Amgard Delicate
Title: Amgard Delicate
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Gerard Pique, suggested Gerard Pique/Cesc Fabregas.
Rating: NC-17 for extreme violence, some sex.
Summary: Pique needs someone to beat him up. Iker beats him up. 1358 words.
Author's Note: I keep wanting to write a series about Iker being a good captain for the Spanish NT in unusual ways. This could be the first part of that. And I need to get over how interested I am when Pique gets hurt. The way his hands look in this. Something about them is just very striking.
Pique hears himself make a sound.
Iker tilts his chin up, pushes his lip away with his thumb to check the damage. Then he lets Pique's head fall again, wiping his bloody thumb on his jeans. He slaps across where he already punched earlier. Then again. The inside of Pique's cheek tears on his teeth. A fresh wash of blood comes up in his mouth.
Pique didn't-doesn't-want degradation. He doesn't want punishment for mistakes on the field or off the field or-whatever. He just wants pain. The physical sensation of it. He always has.
He isn't addicted to it, it isn't the only way he can get off. It isn't anything that dramatic. But he wants it. Sometimes he feels like he needs it. Girls can't do enough damage, and he doesn't want to pay someone. That's not his style. And he can't find a way to tell Cesc. Or ask Cesc. Cesc, who's normal in all the ways he isn't, who watched straight vanilla porn with him in the basement on a fuzzy TV when they were fourteen, jerking off together for the first time but not the last. Cesc, who kisses when he fucks, who is normal, who is his friend.
Iker is his captain. Sometimes. Sometimes he's the captain of the enemy, but either way it's fitting. Iker sat very still when Pique told him what he needed, then he asked him questions. How much. (Until you want to stop.) Where. (My house.) On your body. (Anywhere.) Where's off limits. (Nowhere.) Why never comes, which Pique is grateful for. It's not that he's embarrassed, it's that he doesn't know the answer. And he isn't in the habit of not answering a captain.
Then Iker told him, "I'm not doing this during club season." Which makes sense, if he fucks up his hand- "Because you'll need time afterwards." So this is the night they agreed on, months after the conversation, and Pique's slumped on the floor of his foyer, his head lying near the dahlia plant his mother bought him in Seville. He's curled up on his welcoming mat. And Iker is still kicking him.
No-one else would go this far. Most would slap him. Some would punch him. All would stop at the first real grunt of pain, the first dribble of blood running from his nose, hanging on his lip. When Pique crumpled at the fourth blow to his ribs, Iker didn't help him up. He pushed him down further. He caught him off balance and pushed him to the ground, then he kicked Pique's hands away when he tried to protect his kidneys, his sides, the soft parts of his belly. Now he kicks harder, with force behind the swing. He kicks the wind out of Pique's lungs. Pique's mouth opens. His fingers curl on the floor. There's nothing to hold on to.
Iker pushes him over on his back. Pique's forearm is up, hand and fingers loose, like there's something soft he's touching in the air. Iker hauls him up against the wall, pulls him by the hair, forces Pique to look at his face through the blood and the pain and when Pique meets his eyes (when he comes) it's almost like that hurts too. A different kind of hurt, but just as sharp. He grunts, and his eyes roll back.
Iker lets go. Steps back.
Pique should have told him. He slides down the wall.
He thinks he might pass out. It's a vague thought, flitting on the edge of his subconscious. His vision is swimming-blood in one eye and the other swollen shut-Iker's legs come in and out of focus. They're spread slightly, feet forward.
Pique recognizes the stance. He's a defender. He defends Iker, that's his job. Iker's standing like the ball's on their side of the pitch and someone just fucked up-he's standing like he does for that brief second, when it's just him and a striker and the goal posts behind him and he's taken aback. When he isn't sure what to do.
Pique reaches out, blindly, to touch his shoe.
Iker walks away.
Pique is thirsty. He lies there on the tile and feels a rivulet of blood trickle its way across his face. It blooms from a cut on the bridge of his nose, slides along his eye socket, over his cheekbone, and then into his ear. It tickles. He can't do anything about it. He thinks idly about repercussions. If there's ice in the freezer, if Iker will tell anyone, how far of a crawl it is to the phone. He'll sleep a bit before he tries it. He's so thirsty.
Then, Iker comes back. Pique can see the legs of his jeans again, swimming between his own. Hands grab the collar of Pique's shirt and he's dragged to his feet but his legs won't work right under him. The world shifts. He feels like he might throw up. He pulls Iker's shirt, scrabbling, thinking he's about to get a knee to the thigh or to the groin and he isn't sure how to tell Iker "I can't, I can't anymore" or "Please don't, I didn't mean to". One of these is a lie.
Iker's hands push down at his, trying to dislodge him or maybe calm him-Pique holds on, tighter and tighter and tighter.
"It's okay. Pique. Pique." Iker turns Pique's head forward, then turns it forward again when Pique looks away, confused and disoriented. "It's okay."
"Muh," Pique says, half word and half moan. Iker nods like it's something he could understand.
"It's okay." He presses something cold and wet to his eye and Pique starts, but doesn't bolt. Iker lifts the rag and looks underneath, then presses it back down again. He brings Pique's hand up to hold it in place.
Pique hears Iker rustling around. He swallows down a mouthful of blood. It seems crass to spit it. He takes inventory of his body, thinks his legs might give out, then Iker is back, pressed up against him. Holding him up with his body. He lifts Pique's chin and rubs blood off his brow with his thumb, then presses his forearm under his nose. The pressure is firmer without a towel. It hurts more, but Pique feels the blood clotting quicker. Soaking through Iker's sleeve. He wants to reach up and staunch the blood himself, not stain Iker's shirt. Blood is getting on Iker's shirt. Pique tries to tell him.
"Hold still," Iker says, quiet. Pique's arm is still half raised, reaching, but he holds still. He hears himself breathing like it's someone else. Wet sucking sounds. Sharp. His eye hurts. He can't really see. He flinches when Iker cups his cheek in his other hand, surprised at the pain and at the gesture.
"Hold still," Iker repeats, softer. Pique opens his mouth like he might say something, but he doesn't. He isn't even sure what he wanted to say. The blood feels gummy, tacky between his lips. They stick together, burn when he stops trying to talk. Iker holds a glass of water up to his mouth and Pique tries to drink too much-he sputters and drools blood on the floor and Iker braces him when he coughs and gasps-
"It's okay," he says, wiping the blood off Pique's chin and his mouth with his hand. "Slower." He holds the glass up again and Pique drinks, easier this time. Slower. He listens. Iker wipes his mouth again when he's finished, careful to avoid where Pique's lip is split, busted open on the bottom.
And the longer Iker stands there, mostly holding him up, pressed up against him despite the blood, the sweat, the come in Pique's shorts-Pique feels his breathing slow. The nausea and the jitters and the panic in his limbs ebb away. He feel calm, level, okay, for the first time since the last match. In this moment, he doesn't feel like he needs anything at all. He breathes. His hand slowly loosens in Iker's shirt.
"Hold still," Iker says.
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Gerard Pique, suggested Gerard Pique/Cesc Fabregas.
Rating: NC-17 for extreme violence, some sex.
Summary: Pique needs someone to beat him up. Iker beats him up. 1358 words.
Author's Note: I keep wanting to write a series about Iker being a good captain for the Spanish NT in unusual ways. This could be the first part of that. And I need to get over how interested I am when Pique gets hurt. The way his hands look in this. Something about them is just very striking.
Pique hears himself make a sound.
Iker tilts his chin up, pushes his lip away with his thumb to check the damage. Then he lets Pique's head fall again, wiping his bloody thumb on his jeans. He slaps across where he already punched earlier. Then again. The inside of Pique's cheek tears on his teeth. A fresh wash of blood comes up in his mouth.
Pique didn't-doesn't-want degradation. He doesn't want punishment for mistakes on the field or off the field or-whatever. He just wants pain. The physical sensation of it. He always has.
He isn't addicted to it, it isn't the only way he can get off. It isn't anything that dramatic. But he wants it. Sometimes he feels like he needs it. Girls can't do enough damage, and he doesn't want to pay someone. That's not his style. And he can't find a way to tell Cesc. Or ask Cesc. Cesc, who's normal in all the ways he isn't, who watched straight vanilla porn with him in the basement on a fuzzy TV when they were fourteen, jerking off together for the first time but not the last. Cesc, who kisses when he fucks, who is normal, who is his friend.
Iker is his captain. Sometimes. Sometimes he's the captain of the enemy, but either way it's fitting. Iker sat very still when Pique told him what he needed, then he asked him questions. How much. (Until you want to stop.) Where. (My house.) On your body. (Anywhere.) Where's off limits. (Nowhere.) Why never comes, which Pique is grateful for. It's not that he's embarrassed, it's that he doesn't know the answer. And he isn't in the habit of not answering a captain.
Then Iker told him, "I'm not doing this during club season." Which makes sense, if he fucks up his hand- "Because you'll need time afterwards." So this is the night they agreed on, months after the conversation, and Pique's slumped on the floor of his foyer, his head lying near the dahlia plant his mother bought him in Seville. He's curled up on his welcoming mat. And Iker is still kicking him.
No-one else would go this far. Most would slap him. Some would punch him. All would stop at the first real grunt of pain, the first dribble of blood running from his nose, hanging on his lip. When Pique crumpled at the fourth blow to his ribs, Iker didn't help him up. He pushed him down further. He caught him off balance and pushed him to the ground, then he kicked Pique's hands away when he tried to protect his kidneys, his sides, the soft parts of his belly. Now he kicks harder, with force behind the swing. He kicks the wind out of Pique's lungs. Pique's mouth opens. His fingers curl on the floor. There's nothing to hold on to.
Iker pushes him over on his back. Pique's forearm is up, hand and fingers loose, like there's something soft he's touching in the air. Iker hauls him up against the wall, pulls him by the hair, forces Pique to look at his face through the blood and the pain and when Pique meets his eyes (when he comes) it's almost like that hurts too. A different kind of hurt, but just as sharp. He grunts, and his eyes roll back.
Iker lets go. Steps back.
Pique should have told him. He slides down the wall.
He thinks he might pass out. It's a vague thought, flitting on the edge of his subconscious. His vision is swimming-blood in one eye and the other swollen shut-Iker's legs come in and out of focus. They're spread slightly, feet forward.
Pique recognizes the stance. He's a defender. He defends Iker, that's his job. Iker's standing like the ball's on their side of the pitch and someone just fucked up-he's standing like he does for that brief second, when it's just him and a striker and the goal posts behind him and he's taken aback. When he isn't sure what to do.
Pique reaches out, blindly, to touch his shoe.
Iker walks away.
Pique is thirsty. He lies there on the tile and feels a rivulet of blood trickle its way across his face. It blooms from a cut on the bridge of his nose, slides along his eye socket, over his cheekbone, and then into his ear. It tickles. He can't do anything about it. He thinks idly about repercussions. If there's ice in the freezer, if Iker will tell anyone, how far of a crawl it is to the phone. He'll sleep a bit before he tries it. He's so thirsty.
Then, Iker comes back. Pique can see the legs of his jeans again, swimming between his own. Hands grab the collar of Pique's shirt and he's dragged to his feet but his legs won't work right under him. The world shifts. He feels like he might throw up. He pulls Iker's shirt, scrabbling, thinking he's about to get a knee to the thigh or to the groin and he isn't sure how to tell Iker "I can't, I can't anymore" or "Please don't, I didn't mean to". One of these is a lie.
Iker's hands push down at his, trying to dislodge him or maybe calm him-Pique holds on, tighter and tighter and tighter.
"It's okay. Pique. Pique." Iker turns Pique's head forward, then turns it forward again when Pique looks away, confused and disoriented. "It's okay."
"Muh," Pique says, half word and half moan. Iker nods like it's something he could understand.
"It's okay." He presses something cold and wet to his eye and Pique starts, but doesn't bolt. Iker lifts the rag and looks underneath, then presses it back down again. He brings Pique's hand up to hold it in place.
Pique hears Iker rustling around. He swallows down a mouthful of blood. It seems crass to spit it. He takes inventory of his body, thinks his legs might give out, then Iker is back, pressed up against him. Holding him up with his body. He lifts Pique's chin and rubs blood off his brow with his thumb, then presses his forearm under his nose. The pressure is firmer without a towel. It hurts more, but Pique feels the blood clotting quicker. Soaking through Iker's sleeve. He wants to reach up and staunch the blood himself, not stain Iker's shirt. Blood is getting on Iker's shirt. Pique tries to tell him.
"Hold still," Iker says, quiet. Pique's arm is still half raised, reaching, but he holds still. He hears himself breathing like it's someone else. Wet sucking sounds. Sharp. His eye hurts. He can't really see. He flinches when Iker cups his cheek in his other hand, surprised at the pain and at the gesture.
"Hold still," Iker repeats, softer. Pique opens his mouth like he might say something, but he doesn't. He isn't even sure what he wanted to say. The blood feels gummy, tacky between his lips. They stick together, burn when he stops trying to talk. Iker holds a glass of water up to his mouth and Pique tries to drink too much-he sputters and drools blood on the floor and Iker braces him when he coughs and gasps-
"It's okay," he says, wiping the blood off Pique's chin and his mouth with his hand. "Slower." He holds the glass up again and Pique drinks, easier this time. Slower. He listens. Iker wipes his mouth again when he's finished, careful to avoid where Pique's lip is split, busted open on the bottom.
And the longer Iker stands there, mostly holding him up, pressed up against him despite the blood, the sweat, the come in Pique's shorts-Pique feels his breathing slow. The nausea and the jitters and the panic in his limbs ebb away. He feel calm, level, okay, for the first time since the last match. In this moment, he doesn't feel like he needs anything at all. He breathes. His hand slowly loosens in Iker's shirt.
"Hold still," Iker says.