Football Smuts

Chapter 6 Wicked Games Ft. Neymar and CR7

He's never wanted someone so badly as he wants him

He wants to be around him all the time, be with him every second

He's never felt so needy in his life

But all he wants is his undying attention

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When Neymar wakes, it's still dark, and he has no idea how long he's slept. He stretches out beneath the duvet, and he feels sore, deliciously sore. Cristiano is nowhere to be seen, and he wonders where he is. He sits up, staring out at the cityscape in front of him. There are fewer lights in the city, and there's a whisper of dawn in the east. And that's when he hears the music—the lilting notes of the piano, a sad, sweet lament. Bach, he thinks, but he's not sure. He wraps the duvet around him and quietly pads out of the room toward the music. Cristiano is at the piano, completely lost in the music he's playing. His expression is sad and melancholy, like the music and stunning playing. Leaning against the wall, the hazel-eyed man listens, enraptured. He's such an accomplished musician. He sits naked; his body bathed in the warm light cast by a solitary freestanding lamp beside the piano. With the rest of the large room in darkness, it's like he's in his isolated little pool of light, untouchable... lonely, in a bubble.

He pads toward him, enticed by the sublime, melancholy music. Neymar is mesmerised, watching his long skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how those fingers have expertly handled and caressed his body. He flushes, gasps at the memory, and pushes his thighs together, trying to diffuse his arousal. Cris glances up, his unfathomable brown eyes bright, his expression unreadable. "Sorry," Neymar whispers. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

A frown flits across the man's face. "Surely, I should be saying that to you," he murmurs. He finishes playing and puts his hands on his legs.

Neymar notices now that he's wearing pyjama pants as the man runs his fingers through his hair and stands. His pants hang from his hips in that way... oh my. My mouth goes dry as he casually strolls around the piano toward me. He has broad shoulders, narrow hips, and his abdominal muscles ripple as he walks. He is stunning.

"You should be in bed," Cristiano admonishes.

The man ignores him, still mesmerised by his playing. "That was a beautiful piece. Is it...Bach?"

"Transcription by Bach, but it's originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello."

"It was exquisite but unfortunate, such a melancholy melody."

His lips quirk up in a half smile. "Bed," he orders. "You'll be exhausted in the morning."

"I woke, and you weren't there."

"I find it difficult to sleep, and I'm not used to sleeping with anyone," he murmurs.

Neymar can't fathom his mood. He seems sad, but it's difficult to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the tone of the piece he was playing. He puts his arm around him and gently walks him back to the bedroom. "How long have you been playing? You play beautifully."

"Since I was six."

"Oh." Cristiano as a six-year-old boy... his mind conjures an image of a beautiful, brown-haired little boy with brown eyes, and his heart melts—a moppet-haired kid who likes impossibly sad music.

"How are you feeling?" he asks when we return to the room. He switches on a sidelight.

He smiles faintly. "I'm good, real good."