weight
title weight
rating pg
word count 555
prompt 006. portugal
pairing sergio ramos/fernando torres
summary fernando needs some cheering up
When Fernando opens the door, he just looks tired. His whole body is soft, the line of his shoulders sloping down, not squared like they are when he takes the pitch. He leans against the door frame and seems to melt into it, disappearing into his worn out Atleti sweatshirt.
“Not tonight, Sergio,” he mumbles, voice low and soft.
Sergio feels his heart breaking for the Madrileño, for how tired he looks, for the weight of a country making his shoulders slump and cave. “I’m not here for anything,” he tells Fernando, reaching out and tugging one of the striker’s hands free from the pockets of his track pants. Sergio’s thumb strokes Fernando’s knuckles gently and he eases himself into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. Fernando turns with him, their hands still linked.
“Hey, c’mere.” Sergio pulls him closer, wrapping strong arms around Fernando’s shoulders, tucking his cheek against Fernando’s neck. His fingers flit up and down Fernando’s back, playing melodies that match what he’s humming gently into Fernando’s ear, melodies of sunshine and warmth and Spain.
After a moment, Fernando tugs away, and they settle on the unmade bed. The TV’s on mute, but Sergio doesn’t pay attention to it, focusing instead on the way the flickering blue light makes Fernando’s skin look even paler than it is. He settles against the mound of pillows and tugs Fernando back until the striker is resting between his spread legs, back to chest.
“Why can’t I do anything?” Sergio tightens his arms around Fernando’s middle, pressing reassuring kisses to the side of Fernando’s neck. “I just stand around on the pitch and I can’t do anything, whenever I get the ball it’s like I’ve never played before in my life.”
What’s strange is that Fernando should sound hysterical. Sergio’s seen him before, before his surgeries, struggling at Atletico, hysterical and distraught about goal droughts or pressure or a million other things. But now, he’s strangely calm, almost as if he’s accepting what’s happening to him.
“Don’t you talk like that,” Sergio hisses, biting down gently on Fernando’s pulse point. “Don’t you dare accept this.”
“I’m not,” Fernando protests, but Sergio isn’t having any of it. He maneuvers with his knees until Fernando is flipped over, propped up with his elbows digging into Sergio’s stomach.
“You are, I read that interview. You are still a goal scorer, Nando,” Sergio insists. “You’ll get your touch back. You will. You have another chance- if it wasn’t supposed to happen, then you wouldn’t have another chance.”
Fernando lays his head down on Sergio’s chest. His cheek pillows against hard muscle and Sergio slips his arms under Fernando’s armpits and hauls him up until they are face to face.
“I promise,” he says. Fernando shakes his head, but leans down to kiss Sergio nonetheless, so Sergio knows he’s won this argument.
They stay like that, curled up in a mountain of pillows and comforters in Fernando’s bed, kissing occasionally but really just lying with each other, feeling each other’s breath, pressing their foreheads together as if Sergio can soak up Fernando's ache and Fernando can soak up Sergio's strength. Sergio knows without a doubt that if he could trade places with the striker, he would- if he could do anything to make Fernando happy, he would, but he can only do this. This is all he has to give and it always used to be enough, until this year and all the heartache it brought. He kisses Fernando a little harder, a little more breathlessly, and tries to communicate that whatever Fernando needs, he will give it.
“Stay the night?” Fernando asks eventually, fingers dipping just below Sergio’s waistband, teasing at the curve of his ass. Sergio grins up at him.
“Thought you didn’t want that tonight,” he says, mock serious.
“Yeah, well, you’re good at changing my mind for me,” Fernando replies.
Sergio stays.
rating pg
word count 555
prompt 006. portugal
pairing sergio ramos/fernando torres
summary fernando needs some cheering up
When Fernando opens the door, he just looks tired. His whole body is soft, the line of his shoulders sloping down, not squared like they are when he takes the pitch. He leans against the door frame and seems to melt into it, disappearing into his worn out Atleti sweatshirt.
“Not tonight, Sergio,” he mumbles, voice low and soft.
Sergio feels his heart breaking for the Madrileño, for how tired he looks, for the weight of a country making his shoulders slump and cave. “I’m not here for anything,” he tells Fernando, reaching out and tugging one of the striker’s hands free from the pockets of his track pants. Sergio’s thumb strokes Fernando’s knuckles gently and he eases himself into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. Fernando turns with him, their hands still linked.
“Hey, c’mere.” Sergio pulls him closer, wrapping strong arms around Fernando’s shoulders, tucking his cheek against Fernando’s neck. His fingers flit up and down Fernando’s back, playing melodies that match what he’s humming gently into Fernando’s ear, melodies of sunshine and warmth and Spain.
After a moment, Fernando tugs away, and they settle on the unmade bed. The TV’s on mute, but Sergio doesn’t pay attention to it, focusing instead on the way the flickering blue light makes Fernando’s skin look even paler than it is. He settles against the mound of pillows and tugs Fernando back until the striker is resting between his spread legs, back to chest.
“Why can’t I do anything?” Sergio tightens his arms around Fernando’s middle, pressing reassuring kisses to the side of Fernando’s neck. “I just stand around on the pitch and I can’t do anything, whenever I get the ball it’s like I’ve never played before in my life.”
What’s strange is that Fernando should sound hysterical. Sergio’s seen him before, before his surgeries, struggling at Atletico, hysterical and distraught about goal droughts or pressure or a million other things. But now, he’s strangely calm, almost as if he’s accepting what’s happening to him.
“Don’t you talk like that,” Sergio hisses, biting down gently on Fernando’s pulse point. “Don’t you dare accept this.”
“I’m not,” Fernando protests, but Sergio isn’t having any of it. He maneuvers with his knees until Fernando is flipped over, propped up with his elbows digging into Sergio’s stomach.
“You are, I read that interview. You are still a goal scorer, Nando,” Sergio insists. “You’ll get your touch back. You will. You have another chance- if it wasn’t supposed to happen, then you wouldn’t have another chance.”
Fernando lays his head down on Sergio’s chest. His cheek pillows against hard muscle and Sergio slips his arms under Fernando’s armpits and hauls him up until they are face to face.
“I promise,” he says. Fernando shakes his head, but leans down to kiss Sergio nonetheless, so Sergio knows he’s won this argument.
They stay like that, curled up in a mountain of pillows and comforters in Fernando’s bed, kissing occasionally but really just lying with each other, feeling each other’s breath, pressing their foreheads together as if Sergio can soak up Fernando's ache and Fernando can soak up Sergio's strength. Sergio knows without a doubt that if he could trade places with the striker, he would- if he could do anything to make Fernando happy, he would, but he can only do this. This is all he has to give and it always used to be enough, until this year and all the heartache it brought. He kisses Fernando a little harder, a little more breathlessly, and tries to communicate that whatever Fernando needs, he will give it.
“Stay the night?” Fernando asks eventually, fingers dipping just below Sergio’s waistband, teasing at the curve of his ass. Sergio grins up at him.
“Thought you didn’t want that tonight,” he says, mock serious.
“Yeah, well, you’re good at changing my mind for me,” Fernando replies.
Sergio stays.