even though Ricky would’ve liked the Grizzlies versus Lakers one a lot
more, because a Gasol duel’s always fun to watch, but Juan Carlos made a weird
face when it showed up on the channel, and everyone knows about his thing with
Pau, so Ricky didn’t want to upset him.
The game’s not over yet when they’re done eating, so they move to the couch to
yell at the referees from a much more comfy position. Before they do that,
though, Juan Carlos tells Ricky to leave the plates and everything, he’ll think
about that in the morning. Ricky just stares at him for a second.
“I can’t believe this — you don’t have a maid?”
Juan Carlos shrugs. “I told you, I’m not Bruce Wayne.”
Ricky tries to argue that, yeah, he might not be Batman — not that he couldn’t
be, if he wanted, — but he sure as hell is pretty much their king, so why
doesn’t he start acting like one, maybe buying a better car or just, you know,
not taking out his own trash, but Juan Carlos’ forehead gets all crinkled, like
he really doesn’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to wash their own dirty
clothes, and Ricky gives up on him.
Mostly because they have settled on the couch by then, and Ricky scoots until
he’s propped against Juan Carlos’ side and when he folds his legs under
himself, they’re not cuddling, but really, they are.
“I don’t even know why they call this basketball,” Juan Carlos mumbles when,
after a particularly clever steal from Calde, the Celtics side looks so baffled
they can’t put up not even a bit of defense against the quick turnover.
Ricky chuckles and kisses his cheek.
“I knew you were one of them,” he says, settling back with his head nestled
into the curve of Juan Carlos’ neck.
“Them?”
“NBA haters,” Ricky explains, scratching the inside of his knee. “Because
European basketball is just so much better and proper, right?”
“Well, it is,” Juan Carlos says, and just as he’s closing his mouth, Bargnani
slips past his defender like he wasn’t even there and scores a two-handed dunk.
“This is a show-off, not a game.”
Ricky makes an uncommitted sound. There’s a framed picture on the wall, it must
be from last summer because Juan Carlos is sporting a red mohawk in it; he’s
got Pau’s arm around his shoulders, they’re sitting close on a too-green field
with a too-blue sky hanging above their heads, trees weighed down with bright
white flowers everywhere around them, and they’re not even looking at the
camera. It is, for all purposes, a stolen moment, a bit of something they don’t
share with anyone else. Juan Carlos is smiling softly, leaning up a little, and
you can’t really see Pau’s face, but he can’t be too sad about all that. It
looks like they’re seconds away from kissing.
Ricky pushes into Juan Carlos and arches up to nip at the top of his ear.
“What is it?” Juan Carlos asks, turning slightly to him.
Ricky kisses his stupid mouth until he doesn’t remember what Pau looks like
anymore, and then he says, “Nothing.”
Juan Carlos kisses the tip of his nose, curls his fingers into the still-damp
hair at the back of Ricky’s neck. His other arm sneaks around Ricky’s waist,
and effortlessly, Juan Carlos lifts him up and shifts him so that Ricky’s now
straddling his legs. He rubs slow circles into Ricky’s hips, and smiles a
little when Ricky leans in staring at his mouth.
“I can hear it when you lie,” he whispers, and when he licks his lips, the tip
of his tongue brushes Ricky’s, too.
Ricky shrugs and takes that damn kiss for himself. When his hips start pushing
into Juan Carlos’ touch, slightly rocking left and right, Juan Carlos pulls
back.
“Bedroom,” he says. Ricky grins.
“Dinner was great.”
Juan Carlos kisses him briefly. “I know.”
“And your face is my favourite face of all the faces,” Ricky insists, nuzzling
the curve of Juan Carlos’ jaw. That earns him some more hair-petting, but then
Juan Carlos grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him back.
“I’m not carrying you to bed.”
Ricky pouts, but eventually, he climbs off Juan Carlos’ legs.
“You are so stubborn,” Ricky tells him, sticking out his tongue. Juan Carlos
laughs and reaches for the remote.
“Kettle, meet the pot,” he says. Ricky can’t even decide if he’s more baffled,
amused or moved by exactly how much of an adorable, grumpy old man his Alpha
can be. He doesn’t get to utter a single word, though, because Calde scores an
easy corner three-pointer since the Celtics completely forgot about him, and
Juan Carlos holds his hands out, palms up, like he does whenever the referees
call a foul he didn’t even dream about committing.
“What did I tell you?” he says, and Ricky laughs and shoves him into the
hallway.
                                       *
Honestly, Ricky was over this whole heat thing pretty much by the third time it
hit. It always seemed a bit silly to him, not to mention also slightly
undignified, but hey, it’s in their nature, and what can you do about nature
except roll on your back and let it have its way. Quite literally, if you’re
not careful enough.
Most kids, and especially boys, don’t really get their heat under control until
they’re done with teenage years; Ricky is seventeen, he became a professional
basketball player at age fourteen, and he’s been able to control the worst of
the dazes for a while already. It’s a bit of a matter of pride for him; he’s
always striving to be better, and more, and getting the handle of this thing so
early in his life was simply another challenge to shatter, just like getting a
quadruple double in an international game.
He’s had his difficult times, obviously, mostly because, as long as he’s
underage, he’s not allowed access to the ataraxics all the other athletes use
if their heat stirs a little too much during the regular season. His mother
makes him tea, mostly; when he was a kid, like very very young, sometimes his
father had to lock him in the basement to keep him from running out and harass
every girl and every boy in the neighborhood.
He’s mostly okay, now, even though they still keep him off the team whenever
heat is due, which he’s secretly grateful for because it’s one thing keeping it
down when you’re home alone or sneaking into a club filled with consentient
possible partners, but it would take a completely different effort not to jump
every other teammate in the shower or even just on court, when the adrenaline
from the game is the only real thing in the world.
Anyway, Ricky doesn’t tell any of this to Juan Carlos, not the part where his
seven-year-old self had to be caged like a rabid animal and especially not the
part where he wouldn’t mind it if half his team decided to jump his bones. And
the only reason he doesn’t talk is because he’s too busy trying to figure out
if there’s a way he’s going to survive this.
He’s inclined to believe there isn’t any.
They’re just kissing, Ricky half-sunk into Juan Carlos’ pillows, his arms
around Juan Carlos’ neck, Juan Carlos over him propped on one hand while the
other is tracing a nonsensical pattern up and down Ricky’s chest, still clad by
his t-shirt, and Ricky feels like he’s losing it already.
It’s the position, he decides after a moment; it’s the fact that with this
angle, Juan Carlos’ beard tickles just the underside of Ricky’s lips. It’s the
fact that they’re not even touching, but thanks to Juan Carlos’ body’s warmth,
Ricky feels him just as well, everywhere over and around him.
It’s his scent and his hand that Ricky keeps arching into but it’s not even
nearly enough. It’s the fact that Juan Carlos, now, is kissing Ricky like he’s
making promises — he’s gentle and calm and careful and Ricky wants all that,
but he also wants the exact opposite. He has no idea what he wants.
“Juanki,” he sighs, breaking the kiss and smiling at the little smacking sound
their lips make. “Juanki, please don’t be a tease.”
“Says the one who’s only wearing a t-shirt,” Juan Carlos grumbles, but he does
push that damn hand finally into Ricky’s body, following a long line from his
chest to his hip. Ricky sighs and arches and wants another kiss.
“And boxers,” he babbles, when Juan Carlos’ hand reaches back up and he rubs at
one of his nipples almost casually. “I have my boxers.”
“Ah,” Juan Carlos says, thoughtful. “Right, your boxers.”
Ricky finds himself being lifted up by the shoulders, and he doesn’t really
push back because, hell, why bother. Juan Carlos makes him sit, and he himself
is kneeling between Ricky’s half-spread legs. He licks at Ricky’s lips for a
moment, and then he tugs at the front of Ricky’s shirt until he uncovers the
boxers.
“Take a look,” he says, his voice low into Ricky’s ear.
Ricky looks down and, yeah, he can see the point; his boxers, black and tight
and short on the thighs, are doing nothing to hide the bulging profile of his
cock, he can even make out one of its thicker veins. Pyjama bottoms would’ve
probably worked better, and Ricky doesn’t even want to know what his ass looks
like in these things. (Only maybe he does want to know just a little, not that
he’s vain or anything, he’s simply curious. Really.)
“Uhm,” Ricky says, attempting half a grin. Juan Carlos’ eyes narrow and he
nods.
“Hm,” he agrees, and when he leans in again Ricky’s ready and open-mouthed
already. It’s a sloppy kiss that Ricky needs only as an excuse to let his hands
wander — to touch and feel and possibly undress a little, seeing how the only
bit of clothing Juan Carlos dropped was his shoes, and that was before dinner.
Surprisingly, or maybe not so much after all, Juan Carlos lets him. He even
helps Ricky out, actually, tugging his hoodie off his own head and unzipping
his jeans; he’s not nearly as frantic as Ricky in his movements, however. On
the contrary, he’s still all calm and collected, and the only sign of life from
him, except of course his hands and his kisses and the way he keeps looking at
Ricky up and down like he can’t quite believe he’s actually here, comes when
Ricky shoves his jeans away and then inhales sharply when he notices the bulge
in Juan Carlos’ underwear. Juan Carlos does shift around a bit at that, making
a vaguely embarrassed face, and then he shoves Ricky back down into the
mattress.
“Shut up,” he says, “you’re bigger.”
Ricky opens his mouth because that seriously needs a retort, but Juan Carlos
cuts him off with a kiss; they end up clacking their teeths together, and it
takes them a moment to readjust. Ricky laughs and presses his nose into Juan
Carlos’ cheek, his hands dropping down to scout over his chest.
“We should check that,” Ricky whispers, tracing the shape of Juan Carlos’ cock
from over his boxers with a finger. Juan Carlos’ eyes flash red for a moment;
Ricky is too distracted by the hot weight against his hand to really notice.
“Your wish,” sighs Juan Carlos into his ear. Ricky shivers and doesn’t choke
back a moan; Juan Carlos’ hand finds his knee, slowly moves up his thigh until
he can sneak his fingers under Ricky’s boxers.
“Juanki,” he says, “you’re teasing again.”
Juan Carlos huffs a small laugh; he kisses Ricky’s lips lightly, and then he
kneels back to get them both out of their underwear.
“Better?”
Ricky grins, “Much better,” and he wants to do something very stupid and sudden
and random, but Juan Carlos gets to him first. He pushes him down and then
drops his hips just as Ricky arches into him. Juan Carlos’ half-set cock slides
against Ricky’s very, very much hard one; the touch is enough to send a
surprised gasp up the kid’s throat.
“Hm,” Juan Carlos agrees, and he shifts just to see Ricky scrunch up his nose
and whine. “Ricky. What do you want?”
Ricky could probably come just from being asked that; he bites his lips to try
and stay focused, but the only thing that matters to him right now is just how
much he can rub up against Juan Carlos.
Juan Carlos gets it, shifts again so that they’re only barely touching now, and
pins Ricky’s hips down with a hand. Very helpful.
“Uhm,” Ricky says, trying to squirm free. “You.”
Juan Carlos laughs a little. “Yeah, I got that.” Ricky thinks, subtlety. “What
else?”
Ricky opens his eyes, thinking that maybe taking a good look at Juan Carlos is
going to help him make up his mind. No, nope, no chance in hell; he stares at
his warm eyes, the barely up-turned curve of his lips, the dark shadow of his
beard and hair and then whatever he can see of his body, and the only word in
his head is everything. He’s had too much time to think about him, and all, all
the things he’d like to do.
Ricky takes a raggedy breath and figures he might at least try it.
He says, “Everything.”
And he expects Juan Carlos to pout and call him out on it, but after a beat,
Juan Carlos just smiles.
“We can work with that,” he says, and he cups Ricky’s face with one hand and
kisses him for another while.
When he lets go of his lips, Juan Carlos shifts down Ricky’s neck; he presses
open-mouthed kisses all the way down to his chest, and when he’s there, he
moves in a line of shallow bites to one of his nipples. Ricky squirms, tries to
tell him that he’s ticklish, but then Juan Carlos’ mouth closes around the hard
tip and suddenly, he’s not ticklish anymore.
Well, except that he is, a little; Juan Carlos’ beard rubs his skin in a good
way, though, and as long as he keeps doing that — oh, that sucking-and-nibbling
thing, Ricky should be okay.
“Juanki,” Ricky says, and he’d tug his hair but it’s too short to really grab
it. Juan Carlos just hums casually, Ricky feels the vibration echo inside his
chest and his hips snap up like a trap.
“Easy,” Juan Carlos says, and as he moves down Ricky’s sternum, he keeps
rubbing his nipples with his thumbs.
Ricky is breathless already, and no matter how much he twists under Juan
Carlos, he can’t seem to find even the smallest bit of friction for his aching
cock; he grabs Juan Carlos’ hands, then, twining their fingers together.
Juan Carlos is somewhere around his navel now, and he looks up for a moment;
Ricky really wants to kiss him all over.
“Can you just—” he tries, squeezing Juan Carlos’ hands, and the bastard smiles
to himself.
“Yes?”
Ricky tries to articulate something, anything, but all he can come up with is
an annoyed groan, and he flops back into the mattress.
Juan Carlos’ smile hasn’t dropped; he shifts to lay on one side, his head of
height with Ricky’s stomach.
Ricky is thinking that, fuck, he’s not even in heat, not really, not yet, not
completely, when Juan Carlos leans in and drags his tongue painfully slow along
Ricky’s cock. It’s so stupidly sudden that Ricky flails a little like the most
idiotic idiot ever, but then he’s melting and he can’t really move anymore
except to just breathe out a moan.
Juan Carlos sucks at the tip and Ricky whines; Juan Carlos drops down a little
and Ricky really has to look: he lifts up on his elbows and Juan Carlos is
there, lips stretched around Ricky’s shaft, one hand pushing his thighs open a
little. When he moves, Ricky throws his head back and bites his bottom lip.
“Juanki,” he says, and Juan Carlos’ tongue flicks around him and Ricky feels
his blood boiling. “Juanki.”
Juan Carlos doesn’t pick up his pace, nor does he swallow Ricky whole or
anything; he probably likes the teasing more than the actual feeling of Ricky’s
cock on his tongue. After a moment, he moves down and away, to lick and bite at
the tender skin of Ricky’s inner thigh.
Ricky’s biting his knuckles when Juan Carlos looks up to him.
“What?” he asks in a whisper, leaning up to kiss him. He hooks an arm around
Ricky’s waist to hold him up, and Ricky sighs.
“Please, please just fuck me,” he is begging, and that was a fairly specifical
request; Ricky doesn’t exactly expect Juan Carlos to flip him over and just
take him, but honestly, heat or not he’s at a point where he wouldn’t even
mind.
“Uhn,” Juan Carlos says, instead. He sits back, pulling Ricky to him, and he
touches his hand all the way down from Ricky’s shoulderblades to his thighs.
Ricky’s busy thumbing at the curve of his hips and pressing his tongue into the
little dimples on Juan Carlos’ shoulders, but he still grins when Juan Carlos’
thumbs slip under the curve of his ass.
“Please, Juanki.”
Juan Carlos gives Ricky’s cock a small tug, which makes him gasp and fold up a
little. With his other hand he reaches to tilt his chin up, and gives him a
light kiss.
“I really like you,” Ricky says, touching the tip of his nose to Juan Carlos’.
“Flattery,” Juan Carlos grunts, and the rest of the reprimand, flattery will
get you nowhere, stays buried deep in his throat, but it’s clear in his eyes.
Ricky laughs, mumbles the sweetest nonsense into his chest.
“Can I at least—” he says, and then eloquently closes his hand against the base
of Juan Carlos’ cock. “With my mouth?”
Juan Carlos has the nerve to blush.
“Are you kidding,” he mumbles, trying to hide his face behind one hand, and
Ricky stares.
“No, Juanki, are you kidding me? You literally just had my—” Juan Carlos bites
his lips to cut that off, “—ouch, you like it rough? I like it rough, you know
— anyway, seriously, you just had — okay, okay, I’m not saying that, but you
did have it in your mouth.”
“Please, just shut up?” Juan Carlos says, and Ricky beams up at him, his smile
turning a little mischievous at the edges.
Juan Carlos’ cock is, like apparently everything about him, hot and heavy on
Ricky’s tongue; it tastes and smells like his fingers did, before dinner, and
Ricky hums happily around it and then he doesn’t choke, really, he doesn’t,
when Juan Carlos likes that humming so much he gives a small shudder.
Ricky likes the way it feels. With his tongue, he traces a vein that runs from
its base to the tip, and Juan Carlos seems to like that, too, but honestly, is
there anything he wouldn’t like right now? Ricky’s always bragging about how
proud he is of his skills, but he’s never said he’s referring exclusively to
the one he can show off on court. Seriously, reporters are so naive.
Juan Carlos tangles one hand into Ricky’s hair, and Ricky smiles— as much as he
can, which isnotvery much, honestly; Juan Carlos can have all the complexes he
wants, he’s definitely big enough for Ricky’s mouth to hurt at the seams, — and
arches his neck into it. That sends the tip of Juan Carlos’ cock straight into
the roof of his mouth, which Ricky didn’t expect, but it’s nice. Juan Carlos
seems to think so, too.
Ricky lifts his head up all the way, until he’s left with only the tip between
his lips, and if he steals a glance up to Juan Carlos’ face, it’s just because
how the hell could he not. He pushes his thumbs against the base, which makes
Juan Carlos go very still and tense; the hand in his hair shifts to the side of
his head, then, and when Ricky turns into it, sucks Juan Carlos’ index finger
in his mouth, Juan Carlos lets him.
Ricky feels his own dick twitch in anticipation; he’s growing hotter and
looser, Juan Carlos must’ve smelled it. His entire lower body is pulsing in
time with his Alpha’s heartbeat, and Ricky moans when Juan Carlos’ fingers slip
out of his mouth.
“Ricky,” Juan Carlos says, and Ricky only half-hears him, but he moves up and
finds his mouth like it’s his most natural instict. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Ricky says, licking his lips, and when Juan Carlos’ first finger starts
circling him, he doesn’t even notice. “I like your nose.”
He presses a kiss to it, and Juan Carlos smiles, rubs a hand up and down his
spine as he pushes his finger in a little.
“Oh,” Ricky says; Juan Carlos starts to frown, and Ricky grins. “A good oh,
Juanki. Hurry up?”
“You’re not even in heat yet,” Juan Carlos says, and somehow, even through the
daze, he manages to make Ricky feel like he’s being scolded. Must be one of his
Alpha powers or something.
“I am,” Ricky says, and Juan Carlos slips in the second finger maybe a bit too
hard, like he’s saying, I know it when you lie. Ricky huffs. “Okay. Not yet,
maybe. But I think I am, a little.”
“A little,” Juan Carlos repeats, and Ricky rolls his eyes and kisses him
because yes, that’s what he just said, thanks for listening. Juan Carlos rubs
his ringfinger around Ricky’s hole, finds it wetter. “Okay,” he says. “Maybe a
little.”
Ricky grins, “Told ya,” like he can just get into heat on command, which maybe
he can? He needs to look into that.
Juan Carlos is still a pedantic, stubborn bastard, though, so he insists on
teasing him with those two damned fingers, which then become three and four and
by the time he seems satisfied, Ricky is throbbing and half-dead with
frustration.
“Juanki, you are the worst,” he whispers, but then Juan Carlos’ hands are on
his hips, tugging down slightly.
“Go on,” Juan Carlos says.
Go on, Ricky thinks, is the best thing he’s ever heard.
“You could work on your subtlety,” he bites back, and then he lowers himself
onto Juan Carlos and he doesn’t feel it burn not even a little until he can’t
take anymore. That’s when he stops, eyes wide and his breath short and shallow;
Juan Carlos thrusts up a little, and Ricky hiccups, impossibly tight around
him.
“Are you—”
“Yeah,” he sighs, and Juan Carlos barks a laughter that’s maybe a bit
hysterical. “It’s okay, you’re— Juanki, you are—”
“Shush,” Juan Carlos says, kissing him briefly. “It’s fine.”
“I know,” Ricky whispers, and he tries to grin; Juan Carlos puts his hands on
Ricky’s thighs and rubs the soft skin there, sometimes brushing the side of his
cock. “Oh,” Ricky says.
“A good one, I hope,” Juan Carlos replies; Ricky huffs out a quiet laugh.
Juan Carlos, then, has to agree with the oh, especially when Ricky’s okay
enough to start moving again; and that’s nice, that’s very nice, that’s very
much great and Ricky ends up begging for more so desperately that Juan Carlos
has to shove him back into the mattress and start thrusting into him, keeping
his legs spread wide with his hands.
Ricky bites the inside of his arm until Juan Carlos tugs it away and offers him
his own mouth instead; that has Ricky bent practically in half, but he throws
one leg over Juan Carlos’ shoulder, hooks the other around his waist and bless
the billions side slides he’s had to do in his life that made him fairly numb
to fatigue.
Ricky comes undone the moment Juan Carlos says on his lips again, “Go on.”
He just loses it, it’s an electric charge going off at the base of his spine, a
scalding wave built up by Juan Carlos’ thrusts set out inside his blood; Ricky
arches off the bed with a soft moan trapped in his chest, Juan Carlos’ grip on
his hips tight enough to bruise.
“Juanki,” he says, and he thinks that’s when Juan Carlos comes, too; they both
drop boneless after what feels like forever, and Ricky wraps his legs around
Juan Carlos’ waist because he’s not going anywhere any time soon.
Juan Carlos tries to lift up on an elbow, but Ricky makes a whiny noise.
“I’m crushing you,” Juan Carlos says, with half a smile.
“You’re okay, I like it,” Ricky replies, and nibs at his throat for a while.
Juan Carlos rolls his eyes, but he settles so that Ricky’s bony everything
doesn’t bother him too much.
“You need a shower,” he deadpans, after a pause.
Ricky huffs, but then Juan Carlos starts to move off of him again so he has to
give up.
“Okay, okay,” he says, in his best yielding voice. “Five more minutes, and then
we shower. Together.”
Juan Carlos doesn’t even bother complaining.
End Notes
     As you might've realized, this is not an AU, just a "what if everyone
     we know as human was actually a werewolf", so it has things that are
     'canon' (aka really real) and others that are not; besides, the
     werewolves component is pretty mild and I'm sorry about that (nope,
     not really). It's set in November 2007 because of reasons, but IRL
     Ricky Rubio didn't move to Barcelona until 2009, so let's consider
     that as another What If bit.
     ...welp, this is a lot of rambling for what's basically a PWP. Okay.
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