fic, buffon/torres, unbearable, NC-17
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Jun. 30th, 2008 | 10:06 pm
posted by: sophiamoon in euroslash
Pairing: Gianluigi Buffon/Fernando Torres
Disclaimer: who knows? I for sure don’t.
Note: I didn’t mean to, but I did. Not sure if I should have.
By Sophia Moon
There is very little to say between them. Fernando smiles shyly before he takes off his shirt. Something with a funny print and some nonsense in would be English. His skin is pale, his face sprinkled with countless freckles, that Gianluigi still wants to count like he has all the time of the world.
Fernando sits down on the bed to untie his shoelaces. He takes off his shoes and socks. Still a boy in the way he slightly tilts his head, a question mark in his eyes.
Buffon grins the dangerous smile of a predator seconds before the attack. (This bed, this room, is only second best. He should have taken the boy on the pitch, right in front of his real kingdom.) But the prey doesn’t run when he kneels down and takes the boy’s right foot in his hands. He feels the shudder, the shock running through Fernando’s body when he presses his mouth against the instep, while using his fingers to trace the arch of underside.
This is more intimate, more daring, more perverse than lapping at another man’s arse, than allowing him to fuck your mouth.
It’s the irresistible invitation to suck each and every toe, first of the right foot, then of the left. The boy blushes, he knows that for a fact, even though he isn’t looking. When he teases between the toes, Fernando giggles and falls back on the bed. It’s then that he looks and finds his breath caught in his throat. Spread out arms, head tilted back to bare a vulnerable throat, fast heaving belly: the boy’s utterly ripe for the picking.
The Italian takes his time. Perhaps because there is no time. This hotel room, this night will be all they have. And even those few hours make them thieves and impostors. But he doesn’t care, because it’s no use to care. Either he’s here, with the Spanish boy, or he is where he’s supposed to be. And since it’s all to obvious whose toes he’s nibbling, he leaves all guilt and doubt for later. Much later.
He’s greedy, though. Soon feet are not enough and he tucks up the legs of the jeans to bite first the left then the right calf. Perhaps to make up for his cruelty (the bites are not playful) he kisses the left, right shinbone and it might well be that’s even crueller.
Fernando wants to open his jeans, of course he wants that, but he’s a good, obedient boy and so he lets out a stream of moans and unformed syllables and Gianluigi pretends he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on while blowing warm air against the inside of the knees.
The only reason he finally stops doing what he’s doing to make sure Fernando gets rid of that, undoubtedly, ridiculously priced designer jeans is that he wants it. He wants the boy naked, vulnerable to his eyes, open to his touch.
So he touches everything. His large hands conquer trembling belly and small hips and tiny waist (he’s still not a girl by far, this most boyish of men) and flat chest. His fingers pluck at hard little pebbles of pink flesh and the boy moans so loud he does it again and again just to hear that sound.
He doesn’t blame Fernando for opening his legs as wide as he’s able to (and that’s breathtakingly wide) nor does he fault him for trying to tilt his hips in order to find something, anything, firm enough to rub his cock against.
The boy’s cock must hurt, hard and deeply red and seeping pre-come as it is. Poor thing. Still, the cry Fernando utters, because his touch is perfectly balanced between giving indescribable pleasure and near unbearable pain, makes him, for the first time since he entered the room, fully aware of his own erection.
As much as he loves the power of being fully dressed in the presence of a naked, and thus exposed Fernando, he takes of his own clothes with matter-of-factly moves. But he knows the effect he has on the boy when he rubs his own cock. It’s big enough to leave an impression and perhaps bordering on scary in the eyes of someone who knows what’s going to happen while having limited experience and by far not enough time to make it a fully painless exercise.
There’s not even a hint of protest when he flips the boy on his belly and manhandles him until he’s kneeling with his arse sticking out and his head resting between his hands. He knows what he wants, what Fernando needs, he sees no reason to draw the moment out, but he’s careful enough to make sure the line between pain and injury will not be crossed.
Fernando lets out a deep breath when Buffon enters him. Proud because he can take it? Too proud to show how he really feels? Or perhaps just relieved he gets what he wants?
And oh, how the man gives the boy what he wants. He gives his strength and anger and hate and frustration because he can’t even be honest to himself about time and choices, and love, because even the most subtle lies will be uncovered by such unbearable vulnerability.
He comes deep inside the scorching depth of the boy, coming harder and longer than ever before, or so it seems to him. But memories really don’t count in such cases. It halfway surprises him that he stays hard enough to be able to stay inside Fernando and, with some clever manipulation, to flip them both over so the boy ends up sitting on top of him.
He stays motionless while Fernando rides him. Eyes closed, lips slightly open to make room for a stream of moans and sighs. Hands a fast blur over cock and balls.
Gianluigi takes the boy’s hands in his own, while still seated deep within him, and licks the palms and fingers clean. Only then he slips out and allows himself to take Fernando in his arms and kiss his lips.
He lets the boy sleep for an hour before he wakes him.