FOOTBALL RPF FIC: Embarazado de Nada
Nov. 1st, 2013 12:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flywomanTitle: Embarazado de Nada
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Xavi Hernández
Rating: R
Word Count: 2721
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: Iker allows himself to wallow in food, beer, and self-pity after Real Madrid's defeat in the clásico... and Xavi proves once again that he is embarrassed by nothing.
Warnings: gluttony, tipsy!Iker, and make-believe mpreg.
Author's Notes: Utter self-indulgence and an unabashed homage to the House M.D. fic Embarrassed of Nothing by Mercy (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
clivelive49). The title is, obviously, a translation with a play on the Spanish word for "pregnant."
Make urself at home, the text had read. Tortilla in fridge.
Iker let himself into Xavi's house, thumbed the code into the alarm system, and toed his shoes off in the entryway, lining them up against the wall. He knew that he might be waiting a while; Alexis Sánchez had scored perhaps the most amazing goal of his entire career during the clásico, and the team captains had been busy organizing an impromptu celebration on his behalf when Iker entered the Barcelona dressing room in search of his host. Xavi had promised that he would hurry home as soon as he could, but when the text came in the taxi, Iker had realized that there was no knowing when he'd actually be back.
Iker used the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, washed his hands, then wandered into the kitchen in his socks, scratching idly at his stomach, and peered into the fridge, where he found the promised tortilla and a six-pack of Mahou. Xavi rarely drank beer these days - he'd become much more serious about diet and exercise right around his 30th birthday - but he always kept some handy when he knew that Iker would be staying over.
He also, as Iker discovered when he cut the tortilla in half to reheat it, had made his friend's favorite dish exactly the way he liked it: with the onions chopped fine and both roasted red peppers and tiny cubes of jamon serrano mixed into the eggs and potatoes. He carried the plate to the table, bare and clean as befit Xavi's kitchen, laid a cloth napkin on his lap, and cracked open a sweating bottle of beer.
Xavi thoroughly failed to appear, or even text message him, while Iker worked his way through his half of the tortilla. Around the end of the second beer, he started to feel seriously sorry for himself. He had been forced to watch a bitter defeat from the bench this evening, and now here he was, still all alone, after agreeing to stay behind in Barcelona. Just what the hell did Xavi think he was doing? Taking him for granted, that's what. Like they all did.
He had finished his meal, but the other half of the delicious tortilla beckoned from the fridge, along with the rest of the beer. The uncustomary alcohol and growing disappointment combined to make Iker feel resentful and more than a little reckless. To hell with his diet; it had been an awful day, and for once he was going to do as he pleased. He was tired of always being the good boy, the role model, of keeping his mouth shut and taking one for the team.
He fetched the other half of the tortilla, forcing himself to finish it even after he began to feel full, and washed it down with another beer. Noticing that the button on his jeans was digging uncomfortably into his skin, he thumbed it open and sighed with relief, sagging back against his chair for a moment.
Still no Xavi. After washing his dishes and leaving them to air-dry, Iker put the empty beer bottles in the recycling and carried the rest of the six-pack upstairs into the master bedroom.
Iker found the remote in its usual spot on the bedside table and clicked on Xavi's huge flatscreen. He made himself watch a brief recap of today's match, reliving his earlier anger at the unorthodox line-up, the calls not made, the terrible luck his team had had. By the end of it, he had finished a fourth beer and set the bottle carefully to the side of the bed. At least, he tried to; it tipped over and rolled out of his reach.
Iker flipped idly through the channels for a few more minutes, marveling anew at Xavi's seemingly endless supply of sports programs, but seeing the headlines about their defeat at Camp Nou flash by over and over in a dozen different languages was just making him depressed.
He switched the television off and popped the cap off the fifth beer, feeling drowsy, warm, more than a little tipsy, and very, very full. This was definitely something of a novelty at this time in his life; he hadn't permitted himself to eat and drink as much as he wanted to since... Iker paused to ponder this, at last deciding that it must have been at the end of the Eurocopa the previous summer.
Iker was finding that he liked the unusual feeling, the full press of the beer expanding his belly from just below his sternum all the way to his privates. He slid his hand lightly over his straining t-shirt and unzipped his fly to give himself a little more space. He was nursing a half-erection.
He palmed himself a few times, thinking of nothing in particular, just letting the disappointments of the day drain away, feeling himself stir half-heartedly under his hand. He was tempted to rub one off here and now - part of him reflected meanly that it would serve Xavi right for forgetting about him - but when he thought of the flashing dark eyes and disappointed downturned mouth that were sure to follow, he decided to refrain.
Instead, Iker leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, enjoying the contradictory sensations of his alcohol-fueled light-headedness and heavy gut, as the room spun slowly around him. Replaying the image of Alexis' goal, of Diego López flinging himself helplessly into the air as it soared over him, made an involuntary smile curve Iker's lips. Gloating like this wasn't very big of him. Then again, he reflected, repressing a giggle, after five beers on top of an entire tortilla, he was big enough for anything.
He was just finishing the last beer, full to bursting, jean flaps open and left hand still resting lightly on his crotch, when Xavi finally arrived.
Iker watched, woozily amused, as Xavi's heavy-lidded eyes tracked from his swollen abdomen to the empty six-pack carton and widened. "Eh!" he said in surprise. "Madre mia, como te vas a poner, tio!"
Iker lifted one shoulder in a slightly self-conscious shrug. "While you were negotiating the Geneva convention out there, I had to drown my sorrows somehow."
"I thought that was what we were going to do in here," Xavi joked. "But I do understand if you were drinking to forget the humiliating experience of defeat..."
"More like the outrage of being robbed of two penalties by the referee..." Iker hiccupped.
"Sure, and Cesc wasn't stomped in the box, and Neymar wasn't taken down by Ramos just as he was about to make a run..." Xavi answered automatically, but his big eyes were still fixed on Iker's full stomach in frank fascination.
Iker opened his mouth to add that it was even worse when he had to watch Barcelona's theatrics from the bench, but an unexpected burp reverberated through the room. He snapped his mouth shut, embarrassed. Xavi loved to tease him about his lack of refinement, especially back when they'd first met, and he really didn't need any more ammunition.
Xavi had jumped slightly at the sound, eyes even bigger; now he edged towards the bed, then put out his hand and paused. "Can I... touch it?" he asked, almost whispering, and then pressed his palm gently to Iker's bulging belly without waiting for an answer. Iker let out a soft moan, halfway between discomfort and gratification, and he saw Xavi shiver.
"Does it hurt?" Xavi asked, shifting even closer.
"No," Iker said immediately, and while this was technically true - his stomach didn't quite hurt, it just felt hot and tight and full - the mere touch of Xavi's hand had sent such a surge of warm arousal singing through his body that he would have happily lied outright to keep it there. "Feels good," he added, gasping a little at the end as Xavi's hand moved again, slipping under his shirt, stroking the soft, stretched skin.
"I can't believe you fit that much in there," Xavi said, sounding sincerely awed. "Or even that you're still awake. A six-pack on an empty stomach!"
"I ate the entire tortilla, too," Iker blurted, this open acknowledgment of his utter depravity thrilling him down to his toes.
"Joder," Xavi breathed in disbelief. "No wonder you..." He let his words trail off, then stretched out on the bed at Iker's side, careful not to jog the mattress, his hand never losing contact with Iker's stomach. Xavi was smirking, trying to make a joke of the situation, but his eyes were hot, hungry. "You look five months pregnant," he murmured in Iker's ear. His pelvis was pressed up against Iker's thigh, and as Xavi said this, his prick stirred perceptibly in his pants.
Iker would have laughed at him if he hadn't been so turned on by this whole bizarre situation himself. He turned his head and found Xavi's mouth, which tasted, not unpleasantly, of garlic, caramelized sugar, and red wine, and tried to guide his friend's hand lower, under his briefs.
"Wait," Xavi whispered, and slid further down in the bed so that his stubbled cheek came into contact with Iker's stomach. His lips began to caress the taut skin with fierce, tender, open-mouthed kisses that made Iker moan. For his part, Iker could hear Xavi practically panting in his eagerness.
He had to ask.
"Why..." he gasped... " ah... are you so excited by this?"
Xavi was frowning, but it looked to Iker more like concentration than annoyance, so he pushed farther. "Do you miss... curves? Do you..." and here he hesitated, not certain if he dared. "Do you want kids? Do you wish I could get pregnant?"
At that Xavi stopped what he was doing and pulled himself back up onto the pillow, facing Iker, although his hand continued slowly stroking Iker's swollen stomach. "No," he said cautiously, as though thinking it through. "I think it's more the idea of... overindulgence. Of someone, especially you - Mr. Goody Two-Shoes - completely giving in to temptation, knowing the consequences."
"The nutritionist is going to kill me," Iker nodded, although the expected feeling of dread was noticeably cushioned by the six-pack he'd consumed. He hiccupped again.
"Mmm, " Xavi answered absently. Then his expression shifted to one of mischief. "Although... maybe you have a point after all..."
"Huh?" Iker watched, perplexed, as his friend pulled up the edge of his t-shirt and lowered his ear to the swelling under his breastbone, fighting a smile.
"There it is," he hissed as gas bubbles shifted and tickled in Iker's gut. "I can hear him. Our baby."
Iker found himself completely torn between horror at the utter wrongness of acting out such an absurd fantasy... and, not entirely independently, his intense and unmistakable arousal. He clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle even as his cock twitched insistently against the soft cotton of his briefs. Xavi noticed this, of course, and acknowledged it with a smirk.
"That's right," he said encouragingly. He fumbled at his belt and wriggled out of his jeans, ridiculous tattered things that looked like they'd been gnawed by rodents of unusual size, then helped Iker pry himself out of his, much more tasteful but currently too-tight, pair. He shucked his shirt, too, and pulled Iker's soft cotton t-shirt up over his head, exposing his belly in all its pale, bloated glory.
Xavi gazed down at him, eyes shining with desire, his tented boxers level with Iker's face, and brushed his hand softly over his distended stomach again, caressing its curve. They both groaned. Xavi closed his eyes briefly, shuddering, then yanked his boxers down and kicked them to the side, his cock bobbing impatiently in the empty air.
Iker side-eyed it. "I don't want to disappoint you, but I really don't think I could possibly fit one more thing in my mouth right now."
Xavi's lips twitched. "No pasa nada," he said. "I have a better idea." He pulled open the bedside drawer, pulled out the bottle of unscented hand lotion that he kept there - mainly for the nights that he spent alone in Barcelona - and squirted a little into his palm. "Pregnant ladies," he said, with a meaningful glance at Iker's mound, "like to have their bellies rubbed."
Iker squirmed in embarrassment, but he knew that Xavi often wished he would be more adventurous in the bedroom, and really this wasn't that bad, was it, even if it was a little weird? With all the beer sloshing around in his gut, he felt bolder than usual, too. So he played along, catching Xavi by the wrist and pulling him closer. "I'd love that."
Xavi smiled, suddenly looking almost shy. "Scoot over," he suggested, then tried not to laugh as Iker struggled to obey, grunting a little with the effort.
As soon as there was space, Xavi joined him on the matteress and settled himself, sitting up against the headboard, a pillow wedged behind his back. His cock was sticking almost straight up; he took hold of himself and slicked up with the lotion, swallowing hard. "Now come here," he husked. When Iker hesitated, he stroked himself again with a meaningful glance. "We're all ready for you. Face away from me."
Normally he might have needed a moment's preparation, but Iker was already so eager, he was aching. So a few seconds later, he found himself sitting between Xavi's thighs, his bare back supported by his friend's firm chest, easing himself directly down. He felt rather than heard Xavi's breath hitch as he slid home, the sound masked by the moan that forced its way between his own lips.
"Now just relax," Xavi murmured in his ear, reaching around to run gentle hands over the taut skin of his stomach. Seen from this angle, it looked even fuller and rounder, really resembling the pregnancy that Xavi was pretending it to be. This thought made Iker shiver, caught up in a complicated welter of shame and need. The involuntary movement shifted him against Xavi, buried deep inside him, pressing against his prostate, and they groaned again in unison.
True to his word, Xavi began rubbing Iker's belly, his hands leaving a silken shine of warmth in their wake. A little clumsy at first, his hands became more confident as he continued to massage Iker, rubbing the lotion into the soft skin and stretching it, while they rocked slowly back and forth. He was using a sort of circular motion that Iker didn't understand until he felt another belch rumble up into the base of his throat.
Xavi laughed at him and kissed his cheek. "Better?" he asked, and Iker nodded dazedly, realizing that some of the building strain had been relieved. Xavi kissed him again and ran his clever hands down the curve of Iker's belly one last time, then further down, to his cock. He encircled it with his fingers and began slowly, rhythmically, jerking Iker off, just the way he liked it, with the ease of long familiarity.
"You are so big," he cooed to Iker as he pumped, his hand quickening along with his shallow breaths. "So big, and full... with our baby..." Iker bleated in embarrassed delight, or delighted embarrassment, he wasn't really sure which, and began thrusting involuntarily in time with Xavi's fist. Drunk and tired and resentful as he had been, he couldn't help loving this, loving their connection, loving the way that Xavi knew exactly how to drive him crazy.
"And I put it there..." Xavi continued, because above all else, he loved to find Iker's buttons and push them, and push them, and then push them again. They were rocking together faster now, Xavi driving the rhythm, his chest rising and falling, his gravelly voice getting higher as he neared climax.
"I came inside you... and made you pregnant... just like... just like..." and suddenly he was shuddering violently behind and inside of Iker, spurting warmth that merged with the surge of liquid fire that was flooding his prostate and pelvis.
Iker shouted as he came, clenching around Xavi, jerking back against his body while cradling his own swollen belly with one hot hand.
Neither of them knew quite what to say, after that.
This story now has a sequel: Lo Que Quieras
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Xavi Hernández
Rating: R
Word Count: 2721
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: Iker allows himself to wallow in food, beer, and self-pity after Real Madrid's defeat in the clásico... and Xavi proves once again that he is embarrassed by nothing.
Warnings: gluttony, tipsy!Iker, and make-believe mpreg.
Author's Notes: Utter self-indulgence and an unabashed homage to the House M.D. fic Embarrassed of Nothing by Mercy (
clivelive49). The title is, obviously, a translation with a play on the Spanish word for "pregnant."Make urself at home, the text had read. Tortilla in fridge.
Iker let himself into Xavi's house, thumbed the code into the alarm system, and toed his shoes off in the entryway, lining them up against the wall. He knew that he might be waiting a while; Alexis Sánchez had scored perhaps the most amazing goal of his entire career during the clásico, and the team captains had been busy organizing an impromptu celebration on his behalf when Iker entered the Barcelona dressing room in search of his host. Xavi had promised that he would hurry home as soon as he could, but when the text came in the taxi, Iker had realized that there was no knowing when he'd actually be back.
Iker used the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, washed his hands, then wandered into the kitchen in his socks, scratching idly at his stomach, and peered into the fridge, where he found the promised tortilla and a six-pack of Mahou. Xavi rarely drank beer these days - he'd become much more serious about diet and exercise right around his 30th birthday - but he always kept some handy when he knew that Iker would be staying over.
He also, as Iker discovered when he cut the tortilla in half to reheat it, had made his friend's favorite dish exactly the way he liked it: with the onions chopped fine and both roasted red peppers and tiny cubes of jamon serrano mixed into the eggs and potatoes. He carried the plate to the table, bare and clean as befit Xavi's kitchen, laid a cloth napkin on his lap, and cracked open a sweating bottle of beer.
Xavi thoroughly failed to appear, or even text message him, while Iker worked his way through his half of the tortilla. Around the end of the second beer, he started to feel seriously sorry for himself. He had been forced to watch a bitter defeat from the bench this evening, and now here he was, still all alone, after agreeing to stay behind in Barcelona. Just what the hell did Xavi think he was doing? Taking him for granted, that's what. Like they all did.
He had finished his meal, but the other half of the delicious tortilla beckoned from the fridge, along with the rest of the beer. The uncustomary alcohol and growing disappointment combined to make Iker feel resentful and more than a little reckless. To hell with his diet; it had been an awful day, and for once he was going to do as he pleased. He was tired of always being the good boy, the role model, of keeping his mouth shut and taking one for the team.
He fetched the other half of the tortilla, forcing himself to finish it even after he began to feel full, and washed it down with another beer. Noticing that the button on his jeans was digging uncomfortably into his skin, he thumbed it open and sighed with relief, sagging back against his chair for a moment.
Still no Xavi. After washing his dishes and leaving them to air-dry, Iker put the empty beer bottles in the recycling and carried the rest of the six-pack upstairs into the master bedroom.
Iker found the remote in its usual spot on the bedside table and clicked on Xavi's huge flatscreen. He made himself watch a brief recap of today's match, reliving his earlier anger at the unorthodox line-up, the calls not made, the terrible luck his team had had. By the end of it, he had finished a fourth beer and set the bottle carefully to the side of the bed. At least, he tried to; it tipped over and rolled out of his reach.
Iker flipped idly through the channels for a few more minutes, marveling anew at Xavi's seemingly endless supply of sports programs, but seeing the headlines about their defeat at Camp Nou flash by over and over in a dozen different languages was just making him depressed.
He switched the television off and popped the cap off the fifth beer, feeling drowsy, warm, more than a little tipsy, and very, very full. This was definitely something of a novelty at this time in his life; he hadn't permitted himself to eat and drink as much as he wanted to since... Iker paused to ponder this, at last deciding that it must have been at the end of the Eurocopa the previous summer.
Iker was finding that he liked the unusual feeling, the full press of the beer expanding his belly from just below his sternum all the way to his privates. He slid his hand lightly over his straining t-shirt and unzipped his fly to give himself a little more space. He was nursing a half-erection.
He palmed himself a few times, thinking of nothing in particular, just letting the disappointments of the day drain away, feeling himself stir half-heartedly under his hand. He was tempted to rub one off here and now - part of him reflected meanly that it would serve Xavi right for forgetting about him - but when he thought of the flashing dark eyes and disappointed downturned mouth that were sure to follow, he decided to refrain.
Instead, Iker leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, enjoying the contradictory sensations of his alcohol-fueled light-headedness and heavy gut, as the room spun slowly around him. Replaying the image of Alexis' goal, of Diego López flinging himself helplessly into the air as it soared over him, made an involuntary smile curve Iker's lips. Gloating like this wasn't very big of him. Then again, he reflected, repressing a giggle, after five beers on top of an entire tortilla, he was big enough for anything.
He was just finishing the last beer, full to bursting, jean flaps open and left hand still resting lightly on his crotch, when Xavi finally arrived.
Iker watched, woozily amused, as Xavi's heavy-lidded eyes tracked from his swollen abdomen to the empty six-pack carton and widened. "Eh!" he said in surprise. "Madre mia, como te vas a poner, tio!"
Iker lifted one shoulder in a slightly self-conscious shrug. "While you were negotiating the Geneva convention out there, I had to drown my sorrows somehow."
"I thought that was what we were going to do in here," Xavi joked. "But I do understand if you were drinking to forget the humiliating experience of defeat..."
"More like the outrage of being robbed of two penalties by the referee..." Iker hiccupped.
"Sure, and Cesc wasn't stomped in the box, and Neymar wasn't taken down by Ramos just as he was about to make a run..." Xavi answered automatically, but his big eyes were still fixed on Iker's full stomach in frank fascination.
Iker opened his mouth to add that it was even worse when he had to watch Barcelona's theatrics from the bench, but an unexpected burp reverberated through the room. He snapped his mouth shut, embarrassed. Xavi loved to tease him about his lack of refinement, especially back when they'd first met, and he really didn't need any more ammunition.
Xavi had jumped slightly at the sound, eyes even bigger; now he edged towards the bed, then put out his hand and paused. "Can I... touch it?" he asked, almost whispering, and then pressed his palm gently to Iker's bulging belly without waiting for an answer. Iker let out a soft moan, halfway between discomfort and gratification, and he saw Xavi shiver.
"Does it hurt?" Xavi asked, shifting even closer.
"No," Iker said immediately, and while this was technically true - his stomach didn't quite hurt, it just felt hot and tight and full - the mere touch of Xavi's hand had sent such a surge of warm arousal singing through his body that he would have happily lied outright to keep it there. "Feels good," he added, gasping a little at the end as Xavi's hand moved again, slipping under his shirt, stroking the soft, stretched skin.
"I can't believe you fit that much in there," Xavi said, sounding sincerely awed. "Or even that you're still awake. A six-pack on an empty stomach!"
"I ate the entire tortilla, too," Iker blurted, this open acknowledgment of his utter depravity thrilling him down to his toes.
"Joder," Xavi breathed in disbelief. "No wonder you..." He let his words trail off, then stretched out on the bed at Iker's side, careful not to jog the mattress, his hand never losing contact with Iker's stomach. Xavi was smirking, trying to make a joke of the situation, but his eyes were hot, hungry. "You look five months pregnant," he murmured in Iker's ear. His pelvis was pressed up against Iker's thigh, and as Xavi said this, his prick stirred perceptibly in his pants.
Iker would have laughed at him if he hadn't been so turned on by this whole bizarre situation himself. He turned his head and found Xavi's mouth, which tasted, not unpleasantly, of garlic, caramelized sugar, and red wine, and tried to guide his friend's hand lower, under his briefs.
"Wait," Xavi whispered, and slid further down in the bed so that his stubbled cheek came into contact with Iker's stomach. His lips began to caress the taut skin with fierce, tender, open-mouthed kisses that made Iker moan. For his part, Iker could hear Xavi practically panting in his eagerness.
He had to ask.
"Why..." he gasped... " ah... are you so excited by this?"
Xavi was frowning, but it looked to Iker more like concentration than annoyance, so he pushed farther. "Do you miss... curves? Do you..." and here he hesitated, not certain if he dared. "Do you want kids? Do you wish I could get pregnant?"
At that Xavi stopped what he was doing and pulled himself back up onto the pillow, facing Iker, although his hand continued slowly stroking Iker's swollen stomach. "No," he said cautiously, as though thinking it through. "I think it's more the idea of... overindulgence. Of someone, especially you - Mr. Goody Two-Shoes - completely giving in to temptation, knowing the consequences."
"The nutritionist is going to kill me," Iker nodded, although the expected feeling of dread was noticeably cushioned by the six-pack he'd consumed. He hiccupped again.
"Mmm, " Xavi answered absently. Then his expression shifted to one of mischief. "Although... maybe you have a point after all..."
"Huh?" Iker watched, perplexed, as his friend pulled up the edge of his t-shirt and lowered his ear to the swelling under his breastbone, fighting a smile.
"There it is," he hissed as gas bubbles shifted and tickled in Iker's gut. "I can hear him. Our baby."
Iker found himself completely torn between horror at the utter wrongness of acting out such an absurd fantasy... and, not entirely independently, his intense and unmistakable arousal. He clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle even as his cock twitched insistently against the soft cotton of his briefs. Xavi noticed this, of course, and acknowledged it with a smirk.
"That's right," he said encouragingly. He fumbled at his belt and wriggled out of his jeans, ridiculous tattered things that looked like they'd been gnawed by rodents of unusual size, then helped Iker pry himself out of his, much more tasteful but currently too-tight, pair. He shucked his shirt, too, and pulled Iker's soft cotton t-shirt up over his head, exposing his belly in all its pale, bloated glory.
Xavi gazed down at him, eyes shining with desire, his tented boxers level with Iker's face, and brushed his hand softly over his distended stomach again, caressing its curve. They both groaned. Xavi closed his eyes briefly, shuddering, then yanked his boxers down and kicked them to the side, his cock bobbing impatiently in the empty air.
Iker side-eyed it. "I don't want to disappoint you, but I really don't think I could possibly fit one more thing in my mouth right now."
Xavi's lips twitched. "No pasa nada," he said. "I have a better idea." He pulled open the bedside drawer, pulled out the bottle of unscented hand lotion that he kept there - mainly for the nights that he spent alone in Barcelona - and squirted a little into his palm. "Pregnant ladies," he said, with a meaningful glance at Iker's mound, "like to have their bellies rubbed."
Iker squirmed in embarrassment, but he knew that Xavi often wished he would be more adventurous in the bedroom, and really this wasn't that bad, was it, even if it was a little weird? With all the beer sloshing around in his gut, he felt bolder than usual, too. So he played along, catching Xavi by the wrist and pulling him closer. "I'd love that."
Xavi smiled, suddenly looking almost shy. "Scoot over," he suggested, then tried not to laugh as Iker struggled to obey, grunting a little with the effort.
As soon as there was space, Xavi joined him on the matteress and settled himself, sitting up against the headboard, a pillow wedged behind his back. His cock was sticking almost straight up; he took hold of himself and slicked up with the lotion, swallowing hard. "Now come here," he husked. When Iker hesitated, he stroked himself again with a meaningful glance. "We're all ready for you. Face away from me."
Normally he might have needed a moment's preparation, but Iker was already so eager, he was aching. So a few seconds later, he found himself sitting between Xavi's thighs, his bare back supported by his friend's firm chest, easing himself directly down. He felt rather than heard Xavi's breath hitch as he slid home, the sound masked by the moan that forced its way between his own lips.
"Now just relax," Xavi murmured in his ear, reaching around to run gentle hands over the taut skin of his stomach. Seen from this angle, it looked even fuller and rounder, really resembling the pregnancy that Xavi was pretending it to be. This thought made Iker shiver, caught up in a complicated welter of shame and need. The involuntary movement shifted him against Xavi, buried deep inside him, pressing against his prostate, and they groaned again in unison.
True to his word, Xavi began rubbing Iker's belly, his hands leaving a silken shine of warmth in their wake. A little clumsy at first, his hands became more confident as he continued to massage Iker, rubbing the lotion into the soft skin and stretching it, while they rocked slowly back and forth. He was using a sort of circular motion that Iker didn't understand until he felt another belch rumble up into the base of his throat.
Xavi laughed at him and kissed his cheek. "Better?" he asked, and Iker nodded dazedly, realizing that some of the building strain had been relieved. Xavi kissed him again and ran his clever hands down the curve of Iker's belly one last time, then further down, to his cock. He encircled it with his fingers and began slowly, rhythmically, jerking Iker off, just the way he liked it, with the ease of long familiarity.
"You are so big," he cooed to Iker as he pumped, his hand quickening along with his shallow breaths. "So big, and full... with our baby..." Iker bleated in embarrassed delight, or delighted embarrassment, he wasn't really sure which, and began thrusting involuntarily in time with Xavi's fist. Drunk and tired and resentful as he had been, he couldn't help loving this, loving their connection, loving the way that Xavi knew exactly how to drive him crazy.
"And I put it there..." Xavi continued, because above all else, he loved to find Iker's buttons and push them, and push them, and then push them again. They were rocking together faster now, Xavi driving the rhythm, his chest rising and falling, his gravelly voice getting higher as he neared climax.
"I came inside you... and made you pregnant... just like... just like..." and suddenly he was shuddering violently behind and inside of Iker, spurting warmth that merged with the surge of liquid fire that was flooding his prostate and pelvis.
Iker shouted as he came, clenching around Xavi, jerking back against his body while cradling his own swollen belly with one hot hand.
Neither of them knew quite what to say, after that.
This story now has a sequel: Lo Que Quieras
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Date: 2013-11-06 10:51 pm (UTC)Yeah, I kind of love the awkwardness at the end too, although it's essentially the same ending as in Mercy's fic.
Hee, yeah, for some reason I always see Xavi being the alpha in that relationship - maybe because he's a year older than Iker, which would have mattered more when they were teens, maybe because he seems like such a bossy know-it-all in general (and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible). Also I see Iker as more of a people-pleaser and Xavi as not caring so much what other people think.