Post-Liverpool Sardinand
Title: Leavetaking
Rating: R/NC-17
Wordcount: 769
Pairing: Edwin van der Sar/Rio Ferdinand
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: A bit of angsty reverse h/c: Rio finds Edwin in the dressing room after the loss at Anfield. A short response to today, inspired by ideas actually thought up by ladystardust18; this is for her!
Rio hated watching matches even more than he hated not being a part of them, and so to watch when they lost was, logically, the worst of all. Everyone knew this about him. His fucking Twitter legions knew it, for Christ’s sake. Luckily for everyone, the people who weren’t just entries on his feed knew enough to leave him alone when it happened, even if they were from the opposition, and Anfield never felt so empty as when they had lost and the way was clear for him when he ambled down to the dressing room, not knowing what to do with himself. He never did know, especially on those occasions when he was pretty sure he could have made a difference to the shambles. What the fuck was he supposed to do with that sort of thought?
Most of the stadium was empty, the interviews given, the buses departed and the cleaning crews moved in. So it was a bit unexpected, if not unwelcome, to see Edwin still there, just in his shorts, unshowered and very determinedly examining his gloves for any faults.
Rio stopped in the doorway, put his hands into his pockets. “’Ey.”
“Hello.” Ed’s voice was unnaturally calm, even for him. “I think I didn’t get enough spit on them.”
Rio winced. Fuck. Not that it was entirely a surprise, but given that it had been Dirk and that there had been no one there to help even if Ed hadn’t spilled it had made him hope that the stupid git wouldn’t have gotten this far. “Stop i’.”
“Stop what?”
Rio’s pulled leg ached as he crossed the room and pulled the gloves out of Ed’s clammy hands. “We’d lost by then anyway.”
“It could have been 2-1.”
“No, it couldn’.”
“You weren’t there.”
Ed had meant that to hurt, and it did. Rio sat down next to him on the bench, tossing the gloves into a corner. There were very few occasions on which he ever felt small, or saw Edwin as being small, but right then, the way they were both sort of crumpled into slouches and they were treating each other like shit, was one of them.
Ed ran a hand through his hair and, as it slowly settled back, flexed his fingers. “We were crap.”
“Yep.”
“We shouldn’t be crap. I shouldn’t be crap.”
Rio’s leg twanged. “Shut up.”
“Why? You’re not the one - ”
He stopped talking with an abrupt laugh, and Rio couldn’t repress a painful giggle. “Y’kidding, right? This ain’t about you goin’ - ”
“No?”
Rio rubbed at his calf. “Fuck’s sake. You say one word about how ‘y’don’ want the end to be this way’ and I swear I’ll smash some sense into ya the hard way.”
Ed glared at Rio’s hand. “Oh, for god’s sake,” he said peevishly. “Give me the leg.”
Rio barely had time to yelp as Ed dragged Rio’s leg across his knees, and kneaded his fingers hard into the aching muscle. “Shit!” he squeaked. “You’re not a fucking physio!”
“Be quiet.”
Rio, deciding that enduring a bit of pain was infinitely preferable to having Ed continue to shout at him, shut his mouth. His jeans were loose and well-worn enough that it wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as it could have been anyway, and the quiet was better, the rhythm Ed slowly settled into was better. After a bit, it even started to feel good.
Ed shifted in his seat, and slowly bent until his face was pressed against Rio’s jacket, the heavy weight of him so still that it was almost hard for Rio to keep his balance. “Shouldn’t have,” he whispered, muffled, into Rio’s elbow, his hands tightening around Rio’s thigh. “I don’t want - ”
Don’t want to lose, don’t want us to go out, don’t want this sort of ending, don’t want you to go
Rio pulled him in closer, drew a hand across the raised ridges of Ed’s bare shoulderblades, the dried cold sweat all over him, and cupped the back of his neck. “’M sorry.”
“You weren’t there.” Not angry this time, just a fact, and an apology, and Ed breathed out against Rio’s stomach, his lips turning upwards until he could press them under the hem of his shirt.
It was still all awkward, but as Ed’s mouth closed around Rio’s cock he was able to forget all about the leg, about the match, about the fact that they were doing this at Anfield and that someone was going to be royally pissed off for it.
He even forgot who the hell was supposed to be comforting whom.
FIN
Rating: R/NC-17
Wordcount: 769
Pairing: Edwin van der Sar/Rio Ferdinand
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: A bit of angsty reverse h/c: Rio finds Edwin in the dressing room after the loss at Anfield. A short response to today, inspired by ideas actually thought up by ladystardust18; this is for her!
Rio hated watching matches even more than he hated not being a part of them, and so to watch when they lost was, logically, the worst of all. Everyone knew this about him. His fucking Twitter legions knew it, for Christ’s sake. Luckily for everyone, the people who weren’t just entries on his feed knew enough to leave him alone when it happened, even if they were from the opposition, and Anfield never felt so empty as when they had lost and the way was clear for him when he ambled down to the dressing room, not knowing what to do with himself. He never did know, especially on those occasions when he was pretty sure he could have made a difference to the shambles. What the fuck was he supposed to do with that sort of thought?
Most of the stadium was empty, the interviews given, the buses departed and the cleaning crews moved in. So it was a bit unexpected, if not unwelcome, to see Edwin still there, just in his shorts, unshowered and very determinedly examining his gloves for any faults.
Rio stopped in the doorway, put his hands into his pockets. “’Ey.”
“Hello.” Ed’s voice was unnaturally calm, even for him. “I think I didn’t get enough spit on them.”
Rio winced. Fuck. Not that it was entirely a surprise, but given that it had been Dirk and that there had been no one there to help even if Ed hadn’t spilled it had made him hope that the stupid git wouldn’t have gotten this far. “Stop i’.”
“Stop what?”
Rio’s pulled leg ached as he crossed the room and pulled the gloves out of Ed’s clammy hands. “We’d lost by then anyway.”
“It could have been 2-1.”
“No, it couldn’.”
“You weren’t there.”
Ed had meant that to hurt, and it did. Rio sat down next to him on the bench, tossing the gloves into a corner. There were very few occasions on which he ever felt small, or saw Edwin as being small, but right then, the way they were both sort of crumpled into slouches and they were treating each other like shit, was one of them.
Ed ran a hand through his hair and, as it slowly settled back, flexed his fingers. “We were crap.”
“Yep.”
“We shouldn’t be crap. I shouldn’t be crap.”
Rio’s leg twanged. “Shut up.”
“Why? You’re not the one - ”
He stopped talking with an abrupt laugh, and Rio couldn’t repress a painful giggle. “Y’kidding, right? This ain’t about you goin’ - ”
“No?”
Rio rubbed at his calf. “Fuck’s sake. You say one word about how ‘y’don’ want the end to be this way’ and I swear I’ll smash some sense into ya the hard way.”
Ed glared at Rio’s hand. “Oh, for god’s sake,” he said peevishly. “Give me the leg.”
Rio barely had time to yelp as Ed dragged Rio’s leg across his knees, and kneaded his fingers hard into the aching muscle. “Shit!” he squeaked. “You’re not a fucking physio!”
“Be quiet.”
Rio, deciding that enduring a bit of pain was infinitely preferable to having Ed continue to shout at him, shut his mouth. His jeans were loose and well-worn enough that it wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as it could have been anyway, and the quiet was better, the rhythm Ed slowly settled into was better. After a bit, it even started to feel good.
Ed shifted in his seat, and slowly bent until his face was pressed against Rio’s jacket, the heavy weight of him so still that it was almost hard for Rio to keep his balance. “Shouldn’t have,” he whispered, muffled, into Rio’s elbow, his hands tightening around Rio’s thigh. “I don’t want - ”
Don’t want to lose, don’t want us to go out, don’t want this sort of ending, don’t want you to go
Rio pulled him in closer, drew a hand across the raised ridges of Ed’s bare shoulderblades, the dried cold sweat all over him, and cupped the back of his neck. “’M sorry.”
“You weren’t there.” Not angry this time, just a fact, and an apology, and Ed breathed out against Rio’s stomach, his lips turning upwards until he could press them under the hem of his shirt.
It was still all awkward, but as Ed’s mouth closed around Rio’s cock he was able to forget all about the leg, about the match, about the fact that they were doing this at Anfield and that someone was going to be royally pissed off for it.
He even forgot who the hell was supposed to be comforting whom.
FIN