hotter than wasabi (distira) wrote,
hotter than wasabi
distira

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this list is up to date as of 11 august.






misc (rpf and other)

a riddle is hid in your eyes | franz liszt/frederic chopin, pg

The variation is hidden in a manuscript for a concerto Frédéric has no intention of finishing. Franz will not find it there, Frédéric thinks contentedly, not because he does not like the variation, but because it reads as a love letter.

we'll be home soon | cameron liddell/sam bettley, pg

Bus rides are long and cramped, and Cam likes them best when everyone else is asleep and he and Sam put the seat down and sprawl in the back, talking or drinking and messing around.

the piano knows | federico garcia lorca/salvador dali, pg

And then there’s Salvador. Salvador, who is the most human and the most character at the same time, and Federico can’t quite get his head around it. He doesn’t understand how one man can be so infuriatingly presumptuous and at the same time humble and scared and naïve. But Federico’s seen Salvador’s sketches, so he knows-

Knows there’s something there, something of substance floating around inside Salvador’s head.


hart of dixie drabbles | zoe/wade, two drabbles written for yuletide.

Lavon sighs. "Do I need to name all the places people have seen you?"

"No," Zoe says promptly, because she remembers them all herself, thank you very much. Wade's car, then Lavon's porch once, and the bar at least twice, and at her office after closing, and in Wade's car again, and then in the pond, and in her room, and in Lavon's kitchen. She thinks that's all.


skate slash rpf

thought i saw you | apolo ohno/jr celski, nc-17

“So I’m thinking this is kind of fate,” Apolo says conversationally when he walks into the store on Sunday afternoon.

JR almost snorts coffee through his nose. “Sorry, what? Fate?”

"Well, I keep running into you all over the place, and you did say you weren’t stalking me, so it’s the next logical explanation,” Apolo explains, speaking slowly. JR feels like a little kid.

“I don’t think it counts as fate if you come to the store that you know I work at,” JR points out, and Apolo laughs. JR thinks he could get used to the sound. Jesus Christ, he really is turning into a fourteen year old girl.



another state of mind | apolo ohno/jr celski, pg-13

“Curling shoes?”

Apolo almost coughed out his drink. “Sorry, what?”

“You were looking up customizable curling shoes? And you thought you could distract me from it with shower sex?” JR sounded amused and not like he was going to leave Apolo for being weird and into curling. Apolo relaxed a little.

“Yeah, maybe,” he shrugged, returning to his breakfast.


arthurian legend

the grace of god | gawain/perceval, pg

He’s too distracted by the brightness in Perceval’s eyes to register much about his hand until later, as he opened and closed his own fist, feeling the calluses on his palm and cataloging the smoothness of Perceval’s skin, another layer of his youth.

from noiseful arms | gen, perceval-centric, g. in verse.

"It was this," Perceval said, "This Grail which drove me
From the Round Table and into the woods-
Not any earthy passion, but this chalice."
Eyes wide, the knight turned once more to the monk.
"You must help me," he implored. "I have known
For so long that I must find the Grail again,
And now here is my chance."


in remembrance of may | implied guinevere/lancelot, guinevere/arthur; lancelot/arthur , r. written for yuletide.

And so it befell upon Sir Lancelot that no peril dread: as he went with Sir Mellyagaunce he trod on a trap, and the board rolled, and there Sir Lancelot fell down more than ten fathom into a cave full of straw.



supernatural

my mind travels you endlessly | dean/cas, pg.

“You’re sad,” Castiel observes. His voice isn’t as dry as it usually is.

“Nope,” Dean replies gruffly, holding out his hand. “Pockets.”

He doesn’t know if he’s relieved that Cas turns over the bottle of pills in the pocket of his trench coat, or worried that the angel took them in the first place.



inception

dreams, whatever they be | arthur/eames, pg.

"So if I go crazy," Eames said conversationally, "we'll commit suicide together. It'll be very Romeo and Juliet, darling. Alternatively, I could just not go crazy and that would solve the whole mess."

"Shut up," Arthur groaned, fitting his hand over Eames's mouth. Eames licked at his palm.


like our youth, my darling | arthur/eames, pg.

This time, Arthur gets to his gun first. "My dream," he reminds Eames, taking the safety off.

"Fair enough, darling," Eames says.

Darling is what echoes in Arthur's mind when he pulls the trigger.



football rpf



don't tread | clint dempsey/landon donovan, pg-13.

"Get your Tyra Banks five-head out of my room," Clint says when he opens the hotel room door and sees Landon.

teach me how to dougie | javi martinez/iker muniain, nc-17.

Iker laughs. "Have you even gotten a hummer from a girl?"

"Yes!" Javi protests.

"But you've never given one," Iker continues.

"No," Javi says.

"Want to?"

Javi considers. "I don't know how."


as far as you and me go | jose mourinho/pep guardiola, nc-17. written for footie_bang, with accompanying fanmix by meretricula

It starts after a loss.

half awake in a fake empire | sami khedira/mesut ozil, pg-13.

Halfway through his playlist, Mesut remembers Sami- he remembers his stomach bottoming out and Sami slamming the door. Mesut stands up too quickly, rips his headphones off, and barely makes it to the bathroom before he pukes.

Then he turns on his cell phone, ignores the physios orders, and texts Sami. did we break up???


a little bit, sometimes | alex morgan/servando carrasco, nc-17. written for cornerflag.

“It means,” Alex says, “that even though we’re the better team, even though we do better for this school, the men’s team gets so much more attention that they couldn’t just hide this. You would have national attention and they wouldn’t have take him back, come on.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, Alex,” Servando says, his voice tight. He’s trying not to get too mad, she can tell, because he knows how upset she is, he’s had to deal with it for the past week, but she doesn’t care, she just keeps going.

“It is fucking true and you know it,” she snaps. “You don’t even realize how good you have it, Christ.”

Servando loses it. “How good I have it? Excuse me, Miss I-won-a-World-Cup, but I am not the one who has it good here. I’m not the team’s fucking leading scorer, All American, whatever, okay, I’m not getting call-ups to the national team, I might not even be a captain here, okay, and you didn’t even decide to care about all of this until you were fourteen. I’m the one who’s cared for my entire life and I don’t even have half of what you do, so sorry that I don’t exactly see this is me being the one who has it good.”


a heart so white | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg.

He looks good on the cover of the book with his hair whipping across his face. His white shirt is mostly unbuttoned, and the sleeves billow in the wind as he clutches the rigging of a large ship, gazing out onto the horizon. His eyes are dark and piercing and his jaw is strong, his cheekbones sharp. The artist has done a good job with his skin tone, just the right shade of caramel, and his black pants hug his thighs perfectly.

don't cry for me, argentina | david villa/leo messi, pg.

"That's the shortcut to my parents' house, down that way." He turns to David. "We'll go there for dinner sometime soon, maybe?"

When David thinks of 'home' and 'Leo' he thinks of Barcelona. He thinks of the locker room and of the training grounds, but most of all he thinks of the Camp Nou, of Leo with a Catalan flag tied around his neck and a trophy in his arms. "I'd like that," he says, because he wants desperately to picture Leo in some other home. He wants to know how Leo can be, without all of that.


run on (for a long time) | angel di maria/the ground, pg.

One day, he thought, he would play on a pitch with more grass than dirt.

The Bernabéu grass is green and well kept, much softer than the patches of grass on Angel's childhood pitch. It's springy underneath his boots and at the end of matches, Angel has grass stains on his white kit, but no bruises from falling.


summer make good | alex morgan/servando carrasco, nc-17.

"Hey, people watch WPS games," Servando says, holding up his hands in front of the computer screen defensively.

"You are not people," Alex tells him. "You are my boyfriend and you watch WPS games because you know you wouldn't get laid if you didn't."


step back too far and you ain't fighting at all | karim benzema/samir nasri, r.

Samir ducks under the ropes and stands in front of the stool. "Don't sit," he commands. "Breathe, come on," he says, because Karim's breaths are coming fast and shallow. "One, two, three, four," he begins to count, long pauses, and he keeps going until Karim's breaths even out. "Okay," Samir says, and he sidesteps, lets Karim sit down. He grabs a towel and presses it to Karim's forehead. "One more round. Last round. Good hit at the end there," he says. He holds his hand out in front of Karim's mouth and Karim spits his mouthguard into Samir's palm. "Keep your feet moving, stay off of the ropes," he says. "His left's looking weak tonight, work him there. He'll drop his hand if you keep hitting."

kiss me through the phone | iker muniain/javi martinez, nc-17.

"What are you wearing," Iker asks, only it's more of a demand than a question.

"Uh," Javi says. He looks down at himself. "Underwear from the Soy shoot," he says, because it's a day off and it's only 11 A.M. and this is the first time he's gotten off of the couch all morning.

"Wait, seriously?" Iker asks, and it's an actual question this time.

"Yes?" Javi says. "They're the weird patterned ones, the ones with dollar bills on them I think? Because I haven't done laundry for like, two weeks and they're my last clean pair." He pulls a Coke out of the fridge and lets the door swing shut.

"Dammit, we were doing so well," Iker groans. "Okay, I'm gonna call you back and you're gonna say that you're wearing underwear from the Soy shoot and that you're glad I called. Got it?"


clear eyes, full hearts | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg-13.

They sit next to each other in the film room. David sits on Fernando's other side, poking his arm with his pen and whispering questions about Olalla, but Fernando finds his eyes sliding over to Sergio more often than not. Sergio leans forward in his seat, taking notes on everything, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Fernando turns back to Villa, but watches Sergio periodically tuck his hair behind his ear out of the corner of his eye.


gravity don't mean too much to me | hope solo/abby wambach, pg-13.

When it starts, really starts, with a win against North Korea, Hope isn't wearing a wonder woman suit. She's wearing the USA jersey, which, she thinks, is even better.

no one wake me (i just wanna stay in bed) | thiago alcantara/iker muniain, r.

"So, what're you doing for dinner?" Thiago asks conversationally, and Iker freezes. He has to physically stop himself from wrinkling his nose and frowning.

"Oh, meeting a friend," he bullshits, waving a hand around a little. "Gonna do dinner at his place."

He's not, of course; he's working the afternoon shift at the gym, not that anyone's going to come to the campus gym on Thanksgiving afternoon, but it's a paycheck, and Iker really can't turn down a paycheck. He doesn't want Thiago to think that he's a loser with no plans, though. He's spent most of the semester trying to make Thiago like him and think he's cool enough to hang out with, and that would undo everything.

"Oh, cool," Thiago says, and they don't bring it up again.


ferris wheels carried us away | thiago alcantara/iker muniain, implied thiago alcantara/rafa alcantara, nc-17.

"I can read your mind," Rafa says. "He can't. So like, you might want to try dropping normal-people hints not just me-hints."

"Oh," Thiago says. He blinks a few times. "Uh. What?"

"Asking someone to stretch with you isn't much of a come-on," Rafa points out.


you only live forever in the lights you make | álvaro arbeloa/raúl albiol, pg.

"You okay, Chori?" Alvaro asks. "I can beat him up if you want."

Raúl forces out a laugh. Alvaro presses his lips together, trying to keep his expression light. "It was an accident," he tells Alvaro.


nomenclature | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg.

Sergio sends a relic from Prague, Le violin d'Ingres from Los Angeles, a print from Los Caprichos from Madrid to go with the one already in El Niño's bedroom. El Niño always sends something back. Anything you can do…, his third note reads. Challenge accepted is Sergio's response.

awkward and youthful we tangled | mesut ozil/sami khedira, pg-13.

Sami stands up to finish undressing. He hadn't really expected this; he isn't sure what he expected, really. There was never any big reveal moment. He and Mesut had just stopped protesting when Cris and Marcelo threw around married couple jokes when the two of them arrived at Valdebebas in the same car. He likes how easy it is here, how it's just a part of the team dynamic.

jeunesse en proie à l'amour vagissant | sergio raoms/iker casillas, nc-17.

It's hard, Sergio finds, not to think about it when he's around Iker. It's hard not to let his eyes drop every now and then.

because i prayed this word, i want | cesc fabregas/iker casillas, pg.

Playing with La Roja changes. Campeones becomes an excuse instead of a blessing and football becomes pressure instead of breathing.

look, stranger, at this island now | cesc fabregas/iker casillas, r.

Something inside the room moves. The door twitches. He skitters backwards, pressing himself against the wall and trying not to breathe. He rises up on the balls of his feet. He can outrun most people; it's just a matter of timing. He's on the wrong side of the door to make a clean break for the stairs, so he freezes and waits.

The door opens.

"Cesc?"

Cesc blinks a few times to convince himself that Gerard is real. Then he launches himself at Gerard, pushing his face into the taller boy's chest and breathing in deeply. He fists Gerard's t-shirt and leans his whole weight on him. Gerard puts his chin on top of Cesc's head and lets Cesc hyperventilate for a minute. Then Cesc straightens up and lets go of Gerard's shirt.


prime directive: exterminate | fernando torres/sergio ramos, fernando llorente/javi martinez, david villa/david silva, cesc fabregas/robin van persie, pg-13.

Voicemail from Cesc Fabregas, 3 June, 8:43 P.M.

"Hey, Sergio! I don't know if anyone else called you yet, I asked them to but the phone cords may have been cut by now. Anyway, the end of the world is here and the zombies are coming so I'd suggest not going to the airport tomorrow. I've got a bunker in London that I'm at but obviously you can't get here, but there's another one near my house in Barcelona, it should be fully stocked if you can get there in time. Anyway, can you call Iker and Alvaro and Albiol for me? They aren't picking up, not sure if it's the phone lines down or what. Uh, if you see a zombie coming for you cut off its head with something and you should be fine, okay?"


some kind of superstar (who do you think you are) | gen

"I can't believe you didn't hear this," Bojan says, shaking his head. Bojan's nameplate says Doryphoros. "They're bringing a new David into the Renaissance wing."

The Renaissance wing at the Museo already has Donatello's David. His name's actually Javi and everyone likes him well enough, Pique supposes. He's small and kind of sleight, but not a bad guy. "We don't need another one," Pique says. And then, "Which David?"

Bojan grins and Pique's stomach drops. "Michelangelo's."


three tonight | sami khedira/mesut ozil/sergio ramos, nc-17.

Sami, sitting next to him today, slides a piece of paper under the corner of Mesut's binder. party at cristianos tonight, are we going is scribbled in Sami's tiny handwriting. Mesut makes a show out of squinting to read it. def, he writes back. come to mine before.

He stretches in his chair and drops the note down the collar of Sami's shirt as he brings his arms down. Then he puts his head down on the desk and ignores the last half an hour of the lecture.


nada valgo sin tu amor | david silva/david villa, david silva/david villa/adam johnson, nc-17.

Adam kicks him gently, then leaves his foot resting near David's thigh. "Nothing else? Who're you always texting after practice? I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn't want to know she's not on your list of favorite things."

"What?" David asks. On the screen, he wins the ball (cleanly, this time) and launches it down the field. "I text Villa after practice."


buy me some peanuts and cracker jack | raul gonzalez/jose maria gutierrez, pg.

"Come on, put it on."

"Fine," Raúl relents. He lets Guti put the baseball cap on his head and frowns for the way his hair sticks out of the sides, feeling a little bit like a schoolboy. Guti smiles, though, so Raúl just reaches up to adjust it, not take it off.


hollow point smile | luis suarez/raul meireles, pg.

"Don't let it happen again," Kenny asks.

It would be a useless promise to make, so Luis says nothing. He picks at the loose skin on the side of his thumb. Sometimes, he thinks, there isn't another option. When the will to win is there, but not the way. His youth coaches told him he'd grow out of his feistiness, but Luis thinks that if anything, the opposite happened.

His hand is on the doorknob and he's walking out when Kenny speaks again. "At least you didn't bite him," Kenny says. Luis looks back over his shoulder and Kenny's grinning, just slightly. Luis can't help himself from smiling back, so he ducks his head back around and leaves the office.


five years | luis suarez/wesley sneijder, r. written for cornerflag

"Hi, I'm Luis," Luis says. The group repeats it back to him like they do every time he speaks. "Five years and a few months."

He fidgets. "I told someone, last week," he says. "A human. He, um. I met him at work. He didn't ask or anything, I just didn't want to lie. And it was nice, I guess. It was good. He didn't make a big deal out of it." Luis shoves his hands into his pockets. "His name's Wesley. I think he might prefer Wes, but I'm not actually sure. He said he wanted to buy me coffee." He takes a deep breath. "His brother's dying, and I feel really shitty about that. Because I could- you know. Change him. But I can't. And it sucks."

"Thank you, Luis," the group leader says.


finding duende | sergio ramos/raul gonzales, r.

Eventually, the crowd widens a little bit and someone pushes Sergio forward into the space, so he begins to dance, singing quietly and just to himself as he twists his hips and steps and claps. The man keeps singing, and Sergio wants it to never end. His voice is as old as time, as worn by the sun and wind as his skin is, dark and with deep creases around his eyes. Sergio watches him as he dances, and the singer nods to him, just once. Sergio's heart nearly breaks his ribcage trying to escape.

a las cinco de la tarde | sergio ramos/raul gonzales, r.

The Maestranza is hot.

It's August, Sergio thinks hazily. His right thigh hurts. The sun is shining brightly enough to make him squint. The dirt floor of the arena looks like gold when the light catches it just right. His leg buckles as he takes a step, trying to complete the faena. He hears someone shouting at him and then he feels someone's arms hook around his torso. The muleta flutters out in front of him as he lets himself be dragged out of the arena. It's five in the afternoon.


make broad thy shoulders | fernando torres gen, pg.

This is how life goes:

He breaks the record for most goals scored in a debut season, ties for second in the race for the Golden Boot, and helps Liverpool to the Champions League semifinals. He gets shortlisted for the World Player of the Year and crushes Real Madrid 4-0 in the Champions League. He signs a long-term contract and scores the winning goal of the EuroCopa. Then he hurts his knee and goes through two successive surgeries and everything goes to shit.


one inch tall | luis suarez/diego forlan, r.

"Lookin' good," Luis tells Diego, knocking their shoulders together. He points at the on-screen Diego, who's busy scoring a hat trick. Real-life Diego shrugs.

"Thanks," he says, because that's the only way he’s ever known how to take a compliment.


so are they all, all honorable men | raul/guti, raul/morientes, r.

"It was supposed to be me, you know," Guti tells him. "I've been here since I was eight fucking years old, what the fuck." Raúl doesn't say anything. Guti's voice rises. "You came here from fucking Atlético, what the fuck?"

"I'm sorry," Raúl says quietly, scuffing his toe back and forth over the floorboards. "I'm not- I know it was supposed to be you, Chema. Not me."

If he could, Raúl would give Guti the shirt that's lying crumpled on the dresser, and he wouldn't regret it. Knowing that scares him a little. He can't give it to Guti, because he's pretty sure Valdano knows which one of them is Raúl and which one of them is Guti, but he picks up the shirt and holds it out anyway, a white flag.

"Take it," he insists. "You deserve it. Not me."


bojan: le conte du ballon d'or | jose mourinho/bojan krkic (yes i am mildly serious), bojan krkic/ballon d'or (again, yes i am serious), pg.

"The Ballon d'Or, yes," the strange knight replied.
"My company has long sought it,
Searching high and low, and now it is finally found."
"Where, and by whom? This great spectacle has
Eluded me for many years," The Special One asked.


do not seek the because | cesc fabregas/iker casillas/david villa, cesc/carla, villa/patricia, iker/sara, r.

They're rarely together, the three of them. The first time was after the Euro, and Cesc knew that he was coming into something already established, something that had been going on for probably longer than he'd been on the team. He knew it was Iker who convinced David to let him into their room and their bed that night, and for a long time afterwards, he couldn't help but feel that Iker was something David had lent him. The second time was after a friendly in October of the same year, and David made a point of inviting him up. After that, it became more or less a routine, and Cesc stopped waiting for invitations.

living skin | sergio ramos/fernando torres, david villa/david silva, nc-17.

The guy stands up and the skin of his lower back is hidden again by his shirt. Sergio reaches reflexively for his own lower back, rubbing his fingers over the spot where he knows his siblings' names are written. He wants to put ink on this guy. It would look so good, he thinks, ink on skin that pale. He's got a half-formed idea of what he wants to do when he remembers that he can't.

with a glass i'm pretty handy | sergio ramos/fernando torres, nc-17.

Instead of grocery shopping, they head over to Roja in the Mustang to raid Iker's refrigerator. Pipa's there, sitting on the bar and flipping channels on the tiny TV Iker usually keeps in his office. Sergio makes an extra sandwich and they stick around for a while, shooting the shit. Sergio works his way through a mostly-empty pack of cigarettes he finds on Iker's desk and Cesc finds reruns of some sitcom on the TV. It's not a bad way to spend an afternoon, Sergio thinks. He definitely isn't looking over his shoulder at the door every now and again, wondering if Fernando will show up.

world cup gangbang | sergio ramos/la roja, nc-17.

Sergio's fairly sure they decided on this beforehand. There's no other explanation for the way they form a semi-circle around him and stay there, knees and thighs pressed against his torso. He laughs and lets his tongue flick out to wet his lower lip.

the list | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg-13.

By the time they get to practice, they've divided the list into SERGIO and FERNANDO columns. LOOKS TOO MUCH LIKE A GIRL and JUST LOOK AT THOSE ROOTS are added to Fernando's side, while HE LIKES FLAMENCO is currently the only reason on Sergio's side. The list gets taped up to Iker's locker (Iker's plaintive "Why me?" had been thwarted by Pepe's roll of duct tape and "You're the captain, you deal with it.") with a marker next to it.

"What if El Mister sees it?" Fernando asks as he pulls on his socks and shin guards. Puyol responds by taking the marker and scribbling 'because fer has a crush on el mister'.


a falling mirror | sergio ramos/gonzalo higuain, pg-13.

"Defend," Mourinho barks, and it takes all of Sergio's will power to not roll his eyes. Of course he tries to defend. He stands at the top of the box and bends his knees, drops his left leg a little and rises up on his toes. He's ready, but Gonzalo still beats him with a flick of his left foot and a pretty side-step. (Gonzalo beats Adan, too. Sergio kicks the ground where the 18-yard-box is painted onto the grass and frowns.)

vuelo | fernando torres(/sergio ramos), pg.

It starts out like usual: Fernando takes the pitch in the rojiblanco shirt with the armband displayed proudly on his left arm. Then the whistle blows and everything goes to hell.

ice on summer seas | yoann gourcuff/karim benzema, pg.

What's happening now is what happens all the time, Yoann thinks. He and Karim exist on a see-saw, flip flopping between brilliance and mediocrity, taking turns getting called up to different levels of the youth system and finally to the senior team, never playing more than a match or two together. And right now, it's Karim's turn on the high side of the see-saw. It's his turn to score goals and execute beautiful passes and enjoy himself going out with the team.

It's been his turn for what feels like years now, but that's how life goes sometimes.


sailing to drift | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg-13.

There are five messages waiting for him on his phone. Two are from Iker, the first asking if he's okay, the second more worried, demanding to know where he is. One is from the club management, notifying him of his fine. One is from Valdano, saying that everything had been taken care of. The last is from Fernando.

"Hey, Sese. So, uh. Where'd you go, hombre? I thought things would just be normal now, you know? Anyway, call me when you get back, or don't, I guess. It's whatever. Bye."


scenes from childhood | yoann gourcuff/karim benzema, pg.

Yoann still has his tennis racquets. They gather dust in a bag and they're a pain to haul around when he moves, but he doesn't want to let them go. Sometimes he takes one out and lets his hand slide along the grip and he practices his forehand, slicing the racquet through the air, thinking, what if.

need | david silva/sergio ramos, r.

“Is it weird that I miss Valencia because of him?”

Sergio knows why Silva calls him. There are two reasons. The first is the same as it’s always been- wedding rings and babies and women. Sergio doesn’t mind. It’s what they have in common, a lament that never grows old. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t talked to Fernando nearly as frequently as he has Silva for the past few months. Locked up together in a hotel room, it’s easy to dream, but here, when he’s alone in Madrid, it’s easy to realize that he and Fernando will never be. He will never be what Fernando needs.

He can be what Silva needs, though, and for that reason he looks forward to each and every phone call.


endless | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg-13.

They don’t go anywhere in particular, not intentionally. They never do on these drives, they just hit the road and go until they find a swimming hole or Sergio gets hungry or Fernando wants to take a nap. There’s a blanket in the bed of the pickup and the radio works, although there’s a toothpick in place of a dial, and there isn’t air conditioning, so they roll the windows down and drive fast to create a breeze.

It’s all they need, Sergio and Fernando, and Sergio hasn’t realized how much he missed this during the year until just now.


an ache of dahlias | fernando torres/sergio ramos, implied fernando torres/steven gerrard, implied xabi alonso/steven gerrard. mentioned fernando gago/gonzalo higuain, mentioned sergio ramos/iker casillas. also featuring: pepe reina, jesus navas. pg.

Fernando nudges him in the ribs. “You should get laid tonight, celebrate a little,” he suggests, wiggling his eyebrows. Sergio shakes his head.

“Nah, man.”

They lock eyes for a moment and Sergio presses his lips together. “Then let’s go,” Fernando says. They walk out of the bar, only stumbling a little, and their shoulders knock as they trek the two blocks back to Fernando and Xabi’s apartment.

“Hey, you should stay here tonight,” Fernando says. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Sergio hopefully. “I mean, you have work tomorrow morning and it’s late, so.”

Sergio follows him up.


to know another universe | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg. coda to they shine for you (second star to the right).

He doesn’t remember actively leaving, is the thing. He just remembers being lonely, and going to bed with the window open, staring up at the sky that was so impossibly far away, so much so that the stars were just smudges of light, blurring together and burning in the dark, dark sky.

And when he woke up, the sky was so much closer.


they shine for you (second star to the right) | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg.

“There.” Fernando points again. Sergio shakes his head and holds up his hands. Fernando takes him by the wrist and together they go out to the hammock. Sergio lies down first and pulls Fernando on top of him, as has become their habit. Once they’re settled in, he nudges Fernando’s cheek with his nose and raises his eyebrow.

Fernando points again. “See? There.”

Sergio follows the line of Fernando’s arm and sees nothing but stars. “What, like, second star the right and straight on ‘till morning? What are you talking about?”


gravitational pull | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg.

“Raul was right,” he mumbles before he realizes that Sergio has no idea what he’s talking about.

But Sergio doesn’t ask, just turns over, rolling onto Fernando’s chest in the process, and blinking down at the striker with his big doe eyes, beautiful eyes, Fernando catches himself thinking.

“Raul’s usually right,” Sergio says.


the end of the day | fernando torres/sergio ramos, nc-17.

Fernando’s head snaps up and he sees Sergio, leaning against his locker. The defender’s hair is wet and dripping onto his shoulders, and he hasn’t put a shirt on yet.

in retrospect | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg.

Sergio goes through the drawer with a combination of awe and disgust- there are at least fifty menus, everything from tapas to Thai to pizza. Sergio, who has never once ordered take away (catering for parties does not count, he maintains), is bewildered.

When Fernando walks back into the room, cell phone in hand, he looks at Sergio expectantly. “Well, what do you want?”

Sergio closes the drawer. “We’re gonna cook tonight.”


red and white | steven gerrard/xabi alonso, pg.

He picks up his phone and stares at Xabi’s number for a while before he can gather the courage to call. As he listens to it ring, his heart leaps into his throat and he opens and closes his fist, telling himself just a man, he’s just a man, just a footballer, he doesn’t matter, he’s not Xabi anymore, except that he knows he’s wrong.

“Do you remember Istanbul?”


days like these | sergio ramos/fernando torres, fernando torres/olalla dominguez, nc-17.

“So you should stop lying,” Fernando continues, pressing his nose into the hollow of Sergio’s throat, breathing him in. “Because I don’t like it when you lie.”

He pulls back for a second, meets Sergio’s eyes, and then slithers down Sergio’s body until he’s on his knees, eyes still fixed on Sergio’s. “Why not?” Sergio asks, and he can’t break eye contact, Fernando is too insistent, and he knows this is bad, nothing good will come of this, but he can’t stop. He reaches behind himself to grip the sink, trying to steady himself out.

“Because I like it when you look at me,” Fernando explains, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and maybe it is.


i was meant to make you smile | gonzalo higuain/sergio ramos, nc-17

“Hey,” he says, a little confused, as the door swings shut.

“You should talk to him,” Iker says, his voice even. It isn’t his captain voice, so Gonzalo knows he doesn’t have to listen, it isn’t a requirement, but-

But Iker knows what he’s talking about, Gonzalo reminds himself. Iker knows what it’s like to be alone in the locker room and on the pitch and in a big empty house. Gonzalo wants to ask him, wants to know if there’s something he should’ve talked to Becks about, way back when, but Gonzalo knows he can’t. Iker’s past is his own. But maybe, he’s sharing with Gonzalo, a little bit. In his own way. In the way of goalkeepers, who spend their time staring contemplatively down the pitch and anticipating every possible move.


rosquitos | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg-13

His mother’s tan hands cover Fernando’s freckled ones and shape them around the dough. Fernando’s still smiling, throwing glances over his shoulder every now and then at Sergio, who sits grinning back like an idiot, sipping his beer.



point of a knife | fernando torres/sergio ramos, pg

But the silence is easy, not hostile the way Fernando had anticipated it might be. They are two points of a knife, he thinks, deadly in their precision, and they are usually pointed at each other.

Now, they point the same direction.



spanish hands | sergio ramos/fernando torres, g

Sergio can almost see Fernando, standing at his counter with the phone tucked under his chin, his large hands working the small pastries, freckles even on his knuckles. He can see the watery sunlight coming in the bay window Olalla had insisted on, making Fernando’s skin look almost luminescent.


the lives of others (hospital au) | sergio ramos/fernando torres, xabi alonso/stevie g, david villa/david silva, karim benzema/yoann gourcuff, iker casillas/cesc fabregas, guti/raul, r

“I think we’re good here for now,” Stevie said, clapping Sergio on the back. Sergio blinked a few times, eyes bleary. The clock on the wall said 1:15 AM, which meant Sergio had been working for roughly twelve hours. He hadn’t had to do that since last year’s flu epidemic. “Go home, get some sleep, get some food. Come back tomorrow at 9, you’re scheduled for three surgeries.”

“Fuck. Yeah, okay.” Sergio tried to calculate how much sleep that would leave him with, but his eyes were already fluttering shut.



what matters | karim benzema/zinedine zidane, nc-17

So it was a slightly bleary eyed Karim that opened the door to find Zidane holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Karim ran a hand over his head and pulled the door open wider to let the older man in.

heartbeats | fernando torres/sergio ramos, r

In the car, Fernando sat in the back seat and propped his leg up. Sergio was singing along with the radio and the deep, slightly scratchy quality of his voice was as comforting to Fernando as any lullaby had ever been.


collide (you and i) | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg

Sergio twirls the straw in his drink and looks out over the shoreline; he’d resisted going to the beach in San Sebastian (he wants to save that for Cadiz) but had given in when Fernando suggested the small outdoor café. He pushes sweaty strands of hair off of his face and grins at Fernando, who has his glass pressed to his cheek, desperately seeking the cool condensation.

“I’ve never been away from Madrid in the summer,” Fernando offers quietly.



going home is not the same as coming back | gen, sergio ramos-centric, pg

The early exist doesn’t disappoint you as much as it does the others. It is your first World Cup; you are still in the happy honeymoon phase, too blissful to be hurt by much. You do cry, though, and at first you think it’s just for posterity, because you are happy just to have played, but somewhere between swapping shirts and showering, the tears become real.


he knew all the dreams by heart (night dreamer) | iker casillas/sergio ramos, guti/raul, pg

What Sergio did best was dance in sunlit, dusty streets, hands clapping in time with hips, drawing everyone around him into his world, of beauty and old love and the slap of guitar strings against wood. What Sergio did best was let the music pull through him, take control. Sergio was good at letting go, letting the beat and rhythm guide his movement.


goodbye, home | sergio ramos/fernando torres, r

“Now? Fer, it’s late, you have to get up early. Are you sure?” There was no fight in Sergio’s voice, and Fernando’s heart absolutely ached for the Sevillan’s earnestness. Sergio would be only thinking of Fernando, of how Fernando had to get up early for his flight to motherfucking England, and not of what he wanted. It only made Fernando feel worse for not seeking him out earlier.


home | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg-13

“Call me when you get home?” Fernando asked, as Sergio shouldered his bag and made to move for his gate.

“Of course, Nino,” Sergio replied, flashing Fernando the ghost of a smile. “I expect you to call me, too, you know.”

“Even though I’m not going home.”

“Even though you’re not going home,” Sergio confirmed, closing the distance between them one last time and enveloping Fernando in a hug. “Call me all the time. Call me every day. Pretend you’re home. There’s


el amor se le escapa antes de ser capturado | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg

That’s what Sergio does now, he exists, as peacefully as he can. Still listens to flamenco for hours on end in the sun, but he’s never let his fingers dance in quite the same way over anyone else’s skin. That way of being alive is gone, locked away in the part of his heart that Sergio never dares to go, the part he shut off that night.


guilt | sergio ramos/fernando torres, r

Dios te salve, María. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amen.


appropriate | sergio ramos/fernando torres, pg

Sergio’s heart ached as he looked at Fernando’s fingers covering his, and he relented. “For you,” he said quietly, putting Fernando beyond the anger, out of its reach.


Tags: fic, master fic list
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