b’s home

the majority of my wips are actually from footie rpf (all of them my roman empire) so you get that too:

laser injury au / an eye for an eye

Ritual/winners’ choice au

JUST post-clasico hatesex -> Face of the enemy: - 2011-04-21 (DONE) + aftercare fic - 2012-10-xx - captain’s armband used as a gag - 1999-02-xx - first time - 2008-05-02 - pasilla - 2010-xx-xx (manita)? - 2023-03-xx - lingerie lol

Mestalla time travel au

WC 2002 post-Korea penalties (DONE) + Euro 2008 post-Italy penalties

Xavi’s visit to Madrid in 2001

post-bomb threat season 04/05

Porto vs Real Madrid ca. 2015 (By God, could this be… a song fic?) / the grass where you lay

Ritual / Do not go gentle

Zidane to Madrid in 1992 / Ренегат

Post WC 2002 / and the heaven is not yours

RM times / jerking off / something unholy

Sangre hirviendo (“A bloodied enemy is always a stirring sight.”)

post-clasico hatesex 19.04.2003 / para verte caer

Hierro stays as sporting director post-2018 AU / A bit of memory

“Real. Some idiots decided to throw stones at their bus on the way here.” He shrugs. “At least, that’s what José told me.”

“Well.” Lucho is momentarily lost for an answer. “As long as they’re not injured… This is stupid, of course.” This is doubly stupid if they’d be forced to forfeit because of it. Lucho shakes his head. First, they have to play the match. 

The atmosphere in the tunnel is decidedly uncomfortable. They greet the rival team, separated by the fence, but Real’s answer is sluggish. The players stand hunched, talking among themselves in low voices; even Sanchís, the captain, looks uncertain. Shaken. 

They are afraid. 

The thought brings him less joy than he expects. It’s one thing when your enemy is cowed because they know you’re good enough to blow them straight off the pitch; it’s quite another when they are afraid for their physical safety. 

Lucho makes a face. He knows everything about that sort of threat. If he can handle it, so can Madrid. 

His gaze finds Fernando just before the away team are called up. He’s standing against the wall, shoulders tense, face set in a deep frown. Then he shakes himself once, like a dog coming out of the water, straightens from his usual slouch, and takes his place behind Sanchís. His eyes are dark and hard, and if there is fear in them, he hides it well.

As they run up the stairs and onto the pitch, Lucho sneaks behind the steward and peeks out at ground level — to gouge the atmosphere, he tells himself. The whistles of their fans rise to an almost unbearable pitch as Real jog up to the center circle. When everyone has lined up, Fernando rubs at his mouth one last time, shakes out his legs, and raises both his arms in a gladiatorial greeting. Half a heartbeat later, Sanchís does as well, and then the rest of them. Camp Nou howls like a vengeful beast, deafening, and then somehow louder still when Fernando turns to the other stand and waves at them, too. 

Lucho ducks down when Luís calls his name, now satisfied. This game is going to be a proper clasico, after all. 

He almost runs into Fernando when he turns the corner. They still have ten minutes or so of the break left, but Lucho is already raring to go, his blood singing from the game. Fernando is looking intently down at his hands, and doesn’t even raise his head when Lucho comes closer. At first Lucho thinks he’s just fidgeting as usual, but then sees that he’s picking at the fresh scabs on the side of his palm. Fernando startles when he calls his name, and curses under his breath when he accidentally rips one off. He puts the cut to his mouth and stares accusingly at Lucho from under his lashes. Lucho just shrugs. “I was loud enough.”

“Like a bull in the china shop,” Fernando mutters. He looks at the blood still welling up from the cut and sighs. “Fuck it. The band-aid will just fall off after five minutes.”

Lucho pulls his jersey free from the shorts, grabs Fernando’s hand and presses the hem against it. He smirks in answer to his raised eyebrows. “Can’t get your pretty white kit bloody, no?”

Fernando chuckles. “Keep that mood a little longer, we have a tie to break.”

“You wish.” Lucho untangles Fernando’s hand from his shirt and steps back, just in time for Carles to come by and motion them back into the tunnel, slowly filling with the noise of two teams. Lucho turns away, tucks his shirt back into the shorts, and shivers when the slightly damp fabric sticks to his belly. It’s not Fernando’s blood, obviously, there wasn’t that much of it, but he still runs his hand over the front to check. 

The second half starts out as cagey as the first, but Real’s nerves are fraying, and the referee finally gets involved. The first yellow of the game goes, unsurprisingly, to Fernando, but it seems to barely register with him as he goes for tackle after tackle. The follow-up is as predictable as it is mundane: no high challenge, no bone-breaking, just Anderson taking the ball off him and Fernando hooking a leg around his ankles on the last, desperate stretch. Anderson goes down, sprawling on the turf, and Lucho knows even as he runs after the referee that it’s going to be a second yellow.

The sound from the stands reaches a fever pitch and becomes an impenetrable wall, a weapon in its own right. Fernando looks up at the card in the ref’s hand, bright like blood — and he smiles. It’s a dark, savage sort of smile, a rictus grin, but it lights up his plain face and transforms it into something Lucho can barely take his eyes off of. He wonders what his own face looked like when he ran before the Madrid Ultras after scoring that first goal. If Fernando saw it. If he was as mesmerized by his own likeness in an enemy’s face as Lucho is now. 

That smile is gone in a heartbeat, as the realization hits in what kind of clusterfuck Fernando leaves his team. They can’t be more than five minutes into the second half, and Real is now down a defender. Considering how even the teams have been so far, this is what decides the match. 

Fernando throws the referee one last dark look before Seedorf pulls him away from the gaggle of Real players arguing his innocence. Then he hangs his head and drags his feet all the way to Real’s bench, his tall, lanky figure looking small against the raging sea of the stands. The abuse raining down gets louder when Heynckes takes off Raul for a defensive midfielder, clearly hoping to hold Barcelona to a draw. 

Lucho can’t help but grin. Good fucking luck with that.

***

(Fernando's smile was literally like this)