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Sebas tries to take a breath, head thrown back, catching a gasp, or two, hands fisting in the sheets as Roque moves above him. He’s held down, pinned underneath kilos of hot, heavy muscle, dedicated solely to his pleasure.
“Roque, please,” Sebas begs, palms sliding along the thickness of Roque’s shoulders, whining as Roque leans in, licking into his mouth, smiling as he widens his stance, hips opening Sebas’ legs, so Roque can get deeper. “Please, for fuck’s sake, do something.”
“Don’t rush me. I’ve been waiting to get you here all fucking day,” Roque says, kissing him over and over, Sebas trying desperately to move on Roque’s cock, needing to feel the lightning streak up and down his spine, needing Roque to keep him from flying apart, needing Roque all over, under, and inside him.
“I’m here, I promise, I’m here all night-- just, fuck, please,” Sebas digs his fingers into Roque’s sides, kissing him back, willing to tell him anything, to do anything, just to feel.
“Okay, okay,” Roque relents, and gives Sebas one perfect, direct hit of a thrust, making his back bow and his cock kick against his stomach. “Again?”
“Fucking bastard,” Sebas grits out, and Roque smirks and thrusts again, the perfect rhythm beginning, pleasure rolling over Sebas in waves.
“Oh yes,” Sebas grunts, Roque’s perfect body and perfect mouth working in unison, biting at Sebas’ jaw and large, purposeful palms holding him down, in the best way, so Roque can remake him brand new.
He’s fearless when he’s with Roque, somehow, all of the anxiety and desperation melting into nothingness, the only thing mattering is Roque’s smile, Roque’s hands, Roque’s laugh-- sunshine and purpose, rugby, training, the tangle of fresh sheets and sleepwarm skin, callouses and scars, all his, all theirs, together.
“More,” Sebas demands, and Roque rolls his eyes but does as he’s told, picking up the pace, bracing one hand on the shelving above his bed and pumping into Sebas harder.
He can only imagine the picture he paints underneath Roque, wonders what he looks like when he comes undone, more often than not the home Roque finds completion in, and what that means-- how he bends over for their captain almost every night, craving the feel of Roque’s cock inside him, and how it quiets all the screaming, and the tears that come are because of pleasure and nothing else.
“Does it feel good?” Sebas asks, as Roque bites down on his lip, eyes trained on Sebas, as if unable to look away.
“You know it does,” Roque says, leaning in to kiss him, licking into his mouth, hands tangling in Sebas’ hair. “You are the best part of my day,” Roque whispers, and Sebas can’t do anything but wrap his arms around Roque and kiss him back.
He knows he hurts Roque with his fear, his uncertainty, and the thought makes him want to vomit, makes him want to be brave.
It’s why Sebas kissed Roque on the pitch-- it’s why he also agreed to help Roque and Zoe find Amaia and take down Olympo, rotten to the core with corruption and greed, twisting the only pure things they had in athletics, against themselves and each other.
He’s so fucking tired of being scared, of hurting Roque, of hurting himself. The pain of denying who he is for so fucking long, for not letting himself go and just be, he’s had enough. This is enough.
“Roque,” Sebas says, and Roque hums, kissing him, that familiar burn beginning to build low in his gut. “Roque, Roque, I’m close.”
“You want to come on my cock, cari?” Roque loves a pet name, sweet nothingness to pepper between purposeful dedications, and Sebas is-- well, was-- yet to hear it directed at him. Roque is careful with him, their tentative reunion post trailer still fragile, and Sebas is bored of the kid gloves. He wants all of Roque, wants the good and the bad, and wants to be trusted to stay by him through all of it.
“I want to come on your cock, cari,” Sebas echoes, and Roque makes a delighted noise, ducking in to suck a kiss against the bottom of his jaw, nosing along it, breathing him in.
“Cari,” Roque says, and Sebas laughs, digging his heel into Roque’s lower back, always demanding more.
“Make me come. Make me scream your name,” Sebas grips Roque’s face, and Roque looks dumbstruck for a moment, before nodding, and dedicating himself to the task, of fucking Sebas into next week.
His cock fills Sebas with each stroke, hitting his prostate and sending fireworks across his skin, Roque’s mouth and hands tracking paths along the sweaty slide of them together, bringing Sebas to the brink and beyond.
He delivers on his promise-- Sebas comes, hard, sobbing Roque’s name, squeezing down hard on him, as Sebas coats his stomach and chest. Roque follows him over a few thrusts after, emptying deep inside him, filling Sebas up, just how he likes.
“Fucking hell,” Roque mutters, a few moments later, once he gets his breath back enough to move, pulling out slowly, Sebas wincing at the slide. He flops down next to Sebas, chests heaving in sync, and stretches out his thighs, groaning at the burn.
“Full day of training and now you want more from me,” Roque grouses, and Sebas whacks him playfully, Roque giggling, the sound divine.
He feels the wetness begin to leak out between his cheeks, and it somehow settles something in his chest, the evidence of their time together, indelibly inked into him, Roque’s mark left somewhere deep and private, somewhere only Sebas allows him to touch and be.
“Did it feel good?” Roque asks, and Sebas feels shy at the pet names earlier; instinct demanding he hide, reach for his underwear and say he’s got to call his mother or something, but he takes a beat, lets the urge pass, and looks at Roque, nodding.
“It did. It always does. Did it feel good for you?” he asks.
Roque smiles, a brilliant, beautiful thing, and Sebas falls, and falls, and falls. God, how he loves him. He loves this boy, this man, this flawed perfection, and that revelation should rock him, should change something to his core. But somehow, the world keeps spinning and Roque keeps smiling at him, and Sebas is content to be here, with him, now.
“Good. Good.” Sebas says, and Roque shines.