Fic: Quintuple the Pleasure
Title: Quintuple the Pleasure
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramosses
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700+
Notes: Crack. Because Sergio Ramos impersonators exist.
It's too embarrassing for words. Bad enough that the whole lot of them were there when the team arrived for training, but this. This takes it to whole new levels of mortification.
His colleagues are amused. They wander between the Sergios and greet them as if they are old friends and maybe some of them are fooled, because there has been more than a little alcohol consumed by all parties. And he wouldn't even really care that much, except that every single one of them is experiencing a profound kind of joy. It rubs all wrong against his reputation. Sergio is much too cool to be affected. They should try harder at not trying.
The actual article has found himself relegated at the far end of the bar, half-hiding in a darker corner, not daring to look up and attract anyone's attention. The Sergios are prowling for him, he just knows, and his teammates-- Well, he heard Pepe Reina suggest a Sergio conga line. He doesn't quite have the guts to risk that.
He flips a glance back over his shoulder and into the semi-crowded room only when his mojito is completely drained. He looks for anyone nearby who might rope him into blush-inducing group Sergio activities, finds his boring corner still deserted, with just a few of the more sensible bar patrons hovering a couple meters away. And so he slips to his feet, trying to stay low without looking as if he is trying to stay low. He scans for long straight hair and big noses and the telltale glimmer of rhinestones, all of which promise very awkward things. But he sees none of it. There is not even a whiff of his own cologne, too strong when applied liberally to five separate bodies. Just his teammates, the crew, and some very lucky civilians.
He exhales relief. Someone must have rounded them all up and driven them out. He puffs his chest a little, in a misplaced sense of victory. Finally. Whoever thought it was a good idea to invite them along must be a real sadist. Probably it was Xavi. That baby face hid a real wicked sense of humor.
He makes for the door while the coast is still clear. In truth he had wanted to retreat to his room hours ago. Only the Sergios had kept him tethered in place. And maybe he isn't the quickest guy on the team, or the best at weaving through trouble, but there is nothing to stop him from escaping now.
At least, there isn't anything until he gets halfway to the door.
Clearing the edge of the bar, staunchly ignoring every attempt at goading him into laughter about the whole thing, he is completely blindsided by the cluster of long dark hair and big noses and really not quite as many rhinestones as he assumed. There they are, all together, copies of copies, with the most realistic in the center, poorer quality reproductions branched out, and the eye of the storm itself a single Fernando Torres.
He, at least, is enjoying himself a great deal. Arms flung out across the shoulders of the closest Sergios, swapping grins back and forth between them, laughing at whatever inane, fanboyish things they are probably telling him, and-- Sergio feels real mortification curl up low in his belly --letting them paw at him for attention. A bad impersonation wheels in from the flanks to touch his tummy, and Fernando lets him have his ear because it inspires some petting from the better ones as they try to get his favor back. He favors this one with a doe-eyed smirk, that one with a wink, errant fingers flirt across a bicep, someone touches flaxen hair.
Alone, one would be a poor substitute for the actual thing. But with five the details piece together nicely, if a little disjointedly. The eyes are directly to his left, the jaw one over on the right, the nose scattered across three faces (tragically not in chronological order). And though not one of them has the mouth exactly, or the wide set of the shoulders, or the precision hardness of the stomach, he'll let it slide. After all, five Sergios have been his dream for a long time now.
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramosses
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700+
Notes: Crack. Because Sergio Ramos impersonators exist.
It's too embarrassing for words. Bad enough that the whole lot of them were there when the team arrived for training, but this. This takes it to whole new levels of mortification.
His colleagues are amused. They wander between the Sergios and greet them as if they are old friends and maybe some of them are fooled, because there has been more than a little alcohol consumed by all parties. And he wouldn't even really care that much, except that every single one of them is experiencing a profound kind of joy. It rubs all wrong against his reputation. Sergio is much too cool to be affected. They should try harder at not trying.
The actual article has found himself relegated at the far end of the bar, half-hiding in a darker corner, not daring to look up and attract anyone's attention. The Sergios are prowling for him, he just knows, and his teammates-- Well, he heard Pepe Reina suggest a Sergio conga line. He doesn't quite have the guts to risk that.
He flips a glance back over his shoulder and into the semi-crowded room only when his mojito is completely drained. He looks for anyone nearby who might rope him into blush-inducing group Sergio activities, finds his boring corner still deserted, with just a few of the more sensible bar patrons hovering a couple meters away. And so he slips to his feet, trying to stay low without looking as if he is trying to stay low. He scans for long straight hair and big noses and the telltale glimmer of rhinestones, all of which promise very awkward things. But he sees none of it. There is not even a whiff of his own cologne, too strong when applied liberally to five separate bodies. Just his teammates, the crew, and some very lucky civilians.
He exhales relief. Someone must have rounded them all up and driven them out. He puffs his chest a little, in a misplaced sense of victory. Finally. Whoever thought it was a good idea to invite them along must be a real sadist. Probably it was Xavi. That baby face hid a real wicked sense of humor.
He makes for the door while the coast is still clear. In truth he had wanted to retreat to his room hours ago. Only the Sergios had kept him tethered in place. And maybe he isn't the quickest guy on the team, or the best at weaving through trouble, but there is nothing to stop him from escaping now.
At least, there isn't anything until he gets halfway to the door.
Clearing the edge of the bar, staunchly ignoring every attempt at goading him into laughter about the whole thing, he is completely blindsided by the cluster of long dark hair and big noses and really not quite as many rhinestones as he assumed. There they are, all together, copies of copies, with the most realistic in the center, poorer quality reproductions branched out, and the eye of the storm itself a single Fernando Torres.
He, at least, is enjoying himself a great deal. Arms flung out across the shoulders of the closest Sergios, swapping grins back and forth between them, laughing at whatever inane, fanboyish things they are probably telling him, and-- Sergio feels real mortification curl up low in his belly --letting them paw at him for attention. A bad impersonation wheels in from the flanks to touch his tummy, and Fernando lets him have his ear because it inspires some petting from the better ones as they try to get his favor back. He favors this one with a doe-eyed smirk, that one with a wink, errant fingers flirt across a bicep, someone touches flaxen hair.
Alone, one would be a poor substitute for the actual thing. But with five the details piece together nicely, if a little disjointedly. The eyes are directly to his left, the jaw one over on the right, the nose scattered across three faces (tragically not in chronological order). And though not one of them has the mouth exactly, or the wide set of the shoulders, or the precision hardness of the stomach, he'll let it slide. After all, five Sergios have been his dream for a long time now.