Work Text:
Masquerade
It starts with a phone call.
Wednesday night. Fernando scratches his elbows, feeling tired. It hasn’t been a good season; he feels sore all over. When his cell phone rings he almost doesn’t answer it. But he does, and it’s Sergio, making his heart thump in his head.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey. How’s your face?”
Nando laughs tiredly; crinkling his nose still hurts. “I’m ok. My face is just fine.”
Sergio chuckles. “I’m glad. I was worried.” Standing in his dark kitchen, Nando curls into a dark corner, as if it will make the phone call less dangerous. “I want to see you this weekend. I’m free. If you get Saturday off, we can have a couple of days together.”
Nando feels the last word travel the length of his spine like hot water: together. He still shivers just a little when Sergio speaks softly, gruffly. He imagines Sergio’s stubble scratching the shell of his ear, and feels tingles running through his shoulders. He runs through his calendar in his head.
“I can get away,” he says.
“I’ll be at the apartment Saturday morning.”
Fernando nods to himself, scratching one socked foot with the other. “Ok.”
“Bring your mask,” says Sergio. Nando blushes, his eyebrows raised.
“Really?”
“Really really.”
“You have to wear one too, then.” Nando’s smile tugs at his cheeks.
“Did you have any doubts?”
Nando shrugs, sitting on the counter now. “Why the mask?”
There’s a pause. “You don’t know how cute you look in it.”
Nando doesn’t have anything to say to that.
He gets the weekend off. It’s a bit of hell to get Saturday, given his performance lately, but he gets it. He spends Thursday and Friday in a haze, barely hearing it when Mata calls his name at practice, barely feeling the steps he takes on and off the pitch. Olalla says things to him, and he nods, staring off into space. Sergio fills his thoughts, just like every time before that they’ve done this. That they’ve snuck off, pretending that nothing outside exists for a day, a weekend, and once, just once, a whole week.
He has to come up with a different excuse for everyone. He tells his family he’s taking the weekend off for Chelsea business; he tells the Chelsea businessmen that he’s taking the weekend off for his family. He hates lying; he hates how lying makes him trip over his tongue. But all he thinks about is Sergio; his eyes, his lips, his shoulders, his arms, his scent. It makes him ache all through his body; it’s been so long since the last time.
He watches what he eats for the next few days. He eats only gentle things with lots of fiber. Olalla chuckles at his oatmeal, his salads. He almost laughs too, but he can’t. He doesn’t know how to feel about this anymore. Thinking too much makes the aching worse, the need that grows in knowing that it will soon be filled.
Friday night is long, very long. He’s filled with nerves, but he can’t leave until the morning. He tosses and turns in his bed all night, afraid that if he falls asleep too deeply he’ll start moaning Sergio’s name, begging for what he’s about to get. He always feels as if the secret is about to spill out of him at any second, that at any moment he’ll slip and say the thing that will undo it all.
He rolls out of bed at six in the morning on Saturday, pulling the sheets aside silently. He looks back only once. He puts an outfit together, eats breakfast, brushes his teeth. Then, within the hour, he’s at the airport, a small bag in hand with a change of clothes, a book, and a mask. He takes a small plane, private, so that he won’t get hassled. He’s learned to take every precaution.
The plane lands in Liverpool in just forty-five minutes. He gets off the plane and ducks through the hangar with his bag, with his head down. He’s got a rental car waiting, under F. Torres. He doesn’t take chances with drivers, with people who know what a picture would be worth to the tabloids.
Thousands. In cash.
He drives off, his hands’ shaking just perceptible. The bag sits on the passenger’s seat beside him. He keeps the visor down, careful to stop at as few lights as possible. Careful not to drive alongside anyone for too long. The drive is nearly silent, filled only with the sound of his beating heart. He keeps glancing at the rearview mirror, checking his hair, his nose, the lines beneath his eyes. Sergio always says it doesn’t matter, but Nando knows the other man has his preferences. He wishes his hair was longer, and still blond.
Sergio likes him blond.
Throughout the drive he can’t help but think what his seventeen-year-old self would say to him if he could see Fernando as he is now. What would Fernando say to that kid? How would he explain how things have become so complicated? Look, he supposes he’d say. You’ll meet this girl. You’ll fall for her. You’ll get together with her at eighteen, and she’ll be there for you through thick and thin. You’ll become famous. People will put posters of you on their walls. Grown men will cry watching you. You’ll carry the weight of things you shouldn’t have to carry.
You’ll meet him when you’re twenty. The boy you’ll fall for. He’ll be eighteen. You’ll meet him when he joins the national team. And he’ll make you feel weird. He’ll make you feel ways you’ve never felt before. And it’ll be weird, because he’ll be so wonderfully open and friendly that you’ll wonder how he does it. He’ll make you think about things in ways you’ve never thought about them; you’ll realize that when you spend time with him it feels like you’re the only two people in the world.
And then things will get complicated. Time will go by, and you’ll realize that accomplishing anything is a lot more difficult, more complicated, than you ever thought it would be. And even though you think you’re working towards easily definable goals, like “win the world cup,” you’ll realize that actually most of the time you can’t even tell if you’re winning or losing. Out of the blue that girl you’ve been with will be pregnant. And you’ll guess that means it’s time to get married; after all, you’ll think, you love her. Although you’ve never been sure what it looks like, feels like, to love someone. You’ll get married; you’ll have a daughter. She’ll be perfect.
And then your friend, the one who makes you feel weird all the time, will become more than a friend. You’ll be competing for the world cup; there’ll be all sorts of feelings. One day, and you’ll tell yourself that it’s stress or something that makes you do it, one day you’ll let that other boy kiss you. And then he’ll kiss you again. And again. And it’ll feel weird. It’ll feel like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It’ll be terrifying. And you’ll keep doing it. He’ll make you feel things you’ve never felt with another human being before. Vulnerable. Broken. Confused. Cared for. Safe. Owned. Loved.
And then he’ll fuck you. It’ll take weeks of preparing yourself, psyching yourself up, building up the courage, ignoring your family, et cetera. He’ll give you time. He’ll let you come to him. And you will. And he’ll fuck you, and you’ll feel what sex is supposed to feel like: that atom-crashing, bomb-dropping, sun-exploding feeling inside yourself when you become more than just a lonely little human in a gangly awkward soft-in-the-wrong-places body. You’ll feel connected through every inch of your body to everything around you, and to this boy, who holds your soul in the palm of his hands. You’ll feel at home in your own skin when he kisses you, when he fucks you, when he holds you. And you’ll realize how much more complicated you’ve made everything become.
The boy will become a man, and you will too, sort of. You won’t feel like one. He’ll look like one. And though you’ll try to withdraw, to run away from the mess you’ve made, he won’t let you. You’ll realize that you feel things when he kisses you that you don’t feel when you kiss your wife. This will terrify you. You’ll realize that finding him was a miracle. That this man who loves you is a miracle. That you’ve never wanted anyone else like you want him, and all the time. You won’t know what to do. You see your children growing (you’ll have a son too!), and you’ll wish for one simple thing: a house with the kids in their bedrooms and with this man in yours. You’ll go to sleep every night with that image in the back of your mind. You won’t know what to do. You won’t know how to fix anything anymore. All you’ll know is that you need him, that you crave his touch. That you’ll fly halfway across the country just for the chance to spend the night in his arms.
Fernando gets to the apartment in about thirty minutes. The apartment on the outskirts of Liverpool, the one Sergio leased a few years ago when it became clear that they needed a place to themselves. The apartment that Sergio decorated himself, with predictable results. The apartment Sergio kept even after Fernando moved to London; he said it was still practical, that they needed a space to themselves now more than ever. The apartment Fernando thinks of whenever he thinks of home; a little piece of Spain in the middle of the United Kingdom.
He pulls into the driveway of the single apartment, hidden just a bit behind some shrubbery. His heart picks up speed. There’s another car already there. He parks beside it and opens the car door, wearing sunglasses out of habit, holding his bag in his hands. He sucks in a deep breath and checks his phone with shaking fingers. No messages. Not that he wants any. He runs a hand through his hair to calm himself, to prepare himself. His legs are starting to go weak, his knees almost buckling from the thought of what’s coming.
The sky above is a thin blue, and the air is still chilly in the perpetually chilly city. But he likes it; he’s missed it. He misses Gerrard, He misses wearing red. He misses fitting in. He’s about to walk to the door, to greet the man he knows is waiting for him, and then he gets an idea. He takes off his sunglasses and takes the mask out of his bag. With shaking fingers he attaches the straps around his head. He catches his reflection, and smiles at it nervously.
He walks up to the door to the apartment, and rings the bell. His blood pulses the tips of his fingers. His legs ache from holding up his own weight. And then the door opens. Sergio stands before him, wearing only jeans and a black mask as if he were at a masquerade. He takes one look at Nando and grins. “You know me too well, Babe,” he says.
Nando lets out a little laugh. It’s all too much at once: Sergio’s naked chest, his bare feet, his masked face. Nando steps into the warmth of the house, the sight of the hallway’s bright yellow walls filling him with joy. The smell of Sergio’s cologne makes him tingle from head to foot. He takes a step towards Sergio’s chest. “Hold on,” Sergio says, the smile on his lips irrepressible. He bounds down the hallway like an overgrown child, and Nando can’t help but laugh. Nando closes the door behind himself, sliding the lock definitively, toeing off his shoes.
All of a sudden he hears the feathery licks of flamenco guitar from the next room; a tango. Nando can’t help himself. “Seriously?” he calls towards the kitchen, where he knows the sound is coming from.
Sergio appears at the end of the hallway, his hips moving devilishly to the music. He’s always been a terrific dancer. “Hush, Freckles,” he says, turning into the light on one heel. “Your prince is here.”
Nando laughs spasmodically at the sheer ridiculousness of the music, at the show of bravado. Sergio dances down the hallway slowly, dangerously, and Nando brings a hand to his face to hide his laughter, touching his plastic mask. Sergio’s lips curl into a smile and his eyes spark with glee beneath his mask, but there’s power in the gyrations of his hips.
“I can’t believe you don’t have a rose in your mouth,” says Nando between bouts of laughter.
“Shit! I should have thought of that!”
Even Sergio is laughing now, and he almost loses the rhythm of the music for a second. But he doesn’t, and his hips keep swaying. He steps close to Fernando and holds out a hand. In a playfully serious voice, he asks: “may I have this dance?” Nando nods his smiling head, and holds out a hand to meet Sergio’s.
Without warning, Sergio tugs him close, their chests pressed together. His other hand finds the small of Fernando’s back as the striker perches his free hand on Sergio’s shoulder. He’s still smiling, but it’s different; seductive. As if Fernando needs to be seduced. His legs are already weak, and he stumbles in his steps.
“You know I can’t dance,” he says, his eyes down.
“Everyone can dance,” says Sergio. His breath gusts over Nando’s cheek.
They sway to the music, Sergio’s hips against Nando’s hips. He presses his naked stomach to Nando’s shirt, and traps the heat between them. Nando tries to move to the music, but his thighs can barely hold him up anymore.
Sergio tilts his head, his mouth dipping close to Nando’s without making contact. Nando feels puffs of air hitting his lower lip; his own breathing comes faster in response. The music swells, but their dancing slows, Sergio backing Nando towards the wall. Sergio’s hand burns through Nando’s shirt, as does Sergio’s stomach.
Nando’s back hits the wall, its chill nipping at his shoulder blades. Sergio curls his hand over the back of Nando’s neck, half massaging, half possessing. He nibbles the tip of Nando’s earlobe and the striker lets out a sighing moan. Sergio pulls back to look at Nando, seemingly surprised by his reaction. Nando’s face is flushed, his eyes hooded and unfocused. Sergio pecks the side of Nando’s mouth experimentally and Nando moans again, his hands gripping Sergio’s shoulders desperately. Sergio pulls away, almost concerned. He finds Nando’s eyes with his own, and asks: “are you ok?”
Nando sinks down, letting his weight rest on Sergio’s strong thighs. “Please,” he says, voice breathy, his head lolling forward. “Don’t tease me. You- you don’t know how bad it’s been.”
Sergio eyes the striker watchfully, holding Nando steady in his hands. “What do you mean?”
Nando starts again, not making eye contact. From behind his mask he feels words that he’s held for years pushing past his lips. “You don’t know- I need you all the time.” He gulps. “It- It gets so bad that I can’t think straight.”
“Nando. . .”
Nando stares at the wall beside Sergio’s head, his chest heaving, the words having their way with him. “I’m ok for the first few days, weeks even, after we meet. After you- after you fuck me. I’m ok for a week or two. Then I start to feel it again.”
Sergio massages his captive’s sides gently, trying to coax more words out of the usually reserved Fernando. “Feel what?”
Nando tosses his head back, eyelashes fluttering. Sergio’s massaging hands reduce him to quivering. He paws at Sergio’s chest. “I ache. All over. My shoulders, my thighs, my stomach, my- everything.” He blushes deeply, more afraid than ever to make eye contact with Sergio. The mask has made him brave, but not that brave. “It starts small, but it gets bigger every day.”
Sergio, enraptured, drops kisses along Nando’s jawline.
“After a few months it’s like I’m in a haze. Even on the pitch; all I can think about is you, - your body.” Nando’s face burns, but he can’t stop the words that flow from him. “And how I need you to fuck me, over and over again until I can’t move.” Sergio watches the striker’s lips form each word, mumbling, tripping over things. The strikers eyes are misty. “Lately it’s been so bad, I- every night I dream about it, about you fucking me like you own me and I wake up cumming,” Nando’s lips quiver, “All over myself.”
Sergio grinds his hips against Fernando’s hips, against his splayed thighs pinned against the wall. “Nando-” he pants.
Fernando turns to look at him, his eyes glittering behind his mask, their faces centimeters apart. “You don’t know what it’s like. You- you can just go find some girl to fuck when you- when you need to get off. I- I can’t do anything. All I can do is wait.”
Sergio stings, knowing that there’s some truth in Nando’s words. “I’m sorry,” is all he can manage.
“I-I don’t even touch myself back there,” Nando stammers, nearly crying from need. “Not even my fingers. Because I need you. I- your hands, you- are the only things that- that feel right. Sergio, you don’t know what it’s like!”
Sergio reels, guilt pulling him down by the chest to the earth. Desire like a duty hangs around his neck. He meets Nando’s eyes, his own filled with devotion. “Kitten, whatever you want.” He brings the back of his hand to Nando’s chin. “Tell me what to do.”
Nando doesn’t hesitate, his eyes stinging, his heart aching. “Fuck me. Now.”
Sergio lets out a heavy breath. “Ok.”
Sergio pulls away from the wall slowly. Nando responds gradually, standing on his own again on albeit shaky legs. Sergio’s hands hold Nando’s waist firmly. Then Nando breaks his hold, even as his hands are jittering. Nando leads and Sergio follows, walking past the kitchen and into the master bedroom at the far end of the apartment. The trip is short, Sergio pursuing with a determined pace. A need to do right by Nando fills him completely.
Nando walks to the bed, propping a pillow up against the headboard so he’ll have something to lean his neck against. The mask makes him sweat, but he leaves it on. Sergio has left his on as well. The defender walks over from the corner of the room, a bottle of lube in his fingers. Nando looks at him, at his naked chest. “Take it off,” he says, staring at Sergio.
“Take what off?”
Fernando blushes. “Everything.”
Sergio pulls in a deep breath, nodding his wide-eyed head. He tosses the bottle of lube onto the bed. He starts with his pants, dropping them to the ground once he releases his belt buckle. Then he takes off his briefs, sliding them down his legs slowly. When he stands up he meets Nando’s gaze, hoping for approval.
“The mask.”
Sergio is about to protest, but he bites his lip and slips the plastic mask off with one hand. He’s now completely naked, and he strokes himself loosely to keep hard. Nando’s eyes run over him, and Sergio swallows thickly.
Nando’s mind flies, his heart beating so quickly. Now that he’s started taking control, he’s racing to keep pace with his own desire. He tries to think of what to tell Sergio to do next. Sergio’s cock is thick and hard, bobbing slightly as Sergio absently strokes himself. Nando’s thighs ache so badly from the sight that he has to kneel on the bed. He tries not to break eye contact with Sergio as he tears at his shirt with shaking fingers, getting it over his head as quickly as possible. “Help me,” he says, already fidgeting with his belt buckle.
Sergio walks to the bed, draws closer, putting is hands to the waist of Nando’s jeans, and tugging firmly until they slide down Nando’s thighs, taking his boxers with them. Nando’s cock, pink and growing hard, twitches in the air. Sergio bites his lip; seeing Nando like this drives him wilder than anything else in the world. It’s dangerous; he has to be careful. He brings his hands to the cuffs of Nando’s jeans and tugs them off his body, dropping them on the floor.
Nando’s eyes are growing hazy, unfocused again. He leans back on his arms as he stares at Sergio’s thighs, his cock, his pelvis. “Now. I need-”
Sergio leans into him, kissing him, and Nando moans achingly. Sergio’s hand travels over Nando’s stomach, his hips, curling into the hair above his cock. Nando’s stomach jumps. “Wait.” He breaks the kiss. “I need- a pillow.”
Sergio takes a pillow from the top of the bed, while Nando maneuvers himself until his head is against the pillow on the headboard. Sergio climbs onto the bed, and Nando lifts his ass off the sheets. Sergio tucks the pillow beneath his lover, placing it just at the base of Nando’s spine. It’ll help Nando’s hips stay in the right position, so that Nando doesn’t have to strain himself by holding up his body.
Sergio splits Nando’s legs apart with his torso, bringing his lips to Nando’s again, kissing him deeply. Nando lets his legs rest on Sergio’s shoulders. Sergio marvels at the man beneath him. The striker looks determined and in control from behind his mask. Sergio burns. His hands roam of their own volition. Nando’s body quakes and quivers beneath his fingers, and there are no words for how much he’s missed this, how much he’s needed this.
“Fuck me now.”
Sergio’s eyes wide. “Nando, it’s been-”
“I know how long it’s been. Don’t make me wait.”
Sergio pulls back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Please.”
Sergio bites his lip.
Nando slams his head back into the pillow, aching with frustration. “Please!” his voice breaks. “It’s been so long. I need you now!”
“But-”
“You said you’d do whatever I want. You said.”
“I-”
“You said.”
Sergio growls. He brings his mouth to Nando’s mouth again, pressing Nando’s thighs against Nando’s chest to get close enough. Nando yelps in surprise, but kisses back, his cock hard between his legs. Sergio paws at the bed until his hand finds the bottle of lube. He pops it open with his thumb and pulls back slightly, dribbling lube onto his hot cock. Nando watches Sergio like a hawk. The space between them fills with the sounds of their breathing. The back of Nando’s knees slip on Sergio’s shoulders, already sweaty. Sergio spreads the lube over his dick, stroking it awkwardly in the space between their bodies.
He chews his lip as he positions himself. As soon as he begins pushing he lets out a groan from deep in his stomach. Nando’s heat surrounds him, and he can’t believe how long it’s been, how much he’s missed doing this. His fingers curl deeply into Nando’s hips. Nando squeezes his eyes shut, baring his teeth, sucking in air over and over. It hurts, but the pain cuts through the ache like nothing else.
Sergio pushes slowly, trying to give Nando time to adjust, time to catch his breath. Sergio can’t believe he’s made it months without feeling this. He brings a hand to Nando’s cock, stroking it slowly up and down, up and down. Nando mewls, his body in shocks of pain and, slowly, shocks of pleasure. It’s like lights coming on in his body, all the nerve endings inside himself that haven’t felt anything for months suddenly firing all at once, firing because Sergio’s pushing his cock inside Nando, burying himself to the hilt. It takes a while for his brain to sort it out, to sort pleasure from pain. For a while it just feels like sensation, pure sensation. He breathes in deeply, exhales deeply, feeling outside of himself.
Then, after a while, his body kicks in, and his hips start to buck of their own volition. All of a sudden the pleasure sensors outweigh the pain sensors, and he clenches around Sergio’s cock deep inside of him. He’s in his body now and this is suddenly the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s being fucked by the hottest human being he’s ever seen. He tilts his head back and Sergio brings their mouths together in a loose kiss. Sweat drips down Nando’s forehead. His breath comes in short bursts.
“See?” Their eyes meet. “I t-old you.”
Sergio grunts, pushing Nando’s legs against his chest as he leans forward. His hips find a slow, deep rhythm, and his hands roam over Nando’s ribcage, his stomach. This fuck somehow has none of the desperation of the lead-up to it. Sergio fucks him like they’re building something between them, like he’s slowly remarking all the parts of Nando that he touches as his own. He fucks slowly, his forehead almost touching Nando’s. Nando lets his eyes fall shut and focuses on the sensations, as he brings a hand to his cock and strokes himself.
“God,” he shakes out. “I w-ant this all the t-ime.”
Sergio makes a noise from the back of his throat. The fingers of one of his hands wrap over Nando’s, making Nando stroke himself. Nando’s breathing shallows out; husky. Sergio keeps moving, slow and strong, dominating, getting every ache, every tightness out of his lover’s body, reducing that body to quivers. His hips find a deeper rhythm, one that finds Nando’s prostate in no rush over and over again. It feels like he can last forever, make the fuck spread out into infinity.
Nando’s in the part of the fuck that’s just bliss, the part where the nerves in his jaw tingle, and it’s almost like pins and needles, how his lower half isn’t his anymore. Ownership is somewhere between the two of them. Nando’s in the part of the fuck where his movements are instinctual and beyond his control, the part where his body responds to Sergio without asking his brain for direction. He’s in the part of the fuck where every exhalation makes a little sound, the part where it’s a struggle to keep his eyes from fluttering shut. He feels Sergio’s hands, Sergio’s chest, Sergio’s thighs. All of those things that make Sergio so strong, all of those things that make Nando want this moment, this moment of getting fucked to last forever. Sergio feels more than enormous, the feeling of what’s inside him magnified by the way the nerves connect, by how big Sergio actually is.
“I w-aited so l-ong.”
Sergio leans forward in jerks, putting his head through Nando’s splayed legs to kiss Nando’s turned-out lower lip; pink, swollen, and shining. He nibbles on it gently, and Nando’s breath shoots out his nose. Sweat drips down Sergio’s back, into the curl of his spine. Nando always undoes him, whenever they fuck, always makes him ravenous. Nando’s eyelashes flutter from behind the mask. A part of Sergio is frustrated that he can’t see all of Nando’s face, that he can’t see the freckles on his nose or the blush on his cheeks. Another part of him thinks that the denial makes it only hotter, how it protects Nando, how it makes Nando powerful in a way that Sergio is powerless. It makes Sergio’s hips twitch; it makes him fuck Nando harder.
“God,” Nando shudders. “It’s so hard.” Sergio’s eyes go to him, though Nando doesn’t see, his own eyes shut tightly. “You make me need you so much. You tease me. All the time.” Nando flexes his abdomen, holding his breath as Sergio pushes especially deep. “It’s n-ot fair; I want you s-so bad already.”
Sergio’s hands wrap around his waist, pressing into the soft white flesh.
“When-” He gulps. “When you talk about me- in interv-iews,”
Sergio bites at where Nando’s neck meets his shoulder.
“When you post things on your stupid f-ucking twitter, I know you’re prov-oking me.” he’s interrupted by his own moan as Sergio strokes him hard, once, twice. “You’re m-making me w-ant it from so far away.”
“Nando. . .”
“It’s not fair.”
Nando’s words light a fire in his stomach. Sergio draws another gasp from the striker, shifting positions, finding one more dominating.
“I saw- the picture you took- on my birthday,” Nando lets out in a gasp.
Sergio looks at him, panting, his hips moving slowly, fucking deeply. “Wha-”
“I know- why you did it.” Nando pants too, squeezing his eyes shut, letting his head loll back when Sergio’s pelvis meets his ass. “No one- no one knows, but me.”
“What- mean?”
“You were cla-aiming me. Saying- Saying you own me.”
“Yes.” Sergio shifts his hips. “I do.”
Nando extends his neck, arching off the bed. “I know!” he almost yelps, tearing up. His voice comes out jerky from Sergio’s movements. “But you m-ade me need it so bad and then you w-eren’t there to fuck me and it’s not fair!”
Sergio is wild, feeling a need to prove himself to Nando. All the guilt of all the times he’s not been there to do his duty by Nando turns into fire, turns into a seam-ripping passion. He leans forward, panting, knowing what to do.
“Take off the mask.”
Nando’s eyes flick to him. “Sergio-”
“Take it off.”
Sergio pauses his rhythm; His eyes meet Nando’s until the striker gives in. Nando brings shaking fingers to the back of his mask, fumbling with the straps until he loosens them. Then he pulls the mask off, revealing himself in full to Sergio, blushing, afraid to meet Sergio’s gaze. All the things he’s said now come back to him; and he can’t believe how much he said aloud; how much he admitted to Sergio. He feels incredibly naked.
Sergio stares, his hips twitching, at Nando’s face, all shyness and shame, nervousness and softness. Sergio feels an irrepressible urge to touch; his hand goes to Nando’s cheek, stroking it. Nando is panting, turning his cheek into Sergio’s palm, desperate for more contact. “Keep- Keep moving!” Nando gasps. “Please!”
Sergio doesn’t have to be told twice.
He bucks his hips, hard, and leans forward, putting a sucking kiss on Nando’s shoulder. Nando arches on the bed, gasping, from Sergio’s tongue, his teeth, his cock. Sergio pounds Nando’s ass, and Nando flickers from the force of it, loving the sensation only more knowing how he’ll be sore, how he’ll limp next morning when he gets out of bed. It’s like being taken over, and he loves how Sergio pins him down, how Sergio’s weight and heat feel over his body. Sergio rams into him and Nando knows he can let go of everything, let Sergio dominate him. Nando’s cheeks glow, his mouth hangs ajar, his eyes grow hazy. Sergio fills him to the brim, fills the room with the slick sounds of him pulling in and out.
“I want to do this to you,” he growls, “all the time.”
Nando whimpers.
"You’re mine. You should get fucked like this,” he pants, “every night.”
Sergio sucks another kiss to the underside of Nando’s jaw, knowing that it’s one of Nando’s favorite places. Nando jerks from the touch of his lips, mewing in pleasure. Sergio feels his orgasm closing in on him suddenly, the faster he fucks. He knows he can’t last much longer.
“You think it’s easy? You think I don’t want you all the time?”
Sergio strokes Nando quickly and with a loose hand. Sweat drips off his brow, his eyes black with lust. Nando lets out shaky gasps and moans, his fingers holding Sergio’s hips desperately, trying to pull him closer.
“You think I just go fuck some girl when I want to? You think that would be enough?”
“Sergio!” Nando blinks back tears, his orgasm building in his pelvis. His body throbs with pleasure, the sounds of Sergio slamming into him nearly drowning him.
“You think I don’t hate it when I see other people touch you?”
“Sese-”
Sergio growls, nipping Nando’s skin up and down his neck. The bed shakes. “You think I don’t want it how you want it?”
“Sese, I’m gonna- I’m gonna-” his chest heaves, the pressure in his body building up, about to burst.
Sergio eyes him fiercely, his hands gripping Nando’s ankles. “Cum for me.”
“Please-” Nando arches, curling his toes. “Sese!”
“Do it. Cum for me.”
“Se-Sergio!” Nando’s voice shatters as his climax tears him apart, his cock spurting all over his chest without him having to touch it. “Oh God,” he gasps. “Oh God, Sergio!” His whole body throbs. He cums so hard that a drop hits his chin.
Sergio can’t help himself; the sight of Nando in orgasmic shudders destroys the last shred of his control. His voice breaks in a coarse moan as he buries his cock in Nando’s ass once more and shoots deep, making his hips jerk, making his body fall forward. With a heavy sound he half-collapses on top of Nando. The room fills with his deep breaths, the sighing growls that escape past his lips. His hands caress Nando’s face as sweetly as he can, lying between Nando’s legs, pinning Nando to the bed. They’re both sweaty, sticky, heavy with exhaustion.
After a minute of heavy breathing, Sergio feels finally in control of himself again. His eyes roam over Nando’s face, dwelling on his pink cheeks, his swollen lips. His thumb catches the drop of Nando’s cum on his chin, and he brings it to his lips. The taste makes him smile; he’s grown to crave it over the years. The sharp, bright taste that is Nando. He savors it, remembering every time he has kissed the striker’s body clean after bringing him to orgasm.
Nando quivers beneath Sergio’s weight, letting his legs splay wide. He feels completely undone, his muscles unable to flex, his whole body loose. He only feels like he has movement above his arms; he’s ceded control of everything below. Sergio kisses his mouth, softly, and Nando makes soft noises in response. They lie like that in a languid pile, the man above Nando caressing him, kissing his lips until they’re buzzing.
After what feels like hours, Sergio pulls away, meets Nando’s eyes with his own, and grins. “So,” he says. “Miss me much?”
Nando lets out a tired laugh. “Shut up.”
Sergio keeps on grinning, glancing over Nando’s chest. “We made a mess, didn’t we?”
Nando blushes.
“Come on,” Sergio says, a hand massaging Nando’s upper arm. “Let’s get you clean.”
Fernando’s in the locker room. The game begins in fifteen minutes. He’s starting, and the knowledge of that fact makes him jitter. He kicks his cleats on the floor, trying to shake the stiffness from his legs. Opening his locker, he takes his mask from the top shelf.
Holding it in his hands, tingles run down his spine. A moment of silence follows, Nando breathing in and out. He knows he probably doesn’t need it anymore; the doctor tells him that his nose is healed. But he puts it on anyway, and he thinks of Sergio. He feels his blood sing in his veins.
He can do this.
He knows he can.