A Laughable Stand
Title: A Laughable Stand
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Sergio Ramos
Rating: R, 'cause men touch each other and stuff
Disclaimer: Yeah, right.
Words: 1,166
Summary: It sounds like an acknowledgment of defeat, because Sergio’s lips are always slick with beer and Sara prefers wine. Red wine. For fuck’s sake, Iker thinks.
I've always had a thing for semi-angsty, characters-of-suggestible-sexuality fic. (I am, after all, a huge baseball fan, and that fandom thrives on repression.) Thus, this was bound to happen. And by "bound to happen," I obviously mean, "my priorities are fucked up enough to facilitate RPF instead of coursework." There we have it, folks.
Sergio thumbs the cap off his beer, because bottle openers don’t exist in his world. He can probably rip phone books in half too, Iker thinks.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” he asks. “Your fingers?” Sergio looks back at him like that was the stupidest question in the world.
“I didn’t think it was that stupid of a question.”
Sergio smiles crookedly. Swallows most of his beer. Iker can tell it’s going to be one of those nights.
Because, usually, they get really drunk, first.
Sergio hasn’t slept with a woman in months, and Iker tries his hardest to preserve some semblance of heterosexuality. It’s difficult for a man with hands calloused like sandpaper and a beard thicker than brush to pretend what he’s doing isn’t inherently gay, but sometimes when Iker closes his eyes, Sergio’s hair could belong to a female. He likes to think that it isn’t entirely impossible.
And the sex is unbelievable, but that’s something only Sergio will admit.
Iker is very good at leaving important things unacknowledged.
It’s almost easy to ignore, because the alcohol makes his hands feel like they aren’t connected to his body. Like someone else’s fingers are slipping past Sergio’s lips. Another’s thumb resting against his stubbled chin.
When he rolls on a condom and kneads Sergio ass slowly, he thanks a lot of people and places and things and universal figments of imagination - this type of blasphemy has never been his style - that Sergio uses a girly-smelling shampoo, because, yeah, when Iker’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing heavily through his nose, and Sergio is tight around him and writhing beneath him, it could be Sara. Or any woman, really.
When his eyes are closed.
Sometimes it actually makes Iker crazy, the way Sergio touches him and everyone - but mostly everyone - in public. How he wraps his arms around Fernando from behind, hugs the striker tightly to his chest. How he pulls his hand through Cesc’s hair in passing. How he cups Pepe’s face when talking him out of card games and into dangerous practical jokes. He’s become hypersensitive to it, since this thing started. Their thing.
Iker remembers the first time. Sergio was hot, so fucking hot, and dry like gin and his teeth were hard and his hands never fucking ended. Sergio expertly pressed two fingers into him and Iker didn’t know what was happening, couldn’t let it go on and grabbed Sergio by the wrist.
“No.” Sergio fell still. He didn’t look as uncomfortable as Iker thought he would. (Go figure.) Iker watched him patiently, as if his vice-captain’s fingers weren’t buried in his ass; as if his body wasn’t burning.
“I want to fuck you.” His mouth still felt thick with liquor. Sergio’s fingers flexed and Iker keened quietly. Sergio nodded.
“Captain,” he said, voice low.
Iker continued to be very good at leaving important things unacknowledged.
He still isn’t sure how it got to this, actually, because Sergio really likes to give blowjobs and Iker has never been one for the wet heat of mouths. He’s never been one for the expert pull of another man’s tongue, either, but it’s understandably hard to admit that some men give better head than most women. Sergio hollows out his cheeks and looks up at Iker and it’s the best when his hair is pushed out of his eyes, behind his ears and Iker can let his hips slide toward Sergio, watch his mouth envelop his cock. It stuns Iker every time, because he knows that Sara’s dark, steady eyes would kill him if it were her kneeling there.
At first they tried not to let it spill over into the club season, but it didn’t work for long. Iker tried not to let it spill over into anything, but Sergio does this thing with his knee and his tongue (that fucking tongue) and once Iker came in his pants in an alleyway behind the most nondescript bar in the world and it was supremely problematic because no one wants to spend the rest of the night with sticky boxers clinging awkwardly to a sweaty thigh and a hipbone feeling raw and leveled. Sergio smiled without sympathy every time Iker’s knee twitched awkwardly, every time he pulled at his jeans.
He still sleeps with Sara, but he can tell when he presses too hard, when Sergio would ask for more and when he’s close to breaking her.
He ends up having to corner Sergio, pulling him into the video room under the cheap façade of an impromptu, private, yet far-too-conspicuous captains’ meeting. Sergio just drums his fingers against a table, hollow thumping like a heartbeat. Iker rolls the words around in his mouth, licks his lips quickly.
“We’ve got to end it.”
“What?”Sergio asks. “Awkwardly hanging out in the video room?”
Iker kind of points to the floor between them, bad carpet covered in dark, slick spots of flattened gum. “Us.”
Sergio sighs. “I was trying to be funny.” Iker blinks back at him. “You’re making this so much weirder than it has to be.”
“Sara,” Iker blurts, pleads, and now this is serious, it got serious far too quickly. He throws her name out like an excuse. It sounds like an acknowledgment of defeat, because Sergio’s lips are always slick with beer and she prefers wine. Red wine.
For fuck’s sake, Iker thinks, and he would articulate what he wanted if he knew what he wanted.
(Iker used to be very good at leaving important things unacknowledged.)
“I think I remember you asking to fuck me, the first time,” Sergio says conversationally. “Even begging. And I thought the little packet you had was a condom, which was cool with me and commendable and shit, whatever, but it was lube, Iker, and straight men don’t keep travel-sized packets of lube in the back fucking pockets of their jeans."
“I can’t - I don’t. It was - was all the alcohol,” Iker breathes, and Sergio steps towards him. Iker thinks he might be preparing to hit him, but Sergio’s palm presses against his stomach, moves lower and Iker’s knees bend and break and he sighs as Sergio’s hand slides between his legs.
“It was expensive, too,” Sergio whispers into Iker’s mouth. Sergio doesn’t kiss him, though. Iker holds his breath. “I know it was.”
“It was at - at,” Iker stutters. “It was at the counter of some. At a gas station.” Sergio cocks an eyebrow. “Near the candy?”
“You’re lying.”
“Okay.”
That night, Sergio’s hand reaches between them and Iker can’t breathe because Sergio tastes sharp like bubblemint gum and light. At one point they look down and all Iker is wearing are his socks, bright white in the meekness of the dank hotel room and they laugh because it’s funny and not awkward and even funnier because it’s not awkward. Iker feels clean like a shower in the summer. Their credit cards aren’t slick from the sloppy, wet counter at a bar and no one struggles to release a zipper or unknot a shoelace.
“I really got this from a gas station,” Iker admits softly.
He figured it wasn’t worth letting important things go unacknowledged anymore.
Pretentious author's notes:
- LCD Soundsystem's All My Friends is a very important song: And with a face like a dad and a laughable stand / You can sleep on the plane or review what you said / When you're drunk and the kids leave impossible tasks / You think over and over, "Hey, I'm finally dead."
- I challenged myself to write something without any stops. This happened.
- Sorry, Sara. Didn't mean it. (But I did, so.)
If Sergio can be that inappropriate, I can be this inappropriate. Right?
Pairing: Iker Casillas/Sergio Ramos
Rating: R, 'cause men touch each other and stuff
Disclaimer: Yeah, right.
Words: 1,166
Summary: It sounds like an acknowledgment of defeat, because Sergio’s lips are always slick with beer and Sara prefers wine. Red wine. For fuck’s sake, Iker thinks.
I've always had a thing for semi-angsty, characters-of-suggestible-sexuality fic. (I am, after all, a huge baseball fan, and that fandom thrives on repression.) Thus, this was bound to happen. And by "bound to happen," I obviously mean, "my priorities are fucked up enough to facilitate RPF instead of coursework." There we have it, folks.
Sergio thumbs the cap off his beer, because bottle openers don’t exist in his world. He can probably rip phone books in half too, Iker thinks.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” he asks. “Your fingers?” Sergio looks back at him like that was the stupidest question in the world.
“I didn’t think it was that stupid of a question.”
Sergio smiles crookedly. Swallows most of his beer. Iker can tell it’s going to be one of those nights.
Because, usually, they get really drunk, first.
Sergio hasn’t slept with a woman in months, and Iker tries his hardest to preserve some semblance of heterosexuality. It’s difficult for a man with hands calloused like sandpaper and a beard thicker than brush to pretend what he’s doing isn’t inherently gay, but sometimes when Iker closes his eyes, Sergio’s hair could belong to a female. He likes to think that it isn’t entirely impossible.
And the sex is unbelievable, but that’s something only Sergio will admit.
Iker is very good at leaving important things unacknowledged.
It’s almost easy to ignore, because the alcohol makes his hands feel like they aren’t connected to his body. Like someone else’s fingers are slipping past Sergio’s lips. Another’s thumb resting against his stubbled chin.
When he rolls on a condom and kneads Sergio ass slowly, he thanks a lot of people and places and things and universal figments of imagination - this type of blasphemy has never been his style - that Sergio uses a girly-smelling shampoo, because, yeah, when Iker’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing heavily through his nose, and Sergio is tight around him and writhing beneath him, it could be Sara. Or any woman, really.
When his eyes are closed.
Sometimes it actually makes Iker crazy, the way Sergio touches him and everyone - but mostly everyone - in public. How he wraps his arms around Fernando from behind, hugs the striker tightly to his chest. How he pulls his hand through Cesc’s hair in passing. How he cups Pepe’s face when talking him out of card games and into dangerous practical jokes. He’s become hypersensitive to it, since this thing started. Their thing.
Iker remembers the first time. Sergio was hot, so fucking hot, and dry like gin and his teeth were hard and his hands never fucking ended. Sergio expertly pressed two fingers into him and Iker didn’t know what was happening, couldn’t let it go on and grabbed Sergio by the wrist.
“No.” Sergio fell still. He didn’t look as uncomfortable as Iker thought he would. (Go figure.) Iker watched him patiently, as if his vice-captain’s fingers weren’t buried in his ass; as if his body wasn’t burning.
“I want to fuck you.” His mouth still felt thick with liquor. Sergio’s fingers flexed and Iker keened quietly. Sergio nodded.
“Captain,” he said, voice low.
Iker continued to be very good at leaving important things unacknowledged.
He still isn’t sure how it got to this, actually, because Sergio really likes to give blowjobs and Iker has never been one for the wet heat of mouths. He’s never been one for the expert pull of another man’s tongue, either, but it’s understandably hard to admit that some men give better head than most women. Sergio hollows out his cheeks and looks up at Iker and it’s the best when his hair is pushed out of his eyes, behind his ears and Iker can let his hips slide toward Sergio, watch his mouth envelop his cock. It stuns Iker every time, because he knows that Sara’s dark, steady eyes would kill him if it were her kneeling there.
At first they tried not to let it spill over into the club season, but it didn’t work for long. Iker tried not to let it spill over into anything, but Sergio does this thing with his knee and his tongue (that fucking tongue) and once Iker came in his pants in an alleyway behind the most nondescript bar in the world and it was supremely problematic because no one wants to spend the rest of the night with sticky boxers clinging awkwardly to a sweaty thigh and a hipbone feeling raw and leveled. Sergio smiled without sympathy every time Iker’s knee twitched awkwardly, every time he pulled at his jeans.
He still sleeps with Sara, but he can tell when he presses too hard, when Sergio would ask for more and when he’s close to breaking her.
He ends up having to corner Sergio, pulling him into the video room under the cheap façade of an impromptu, private, yet far-too-conspicuous captains’ meeting. Sergio just drums his fingers against a table, hollow thumping like a heartbeat. Iker rolls the words around in his mouth, licks his lips quickly.
“We’ve got to end it.”
“What?”Sergio asks. “Awkwardly hanging out in the video room?”
Iker kind of points to the floor between them, bad carpet covered in dark, slick spots of flattened gum. “Us.”
Sergio sighs. “I was trying to be funny.” Iker blinks back at him. “You’re making this so much weirder than it has to be.”
“Sara,” Iker blurts, pleads, and now this is serious, it got serious far too quickly. He throws her name out like an excuse. It sounds like an acknowledgment of defeat, because Sergio’s lips are always slick with beer and she prefers wine. Red wine.
For fuck’s sake, Iker thinks, and he would articulate what he wanted if he knew what he wanted.
(Iker used to be very good at leaving important things unacknowledged.)
“I think I remember you asking to fuck me, the first time,” Sergio says conversationally. “Even begging. And I thought the little packet you had was a condom, which was cool with me and commendable and shit, whatever, but it was lube, Iker, and straight men don’t keep travel-sized packets of lube in the back fucking pockets of their jeans."
“I can’t - I don’t. It was - was all the alcohol,” Iker breathes, and Sergio steps towards him. Iker thinks he might be preparing to hit him, but Sergio’s palm presses against his stomach, moves lower and Iker’s knees bend and break and he sighs as Sergio’s hand slides between his legs.
“It was expensive, too,” Sergio whispers into Iker’s mouth. Sergio doesn’t kiss him, though. Iker holds his breath. “I know it was.”
“It was at - at,” Iker stutters. “It was at the counter of some. At a gas station.” Sergio cocks an eyebrow. “Near the candy?”
“You’re lying.”
“Okay.”
That night, Sergio’s hand reaches between them and Iker can’t breathe because Sergio tastes sharp like bubblemint gum and light. At one point they look down and all Iker is wearing are his socks, bright white in the meekness of the dank hotel room and they laugh because it’s funny and not awkward and even funnier because it’s not awkward. Iker feels clean like a shower in the summer. Their credit cards aren’t slick from the sloppy, wet counter at a bar and no one struggles to release a zipper or unknot a shoelace.
“I really got this from a gas station,” Iker admits softly.
He figured it wasn’t worth letting important things go unacknowledged anymore.
Pretentious author's notes:
- LCD Soundsystem's All My Friends is a very important song: And with a face like a dad and a laughable stand / You can sleep on the plane or review what you said / When you're drunk and the kids leave impossible tasks / You think over and over, "Hey, I'm finally dead."
- I challenged myself to write something without any stops. This happened.
- Sorry, Sara. Didn't mean it. (But I did, so.)
If Sergio can be that inappropriate, I can be this inappropriate. Right?