fic: when we collide
title: when we collide
pairing: xabi alonso/steven gerrard
rating: nc-17
disclaimer: fiction
for inesdelsol ♥♥♥
One moment you’re walking out of the training facility - feeling light and good, like you know this tournament is yours, is Spain’s if your team keeps playing the way you have. It’s still far away, the golden glory - the World Cup - but it’s close enough that you can smell it, can taste it on your tongue. This is yours for the taking and everyone around you knows this.
But in the next instance you see him in the distance and the world around you narrows. He must be able to read your mind or have some kind of telepathic powers because he looks up, his eyes finding yours immediately. He doesn’t smile but you do. You always do.
You find yourself following him after you walk up to him and shake his hand. He doesn’t hug or trade kisses to the cheek. Not often. Where he’s taking you, you have not a clue but in the end it doesn’t really matter. You just walk, slightly behind him as you watch his back form to his training shirt, his muscles strong. All you want to do is touch. Not yet though.
The minute the two of you walk through a door your back connects with the wall, your head bouncing off it lightly. Your eyes flutter shut but open back up just as quickly. He stares down at you, the white of his shirt bright - too bright - in the darkness of the room.
“Xabi.”
You name is whispered from his lips before he attacks your mouth and this time when your head hits the wall you really don’t give a fuck. His fingers dig into the skin of your arms, his body pressed impossibly close to yours as he slips a knee between your legs which you part willingly.
Your arms hook under his, the flat of your palms splayed against his shoulder blades. With his leg against your rapidly growing erection and flickering tongue in your mouth you a make a decision.
It’s happens so quick that his eyes widen to an impossible eyes, mimicking some kind of insect as you spin your bodies around and pin him against the wall. You smile. You always do.
“Steven.”
When you kiss him this time you can feel his smile against your lips. His smiles are rare yet you always seem to draw them out. You don’t question it. You would be stupid to.
As you trace every inch of his mouth with your tongue, pressing your stubble against his smooth skin, you reach for his hands and link your fingers together, swallowing his moan.
Swiftly you spin him around again so he’s facing the wall, his chest heaving as he swears. You chuckle against the nape of his neck as you kiss the slightly damp skin. You let go of one hand to palm the front of his shorts - the familiarity sending a shiver through your body - while you twist the other arm behind his back. He likes it but he will never tell you that.
“Xabi, you cunt! What the fuck are you doing?”
You just laugh, loving the way he swears, like it’s supposed to intimidate you. He doesn’t scare you like he knows he does to others. You know him better than you know yourself.
“Exactly what you want me to do.”
Your hand slips into his shorts and his forehead meets the wall. His groan is loud. It only makes you squeeze a little harder, a little rougher.
“Then do it.”
There it is - the permission you didn’t know you were waiting for. It’s like it snaps something inside of you and you let go, let everything fall away except him and you. You and him.
You keep your grip on the arm behind his back but slip the other hand of his shorts to tug both of yours down just far enough. You spit in your hand and for a split second you feel guilty. He has never treated you like this, never fucked you without prep or lube, never made it feel seedy and dirty.
But then he moans and pushes his hips out and you snap back into focus, mentally promising yourself you make it up to him some other time. Right now, he wants it. Who are you to deny him?
When you press inside him, he lets out a pained moan as he rests his head against the drywall. You wait a second or a few, pushing up his shirt with your free hand (he’s still restrained and you don’t plan on letting go just yet) and caress the small of his back. His muscles bunch underneath your touch and around you and it’s your turn to moan.
“Move, Xabi.”
His voice is low with desperation and it makes your cock pulse inside him. You oblige like you always do.
You thrust into him slow at first then hard and a little quicker, his shorts rubbing against a patch of bare skin on your thigh. You lean into him and scrape your beard against his shoulder as you run your tongue all over him.
He begins to chant your name and it’s a heady feeling - him around your cock, losing control steadily. For a fleeting second you remember how it was, the constant that was him and you, and you come. The intensity takes you by surprise.
“Fuck... Help me out or let me fucking go.”
The husk in his voice shakes you out of your sudden reverie and you dutifully slip your fingers around his cock and stroke him for all you are worth. Your cock is still inside of him and when he tenses as his orgasm approaches it makes you twitch.
It’s like a whirlwind of senses and this time you have no choice in the matter when you thrown back into memories. So many fucking memories that it makes your throat close up.
Your hand is still around him, you cock still in him and you refuse to move, refuse to be thrust back into reality where you are no longer his and he yours. You wish you could stop time and turn off your brain. Everything else is insignificant.
pairing: xabi alonso/steven gerrard
rating: nc-17
disclaimer: fiction
for inesdelsol ♥♥♥
One moment you’re walking out of the training facility - feeling light and good, like you know this tournament is yours, is Spain’s if your team keeps playing the way you have. It’s still far away, the golden glory - the World Cup - but it’s close enough that you can smell it, can taste it on your tongue. This is yours for the taking and everyone around you knows this.
But in the next instance you see him in the distance and the world around you narrows. He must be able to read your mind or have some kind of telepathic powers because he looks up, his eyes finding yours immediately. He doesn’t smile but you do. You always do.
You find yourself following him after you walk up to him and shake his hand. He doesn’t hug or trade kisses to the cheek. Not often. Where he’s taking you, you have not a clue but in the end it doesn’t really matter. You just walk, slightly behind him as you watch his back form to his training shirt, his muscles strong. All you want to do is touch. Not yet though.
The minute the two of you walk through a door your back connects with the wall, your head bouncing off it lightly. Your eyes flutter shut but open back up just as quickly. He stares down at you, the white of his shirt bright - too bright - in the darkness of the room.
“Xabi.”
You name is whispered from his lips before he attacks your mouth and this time when your head hits the wall you really don’t give a fuck. His fingers dig into the skin of your arms, his body pressed impossibly close to yours as he slips a knee between your legs which you part willingly.
Your arms hook under his, the flat of your palms splayed against his shoulder blades. With his leg against your rapidly growing erection and flickering tongue in your mouth you a make a decision.
It’s happens so quick that his eyes widen to an impossible eyes, mimicking some kind of insect as you spin your bodies around and pin him against the wall. You smile. You always do.
“Steven.”
When you kiss him this time you can feel his smile against your lips. His smiles are rare yet you always seem to draw them out. You don’t question it. You would be stupid to.
As you trace every inch of his mouth with your tongue, pressing your stubble against his smooth skin, you reach for his hands and link your fingers together, swallowing his moan.
Swiftly you spin him around again so he’s facing the wall, his chest heaving as he swears. You chuckle against the nape of his neck as you kiss the slightly damp skin. You let go of one hand to palm the front of his shorts - the familiarity sending a shiver through your body - while you twist the other arm behind his back. He likes it but he will never tell you that.
“Xabi, you cunt! What the fuck are you doing?”
You just laugh, loving the way he swears, like it’s supposed to intimidate you. He doesn’t scare you like he knows he does to others. You know him better than you know yourself.
“Exactly what you want me to do.”
Your hand slips into his shorts and his forehead meets the wall. His groan is loud. It only makes you squeeze a little harder, a little rougher.
“Then do it.”
There it is - the permission you didn’t know you were waiting for. It’s like it snaps something inside of you and you let go, let everything fall away except him and you. You and him.
You keep your grip on the arm behind his back but slip the other hand of his shorts to tug both of yours down just far enough. You spit in your hand and for a split second you feel guilty. He has never treated you like this, never fucked you without prep or lube, never made it feel seedy and dirty.
But then he moans and pushes his hips out and you snap back into focus, mentally promising yourself you make it up to him some other time. Right now, he wants it. Who are you to deny him?
When you press inside him, he lets out a pained moan as he rests his head against the drywall. You wait a second or a few, pushing up his shirt with your free hand (he’s still restrained and you don’t plan on letting go just yet) and caress the small of his back. His muscles bunch underneath your touch and around you and it’s your turn to moan.
“Move, Xabi.”
His voice is low with desperation and it makes your cock pulse inside him. You oblige like you always do.
You thrust into him slow at first then hard and a little quicker, his shorts rubbing against a patch of bare skin on your thigh. You lean into him and scrape your beard against his shoulder as you run your tongue all over him.
He begins to chant your name and it’s a heady feeling - him around your cock, losing control steadily. For a fleeting second you remember how it was, the constant that was him and you, and you come. The intensity takes you by surprise.
“Fuck... Help me out or let me fucking go.”
The husk in his voice shakes you out of your sudden reverie and you dutifully slip your fingers around his cock and stroke him for all you are worth. Your cock is still inside of him and when he tenses as his orgasm approaches it makes you twitch.
It’s like a whirlwind of senses and this time you have no choice in the matter when you thrown back into memories. So many fucking memories that it makes your throat close up.
Your hand is still around him, you cock still in him and you refuse to move, refuse to be thrust back into reality where you are no longer his and he yours. You wish you could stop time and turn off your brain. Everything else is insignificant.