26: Teammates; 49: Club
Club
Pairing: nothing explicit but I was thinking it was Iker Casillas/Cesc Fabregas
Rating: G
Disclaimer: not true, though these are his words
A/N: promp 49: club
Words: 110
“Everyone knows I’m a Madridista in my heart, I’m white until death. Real Madrid is my home.”
With that Iker stands and leaves the press platform, the reports buzzing like agitated hornets, shouting questions, snapping photos. The din quieted a little when he slipped out the door and it shut behind him, he let out a quiet sigh of relief. It was done. He’d given this club his childhood and now he’d pledged his future. He wouldn’t think of what he’d just given up, what he’d already given up for Madrid. But he would give it again and more, Madrid was his home, his life.
He was white till death.
Teammates
Pairing: Iker CAsillas/Cristiano Ronaldo
Rating: R
Disclaimer: not even in the realm of possibility
A/N: ohgod. I swore I'd never slash him at RM. what have I done?!
prompt 26: teammmates
Words: 971
He doesn’t want the midfielder, he doesn’t desire or lust after or even like him (though that little shit thinks he does). Cristiano saunters past Iker in the change room, towel dipping in an obvious attempt to tease the keeper. Like a vain peacock spreading his feathers, Iker muses, or a bitch in heat. He reaches out and grabs a handful of the Portuguese’s ass, pleasantly surprise when his flesh yields only a little. The boy was built, Iker would give him that. Cris whirled around, he had meant to seem shocked, innocent and corruptible, but he couldn’t hide his smile. He hadn’t liked the way Sergio had been looking at him, angry steel and undisguised hate; the vice-captain’s interest would insure a modicum of protection. His innocent act busted, Cristiano let his eyes soften and become intimate, his vulnerable bedroom eyes and a look that was a particular favourite of Wayne’s. Iker wasn’t impressed; his eyes roamed the body that was putting itself on display, subtly shifting to attempt to entice the Madridista all the more. But Iker’s eyes were distant, passionless, taking a quick catalogue of what was being offered before picking up his bag and walking out.
Cristiano’s jaw dropped, he suppressed his first instinct to scramble into his clothes and after the keeper, you couldn’t deny the inherent command in Iker’s presence, but he wouldn’t be that easy; though he did rush his normal routine a little. He was fully expecting the keeper to be waiting for him in the parking lot, leaning against his car perhaps, or inside with the music loud, but he was disappointed when a quick scan revealed the only Audi left in the parking lot belonged to Raul. Cris scratched at the back of his head, what the hell?
The next day after training it happened again, this time the keeper rain a hand down the midfielder’s back as he passed, drawing an unconscious curl from the Portuguese. But this time Cris was prepared so when Iker packed up to leave he was right behind him, following him into the parking lot. He stopped short a little uncertain as the keeper continued to ignore him on his way to his car. Iker’s car pulled up next to Cris and the winger could hear the locks click open. He smiled and slid into the car just managing to tuck his foot in as Iker took off.
“So…” Cris stretched out languidly.
“Shut up, Ronaldo.” Cris’s stretch stopped mid-arch as he gaped at the keeper.
“What…?”
Iker deigned to look at him this time, carefully annunciating, “Shut. Up.”
Cris’s mouth snapped shut despite himself, well if Iker wanted a power play, he could do that. He sulked in the passenger seat and was surprised when there was no sign of a promise of punishment forthcoming. He was beginning to think this was going to turn out a little differently than when he and Rio played daddy.
They reach what Cris can only assume is Iker’s house and the keeper barely spares the other man a look as he pulls his training bag out of the back and unlocks his front door. The door is left open behind him, a clear sign for Cris to follow. The winger growled a little to himself, honestly, wasn’t Iker taking this a little too far? He dropped his own bag just inside the door and followed the obvious route into the living room where the keeper was seated in a rather imposing arm chair. This, at least, was familiar to Cris and he took the appropriate position between Iker’s open legs, pulling off his shirt in a fluid movement and licking his lips. The Spaniard looked unimpressed at the winger’s nuzzling of his inner thighs and just unzipped his pants and waited.
Cris smiled up at him but was met with a condescending eyebrow raise that said get on with it. The Portuguese ran his hands up and down tight thighs clad in denim, leaning forward to tongue a trail down Iker’s lower stomach. There is a small shift in Iker’s position that tells Cris once again to get a move on. He almost chuckles at the Spaniard’s impatience and draws Iker’s cock out, working it roughly into hardness with a hand before drawing the tip into his mouth. Iker draws a deep breath in through his nostrils as the other man bobs languidly up and down. Cris tongues the keeper’s tight balls, nipping playfully until Iker growls, a clear warning; he lickes all the way up the underside before a hand comes up and grabs him by the back of the neck, forcing him down on the keeper’s cock. Cris draws a surprised breath and chokes but Iker’s powerful grip doesn’t let up as the Madridista uses Cris’s mouth. Cris struggles to regain his breath, his rhythm while being pressed upon by those hands of god. Iker is getting close, or at least Cris hopes that’s what the increase in pace means, but there is barely a hitch in his breathing, certainly no moaning or vocal sounds of enjoyment. The winger thinks he must just be naturally quiet before he’s sent sprawling backwards with one rough shove, to catch himself on his hands. Then Iker’s above him, jerking himself off with abandon, letting out only one deep grunt as he spills his come over Cris’s face.
Cris plans on making a show of cleaning himself off, swiping at the mess with a finger but he stops when he looks up at Iker. The keeper is looking down at him with such disgust it can’t be part of a roll play. Iker shakes his head as he zips himself up and turns to leave the room, glancing back at the dumbfounded winger, “You should have stayed in England.”