FOOTBALL RPF FIC: Ready to Pop
May. 10th, 2014 10:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flywomanTitle: Ready to Pop
Rating: M
Word Count: 3384
Characters: Iker Casillas/Xavi Hernández, Sergio Ramos, Cristiano Ronaldo
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: After Real Madrid finally defeat Barcelona in a clásico, Iker gets back into Xavi's good graces with the help of far too much champagne. Sort of a sequel to Embarazada de Nada and Lo Que Quieras.
Warnings: Over-indulgence, belly kink, and make-believe m-preg. Also, I realize that Cristiano didn't actually play in this match, but he charmed his way into the fic, and by the time I noticed the discrepancy, it seemed like it would be much less fun without him.
Iker can feel the change in energy the instant he enters the dressing room. After Mourinho's acrimonious departure, the arrival of a new manager, the rough start to the season, his teammates are ready to believe in themselves again. The Copa could be just the beginning. This could finally be the year of La Décima. Or even, although Iker can hardly bear to raise his hopes so high, the triplete.
He kisses cheeks, slaps hands, and offers half-hugs all the way to the shower, where he stands still for a moment, closing his eyes, allowing his tension to drain away under the steam. He can hear Sergio singing lustily in the stall beside him, some new flamenco number that Iker doesn't recognize.
He can hear the faint pops of champagne corks back in the dressing room; they're starting without him. Hurriedly Iker soaps up, rinses, and steps out of the shower, grabbing the nearest towel and rubbing it roughly across his chest and between his legs. Back at his locker, he pulls on boxers and a loose-fitting pair of jeans, a soft cotton t-shirt, and a striped collared shirt that he leaves unbuttoned.
As soon as he closes his locker door, Sergio's beside him, still shirtless, pressing a bottle into his hand. "We did it!" he exults, brown eyes shining, and grabs Iker in a huge hug. He thinks he can hear his ribs creak a little as Sergio releases him.
Well, no time to waste; Xavi will be waiting, and in need of cheering up besides. Iker dries the bottle briefly with his discarded towel, tears the foil off the top, and keeps his thumb pressed to the top of the cork as he undoes the wire cage. A couple of gentle twists, and he's rewarded with a soft pop.
"Cheers," he says to Sergio, who clanks the side of the bottle with his half-empty one in response and then wanders off, wiping his mouth on his bare arm. Iker shrugs and takes a swig. The champagne is cool, but not too cold to drink quickly. He's halfway through the bottle before he even pauses for breath.
More of their teammates drop by to congratulate their captain as he waits for his stomach to settle a little, hiding a couple of shallow burps discreetly behind his hand. Gareth, of course, is radiant, his long, craggy face split wide in an unfamiliar grin. Iker's very glad for him; after all of the controversy of his expensive signing and his injuries and inconsistencies earlier in the season, it's important that he is proving his value now, when it really counts.
Back to business. He hadn't actually intended to finish the bottle when he began, but the more Iker drinks, the better an idea it seems. He remembers how excited Xavi got the last time Iker had too much to drink, how unexpectedly turned on they both were by his belly full of beer. True, Xavi hadn't exactly encouraged him to repeat the experience, but surely this evening's celebration is an acceptable excuse to overindulge?
Just as he's draining the last few drops from his bottle of champagne, one hand resting on his swelling stomach, someone comes up behind Iker and slings a friendly arm around his shoulders. It's Cris, fresh from the showers, smelling like a mix of some kind of manly body spray and expensive cologne, a white monogrammed terrycloth towel still wrapped around his narrow waist. Iker leans against him companionably, already feeling warm and a little woozy.
"Hey," Cris greets Iker with a grin, and shoves a sweating bottle of champagne under his nose. "Trade you."
Everyone knows that Cris doesn't drink, but Iker can't help wondering why he's been singled out for the honor of his unwanted bubbly. He opens his mouth to ask, and to his horror, a huge burp suddenly surges up from his belly. Cris bursts out laughing, as do the half of their teammates who were both close enough to hear them and still sober enough to care.
"Joder," Iker mutters, swiping at his wet lips. "'Scuse me."
"Maybe you don't need this after all," Cris teases, raising his arm to dangle the bottle just out of Iker's reach.
"Gimme that," Iker growls, standing on tiptoe and coming precariously close to falling over. Cris saves him with a strong arm around his waist and laughs again. He thrusts the bottle into Iker's hand, the neck cool and slippery against his skin.
"Toma," Cris tells him, eyes warm with amused affection. "Enhorabuena, campeón."
"Gonna open this," Iker says, slurring just a little, "before anyone gets hurt. You could put an eye out, waving these things around."
"Safety is always your first concern," Cris nods with mock solemnity. He watches, biting his lip, as Iker struggles to pop the cork. It does not go as smoothly as it did the first time; the stopper flies across the dressing room and smacks Sergio in the ass. Luckily, he's so busy shaking it to his latest Latin favorite that he fails to notice.
Iker raises the bottle and takes a big swig, then lowers it with a sigh as his head starts to swim. "Shit," he says suddenly, just having remembered again that Xavi is waiting for him, no doubt impatiently, at home. "I shouldn't have any more. I'll have to call a cab."
"After a whole bottle by yourself? You already need a cab," Cris tells him seriously.
Iker feels his face start to sag. He wants to argue, but the thickness of his tongue in his mouth only proves his teammate right. "Shit," he repeats, with feeling.
"No worries, Captain Cheapass," Cris responds with an affectionate smirk. "I'll drive you home."
Iker blinks owlishly at him, feeling a grateful glow spreading through his stomach. "Really?"
"Sure," Cris says cheerfully. "Just promise not to puke in my car, okay?"
***
Getting into Cris' low-riding car is an issue, first because Iker is too tipsy to manage the door handle on his own, and then because sitting down squeezes his full stomach almost painfully. He had to undo the top button of his jeans and pull his t-shirt over it before even leaving the locker room. Now he reclines the seat back as far as it will go, stretches out, and closes his eyes, wishing that this were enough to stop the spinning.
Cris keeps up a constant stream of cheerful chatter on the way while Iker rubs ineffectually at his belly, bloated with the contents of two entire bottles of champagne. He can feel the air bubbles collecting at the top of the bulge, just under his sternum. Once, when they hit a pothole, Iker is jounced up and down in his seat, the heel of his hand coming down hard on his stomach. He's too far from sobriety to even attempt to suppress the massive belch that results as the air is forced up and out.
"Classy," Cris remarks with a snort.
"Shut up," Iker groans, swallowing against the slightly rancid taste of recycled champagne. "This is all your fault."
"Oh, totally," Cris nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Really had to twist your arm there."
Woozy as he is, it only occurs to Iker as they near his neighborhood that he had better warn Xavi not to come out to meet him; the last thing he needs is for his teammate to catch the captain of their arch-rivals waiting for his booty call. He fumbles for his phone, flips it open, and scrolls down for Xavi's number. A few seconds later, his phone chirps as his text wings its way to his boyfriend.
Less than a minute later, the reply comes: "How many, borracho? ;)"
Iker blinks blearily and rechecks his messages. Oh. Apparently what he actually typed was, "sway in - cris gave me a rise."
"Isn't this it?" Cris asks, turning the corner of Iker's street smoothly without waiting for an answer.
"Hmm?" Iker murmurs, still distracted. "Uh, yeah. Thanks. You're awesome."
"I get that a lot," Cris says seriously, pulling into the driveway and putting the Porsche into park. He gets out and saunters to the other side of the car to pull the door open with a flourish and then holds his arm out as if Iker were an invalid.
"I can get out by myself," Iker says, although he can hear the uncertainty in his own voice.
"Yeah, okay," Cris agrees, rolling his eyes. "Swing your legs out, then stand up."
Iker frowns, struggling to follow even these simple directions, but finally finds himself on his feet, albeit swaying slightly and leaning more than a little against his teammate. Cris slides the passenger seat forward and reaches into the back for Iker's kit bag. "Let's go," he orders.
Iker wobbles his way to the door, trying not to let Cris see just how drunk he feels. As it turns out, he needn't have bothered. Without asking, Cris sticks his hand right into Iker's jeans pocket for his keys, his warm, strong fingers momentarily cupping his ass, and unlocks the door for him. "G'night," he says fondly, and shake his head in bemusement. "Two whole bottles, eh? Better take some aspirin before you go to bed."
"Yeah, okay," Iker says hurriedly, hoping that Cris won't notice that the lights have been left on in his living room. "And thanks a lot, seriously. See you at practice." He raises his hand in a clumsy wave, tripping over the threshold as he goes in. He can hear Cris snickering outside as he shuts the door.
Xavi appears at his side as if out of nowhere, arms folded forebodingly across his chest. His sweatpants ride low on his hips, his curly black hair is damp and unstyled, and his skin still has the fresh, soapy post-shower smell that Iker likes so much. "It's about time you came home to console me," Xavi complains. Then he catches sight of Iker's stomach stretching his t-shirt out in front of him, and his normally half-lidded eyes widen.
"I brought you a present," Iker says, a little shyly, although how he can still be shy and almost breathless with anticipation after all these years with Xavi is one of life's mysteries. Then again, maybe it's just all that champagne pressing against his poor lungs.
"Joder," Xavi whispers almost reverently. He unfolds his arms, steps closer, and reaches out to slip a small, warm hand under Iker's t-shirt. Iker shivers with pleasure and growing need as Xavi lovingly caresses the curve of his belly, then pulls him closer and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips.
Then he pulls away, and Iker sees his tongue flick out tentatively. "Champagne," Xavi surmises, and his dark brows draw together in a mock scowl. "Someone started celebrating without me."
Iker frowns, confused. "What do you have to celebrate?"
"Why, Real's first title of the season, of course!" Xavi replies as if surprised by Iker's obtuseness.
"And since when do you celebrate Real Madrid's victories?" Iker hiccups suddenly and pats his stomach in a probably vain attempt to soothe it.
"Iker." Xavi puts on an injured expression. "What have I ever done to make you think me incapable of celebrating my best friend's successes?"
"Oh, only opened your mouth after every post-match press conference EVER," Iker answers, rolling his eyes.
"I was misquoted."
"What, three dozen times? That must be deserving of some kind of trophy right there."
"Tú te callas," Xavi says, but he isn't angry; in fact, he seems to be suppressing a secretive little-boy grin. "The World Cup is just around the corner, it's time to improve interclub relations. Come with me."
"That's got to be one of the worst pick-up lines I've ever heard from you," Iker marvels.
"I try," Xavi shrugs, and starts down the hallway.
"Leave your bag," he adds over his shoulder as Iker hefts it and starts to follow. He shrugs and drops it, then toes off his trainers and follows Xavi to the living room.
Once there, he has to pause while his eyes adjust to the dim, flickering light of the candles that Xavi (he presumes) has placed strategically on every available flat surface. Xavi is waiting for him on the sofa, smiling. The neck of a bottle peeps out of a bucket of ice set in a stand beside him.
"Oh god," Iker says before he can stop himself, "don't tell me that's more champagne." He presses a hand to his bloated belly and produces a shallow burp that more than serves to illustrate his point.
To his surprise, Xavi keeps his cool. "I don't care how much you've already had tonight," he replies. "At least indulge me in one toast. After that you can just sit back and relax while I catch up to you, if you want."
"Fine," Iker agrees, suppressing a long-suffering sigh. He stumbles across the room and sinks gracelessly onto the sofa next to Xavi, who places a gentle hand on his stomach and kisses him, slowly and sweetly, causing Iker's toes to tingle, before turning away to retrieve the bottle of champagne. No stranger to such rituals, he has it open in a matter of seconds, sweet steam rising from its mouth, and shortly after that he's handing a full crystal flute to Iker with a bow.
Iker is about to bring it to his lips when Xavi clears his throat impatiently. Oh, right. The toast.
"To Real Madrid-" Xavi begins, holding up his own flute.
"And the first of many more trophies," Iker interrupts.
Xavi ignores him, no surprise there. "-and the finest damn captain she ever had." He winks at Iker, slowly and seductively, over the rim of his glass, then reaches out and taps them together so that the crystal rings sweetly.
While he's drinking, Iker sneaks a peek at the bottle. The stuff they handed out in the dressing room wasn't half-bad, but clearly Xavi has spared no expense in picking out this champagne. Iker almost scolds him for wasting his money on something so frivolous.
But then he drinks, and the first sip of the vintage changes his mind.
Forgetting how full he already is, Iker tilts his head back and drains the flute, swallowing slowly and luxuriously, letting the chilled golden liquid flow past his lips and down his grateful throat. If Iker had to describe it, he would say that tasted like distilled sunlight, like expansiveness, like running across the grass under the open sky.
When he straightens his head, Xavi is looking at him with a mixture of eagerness and amusement. Iker flushes a little but holds out his glass gamely, and Xavi immediately obliges, filling it to the brim, although he barely appears to have put a dent in his own. Iker brings the flute unsteadily to his lips again, forcing himself to sip slowly, prolonging the experience. He can feel desire pooling in the pit of his belly.
On impulse, he takes hold of Xavi's hand and places it gently on his stomach so that he will be able to feel it swell even further as he drinks the last few drops.
"Ah," Xavi breathes, shuddering, and the intensity of the longing in his voice makes Iker shiver. Suddenly he drops to his knees beside the sofa and pulls up Iker's t-shirt, his dark eyes huge and hungry. Tilting his head back and deliberately draining the glass, he holds the liquid in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing and bending over Iker's belly.
Iker squirms at the sensation, half-ticklish, half-sexual, allowing himself to moan softly as cool, wet open-mouthed kisses wander their way across the exquisitely sensitive skin of his stomach, accompanied by the skim of Xavi's warm palm. He can feel the other man's breaths blowing against his belly in shallow gasps.
"God..." he can barely make out Xavi's murmur, lips pressed to Iker's flesh, "God, Iker, you're so big... so beautiful..."
Iker groans in response, balls aching, and reaches down to grapple with the flaps of his fly. Without missing a beat, Xavi assists him, sliding the zipper down. Iker braces himself on the sofa and arches his back, lifting his hips so that Xavi can yank off his jeans and his boxers with them. He's a little appalled to see that angry red marks have been left by the elastic around what would have been his waistline, but Xavi quickly bends his head to soothe them, laving at them with his tongue.
The pressure has been building steadily since those last two glasses of champagne; now Iker quickly puts his hand to his mouth to stifle a burp, but too late. Xavi's head jerks up, pupils dilated with desire. He reaches behind himself to fumble for the bottle he set on the floor, takes a swig from it, again holding the champagne in his cheeks, and hands it to Iker.
"I don't think that I-" Iker begins, but when Xavi scowls and gestures at him wordlessly, he shrugs and upends the bottle.
The instant his mouth makes contact with the opening, he feels the most incredible thrill shooting down into his groin as Xavi's cool, wet lips close around the head of his cock. Iker gasps, some of the champagne accidentally going down the wrong way, and starts to cough, hitting himself on the chest. Xavi's tongue starts swirling around the sensitive underside of his dick, making him moan even as his eyes begin to tear. Then Xavi slaps the side of Iker's thigh, not hard but emphatically, and somehow Iker knows exactly what it means: Drink.
He drinks.
At first it's difficult, no matter how delicious: Iker is so, so full. But then the cold, dry, slightly sweet champagne trickling into his stomach seems to flow right through his buzzing body to join up with the cool, wet, clever touch of Xavi's tongue. Iker can feel it leave a brightly burnished trail down his throat and through his veins, straight to his cock. He groans again, pushing his palm against his protesting abdomen, and keeps drinking, gulp after gulp, the pressure building in his brain, his belly, his balls, until, until.... Iker throws back his head and hears himself crying out as an inexorable wave of champagne and sensation crests and lifts him right up out of consciousness.
When he comes to, he is lying on his side on the sofa with Xavi curled around him. He is so comfortable that he can barely think, barely move. His cock is sticky and limp. He is still terribly tipsy.
The champagne bottle is lying beside him, empty. Most of it appears to have joined its poor relations, sloshing around in his grossly distended stomach. Iker reaches down to rub his belly briefly and burps, loudly and with an unexpectedly strong sense of satisfaction.
"Hey," Xavi says, stirring, and rubs against his buttocks, not subtly. He can feel the hard, hot flesh, knows that Xavi only needs a little bit from Iker, barely a trifle, to make him come.
"Xavi," Iker croaks, and clears his parched throat, tries again. "Xavi, look what you made me do." Again he takes Xavi's hand and guides it to his bulging belly, hears his friend suck in a breath.
"You did this to me. You-" Iker pauses, thinking back to the first time this happened, and is suddenly inspired. "You made me pregnant."
"Joder," Xavi breathes, and thrusts against him, first gently and then more forcefully, sliding between his buttocks, slick, and then suddenly slipping inside so that they both gasp at the sudden tightness, the fullness. After the brief pause of mutual astonishment, Xavi presses his moist lips to the back of Iker's neck, and they begin moving together, slowly at first, building an irresistible rhythm.
"That's right," Iker croons his encouragement, closing his eyes with pleasure at the familiar pressure against his prostate. "You did it. You made this big belly. You fucked me... just like this..."
Xavi speeds up, groaning, clutching convulsively at Iker's curves as he continues, "and you got me pregnant when you came inside me, just like, just like-"
And Xavi shouts out loud, shuddering inside of Iker as he spends.
Rating: M
Word Count: 3384
Characters: Iker Casillas/Xavi Hernández, Sergio Ramos, Cristiano Ronaldo
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: After Real Madrid finally defeat Barcelona in a clásico, Iker gets back into Xavi's good graces with the help of far too much champagne. Sort of a sequel to Embarazada de Nada and Lo Que Quieras.
Warnings: Over-indulgence, belly kink, and make-believe m-preg. Also, I realize that Cristiano didn't actually play in this match, but he charmed his way into the fic, and by the time I noticed the discrepancy, it seemed like it would be much less fun without him.
Iker can feel the change in energy the instant he enters the dressing room. After Mourinho's acrimonious departure, the arrival of a new manager, the rough start to the season, his teammates are ready to believe in themselves again. The Copa could be just the beginning. This could finally be the year of La Décima. Or even, although Iker can hardly bear to raise his hopes so high, the triplete.
He kisses cheeks, slaps hands, and offers half-hugs all the way to the shower, where he stands still for a moment, closing his eyes, allowing his tension to drain away under the steam. He can hear Sergio singing lustily in the stall beside him, some new flamenco number that Iker doesn't recognize.
He can hear the faint pops of champagne corks back in the dressing room; they're starting without him. Hurriedly Iker soaps up, rinses, and steps out of the shower, grabbing the nearest towel and rubbing it roughly across his chest and between his legs. Back at his locker, he pulls on boxers and a loose-fitting pair of jeans, a soft cotton t-shirt, and a striped collared shirt that he leaves unbuttoned.
As soon as he closes his locker door, Sergio's beside him, still shirtless, pressing a bottle into his hand. "We did it!" he exults, brown eyes shining, and grabs Iker in a huge hug. He thinks he can hear his ribs creak a little as Sergio releases him.
Well, no time to waste; Xavi will be waiting, and in need of cheering up besides. Iker dries the bottle briefly with his discarded towel, tears the foil off the top, and keeps his thumb pressed to the top of the cork as he undoes the wire cage. A couple of gentle twists, and he's rewarded with a soft pop.
"Cheers," he says to Sergio, who clanks the side of the bottle with his half-empty one in response and then wanders off, wiping his mouth on his bare arm. Iker shrugs and takes a swig. The champagne is cool, but not too cold to drink quickly. He's halfway through the bottle before he even pauses for breath.
More of their teammates drop by to congratulate their captain as he waits for his stomach to settle a little, hiding a couple of shallow burps discreetly behind his hand. Gareth, of course, is radiant, his long, craggy face split wide in an unfamiliar grin. Iker's very glad for him; after all of the controversy of his expensive signing and his injuries and inconsistencies earlier in the season, it's important that he is proving his value now, when it really counts.
Back to business. He hadn't actually intended to finish the bottle when he began, but the more Iker drinks, the better an idea it seems. He remembers how excited Xavi got the last time Iker had too much to drink, how unexpectedly turned on they both were by his belly full of beer. True, Xavi hadn't exactly encouraged him to repeat the experience, but surely this evening's celebration is an acceptable excuse to overindulge?
Just as he's draining the last few drops from his bottle of champagne, one hand resting on his swelling stomach, someone comes up behind Iker and slings a friendly arm around his shoulders. It's Cris, fresh from the showers, smelling like a mix of some kind of manly body spray and expensive cologne, a white monogrammed terrycloth towel still wrapped around his narrow waist. Iker leans against him companionably, already feeling warm and a little woozy.
"Hey," Cris greets Iker with a grin, and shoves a sweating bottle of champagne under his nose. "Trade you."
Everyone knows that Cris doesn't drink, but Iker can't help wondering why he's been singled out for the honor of his unwanted bubbly. He opens his mouth to ask, and to his horror, a huge burp suddenly surges up from his belly. Cris bursts out laughing, as do the half of their teammates who were both close enough to hear them and still sober enough to care.
"Joder," Iker mutters, swiping at his wet lips. "'Scuse me."
"Maybe you don't need this after all," Cris teases, raising his arm to dangle the bottle just out of Iker's reach.
"Gimme that," Iker growls, standing on tiptoe and coming precariously close to falling over. Cris saves him with a strong arm around his waist and laughs again. He thrusts the bottle into Iker's hand, the neck cool and slippery against his skin.
"Toma," Cris tells him, eyes warm with amused affection. "Enhorabuena, campeón."
"Gonna open this," Iker says, slurring just a little, "before anyone gets hurt. You could put an eye out, waving these things around."
"Safety is always your first concern," Cris nods with mock solemnity. He watches, biting his lip, as Iker struggles to pop the cork. It does not go as smoothly as it did the first time; the stopper flies across the dressing room and smacks Sergio in the ass. Luckily, he's so busy shaking it to his latest Latin favorite that he fails to notice.
Iker raises the bottle and takes a big swig, then lowers it with a sigh as his head starts to swim. "Shit," he says suddenly, just having remembered again that Xavi is waiting for him, no doubt impatiently, at home. "I shouldn't have any more. I'll have to call a cab."
"After a whole bottle by yourself? You already need a cab," Cris tells him seriously.
Iker feels his face start to sag. He wants to argue, but the thickness of his tongue in his mouth only proves his teammate right. "Shit," he repeats, with feeling.
"No worries, Captain Cheapass," Cris responds with an affectionate smirk. "I'll drive you home."
Iker blinks owlishly at him, feeling a grateful glow spreading through his stomach. "Really?"
"Sure," Cris says cheerfully. "Just promise not to puke in my car, okay?"
***
Getting into Cris' low-riding car is an issue, first because Iker is too tipsy to manage the door handle on his own, and then because sitting down squeezes his full stomach almost painfully. He had to undo the top button of his jeans and pull his t-shirt over it before even leaving the locker room. Now he reclines the seat back as far as it will go, stretches out, and closes his eyes, wishing that this were enough to stop the spinning.
Cris keeps up a constant stream of cheerful chatter on the way while Iker rubs ineffectually at his belly, bloated with the contents of two entire bottles of champagne. He can feel the air bubbles collecting at the top of the bulge, just under his sternum. Once, when they hit a pothole, Iker is jounced up and down in his seat, the heel of his hand coming down hard on his stomach. He's too far from sobriety to even attempt to suppress the massive belch that results as the air is forced up and out.
"Classy," Cris remarks with a snort.
"Shut up," Iker groans, swallowing against the slightly rancid taste of recycled champagne. "This is all your fault."
"Oh, totally," Cris nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Really had to twist your arm there."
Woozy as he is, it only occurs to Iker as they near his neighborhood that he had better warn Xavi not to come out to meet him; the last thing he needs is for his teammate to catch the captain of their arch-rivals waiting for his booty call. He fumbles for his phone, flips it open, and scrolls down for Xavi's number. A few seconds later, his phone chirps as his text wings its way to his boyfriend.
Less than a minute later, the reply comes: "How many, borracho? ;)"
Iker blinks blearily and rechecks his messages. Oh. Apparently what he actually typed was, "sway in - cris gave me a rise."
"Isn't this it?" Cris asks, turning the corner of Iker's street smoothly without waiting for an answer.
"Hmm?" Iker murmurs, still distracted. "Uh, yeah. Thanks. You're awesome."
"I get that a lot," Cris says seriously, pulling into the driveway and putting the Porsche into park. He gets out and saunters to the other side of the car to pull the door open with a flourish and then holds his arm out as if Iker were an invalid.
"I can get out by myself," Iker says, although he can hear the uncertainty in his own voice.
"Yeah, okay," Cris agrees, rolling his eyes. "Swing your legs out, then stand up."
Iker frowns, struggling to follow even these simple directions, but finally finds himself on his feet, albeit swaying slightly and leaning more than a little against his teammate. Cris slides the passenger seat forward and reaches into the back for Iker's kit bag. "Let's go," he orders.
Iker wobbles his way to the door, trying not to let Cris see just how drunk he feels. As it turns out, he needn't have bothered. Without asking, Cris sticks his hand right into Iker's jeans pocket for his keys, his warm, strong fingers momentarily cupping his ass, and unlocks the door for him. "G'night," he says fondly, and shake his head in bemusement. "Two whole bottles, eh? Better take some aspirin before you go to bed."
"Yeah, okay," Iker says hurriedly, hoping that Cris won't notice that the lights have been left on in his living room. "And thanks a lot, seriously. See you at practice." He raises his hand in a clumsy wave, tripping over the threshold as he goes in. He can hear Cris snickering outside as he shuts the door.
Xavi appears at his side as if out of nowhere, arms folded forebodingly across his chest. His sweatpants ride low on his hips, his curly black hair is damp and unstyled, and his skin still has the fresh, soapy post-shower smell that Iker likes so much. "It's about time you came home to console me," Xavi complains. Then he catches sight of Iker's stomach stretching his t-shirt out in front of him, and his normally half-lidded eyes widen.
"I brought you a present," Iker says, a little shyly, although how he can still be shy and almost breathless with anticipation after all these years with Xavi is one of life's mysteries. Then again, maybe it's just all that champagne pressing against his poor lungs.
"Joder," Xavi whispers almost reverently. He unfolds his arms, steps closer, and reaches out to slip a small, warm hand under Iker's t-shirt. Iker shivers with pleasure and growing need as Xavi lovingly caresses the curve of his belly, then pulls him closer and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips.
Then he pulls away, and Iker sees his tongue flick out tentatively. "Champagne," Xavi surmises, and his dark brows draw together in a mock scowl. "Someone started celebrating without me."
Iker frowns, confused. "What do you have to celebrate?"
"Why, Real's first title of the season, of course!" Xavi replies as if surprised by Iker's obtuseness.
"And since when do you celebrate Real Madrid's victories?" Iker hiccups suddenly and pats his stomach in a probably vain attempt to soothe it.
"Iker." Xavi puts on an injured expression. "What have I ever done to make you think me incapable of celebrating my best friend's successes?"
"Oh, only opened your mouth after every post-match press conference EVER," Iker answers, rolling his eyes.
"I was misquoted."
"What, three dozen times? That must be deserving of some kind of trophy right there."
"Tú te callas," Xavi says, but he isn't angry; in fact, he seems to be suppressing a secretive little-boy grin. "The World Cup is just around the corner, it's time to improve interclub relations. Come with me."
"That's got to be one of the worst pick-up lines I've ever heard from you," Iker marvels.
"I try," Xavi shrugs, and starts down the hallway.
"Leave your bag," he adds over his shoulder as Iker hefts it and starts to follow. He shrugs and drops it, then toes off his trainers and follows Xavi to the living room.
Once there, he has to pause while his eyes adjust to the dim, flickering light of the candles that Xavi (he presumes) has placed strategically on every available flat surface. Xavi is waiting for him on the sofa, smiling. The neck of a bottle peeps out of a bucket of ice set in a stand beside him.
"Oh god," Iker says before he can stop himself, "don't tell me that's more champagne." He presses a hand to his bloated belly and produces a shallow burp that more than serves to illustrate his point.
To his surprise, Xavi keeps his cool. "I don't care how much you've already had tonight," he replies. "At least indulge me in one toast. After that you can just sit back and relax while I catch up to you, if you want."
"Fine," Iker agrees, suppressing a long-suffering sigh. He stumbles across the room and sinks gracelessly onto the sofa next to Xavi, who places a gentle hand on his stomach and kisses him, slowly and sweetly, causing Iker's toes to tingle, before turning away to retrieve the bottle of champagne. No stranger to such rituals, he has it open in a matter of seconds, sweet steam rising from its mouth, and shortly after that he's handing a full crystal flute to Iker with a bow.
Iker is about to bring it to his lips when Xavi clears his throat impatiently. Oh, right. The toast.
"To Real Madrid-" Xavi begins, holding up his own flute.
"And the first of many more trophies," Iker interrupts.
Xavi ignores him, no surprise there. "-and the finest damn captain she ever had." He winks at Iker, slowly and seductively, over the rim of his glass, then reaches out and taps them together so that the crystal rings sweetly.
While he's drinking, Iker sneaks a peek at the bottle. The stuff they handed out in the dressing room wasn't half-bad, but clearly Xavi has spared no expense in picking out this champagne. Iker almost scolds him for wasting his money on something so frivolous.
But then he drinks, and the first sip of the vintage changes his mind.
Forgetting how full he already is, Iker tilts his head back and drains the flute, swallowing slowly and luxuriously, letting the chilled golden liquid flow past his lips and down his grateful throat. If Iker had to describe it, he would say that tasted like distilled sunlight, like expansiveness, like running across the grass under the open sky.
When he straightens his head, Xavi is looking at him with a mixture of eagerness and amusement. Iker flushes a little but holds out his glass gamely, and Xavi immediately obliges, filling it to the brim, although he barely appears to have put a dent in his own. Iker brings the flute unsteadily to his lips again, forcing himself to sip slowly, prolonging the experience. He can feel desire pooling in the pit of his belly.
On impulse, he takes hold of Xavi's hand and places it gently on his stomach so that he will be able to feel it swell even further as he drinks the last few drops.
"Ah," Xavi breathes, shuddering, and the intensity of the longing in his voice makes Iker shiver. Suddenly he drops to his knees beside the sofa and pulls up Iker's t-shirt, his dark eyes huge and hungry. Tilting his head back and deliberately draining the glass, he holds the liquid in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing and bending over Iker's belly.
Iker squirms at the sensation, half-ticklish, half-sexual, allowing himself to moan softly as cool, wet open-mouthed kisses wander their way across the exquisitely sensitive skin of his stomach, accompanied by the skim of Xavi's warm palm. He can feel the other man's breaths blowing against his belly in shallow gasps.
"God..." he can barely make out Xavi's murmur, lips pressed to Iker's flesh, "God, Iker, you're so big... so beautiful..."
Iker groans in response, balls aching, and reaches down to grapple with the flaps of his fly. Without missing a beat, Xavi assists him, sliding the zipper down. Iker braces himself on the sofa and arches his back, lifting his hips so that Xavi can yank off his jeans and his boxers with them. He's a little appalled to see that angry red marks have been left by the elastic around what would have been his waistline, but Xavi quickly bends his head to soothe them, laving at them with his tongue.
The pressure has been building steadily since those last two glasses of champagne; now Iker quickly puts his hand to his mouth to stifle a burp, but too late. Xavi's head jerks up, pupils dilated with desire. He reaches behind himself to fumble for the bottle he set on the floor, takes a swig from it, again holding the champagne in his cheeks, and hands it to Iker.
"I don't think that I-" Iker begins, but when Xavi scowls and gestures at him wordlessly, he shrugs and upends the bottle.
The instant his mouth makes contact with the opening, he feels the most incredible thrill shooting down into his groin as Xavi's cool, wet lips close around the head of his cock. Iker gasps, some of the champagne accidentally going down the wrong way, and starts to cough, hitting himself on the chest. Xavi's tongue starts swirling around the sensitive underside of his dick, making him moan even as his eyes begin to tear. Then Xavi slaps the side of Iker's thigh, not hard but emphatically, and somehow Iker knows exactly what it means: Drink.
He drinks.
At first it's difficult, no matter how delicious: Iker is so, so full. But then the cold, dry, slightly sweet champagne trickling into his stomach seems to flow right through his buzzing body to join up with the cool, wet, clever touch of Xavi's tongue. Iker can feel it leave a brightly burnished trail down his throat and through his veins, straight to his cock. He groans again, pushing his palm against his protesting abdomen, and keeps drinking, gulp after gulp, the pressure building in his brain, his belly, his balls, until, until.... Iker throws back his head and hears himself crying out as an inexorable wave of champagne and sensation crests and lifts him right up out of consciousness.
When he comes to, he is lying on his side on the sofa with Xavi curled around him. He is so comfortable that he can barely think, barely move. His cock is sticky and limp. He is still terribly tipsy.
The champagne bottle is lying beside him, empty. Most of it appears to have joined its poor relations, sloshing around in his grossly distended stomach. Iker reaches down to rub his belly briefly and burps, loudly and with an unexpectedly strong sense of satisfaction.
"Hey," Xavi says, stirring, and rubs against his buttocks, not subtly. He can feel the hard, hot flesh, knows that Xavi only needs a little bit from Iker, barely a trifle, to make him come.
"Xavi," Iker croaks, and clears his parched throat, tries again. "Xavi, look what you made me do." Again he takes Xavi's hand and guides it to his bulging belly, hears his friend suck in a breath.
"You did this to me. You-" Iker pauses, thinking back to the first time this happened, and is suddenly inspired. "You made me pregnant."
"Joder," Xavi breathes, and thrusts against him, first gently and then more forcefully, sliding between his buttocks, slick, and then suddenly slipping inside so that they both gasp at the sudden tightness, the fullness. After the brief pause of mutual astonishment, Xavi presses his moist lips to the back of Iker's neck, and they begin moving together, slowly at first, building an irresistible rhythm.
"That's right," Iker croons his encouragement, closing his eyes with pleasure at the familiar pressure against his prostate. "You did it. You made this big belly. You fucked me... just like this..."
Xavi speeds up, groaning, clutching convulsively at Iker's curves as he continues, "and you got me pregnant when you came inside me, just like, just like-"
And Xavi shouts out loud, shuddering inside of Iker as he spends.
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Date: 2014-05-11 12:44 pm (UTC)Captain Cheapass is so adorable when he's tipsy. Drunken alerts to his boyfriend. Lol.
And this - Xavi appears at his side as if out of nowhere, arms folded forebodingly across his chest. His sweatpants ride low on his hips, his curly black hair is damp and unstyled, and his skin still has the fresh, soapy post-shower smell that Iker likes so much. "It's about time you came home to console me," Xavi complains. Then he catches sight of Iker's stomach stretching his t-shirt out in front of him, and his normally half-lidded eyes widen.
"I brought you a present," Iker says, a little shyly, although how he can still be shy and almost breathless with anticipation after all these years with Xavi is one of life's mysteries. Then again, maybe it's just all that champagne pressing against his poor lungs.
And then it's just so sweet between then...and your last lines were scorching. <3
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Date: 2014-05-11 01:01 pm (UTC)I can't tell you how tickled I was by Captain Cheapass (which is very true to real-life btw) and his text. Hee.
I also love how shy and breathless and adorable Iker is in that split-second when he's suddenly not sure how his gesture will be received.
GOD I LOVE THESE TWO. I don't even know why I find their relationship so sweet and natural and... guh.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting!