fic: no place to be ending but to start
title: no place to be ending but to start
pairing: david beckham/alexandre pato; david beckham/alexander pato/iker casillas
rating: r
disclaimer: fiction
summary: being as young as he is, everything is a learning experience for pato. pato's pov.
for my table. 004 dream.
You’d like to think that it takes a lot to convince you, especially when David is concerned. You don’t give in easy, no matter what it may be. You’re not as naive as you look, as some would like to believe. There are some people you can trust (Paolo with your life, Ricardo with your thoughts) and others you cannot. Some like to treat you like a younger brother, the ‘baby’ of the team, while others are indifferent towards you. You haven’t proven anything just yet.
As much as you would like to believe that you really don’t want to be here, you know that’s a lie. When David asked the first time, a shy smile on his face, his nervous English sounding shaky, you accepted right away. There were no doubts, no second guesses in your mind. Why would there be? David is one of those people you know you can trust (verified by Ricardo and Paolo of course). When you got to the flat he was renting out that night, when you saw the others, though your smile faltered a little, it only reaffirmed that you could trust him. By the third time you were at his place, you were comfortable to relax and really kick your shoes off. You learned that David was just another guy, another footballer, just like yourself. Language was always an issue but you never let it be a barrier. Neither did he.
The fifth time, sometime during the night, your wine glass is empty but you can’t find David anywhere. He did say that his place was open to everyone. So you go into the kitchen and it’s there where you find him. He’s at the sink, the water running with his finger held under it. You can only see his profile, but you know that his eyebrows are knit (in frustration, in pain, that you don’t know). You clear your throat lightly first before approaching him because you don’t want to startle the host. When he looks up and sees that it’s you, he offers a smile, a David-smile. You move close enough to see that he indeed cut his finger. He shrugs it off as it is nothing (because really, it isn’t) but reach for his hand anyway to examine the wound for yourself. It isn’t until you let go of his hand that you realize David had held his breathe.
It isn’t until you’re at his place for the seventh time that it’s just the two of you and you’re feeling beyond nervous. You don’t know why (maybe you do but it’s easier to deny). You trust him and you should. There’s a basketball game on TV that David insists that you two should watch. You know the logistics of the sport but it has always been football for you and nothing but. So you end up watching him instead. His muscles tense when he yells at someone named ‘Lakers’ (you ask him about that later to which he just laughs) only to relax when ‘his’ team is victorious. You notice that you agree with many people around the world. David is a good looking man but what makes him appealing to you is his modesty. Every time you’ve been at his place, he has been in sweats or cotton pants and a t-shirt. He’s normal. He’s a regular guy and it’s the reason you press your lips to his. He’s taken by surprised, so are you but neither of you let that the night end right there. You’ve never done this before but you’re not so naive to not know how this works. But it doesn’t matter because David is there. David guides you and you let him. You trust him.
After the seventh time of being at his place, you stop counting. Sometimes you’re there for only an hour, other times you spend the night, the weekend. It doesn’t matter, not really. It doesn’t matter that you’re speaking in fragmented sentences, at times just words. You justify it as an educational experience (English is not an easy language to learn). All you need to know is the little gasps David makes when he’s close and the way his body shakes afterward. You know he knows the same about you.
And now (the 35th, the 47th or 51st time, you really stop caring) you lay against his pillows and watch him kiss Iker the way he kisses you, touch Iker the way he touches you. Truthfully, you feel jealous even if it’s only for a moment. It consumes your body and in that same moment, you hate David, hate Iker though you really don’t know him besides his credentials on the pitch. But then that moment passes and you find yourself in between them. Touches of familiarity are mixed with the excitement of something new. With your fingers, tongue, cock, you explore differences. Your youth excites them, entices them and their experience does the same for you.
You arch your back a little higher than necessary. You whimper, moan and whine louder than you really need to. You beg in English at first but then lapse into Portuguese subconsciously. Fingernails against your skin demand it from you now and you don’t hold back. You can no longer distinguish whose touch belongs to whom. You think it’s a dream, that it’s not possible to feel everything you are. And what a dream it is. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust is engrained in your skin and in your mind.
Later when two tired bodies are pressed to either side of yours, fingers in your hair (how many, you really don’t know), familiar words, though in Spanish not English, filter in, ultimately waking you from your dream. Your eyes remain closed however, too content with just being. You allow yourself to think about the ‘next time’ and if you’re going to put up the same fight you always do when David asks to you come over. You smile at the word ‘fight’.
pairing: david beckham/alexandre pato; david beckham/alexander pato/iker casillas
rating: r
disclaimer: fiction
summary: being as young as he is, everything is a learning experience for pato. pato's pov.
for my table. 004 dream.
You’d like to think that it takes a lot to convince you, especially when David is concerned. You don’t give in easy, no matter what it may be. You’re not as naive as you look, as some would like to believe. There are some people you can trust (Paolo with your life, Ricardo with your thoughts) and others you cannot. Some like to treat you like a younger brother, the ‘baby’ of the team, while others are indifferent towards you. You haven’t proven anything just yet.
As much as you would like to believe that you really don’t want to be here, you know that’s a lie. When David asked the first time, a shy smile on his face, his nervous English sounding shaky, you accepted right away. There were no doubts, no second guesses in your mind. Why would there be? David is one of those people you know you can trust (verified by Ricardo and Paolo of course). When you got to the flat he was renting out that night, when you saw the others, though your smile faltered a little, it only reaffirmed that you could trust him. By the third time you were at his place, you were comfortable to relax and really kick your shoes off. You learned that David was just another guy, another footballer, just like yourself. Language was always an issue but you never let it be a barrier. Neither did he.
The fifth time, sometime during the night, your wine glass is empty but you can’t find David anywhere. He did say that his place was open to everyone. So you go into the kitchen and it’s there where you find him. He’s at the sink, the water running with his finger held under it. You can only see his profile, but you know that his eyebrows are knit (in frustration, in pain, that you don’t know). You clear your throat lightly first before approaching him because you don’t want to startle the host. When he looks up and sees that it’s you, he offers a smile, a David-smile. You move close enough to see that he indeed cut his finger. He shrugs it off as it is nothing (because really, it isn’t) but reach for his hand anyway to examine the wound for yourself. It isn’t until you let go of his hand that you realize David had held his breathe.
It isn’t until you’re at his place for the seventh time that it’s just the two of you and you’re feeling beyond nervous. You don’t know why (maybe you do but it’s easier to deny). You trust him and you should. There’s a basketball game on TV that David insists that you two should watch. You know the logistics of the sport but it has always been football for you and nothing but. So you end up watching him instead. His muscles tense when he yells at someone named ‘Lakers’ (you ask him about that later to which he just laughs) only to relax when ‘his’ team is victorious. You notice that you agree with many people around the world. David is a good looking man but what makes him appealing to you is his modesty. Every time you’ve been at his place, he has been in sweats or cotton pants and a t-shirt. He’s normal. He’s a regular guy and it’s the reason you press your lips to his. He’s taken by surprised, so are you but neither of you let that the night end right there. You’ve never done this before but you’re not so naive to not know how this works. But it doesn’t matter because David is there. David guides you and you let him. You trust him.
After the seventh time of being at his place, you stop counting. Sometimes you’re there for only an hour, other times you spend the night, the weekend. It doesn’t matter, not really. It doesn’t matter that you’re speaking in fragmented sentences, at times just words. You justify it as an educational experience (English is not an easy language to learn). All you need to know is the little gasps David makes when he’s close and the way his body shakes afterward. You know he knows the same about you.
And now (the 35th, the 47th or 51st time, you really stop caring) you lay against his pillows and watch him kiss Iker the way he kisses you, touch Iker the way he touches you. Truthfully, you feel jealous even if it’s only for a moment. It consumes your body and in that same moment, you hate David, hate Iker though you really don’t know him besides his credentials on the pitch. But then that moment passes and you find yourself in between them. Touches of familiarity are mixed with the excitement of something new. With your fingers, tongue, cock, you explore differences. Your youth excites them, entices them and their experience does the same for you.
You arch your back a little higher than necessary. You whimper, moan and whine louder than you really need to. You beg in English at first but then lapse into Portuguese subconsciously. Fingernails against your skin demand it from you now and you don’t hold back. You can no longer distinguish whose touch belongs to whom. You think it’s a dream, that it’s not possible to feel everything you are. And what a dream it is. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust is engrained in your skin and in your mind.
Later when two tired bodies are pressed to either side of yours, fingers in your hair (how many, you really don’t know), familiar words, though in Spanish not English, filter in, ultimately waking you from your dream. Your eyes remain closed however, too content with just being. You allow yourself to think about the ‘next time’ and if you’re going to put up the same fight you always do when David asks to you come over. You smile at the word ‘fight’.