ex libris (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hellabaloo) wrote2015-05-16 08:12 am
hellabaloo) wrote2015-05-16 08:12 am
Entry tags:
unpublished drafts dump: footie fic edition
A more accurate title would probably be "unpublished drafts dump: footie fic Leo Messi edition," but hey. Clearing out my drafts of fics that I'm never really going to finish always feels so liberating. On to telling myself I'm going to finish those New Year's Resolution fics ontime \o/
In no particular order, that ended up being from least to most complete:
Leo Messi/Cristiano Ronaldo, post-World Cup, sort-of-friends sort-of comforting each other
“How does that saying go? Football is 90 minutes of men chasing a ball and in the end the Germans always win?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Uh, Leo. Leo Messi.”
Cristiano moves the phone away from his ear to check the screen again. It’s still glowing softly displaying a number with a Spanish country code.
“-ing month. 7 games. And in the end the Germans win.” Leo has apparently not been put off by Cristiano’s silence and kept talking. A wonder given how his dislike of speaking on the phone is nigh legendary.
“At least you took them to 120 minutes.”
“At least you didn’t let them score seven.”
“Is it.” “Is it worse to lose early, get it all over with, or to get so close and not be able to finish?”
“Better to lose in the final than the stupid third-place match.”
Leo Messi, psychic!AU
The only time he gets close to telling someone is after watching Andres and Xavi complete pass after perfect pass between them. Crosses that stretched the entire fields, short little give-and-go’s, and beautifully arched balls that everyone on the practice field knew were going to be goals.
“Hey Andres?”
“Yeah?”
Leo’s not sure how to put into words everything that he wants to ask. Are you and Xavi like me is the most burning question, but after so long of hiding, it’s hard to put it out there.
“When you,” he starts, but stops to clear his throat. “When you pass the ball to Xavi, what do you hear?”
“What do I hear?”
“Yeah. Like. In your head?”
Andres is looking at him like he can’t quite figure out what Leo’s getting at.
“We all can pass the ball to each other good enough. But you and Xavi. You’re just so,” he trails off because the word he wants to use is a word he’s trained himself never to say.
Andres smiles and looks at Leo kindly. “I don’t hear anything really. It’s sort of a sense now.” He looks down at his feet like they might actually have some input on the conversation. “After so many years, we just now how to find each other. It’s more about our bodies on the pitch than anything in our heads.”
Leo hates feeling the pang of disappointment.
Andres and Xavi are not like him after all.
“Oh. Okay,” he says.
“Well it’s not like you have to worry about anything. What Xavi and I can together, you can do with everyone."
Iker Casillas/Leo Messi, post-World Cup group stages, porn that never fully materialized but with a not!fic ending
There was a sort of inconsistent but loud knocking at his hotel room door that Iker desperately hoped wasn’t Sergio come to drag him out for a card game. It was bad enough he had allowed seven goals, he didn’t need his teammates trying to cheer him up. Or remind him that he’d kept a clean sheet in their last game. They hadn’t even made it out of the group stage and Iker wanted to mope in peace for a night.
He did not expect to find Lionel Messi, glassy-eyed and rocking back and forth on his heels, at his door.
“Oh. Uh, hi. Casillas,” Messi said, definitely not sober.
“Messi.”
“Is Xavi around? I thought I’d get him drunk,” Messi said, waving around the bottle of liquor in his hand.
Iker really didn’t want to deal with a happy, drunk Messi, let alone a depressed, drunk Xavi, so he put on his best scowl and said, “No.”
He hoped Messi might take the hint and leave, but Iker’s shit luck apparently extended beyond the football pitch.
“So,” Messi said, drawing out the syllable. “He gonna be back soon?”
Iker heaved an annoyed sigh. “He’s with Andrés. I don’t know when he’ll be back. But curfew’s in an hour.”
And Messi apparently took it as an invitation, because he ducked under Iker’s arm braced against the doorframe, quick as he is on the pitch, and wandered into the room. “Cool. I’ll just wait here then,” he said and plopped down onto one of the beds, completely unaware of Iker’s incredulous stare.
“Seriously?” Iker blurted out before he can stop himself.
“Shouldn’t you be, like, celebrating with your team or something?”
“We’ll celebrate once we’re past the quarterfinals,” Messi said, suddenly and wholly focused on Iker.
Despite his earlier wobbliness, there’s this look on his face that Iker’s only seen when he’s driving towards the goal, pure menacing concentration on putting the ball at his feet into the back of Iker’s net. But then Messi shrugged and all that tension just slipped off his shoulders.
“Besides,” he continued, “Pablo and Kun wanted to find David Silva. Something about―I can’t remember.”
“I get it. Argentina advanced and Spain didn’t and you have to be good winners and teammates and console―”
“No, we really don’t.”
“Oh, come on. It’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“If that’s what I was doing, I’d be saying something like two bad games in eight years doesn’t mean shit.”
“I don’t need you feeling sorry for me!"
Messi snorted. “Look I’m not pitying you.”
“I would be if I were in your shoes.”
“You can suck my dick, Casillas. Haven’t you see the banners? God, the Messiah, and the Pope are all Argentine. We’re sure to win. No pressure or anything."
“I don't think you should say ‘suck my dick’ and then proclaim to be a messiah, of any sort.”
“Oh don’t be such a prude, San Iker.” “Or maybe I should suck your dick.”
And Iker is amazed at a. how easily Leo goes from quick-fire banter to actually leering at him b. that Leo would even suggest such a thing c. that his dick might be teensy bit interested. Clearly taking advantage of Iker's lack of comeback, Leo takes it as a sign and smoothly drops to his knees in front of Iker.
And I mean, Iker would be caught between "Whoah, hey, buy me dinner first" and "Jesus Christ I am over thirty, I am not getting hard at the mere prospect of a warm mouth."
Except Leo is good. Running his hands up and down Iker's thighs, mouthing wetly at the growing bulge that Iker's sweatpants can do nothing to hide and at some point, the whole ridiculous situation (the defending World Cup Champions were demolished over two games and couldn't make it past the group stages, Leo Messi is now in his room giving him head) gets to Iker who loosens that steel rope of control and helps Leo shove his sweats and underwear down around his thighs and puts his hands on Leo’s head, hand gripping at the short strands.
And God does Leo moan at that.
He closes his lips around the head of Iker’s cock and sucks, hard, and Iker nearly comes right then and there. Ike does jerk the hand in Leo’s hair and it causes Leo to throw a self-satisfied look up at him, somehow smiling around Iker’s dick.
[something something more porn]
“Messi- Leo- wait. I’m-“ Iker tries to warn Leo, but all that does is make him redouble his efforts, taking more of Iker into his mouth and throat until Leo’s noise is pressed up against his pelvis. Iker can’t hold on anymore and comes with a groan.
Iker feels himself be pushed back onto the bed and collapses without much protest. He feels Leo’s knees on either side of his thighs and his warm hands pushing up Iker’s t-shirt. Iker drags his head up and watches as Leo works his own dick, hand running furiously up and down the length and twisting at the head. He has some half-formed thought that he should be returning the favor, but when he tries to raise his hand, Leo’s free hand finds his wrist and pins it back down on the bed, Leo’s fingernails biting into his skin.
Leo keeps his mouth shut, but Iker can hear the half-moan caught in the back of his throat when Leo comes all over his stomach. Iker throws his head back, staring up at the bland ceiling of his hotel room and tries to bring brain back online. He hears Leo run the tap and spit- the realization that he didn’t swallow makes him disappointed somehow. Although it’s not as though that has ever mattered to Iker before.
[something something about being lucky Xavi didn’t walk in on them]
In no particular order, that ended up being from least to most complete:
Leo Messi/Cristiano Ronaldo, post-World Cup, sort-of-friends sort-of comforting each other
“How does that saying go? Football is 90 minutes of men chasing a ball and in the end the Germans always win?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Uh, Leo. Leo Messi.”
Cristiano moves the phone away from his ear to check the screen again. It’s still glowing softly displaying a number with a Spanish country code.
“-ing month. 7 games. And in the end the Germans win.” Leo has apparently not been put off by Cristiano’s silence and kept talking. A wonder given how his dislike of speaking on the phone is nigh legendary.
“At least you took them to 120 minutes.”
“At least you didn’t let them score seven.”
“Is it.” “Is it worse to lose early, get it all over with, or to get so close and not be able to finish?”
“Better to lose in the final than the stupid third-place match.”
Leo Messi, psychic!AU
The only time he gets close to telling someone is after watching Andres and Xavi complete pass after perfect pass between them. Crosses that stretched the entire fields, short little give-and-go’s, and beautifully arched balls that everyone on the practice field knew were going to be goals.
“Hey Andres?”
“Yeah?”
Leo’s not sure how to put into words everything that he wants to ask. Are you and Xavi like me is the most burning question, but after so long of hiding, it’s hard to put it out there.
“When you,” he starts, but stops to clear his throat. “When you pass the ball to Xavi, what do you hear?”
“What do I hear?”
“Yeah. Like. In your head?”
Andres is looking at him like he can’t quite figure out what Leo’s getting at.
“We all can pass the ball to each other good enough. But you and Xavi. You’re just so,” he trails off because the word he wants to use is a word he’s trained himself never to say.
Andres smiles and looks at Leo kindly. “I don’t hear anything really. It’s sort of a sense now.” He looks down at his feet like they might actually have some input on the conversation. “After so many years, we just now how to find each other. It’s more about our bodies on the pitch than anything in our heads.”
Leo hates feeling the pang of disappointment.
Andres and Xavi are not like him after all.
“Oh. Okay,” he says.
“Well it’s not like you have to worry about anything. What Xavi and I can together, you can do with everyone."
Iker Casillas/Leo Messi, post-World Cup group stages, porn that never fully materialized but with a not!fic ending
There was a sort of inconsistent but loud knocking at his hotel room door that Iker desperately hoped wasn’t Sergio come to drag him out for a card game. It was bad enough he had allowed seven goals, he didn’t need his teammates trying to cheer him up. Or remind him that he’d kept a clean sheet in their last game. They hadn’t even made it out of the group stage and Iker wanted to mope in peace for a night.
He did not expect to find Lionel Messi, glassy-eyed and rocking back and forth on his heels, at his door.
“Oh. Uh, hi. Casillas,” Messi said, definitely not sober.
“Messi.”
“Is Xavi around? I thought I’d get him drunk,” Messi said, waving around the bottle of liquor in his hand.
Iker really didn’t want to deal with a happy, drunk Messi, let alone a depressed, drunk Xavi, so he put on his best scowl and said, “No.”
He hoped Messi might take the hint and leave, but Iker’s shit luck apparently extended beyond the football pitch.
“So,” Messi said, drawing out the syllable. “He gonna be back soon?”
Iker heaved an annoyed sigh. “He’s with Andrés. I don’t know when he’ll be back. But curfew’s in an hour.”
And Messi apparently took it as an invitation, because he ducked under Iker’s arm braced against the doorframe, quick as he is on the pitch, and wandered into the room. “Cool. I’ll just wait here then,” he said and plopped down onto one of the beds, completely unaware of Iker’s incredulous stare.
“Seriously?” Iker blurted out before he can stop himself.
“Shouldn’t you be, like, celebrating with your team or something?”
“We’ll celebrate once we’re past the quarterfinals,” Messi said, suddenly and wholly focused on Iker.
Despite his earlier wobbliness, there’s this look on his face that Iker’s only seen when he’s driving towards the goal, pure menacing concentration on putting the ball at his feet into the back of Iker’s net. But then Messi shrugged and all that tension just slipped off his shoulders.
“Besides,” he continued, “Pablo and Kun wanted to find David Silva. Something about―I can’t remember.”
“I get it. Argentina advanced and Spain didn’t and you have to be good winners and teammates and console―”
“No, we really don’t.”
“Oh, come on. It’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“If that’s what I was doing, I’d be saying something like two bad games in eight years doesn’t mean shit.”
“I don’t need you feeling sorry for me!"
Messi snorted. “Look I’m not pitying you.”
“I would be if I were in your shoes.”
“You can suck my dick, Casillas. Haven’t you see the banners? God, the Messiah, and the Pope are all Argentine. We’re sure to win. No pressure or anything."
“I don't think you should say ‘suck my dick’ and then proclaim to be a messiah, of any sort.”
“Oh don’t be such a prude, San Iker.” “Or maybe I should suck your dick.”
And Iker is amazed at a. how easily Leo goes from quick-fire banter to actually leering at him b. that Leo would even suggest such a thing c. that his dick might be teensy bit interested. Clearly taking advantage of Iker's lack of comeback, Leo takes it as a sign and smoothly drops to his knees in front of Iker.
And I mean, Iker would be caught between "Whoah, hey, buy me dinner first" and "Jesus Christ I am over thirty, I am not getting hard at the mere prospect of a warm mouth."
Except Leo is good. Running his hands up and down Iker's thighs, mouthing wetly at the growing bulge that Iker's sweatpants can do nothing to hide and at some point, the whole ridiculous situation (the defending World Cup Champions were demolished over two games and couldn't make it past the group stages, Leo Messi is now in his room giving him head) gets to Iker who loosens that steel rope of control and helps Leo shove his sweats and underwear down around his thighs and puts his hands on Leo’s head, hand gripping at the short strands.
And God does Leo moan at that.
He closes his lips around the head of Iker’s cock and sucks, hard, and Iker nearly comes right then and there. Ike does jerk the hand in Leo’s hair and it causes Leo to throw a self-satisfied look up at him, somehow smiling around Iker’s dick.
[something something more porn]
“Messi- Leo- wait. I’m-“ Iker tries to warn Leo, but all that does is make him redouble his efforts, taking more of Iker into his mouth and throat until Leo’s noise is pressed up against his pelvis. Iker can’t hold on anymore and comes with a groan.
Iker feels himself be pushed back onto the bed and collapses without much protest. He feels Leo’s knees on either side of his thighs and his warm hands pushing up Iker’s t-shirt. Iker drags his head up and watches as Leo works his own dick, hand running furiously up and down the length and twisting at the head. He has some half-formed thought that he should be returning the favor, but when he tries to raise his hand, Leo’s free hand finds his wrist and pins it back down on the bed, Leo’s fingernails biting into his skin.
Leo keeps his mouth shut, but Iker can hear the half-moan caught in the back of his throat when Leo comes all over his stomach. Iker throws his head back, staring up at the bland ceiling of his hotel room and tries to bring brain back online. He hears Leo run the tap and spit- the realization that he didn’t swallow makes him disappointed somehow. Although it’s not as though that has ever mattered to Iker before.
[something something about being lucky Xavi didn’t walk in on them]