rosquitos
title rosquitos
rating pg-13, perhaps?
pairing sergio ramos/fernando torres
summary prelude or companion piece to spanish hands
“No, not like that!”
Sergio grins, broad and happy, as he watches his mother slap Fernando’s hands away from a pile of dough. His stomach growls softly, and sure, he wants to actually eat the rosquitos, any time now, actually, but watching Fernando struggle to make them, well. That’s just as satisfying. Sergio raises his eyebrows at Fernando as Paqui mutters something about how city life was spoiling them, how could they not know how to cook for themselves?
“Mama, you know Fer’s lived in Madrid his whole life, right?” Sergio asks, and Fernando shoots him a grateful glance. Sergio tries hard not to laugh, and mostly succeeds.
“Oh, pobresito! No wonder you have no idea what you’re doing.” This time, Sergio completely fails at trying to keep a straight face, and ends up snorting into his beer. Paqui shoots him a reproving glance, and now it’s Fernando’s turn to raise his eyebrows behind her back and taunt Sergio. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that. No, stop that! Like this.”
His mother’s tan hands cover Fernando’s freckled ones and shape them around the dough. Fernando’s still smiling, throwing glances over his shoulder every now and then at Sergio, who sits grinning back like an idiot, sipping his beer.
The minutes stretch, long and comfortable, until Sergio’s father shouts something from outside and Paqui makes a face. “I’ll be back after your father figures out how to light the grill,” she says, fondly exasperated, patting Fernando’s arm and leaving floury fingerprints alongside his freckles. “Sergio, make sure this one doesn’t burn anything!”
Sergio laughs at Fernando’s indignant snort, and his mother bustles out of the room. He stands up and puts his beer down, licking his lips. He watches the way Fernando’s eyes track the movement of his tongue, and Fernando isn’t grinning anymore, the corner of his mouth tipped up in more of a question than anything. Sergio moves to stand behind him, his body molding against Fernando’s contours, and his hands come to rest where his mother’s had been moments before, covering Fernando’s. The index finger of his right hand carefully maps out the freckles scattered over the back of Fernando’s hand, sprayed over his fingers. Fernando shifts back almost imperceptibly, leaning into Sergio’s broad chest.
“You know I’m going to forget how to make these now, and just remember this, right?” Fernando asks, and his voice is husky and low.
“That’s okay,” Sergio tells him, leaning forward to whisper in Fernando’s ear. “Because then I can teach you all over again back in Madrid.”
Fernando moves his fingers slowly, to trace the tattoo ring around Sergio’s finger, then up, trailing flour of Sergio’s hand, stark against his tan, to finger the tattoo spanning his wrist. The gentle scratch of Fernando’s nail makes Sergio shiver, and he drops his chin to Fernando’s shoulder. “How long do we have?” Fernando asks.
“Not long enough,” Sergio sighs, licking a stripe up Fernando’s neck and sucking gently on his earlobe. He tastes of sweat and sun. “She’ll be back in a minute, it’s just that my dad, he can never figure out which kind of lighter fluid he wants to use, and then after a few minutes he’ll start debating if he should use charcoal or wood chips, and then my mom’ll just take the lighter fluid and pour it all over the barbecue and light it for him and then they’ll glare for a few minutes and-“
“Shut up,” Fernando hisses, turning in the circle of Sergio’s arms to slide a leg between Sergio’s, and wow, Sergio hadn’t even realized he was hard.
“That works,” he groans against Fernando’s neck as the blond starts to make small circles with his hips, and the denim of his jeans, as soft and worn as it is, is too constricting, Sergio’s dick pushing against the zipper. Sergio releases one of Fernando’s hands to cup his chin and brings his own head up to push their lips together, slipping his tongue between Fernando’s parted lips without hesitation.
And then Fernando’s hand is working at getting the button of his jeans open, and Sergio gasps into Fernando’s mouth as long, pale, freckled fingers trace the tattoo that is slowly exposed with the drag of his zipper, and Fernando cups him through the soft cotton of his boxers, his dick twitching at the contact. Sergio pushes his hips up, closer to Fernando, bites down gently on Fernando’s lower lip, and then-
He hears the back door slam shut and groans brokenly, as Fernando gives his dick a good squeeze and then starts to zip him back up. Fernando shoves him gently back towards the table, and Sergio goes reluctantly, crossing his legs as he sits down and busies himself with brushing the flour off of his jeans. Paqui comes back into the kitchen and Sergio picks up his beer bottle again, looking anywhere but at Fernando.
“Good, you didn’t ruin anything!” Sergio’s mother claps her hands delightedly, her rings clinking musically. Sergio’s eyes are magnetically drawn to Fernando as he stretches, arms high above his head, and the hem of his t-shirt creeps up, up, and Sergio cannot rip his eyes off of the slip of skin between the shirt and his jeans, riding low on his waist. His dick throbs in his jeans and he wants to run his tongue over the sharp angle of Fernando’s hipbone, and Jesu Cristo, his mother is standing in the room and Fernando is a goddamn tease.
Sergio stands up suddenly, knocking his thigh against the table and putting his bottle down too hard. “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit,” he says, glaring at Fernando over his mother’s shoulder.
“Oh, you’ll be down soon enough, as soon as you smell these cooking,” Paqui replies, unfazed, and Sergio can’t tell if she noticed the flour spots still on his jeans, but he really doesn’t want to be thinking about that right now.
“Sure,” he replies, and takes the stairs two at a time.
Paqui takes the baking sheet from Fernando and slides the rosquitos into the oven, setting the timer. “Why don’t you go see if he’s okay, dear? He seems a bit jumpy all of a sudden.”
Fernando smiles at her and wipes his hands off on his own jeans. “Yeah, yeah I’d better go do that.”
He also takes the stairs two at a time.
rating pg-13, perhaps?
pairing sergio ramos/fernando torres
summary prelude or companion piece to spanish hands
“No, not like that!”
Sergio grins, broad and happy, as he watches his mother slap Fernando’s hands away from a pile of dough. His stomach growls softly, and sure, he wants to actually eat the rosquitos, any time now, actually, but watching Fernando struggle to make them, well. That’s just as satisfying. Sergio raises his eyebrows at Fernando as Paqui mutters something about how city life was spoiling them, how could they not know how to cook for themselves?
“Mama, you know Fer’s lived in Madrid his whole life, right?” Sergio asks, and Fernando shoots him a grateful glance. Sergio tries hard not to laugh, and mostly succeeds.
“Oh, pobresito! No wonder you have no idea what you’re doing.” This time, Sergio completely fails at trying to keep a straight face, and ends up snorting into his beer. Paqui shoots him a reproving glance, and now it’s Fernando’s turn to raise his eyebrows behind her back and taunt Sergio. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that. No, stop that! Like this.”
His mother’s tan hands cover Fernando’s freckled ones and shape them around the dough. Fernando’s still smiling, throwing glances over his shoulder every now and then at Sergio, who sits grinning back like an idiot, sipping his beer.
The minutes stretch, long and comfortable, until Sergio’s father shouts something from outside and Paqui makes a face. “I’ll be back after your father figures out how to light the grill,” she says, fondly exasperated, patting Fernando’s arm and leaving floury fingerprints alongside his freckles. “Sergio, make sure this one doesn’t burn anything!”
Sergio laughs at Fernando’s indignant snort, and his mother bustles out of the room. He stands up and puts his beer down, licking his lips. He watches the way Fernando’s eyes track the movement of his tongue, and Fernando isn’t grinning anymore, the corner of his mouth tipped up in more of a question than anything. Sergio moves to stand behind him, his body molding against Fernando’s contours, and his hands come to rest where his mother’s had been moments before, covering Fernando’s. The index finger of his right hand carefully maps out the freckles scattered over the back of Fernando’s hand, sprayed over his fingers. Fernando shifts back almost imperceptibly, leaning into Sergio’s broad chest.
“You know I’m going to forget how to make these now, and just remember this, right?” Fernando asks, and his voice is husky and low.
“That’s okay,” Sergio tells him, leaning forward to whisper in Fernando’s ear. “Because then I can teach you all over again back in Madrid.”
Fernando moves his fingers slowly, to trace the tattoo ring around Sergio’s finger, then up, trailing flour of Sergio’s hand, stark against his tan, to finger the tattoo spanning his wrist. The gentle scratch of Fernando’s nail makes Sergio shiver, and he drops his chin to Fernando’s shoulder. “How long do we have?” Fernando asks.
“Not long enough,” Sergio sighs, licking a stripe up Fernando’s neck and sucking gently on his earlobe. He tastes of sweat and sun. “She’ll be back in a minute, it’s just that my dad, he can never figure out which kind of lighter fluid he wants to use, and then after a few minutes he’ll start debating if he should use charcoal or wood chips, and then my mom’ll just take the lighter fluid and pour it all over the barbecue and light it for him and then they’ll glare for a few minutes and-“
“Shut up,” Fernando hisses, turning in the circle of Sergio’s arms to slide a leg between Sergio’s, and wow, Sergio hadn’t even realized he was hard.
“That works,” he groans against Fernando’s neck as the blond starts to make small circles with his hips, and the denim of his jeans, as soft and worn as it is, is too constricting, Sergio’s dick pushing against the zipper. Sergio releases one of Fernando’s hands to cup his chin and brings his own head up to push their lips together, slipping his tongue between Fernando’s parted lips without hesitation.
And then Fernando’s hand is working at getting the button of his jeans open, and Sergio gasps into Fernando’s mouth as long, pale, freckled fingers trace the tattoo that is slowly exposed with the drag of his zipper, and Fernando cups him through the soft cotton of his boxers, his dick twitching at the contact. Sergio pushes his hips up, closer to Fernando, bites down gently on Fernando’s lower lip, and then-
He hears the back door slam shut and groans brokenly, as Fernando gives his dick a good squeeze and then starts to zip him back up. Fernando shoves him gently back towards the table, and Sergio goes reluctantly, crossing his legs as he sits down and busies himself with brushing the flour off of his jeans. Paqui comes back into the kitchen and Sergio picks up his beer bottle again, looking anywhere but at Fernando.
“Good, you didn’t ruin anything!” Sergio’s mother claps her hands delightedly, her rings clinking musically. Sergio’s eyes are magnetically drawn to Fernando as he stretches, arms high above his head, and the hem of his t-shirt creeps up, up, and Sergio cannot rip his eyes off of the slip of skin between the shirt and his jeans, riding low on his waist. His dick throbs in his jeans and he wants to run his tongue over the sharp angle of Fernando’s hipbone, and Jesu Cristo, his mother is standing in the room and Fernando is a goddamn tease.
Sergio stands up suddenly, knocking his thigh against the table and putting his bottle down too hard. “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit,” he says, glaring at Fernando over his mother’s shoulder.
“Oh, you’ll be down soon enough, as soon as you smell these cooking,” Paqui replies, unfazed, and Sergio can’t tell if she noticed the flour spots still on his jeans, but he really doesn’t want to be thinking about that right now.
“Sure,” he replies, and takes the stairs two at a time.
Paqui takes the baking sheet from Fernando and slides the rosquitos into the oven, setting the timer. “Why don’t you go see if he’s okay, dear? He seems a bit jumpy all of a sudden.”
Fernando smiles at her and wipes his hands off on his own jeans. “Yeah, yeah I’d better go do that.”
He also takes the stairs two at a time.