Median
Iker/Cesc; 1207; NC17. Iker goes to London and Arsenal wins. Iker goes to Barcelona and Arsenal loses.
Median
Iker goes to London and Arsenal wins.
He forgets his heavy jacket - fuck this weather - and feels kind of miserable, overall, because he hates London more than he hates a lot of things.
He booked his ticket as soon as Cesc called.
He doesn't tell anyone else, because he has no way to explain this. "I'm traveling to a country that I despise to see someone I may or may not be fucking on a regular basis play football on a small screen in a dark, cold room - because I wouldn't dare actually show my face at the stadium and cause a scene, oh god, no - but I'm flying on a day between training session instead of just going to Barcelona next month because that's logical and promotes mental stability and such" seems long-winded, so he just doesn't tell anyone.
He doesn't really talk to Cesc about it much, either, because he doesn't want to complicate things. Iker doesn't even expect to see him that night.
Iker is watching a small, television-sized version of Cesc tip his water bottle back with both hands, palms wrapping all the way around, fingers overlapping delicately, deliberately - Iker hasn't been drinking - when something slams into his door. There's pounding, followed quickly by scratching and a small voice. Iker thought Cesc would've hung around the locker room longer, pushed through the interviews and stayed with Theo and Jack, talked them down. The knob is being twisted over and over, the door refusing to budge.
Without a second thought, Iker decides to fuck with him. "Who is it?" he calls.
"Fuck no, Iker, don't - "
"I'm not signing autographs at the moment, you'll have to come back tomorrow."
"Iker, fucking Christ."
Iker throws the deadbolt. "Hey, I know you."
Cesc doesn't even bother speaking; he just pushes Iker into the room, kicking the door closed with his heel, and wraps his arms around Iker's neck. Iker feels Cesc's teeth before anything else, pulling at his bottom lip and Cesc's hands won't stop moving, arms loosened and fingers through Iker's hair, down his back, drifting across the top of his ass and back up again, back around his neck. Iker kind of can't breathe, Cesc's teeth set hard.
Iker tries to say, "Cesc," but it sounds more like air being released from a tire, a hiss. Cesc has relinquished his vice grip on Iker's neck and is trying to unbutton their jeans at the same time. It's clumsy and weird and the sliver of space between their bodies is getting in the way, Cesc's hands fumbling. He gives up quickly, sighing fuck and pushing Iker away from him harshly, almost violently, hard enough to have Iker stumble back a few steps, leaning into the bed. Cesc pushes his pants down.
"Did you watch? My match?"
Iker sits and toes his socks off, breathing heavily. "Jesus, Cesc. Yes."
Cesc smiles. His eyes are glassy, hard. Blazing. Half high, half terrified.
Iker is still in his underwear and his shirt is sort of stuck at his elbows but Cesc doesn't care, pushing him back on the bed and climbing on top of him, knees tight to Iker's sides. He goes to work on Iker's neck, hands fisting in his hair, pulling his neck taught. Iker's hands reach down to Cesc's ass, pulling him farther upward. He almost chokes as Cesc licks up his entire neck in one smooth motion, tongue in Iker's ear.
"Gerard wanted to see me, but I told him I had plans."
Iker thinks about suggesting that Cesc make out with his mouth instead of the side of his face, but there isn't enough air in the room to draw in a breath - much less speak - and Cesc has a hand on Iker's stomach, flat and insistent, pressing.
It's really a lot to handle - Cesc is saying, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," over and over with slightly different inflections, mouth wrapped around Iker's ear - but he hasn't come without a hand on his dick since he was sixteen, so he thinks about thumbtacks and the smell of gasoline and public restrooms because he is not coming after two minutes of dry humping like he's a fucking teenager, no fucking way. Not tonight.
Cesc is pressing his hips into Iker and Iker has to peel Cesc from him, has to push him away to finally get his underwear off. It's only a split second, but when Iker reaches for Cesc, he's gone. Iker turns around, looks toward the head of the bed.
One hand stretched out behind him, propping himself up, Cesc is working two fingers into his ass, eyes closed, mouth loose. Iker stares, stunned, as Cesc feeds a third finger into himself, faster than Iker has ever opened him up before. Iker can't believe what he's seeing: the angle of Cesc's wrist, the languid curl of his toes, the crazed fluttering of his eyelids. "Wha - " he starts. Stops.
Cesc opens his eyes. "Lay down," he commands, and Iker can barely move. Cesc slackens, blinking. "I'm sorry, is this too confusing for you?" Iker watches Cesc, fingers still lost. Cesc laughs, loud and piercing and awkward. Iker finds it really creepy, actually, but he smiles back because Champions League football does these types of things to people.
"Winning kind of makes you a dick," Iker says quietly. He's pretty sure he's joking. Cesc pushes his fingers in deeper, sucks in a breath.
"Did you say something?"
Slowly, Iker lays down.
//
Iker goes to Barcelona and Arsenal loses.
(He went all the way to London, Cesc reminded him. Barcelona is nothing.)
This is a little easier to explain, because this is his country and these are his friends. They're all his friends. Cesc is really nervous and Iker doesn't speak to him much in the days before the match; he knows Cesc is going crazy, smiling all carefree and happy in photos while allowing himself to reach a luxurious, self-indulgent level of insanity within the confines of his head. Cesc wants to win this game more than anything.
The whole thing seems to happen very quickly. Goals and fouls and cards and Cesc's slumped shoulders. The desperate pull of Jack Wilshere's mouth. A dislocated finger and fear of the unknown.
Afterward, Iker fucks him slowly and carefully. He watches as Cesc's mouth stays set in a thin line, lips pressed together, watches the relief of his neck against the bed. Iker strokes in long, hard, and hears Cesc breathing loudly through his nose. For some reason, Iker can hear Robin van Persie's postgame interview in his head. The words are running on a loop: it's a joke it's a joke it's a joke.
Cesc comes all over the two of them as Iker leans over him, pressing a kiss to Cesc's forehead before pulling out. Cesc sighs. This tight, wound-up version of Cesc isn't trying to be over-dramatic, but sometimes your football team loses and sometimes these things happen.
"Really?" Iker asks anyway, cutting. "I didn't think I was fucking a petulant teenager, but I could be wrong."
"Iker. Please." It's a plea. Iker doesn't respond. "Iker."
Sometimes these things happen. Iker knows that.
"I know," Iker says quietly. He reaches for Cesc's hand. "I know."
To the best of my knowledge, Iker's feelings on London are fictitious; Cesc really does drink like that, you know; and RvP was heated. The cut text comes from Interpol's "Not Even Jail" - I promise to commit no acts of violence / Neither physical nor otherwise / If things come alive.
I don't know where this came from. And I'll never write anything but PWP. Who do I think I am?
I'm leaving for London this afternoon (spring break! Away from the states! The world! It's crazy!) and I wanted to get this out of my system before then. That explains why this entry is a mess and a half -_-
Median
Iker goes to London and Arsenal wins.
He forgets his heavy jacket - fuck this weather - and feels kind of miserable, overall, because he hates London more than he hates a lot of things.
He booked his ticket as soon as Cesc called.
He doesn't tell anyone else, because he has no way to explain this. "I'm traveling to a country that I despise to see someone I may or may not be fucking on a regular basis play football on a small screen in a dark, cold room - because I wouldn't dare actually show my face at the stadium and cause a scene, oh god, no - but I'm flying on a day between training session instead of just going to Barcelona next month because that's logical and promotes mental stability and such" seems long-winded, so he just doesn't tell anyone.
He doesn't really talk to Cesc about it much, either, because he doesn't want to complicate things. Iker doesn't even expect to see him that night.
Iker is watching a small, television-sized version of Cesc tip his water bottle back with both hands, palms wrapping all the way around, fingers overlapping delicately, deliberately - Iker hasn't been drinking - when something slams into his door. There's pounding, followed quickly by scratching and a small voice. Iker thought Cesc would've hung around the locker room longer, pushed through the interviews and stayed with Theo and Jack, talked them down. The knob is being twisted over and over, the door refusing to budge.
Without a second thought, Iker decides to fuck with him. "Who is it?" he calls.
"Fuck no, Iker, don't - "
"I'm not signing autographs at the moment, you'll have to come back tomorrow."
"Iker, fucking Christ."
Iker throws the deadbolt. "Hey, I know you."
Cesc doesn't even bother speaking; he just pushes Iker into the room, kicking the door closed with his heel, and wraps his arms around Iker's neck. Iker feels Cesc's teeth before anything else, pulling at his bottom lip and Cesc's hands won't stop moving, arms loosened and fingers through Iker's hair, down his back, drifting across the top of his ass and back up again, back around his neck. Iker kind of can't breathe, Cesc's teeth set hard.
Iker tries to say, "Cesc," but it sounds more like air being released from a tire, a hiss. Cesc has relinquished his vice grip on Iker's neck and is trying to unbutton their jeans at the same time. It's clumsy and weird and the sliver of space between their bodies is getting in the way, Cesc's hands fumbling. He gives up quickly, sighing fuck and pushing Iker away from him harshly, almost violently, hard enough to have Iker stumble back a few steps, leaning into the bed. Cesc pushes his pants down.
"Did you watch? My match?"
Iker sits and toes his socks off, breathing heavily. "Jesus, Cesc. Yes."
Cesc smiles. His eyes are glassy, hard. Blazing. Half high, half terrified.
Iker is still in his underwear and his shirt is sort of stuck at his elbows but Cesc doesn't care, pushing him back on the bed and climbing on top of him, knees tight to Iker's sides. He goes to work on Iker's neck, hands fisting in his hair, pulling his neck taught. Iker's hands reach down to Cesc's ass, pulling him farther upward. He almost chokes as Cesc licks up his entire neck in one smooth motion, tongue in Iker's ear.
"Gerard wanted to see me, but I told him I had plans."
Iker thinks about suggesting that Cesc make out with his mouth instead of the side of his face, but there isn't enough air in the room to draw in a breath - much less speak - and Cesc has a hand on Iker's stomach, flat and insistent, pressing.
It's really a lot to handle - Cesc is saying, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," over and over with slightly different inflections, mouth wrapped around Iker's ear - but he hasn't come without a hand on his dick since he was sixteen, so he thinks about thumbtacks and the smell of gasoline and public restrooms because he is not coming after two minutes of dry humping like he's a fucking teenager, no fucking way. Not tonight.
Cesc is pressing his hips into Iker and Iker has to peel Cesc from him, has to push him away to finally get his underwear off. It's only a split second, but when Iker reaches for Cesc, he's gone. Iker turns around, looks toward the head of the bed.
One hand stretched out behind him, propping himself up, Cesc is working two fingers into his ass, eyes closed, mouth loose. Iker stares, stunned, as Cesc feeds a third finger into himself, faster than Iker has ever opened him up before. Iker can't believe what he's seeing: the angle of Cesc's wrist, the languid curl of his toes, the crazed fluttering of his eyelids. "Wha - " he starts. Stops.
Cesc opens his eyes. "Lay down," he commands, and Iker can barely move. Cesc slackens, blinking. "I'm sorry, is this too confusing for you?" Iker watches Cesc, fingers still lost. Cesc laughs, loud and piercing and awkward. Iker finds it really creepy, actually, but he smiles back because Champions League football does these types of things to people.
"Winning kind of makes you a dick," Iker says quietly. He's pretty sure he's joking. Cesc pushes his fingers in deeper, sucks in a breath.
"Did you say something?"
Slowly, Iker lays down.
//
Iker goes to Barcelona and Arsenal loses.
(He went all the way to London, Cesc reminded him. Barcelona is nothing.)
This is a little easier to explain, because this is his country and these are his friends. They're all his friends. Cesc is really nervous and Iker doesn't speak to him much in the days before the match; he knows Cesc is going crazy, smiling all carefree and happy in photos while allowing himself to reach a luxurious, self-indulgent level of insanity within the confines of his head. Cesc wants to win this game more than anything.
The whole thing seems to happen very quickly. Goals and fouls and cards and Cesc's slumped shoulders. The desperate pull of Jack Wilshere's mouth. A dislocated finger and fear of the unknown.
Afterward, Iker fucks him slowly and carefully. He watches as Cesc's mouth stays set in a thin line, lips pressed together, watches the relief of his neck against the bed. Iker strokes in long, hard, and hears Cesc breathing loudly through his nose. For some reason, Iker can hear Robin van Persie's postgame interview in his head. The words are running on a loop: it's a joke it's a joke it's a joke.
Cesc comes all over the two of them as Iker leans over him, pressing a kiss to Cesc's forehead before pulling out. Cesc sighs. This tight, wound-up version of Cesc isn't trying to be over-dramatic, but sometimes your football team loses and sometimes these things happen.
"Really?" Iker asks anyway, cutting. "I didn't think I was fucking a petulant teenager, but I could be wrong."
"Iker. Please." It's a plea. Iker doesn't respond. "Iker."
Sometimes these things happen. Iker knows that.
"I know," Iker says quietly. He reaches for Cesc's hand. "I know."
To the best of my knowledge, Iker's feelings on London are fictitious; Cesc really does drink like that, you know; and RvP was heated. The cut text comes from Interpol's "Not Even Jail" - I promise to commit no acts of violence / Neither physical nor otherwise / If things come alive.
I don't know where this came from. And I'll never write anything but PWP. Who do I think I am?
I'm leaving for London this afternoon (spring break! Away from the states! The world! It's crazy!) and I wanted to get this out of my system before then. That explains why this entry is a mess and a half -_-