(no subject)
Title: Seven
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Cesc Fàbregas
Rating: Somewhere between PG-13 and R.
Disclaimer: This really happened. I'm lying.
The Seven Deadly Sins
as committed by Iker Casillas for Cesc Fàbregas
(Sloth) He should be on the field training, or running, or in the gym abusing the equipment. He’s not. He’s parked on his ass watching the way the new kid moves, his eyes dripping down the skinny angles of his body, the untraceable grace of his feet as he maneuvers the ball. After maybe the fifth practice session in which Cesc was present Iker asked for videos of him and now he’s studying them (for educational purposes, he swears to himself), mesmerized, wasting himself for the sake of indulging this new atypical desire.
This isn’t a good habit.
(Greed) It’s a game. All in jest, and Iker can only win if at the end of the day he gets the most out of Cesc’s attention. He’s a thief: he steals the (young, oh how young, so much that it’s disturbingly wrong) midfielder’s eye contact, words, attention, and he wins. Covetousness lies in every gesture he makes, from the searing, not-quite untranslatable stares he shoots in Cesc’s direction to the way his hands always jump to Cesc’s shoulders when he’s walking behind him. Iker is starving for more of this eccentric, playful new addition to Spain’s roster and he is not ashamed to display it.
(Lust) It’s not like this at first, Iker knows it’s not, because when he met Cesc he didn’t get hard-ons relating to Cesc. Ever. Now it happens when their eyes brush in the most inconsequential of ways, when they pass each other in the locker room or hall, when Iker catches a whiff of him on the air he’s just inhaled. He’s starting to dread the hot days because Cesc likes to go shirtless at the first hint of warmth and when he moves around the field like he does with all that sweat sliding down his amber body Iker can’t concentrate on anything else. He often forgets how to blink, and breathe, and exist as anything more than a support system for his dick, and thus is quite useless when the ball comes jackhammering towards him.
(Pride) First it’s damn we’d look good together.
And they would, their darkness so complementary, Cesc’s sweet puckishness and Iker’s gruff misinterpreted sometimes-gloom. Their compatibility is improbable but when they’re interacting it’s undeniable.
That night Iker has swagger, crazy-unshakable even for him, and his eyes dig under Cesc’s thin defense and push him to his brink, and Iker hadn’t really imagined their first confession being a fervent, deep, hands-everywhere knees-jamming-into-crotches makeout session in the basement broom closet of a club, but hot damn is it worth it.
Then it’s damn we look good together.
(Envy) Maybe a week after everything is tied together Iker comes across an article in a cheap magazine boasting pictures of Cesc and his girlfriend in Disney World. He doesn’t take note of the fact that in none of these pictures are they touching, or the fact that the girl (Iker doesn’t care what her name is, can’t be bothered, wouldn’t call her by it if he knew it) appears to be in various stages of unhappiness throughout. All he can think about is how his world would be shattered if Cesc belonged to anyone else.
Then there are the on-field incidents, the skin-to-skin clamor around the player who just scored that Iker has to watch from afar, and they’re what makes him harbor his jealousy until one day it emerges unchecked.
(Wrath) “How can you touch them like that?”
Cesc smirks because he loves Iker’s possessiveness, because he loves when the keeper is incensed, and maybe it’s unwise but he wants to draw more of this territorial fury out of him. “I’m affectionate. You of all people should know that.” He shrugs when Iker’s eyes burn hot. “I guess it’s just intensified when I’m worked up about goals.”
“So, to be clear,” hisses Iker. “You like to celebrate by lying on top of people and holding their faces in your hands.”
“Yeah, I do.” Cesc tips his head in a way he knows will enrage the goalie further. “Problem?”
“Yes, I have a fucking problem,” spits Iker, his voice rising in pitch as he continues. “I don’t fucking like you to roll around with people. I don’t give a damn how glorious the goal is. You’re fucking mine.”
“So, let me be clear,” says Cesc angelically. “I’m not allowed to jump into a pile of guys, or get close to someone so they can actually hear what I’m saying over the crowd, but you’re allowed to practically have sex with David Villa on the pitch?”
Iker goes red.
“That was all him and you know it,” he mutters, gritting his teeth against chagrin and a new wave of anger.
“If I recall, it was far from one-sided,” says Cesc sweetly. “Now. I don’t touch anyone else the way I touch you, nor do I want to. Remember that the next time you want to throw a fit, won’t you?”
He leans in and kisses Iker on the nose before turning and bounding out of the room, leaving the goalie to fume in irrationality until he’s exhausted the jealousy he’s been storing for too long.
(Gluttony) Iker drinks Cesc, he eats him, licks tastes feels sucks him, and he can’t. Get. Enough. On days like these they barricade themselves in the nearest bedroom (usually ending in a trek to the bathroom for a long, long shower) and Cesc resists just enough to drive Iker to mild loss of sanity before he stops pretending and gives the goalie everything. They can’t indulge in these instances often enough to suit either of their needs; thus, when they get the chance, they don’t stop till they’re both wasted, exhausted, looped all through each other on the nearest comfortable piece of furniture as they simply exist together, soaring inside but restricted to mere contentedness for lack of energy.
*fin*
(A/N): Yeah, I saw those pictures of Cesc and his girlfriend at Disney World a long time ago and I can’t remember if they were touching at all or not, but one can manipulate circumstances to fit needs, no? :) Also, AAAAAAH, I can't believe I actually wrote something. It's legit been like a year. I'm pretty sure the World Cup fever is getting to me.
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Cesc Fàbregas
Rating: Somewhere between PG-13 and R.
Disclaimer: This really happened. I'm lying.
The Seven Deadly Sins
as committed by Iker Casillas for Cesc Fàbregas
(Sloth) He should be on the field training, or running, or in the gym abusing the equipment. He’s not. He’s parked on his ass watching the way the new kid moves, his eyes dripping down the skinny angles of his body, the untraceable grace of his feet as he maneuvers the ball. After maybe the fifth practice session in which Cesc was present Iker asked for videos of him and now he’s studying them (for educational purposes, he swears to himself), mesmerized, wasting himself for the sake of indulging this new atypical desire.
This isn’t a good habit.
(Greed) It’s a game. All in jest, and Iker can only win if at the end of the day he gets the most out of Cesc’s attention. He’s a thief: he steals the (young, oh how young, so much that it’s disturbingly wrong) midfielder’s eye contact, words, attention, and he wins. Covetousness lies in every gesture he makes, from the searing, not-quite untranslatable stares he shoots in Cesc’s direction to the way his hands always jump to Cesc’s shoulders when he’s walking behind him. Iker is starving for more of this eccentric, playful new addition to Spain’s roster and he is not ashamed to display it.
(Lust) It’s not like this at first, Iker knows it’s not, because when he met Cesc he didn’t get hard-ons relating to Cesc. Ever. Now it happens when their eyes brush in the most inconsequential of ways, when they pass each other in the locker room or hall, when Iker catches a whiff of him on the air he’s just inhaled. He’s starting to dread the hot days because Cesc likes to go shirtless at the first hint of warmth and when he moves around the field like he does with all that sweat sliding down his amber body Iker can’t concentrate on anything else. He often forgets how to blink, and breathe, and exist as anything more than a support system for his dick, and thus is quite useless when the ball comes jackhammering towards him.
(Pride) First it’s damn we’d look good together.
And they would, their darkness so complementary, Cesc’s sweet puckishness and Iker’s gruff misinterpreted sometimes-gloom. Their compatibility is improbable but when they’re interacting it’s undeniable.
That night Iker has swagger, crazy-unshakable even for him, and his eyes dig under Cesc’s thin defense and push him to his brink, and Iker hadn’t really imagined their first confession being a fervent, deep, hands-everywhere knees-jamming-into-crotches makeout session in the basement broom closet of a club, but hot damn is it worth it.
Then it’s damn we look good together.
(Envy) Maybe a week after everything is tied together Iker comes across an article in a cheap magazine boasting pictures of Cesc and his girlfriend in Disney World. He doesn’t take note of the fact that in none of these pictures are they touching, or the fact that the girl (Iker doesn’t care what her name is, can’t be bothered, wouldn’t call her by it if he knew it) appears to be in various stages of unhappiness throughout. All he can think about is how his world would be shattered if Cesc belonged to anyone else.
Then there are the on-field incidents, the skin-to-skin clamor around the player who just scored that Iker has to watch from afar, and they’re what makes him harbor his jealousy until one day it emerges unchecked.
(Wrath) “How can you touch them like that?”
Cesc smirks because he loves Iker’s possessiveness, because he loves when the keeper is incensed, and maybe it’s unwise but he wants to draw more of this territorial fury out of him. “I’m affectionate. You of all people should know that.” He shrugs when Iker’s eyes burn hot. “I guess it’s just intensified when I’m worked up about goals.”
“So, to be clear,” hisses Iker. “You like to celebrate by lying on top of people and holding their faces in your hands.”
“Yeah, I do.” Cesc tips his head in a way he knows will enrage the goalie further. “Problem?”
“Yes, I have a fucking problem,” spits Iker, his voice rising in pitch as he continues. “I don’t fucking like you to roll around with people. I don’t give a damn how glorious the goal is. You’re fucking mine.”
“So, let me be clear,” says Cesc angelically. “I’m not allowed to jump into a pile of guys, or get close to someone so they can actually hear what I’m saying over the crowd, but you’re allowed to practically have sex with David Villa on the pitch?”
Iker goes red.
“That was all him and you know it,” he mutters, gritting his teeth against chagrin and a new wave of anger.
“If I recall, it was far from one-sided,” says Cesc sweetly. “Now. I don’t touch anyone else the way I touch you, nor do I want to. Remember that the next time you want to throw a fit, won’t you?”
He leans in and kisses Iker on the nose before turning and bounding out of the room, leaving the goalie to fume in irrationality until he’s exhausted the jealousy he’s been storing for too long.
(Gluttony) Iker drinks Cesc, he eats him, licks tastes feels sucks him, and he can’t. Get. Enough. On days like these they barricade themselves in the nearest bedroom (usually ending in a trek to the bathroom for a long, long shower) and Cesc resists just enough to drive Iker to mild loss of sanity before he stops pretending and gives the goalie everything. They can’t indulge in these instances often enough to suit either of their needs; thus, when they get the chance, they don’t stop till they’re both wasted, exhausted, looped all through each other on the nearest comfortable piece of furniture as they simply exist together, soaring inside but restricted to mere contentedness for lack of energy.
*fin*
(A/N): Yeah, I saw those pictures of Cesc and his girlfriend at Disney World a long time ago and I can’t remember if they were touching at all or not, but one can manipulate circumstances to fit needs, no? :) Also, AAAAAAH, I can't believe I actually wrote something. It's legit been like a year. I'm pretty sure the World Cup fever is getting to me.