favorite; four drabbles
Title: Calzoncillos
Pairing: Fernando Gago/Gonzalo Higuaín
Rating: R
“Fuck, Pintita.”
Fernando moaned, gently massaging his spent cock. “I know. When was the last time it was this good?”
“No!” Gonzalo glared, holding up the boxer briefs with which his teammate had used to clean them. “These were my favorite!”
“Oh.” Fernando smiled apologetically-charmingly, mostly. “Sorry?”
The other Argentine was still sulking, looking pathetically around the changing room. “What am I going to wear out of here?”
A dismissive hand wave was the answer. “Go commando, Pip; it’s not like anybody would be able to tell with how fast you run and all.”
“Fernando, our shorts are white.”
Title: Change
Pairing: N/A; Characters are Cesc Fàbregas and Mathieu Flamini
Rating: G
“I don’t understand.”
Mathieu sighs. “I don’t expect you to, because I haven’t an explanation.”
“Well, try.”
The Frenchman picks at a stray spot of red on his otherwise fresh, white shirt, running the rough pad of his thumb over it and again, tracing tight circles and victimizing the target for its happenstance of being on the wrong shirt at the wrong time. “Sometimes,” he begins-pauses-starts over, “I don’t know. A change of scenery, a change of salary, a simple chance. Whatever.”
“Oh.”
“But-you know, I know-I’ll always like playing alongside you best. That…that won’t change.”
Title: Notches
Pairing: Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres
Rating: R
Sergio has more notches in his bedpost than on all of his belts combined, an accomplishment that he shamelessly displays-shoves in your face, even, when he’s fucking you into the mattress and the headboard is bouncing before your eyes. He makes you count the tally marks between moans, pulls your hair when you lose place-“Start over!”-and only relents after both of you come. That’s when he reaches over to the nightstand, grabs whatever tool he has handy, and listlessly add another line under your name-the only name carved into the wood among dozens of unidentified fucks.
Title: Sons
Pairing: Íker Casillas/David Beckham (implied)
Rating: G
Íker used to laugh at Unai when his brother would complain about being second favorite-a status worsened by the fact that there were only two children in the Casillas family-because he didn’t believe that parents had favorites. (“Easy for you to say, superstar,” his brother would scoff.) He held this belief until the day he realized that he loved the Beckham boys as if they were his own, and that although he could joke with Brooklyn and he could cuddle precious Cruz, it was only the middle boy Romeo to whom he could say, “Te quiero, mi hijo.”
Pairing: Fernando Gago/Gonzalo Higuaín
Rating: R
“Fuck, Pintita.”
Fernando moaned, gently massaging his spent cock. “I know. When was the last time it was this good?”
“No!” Gonzalo glared, holding up the boxer briefs with which his teammate had used to clean them. “These were my favorite!”
“Oh.” Fernando smiled apologetically-charmingly, mostly. “Sorry?”
The other Argentine was still sulking, looking pathetically around the changing room. “What am I going to wear out of here?”
A dismissive hand wave was the answer. “Go commando, Pip; it’s not like anybody would be able to tell with how fast you run and all.”
“Fernando, our shorts are white.”
Title: Change
Pairing: N/A; Characters are Cesc Fàbregas and Mathieu Flamini
Rating: G
“I don’t understand.”
Mathieu sighs. “I don’t expect you to, because I haven’t an explanation.”
“Well, try.”
The Frenchman picks at a stray spot of red on his otherwise fresh, white shirt, running the rough pad of his thumb over it and again, tracing tight circles and victimizing the target for its happenstance of being on the wrong shirt at the wrong time. “Sometimes,” he begins-pauses-starts over, “I don’t know. A change of scenery, a change of salary, a simple chance. Whatever.”
“Oh.”
“But-you know, I know-I’ll always like playing alongside you best. That…that won’t change.”
Title: Notches
Pairing: Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres
Rating: R
Sergio has more notches in his bedpost than on all of his belts combined, an accomplishment that he shamelessly displays-shoves in your face, even, when he’s fucking you into the mattress and the headboard is bouncing before your eyes. He makes you count the tally marks between moans, pulls your hair when you lose place-“Start over!”-and only relents after both of you come. That’s when he reaches over to the nightstand, grabs whatever tool he has handy, and listlessly add another line under your name-the only name carved into the wood among dozens of unidentified fucks.
Title: Sons
Pairing: Íker Casillas/David Beckham (implied)
Rating: G
Íker used to laugh at Unai when his brother would complain about being second favorite-a status worsened by the fact that there were only two children in the Casillas family-because he didn’t believe that parents had favorites. (“Easy for you to say, superstar,” his brother would scoff.) He held this belief until the day he realized that he loved the Beckham boys as if they were his own, and that although he could joke with Brooklyn and he could cuddle precious Cruz, it was only the middle boy Romeo to whom he could say, “Te quiero, mi hijo.”