#sdkfkdsahfkjadsf

[player1064]

feb 2016 🤔

WIP asks but it's just the various sections of my happy (???) beville (/angsty carraville) WIP

quick authors note this is smutty but not THAT smutty but also possibly the smuttiest thing I've ever written in my life which is not saying much but this is just to say. go easy on me on that front 😅

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February, 2016.

It feels a bit pathetic to admit, but Gary’s only slept with one person his whole life. His mates tease him about it, even Becks does sometimes, but to Gary it’s almost a point of pride. He’s spent the last twenty years honing his skill in the art that is making love to David Beckham, and he’s not just tooting his own horn when he says he’s damn good at it.

This, though, this isn’t making love. This is fucking, plain and simple and ugly. And it’s not David.

He’s on his back on a king-sized bed in a hotel room in Barcelona, and he’s staring resolutely up at the ceiling trying not to think too much about the fact that it’s Jamie Carragher looming over him, Jamie Carragher pinning his wrists above his head, Jamie Carragher’s dick pushing inside him.

It’s rough, not in an unpractised way (almost suspiciously not, when Gary thinks of the cool silver band still sitting on Jamie’s finger), but in a ‘this is all I want from you’ way. In a ‘this is all you deserve’ way.

Becks is never rough with him. He can’t be, it’s just not who he is. Even when they were younger, when everything was new and exciting and they were still trying to learn what made each other tick, even then, when Gary had asked if he could try throwing him round a bit, he’d never been able to make it work. He loves Gary too much to hurt him, he’d said, apologetic. Not even consensually.

Jamie Carragher has no such fucking problem.

He’s muttering as he thrusts, a mixture of insults and obscenities that Gary’s mostly tuned out. He scrapes his teeth over Gary’s sensitive spots, just on the wrong side of too much pressure, and he presses his fingers so hard into the soft flesh of Gary’s middle that he just knows it’s going to leave a mess of bruises behind.

A mess of bruises which Becks won’t ever need to know are there, because when Gary goes home tomorrow it’ll be to the house he’s renting in Valencia, the one that’s always so jarringly quiet and empty because Becks isn’t there, Becks is still in Manchester.

The thought makes tears prick in his eyes, and Jamie pauses, moves a hand up to touch Gary’s cheek, unnervingly gentle. Gary has no choice but to look at him, them, to remind himself what it is exactly he’s doing here. That’s enough to push him over the edge, he feels a tear well over and roll down his cheek, clamps his lips shut before there’s a chance for a sob to escape.

Jamie, still too gentle, brushes the tear away with his thumb. He’s frowning, worried even as he’s panting from the exertion, even as he’s kneeling there with his dick halfway into Gary’s arse.

“Don’t,” he says quickly, looking away again with an embarrassed blush. “Please, just don’t. I said I wanted a distraction, didn’t I, so fuckin’ get on with it.”

“Are y’sure?”

Gary nods, and Jamie does too, just once in confirmation, before his fingers go to grip Gary’s hips and he pushes back inside of him, the force of it painful in the exact right way.

Later, when they’re done, Jamie rolls off Gary and onto his back, sweaty and exhausted. He grins when Gary turns his head to look at him, opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, and Gary leaps out of the bed to run to the bathroom and throw up.

Oh, God.

What has he done.

Jamie gives him a minute before following him into the bathroom, squatting down next to him to rub his back as he sobs over the toilet bowl.

“This is makin’ me feel all wrong, Gary. I never meant to upset you, I thought you wanted it like –”

“—I did,” Gary interrupts. “I did, this is nothin’ to do w’that. ‘snothin’ to do w’you, don’t be so full of yourself.”

“Well excuse me for worryin’, I’ve never ‘ad someone cry while I’m fuckin’ them before.”

“You fuck a lot of people, then?” Gary asks, turning to look pointedly at Jamie’s wedding ring.

Jamie bristles. “Maybe I do, yeah. None of your fuckin’ business, is it? You’re the one who was askin’ for it, you desperate slut.”

Despite having come just a few minutes ago, despite being knelt on a cold bathroom floor with tear tracks on his face and the taste of vomit in his mouth, Gary feels his dick twitch with interest at the words, just a tiny bit. He feels his cheeks flush, hopes Jamie hasn’t noticed.

“I’ve never –” Gary takes a shaky breath. “I’ve never done nothin’ like this before. I’m – I have someone. I’ve had someone, for last twenty years. We never, uh, we’ve never had to live apart before, not for this long. It’s been tough. And that loss, today…”

He sighs, lets himself lean back against Jamie’s bare chest, lets Jamie press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“It stops feelin’ so bad, eventually,” he says softly. “The guilt. You get used to it. But I know, the first time is – I never knew you ‘ad a partner.”

“No, ‘cause it’s none of your fucking business, Jamie. And this isn’t – this isn’t a first time, it’s an only time. You might be able to fuck around all you want, but that’s not me.”

“Ha ha,” Jamie says flatly. “Who knows, Gary, maybe you’ll be back in Manchester with yer partner sooner’n you think, the way people were goin’ on in that press conference.”

“Don’t even fuckin’ joke about that, Carra, what a shitshow.”