start it right
summary: when fernando decides to start his birthday right, the two of you end up in heat that neither of you are ready for in the best way.
word count: 3k words
a/n: happy birthday to this sexy mannnn!!! this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! thank you for reading!!
warnings: this is honestly straight SMUT
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The fireworks have faded, replaced by ragged breathing. The sheets are tangled and damp with sweat when Fernando props himself up on one elbow beside you.
His chest is still heaving, glistening in the low light from the city outside. When you meet his eyes, there's a wicked gleam that makes your stomach flip.
"Mi amor," he murmurs, reaching out to stroke along your jaw with calloused fingers. His touch is gentle, reverent even, but that smile that smile is pure trouble. "I want to start my birthday right."
You laugh, breathless, turning your face into his palm. "Pretty sure we just did that. Twice."
"No, no." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheekbone, working his way toward your mouth. "I mean right. All the way right."
"Fernando—" You start to protest, but he's already kissing down your neck, teeth grazing that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.
"It's almost my birthday," he whispers against your skin, and you can feel his smile. "Birthday privileges, baby. You know the rules."
"There are no rules about—oh—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his mouth finds your collarbone, his hand sliding down your side.
"Twenty four hours," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes intense despite the playfulness in his voice. "That's all I want. Just you and me. No stopping."
Your brain is still foggy from the first round, rounds, plural and it takes a moment for his words to fully register. "Wait, you mean—"
"All night." He grins, that cocky, confident smile that made you fall for him in the first place. "All day. Until midnight tomorrow. My birthday marathon."
"You're insane," you breathe, but you're already arching into his touch as his hand slides between your thighs.
"Insane for you," he agrees, and then his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your laughter, your protests, everything except the desire that's already building again despite your exhaustion.
This time he takes it slow. His hands map every inch of your body, like he hasn't touched you a thousand times before. When he finally slides inside you, you're already trembling, oversensitive and overwhelmed.
"That's it," he murmurs against your ear, his voice rough and low. "Just like that, princesa. We've got all night."
He sets a rhythm that's deep and intentional, each thrust measured and precise. It's not about speed it's about endurance. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as he moves above you.
"Fernando," you gasp, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest.
"Say it again."
"Fernando—"
"Fuck, I love hearing my name like that." He lifts his head to look at you, his expression intense. "Gonna hear it all night, baby. All day. Gonna make you say it so many times you forget every other word."
He's true to his word. By the time you both finish him with a low moan that makes your toes curl, you with his name on your lips, you're already wondering how you're going to survive this.
But when he pulls you close, kissing your forehead with surprising tenderness, you think maybe you want to find out.
"Round three?" he asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
"Give me five minutes," you manage, and his laughter rumbles through both of you.
"Five minutes," he agrees. "Then we go again."
⸻
You don't get five minutes. You get maybe three before his hands are wandering again, his mouth finding yours in the darkness. This time there's more urgency, more playfulness. He's energized now, riding the high of anticipation, and his confidence is absolutely infectious.
"Let's see how long you last before you tap out," he challenges, rolling you beneath him with an ease that shouldn't be as hot as it is.
You try to flip the script, pushing at his chest until he lets you climb on top, but he just grins up at you like you've played right into his hands.
"Oh, you want to be in control?" His hands settle on your hips, guiding your movements. "Go ahead, mami. Show me what you've got."
The cockiness in his voice makes you determined to wipe that smirk off his face, but he's infuriatingly good at this at reading your body, at knowing exactly when to thrust up to meet you, at making you lose your rhythm until you're the one falling apart while he watches with satisfaction.
"That's what I thought," he says smugly when you collapse forward onto his chest, and you bite his shoulder in retaliation.
"Shut up," you mutter, but you're smiling against his skin.
"Make me."
So you do, kissing him until you're both breathless again, until the playful competition dissolves into something hotter and more desperate. When you finish this time, you're both laughing, delirious with exhaustion.
"Shower," Fernando announces, somehow finding the energy to sit up. "Come on, we need to wake up."
"I'm awake," you protest, but he's already pulling you out of bed, ignoring your halfhearted complaints.
The shower is supposed to be practical, but with Fernando, nothing is ever just practical. The hot water has barely hit your skin before he's pressing you against the tile, his mouth on your neck, his hands everywhere.
"This is the opposite of waking up," you gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically.
"No, this is exactly waking up," he counters, and then he's inside you again and you forget why you were arguing.
The water streams over both of you as he moves, his grip on your thighs firm and steady. It's rougher this time, more urgent, the tile cold against your back contrasting with the heat of his body. You can feel his muscles flexing with each thrust, can hear the way his breathing gets ragged when you clench around him.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, and the raw honesty in his voice makes you tighten your legs around him.
By the time you stumble out of the shower, you're not sure you can walk straight. Fernando notices, of course, and his grin is absolutely insufferable.
"Legs a little shaky, baby?"
"I hate you," you say without any real heat, and he laughs, wrapping a towel around you before dealing with his own.
"No you don't." He pulls you close, kissing the top of your head. "You love me. That's why you're doing this crazy thing with me."
He's right, you do love him. Even when he's being ridiculous and competitive and insatiable.
"Come on," he says, taking your hand. "Let's get some food. I need energy."
You should have known the kitchen wouldn't be safe either. You're barely halfway through making coffee when he comes up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his mouth finding that spot on your neck again.
"Fernando, I'm trying to—"
"Birthday boys get breakfast," he murmurs against your skin, his hands sliding under your shirt his shirt, actually, that you threw on after the shower. "And a blowjob."
"Oh my god." You're laughing even as heat pools low in your belly. "You're impossible."
"But you love me anyway." He turns you around, lifting you onto the counter with ease.
"I love you," you say, and his smile is so bright, so genuine, that your heart squeezes.
"Good." He kisses you, slow and deep. "Because I'm about to make you forget your own name again."
He does. Right there in the kitchen, with the coffee maker beeping forgotten behind you and the early morning light starting to creep through the windows. It's frantic and messy and perfect, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks, your fingers tangled in his hair.
When you finally make it back to something resembling breakfast, you're both a mess hair wild, lips swollen, wearing nothing but underwear and stolen shirts. Fernando keeps touching you, casual and constant, like he can't help himself. A hand on your thigh while you eat. Fingers trailing up your spine while you lean against the counter. Kisses pressed to your shoulder, your neck, your temple.
"How are you still going?" you ask, genuinely amazed, and he shrugs with that cocky confidence that never quite tips over into arrogance.
"I'm an athlete, baby. Stamina is kind of my thing."
"This is a different kind of stamina."
"Best kind." He pulls you into his lap, and you can already feel him getting hard again beneath you. "Besides, look at you. How am I supposed to keep my hands off you?"
By the time the sun is fully up, you've lost count of how many times you've come together. Your legs are definitely unsteady now, and when you try to stand, Fernando has to catch you, his laughter warm and affectionate.
"Easy there."
"This is your fault," you accuse, but you're smiling.
"I know." He looks entirely too pleased with himself. "And we're just getting started."
The promise or threat in his words makes you shiver with anticipation despite your exhaustion.
⸻
You crash hard around mid morning, both of you finally hitting a wall. Fernando pulls you into bed, and you're asleep before your head hits the pillow, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sheets.
When you wake, the light has shifted, afternoon sun streaming through the windows. You're warm and comfortable, and it takes a moment to register the soft press of lips against your shoulder.
"Mmm, no," you mumble, but there's no real protest in it.
"Yes," Fernando counters, his voice rough with sleep. His hand slides over your hip, pulling you back against him. "Told you. All day."
"You're insane," you repeat, but you're already arching into his touch.
He agrees with a soft laugh.
This time is different, slower and softer. He pulls you into his lap, both of you still half asleep and drowsy, and the way he slides inside you is gentle, almost lazy. Like you have all the time in the world.
"Missed you," he murmurs against your neck.
"I'm right here," you say softly, and he makes a sound of agreement.
"I know. Still missed you." His hands are gentle on your hips, guiding your movements in a slow, rolling rhythm. "Could do this forever. Just this. Just you."
The emotion in his voice catches you off guard, makes your chest tight. You turn your head to kiss him, and it's soft and sweet and devastating.
"Love you," you whisper against his mouth.
"Love you more," he replies, and then neither of you are talking anymore.
When you come, it's with his name on your lips and his arms tight around you, holding you, he follows moments later. You stay like that for a long time, just holding each other, his hands tracing lazy patterns on your back.
"You're so good to me," he says eventually, his voice quiet. "So fucking good for me, baby. I could live off you. Just this. Just us."
"Fernando—"
"I mean it." He pulls back to look at you, his expression serious despite the softness in his eyes. "Best thing that ever happened to me. You know that, right?"
"You're getting sappy," you tease, but your voice is thick with emotion.
"Birthday privilege," he says with a small smile. "I get to be sappy if I want."
"Okay," you agree, kissing him again. "You get to be sappy."
The afternoon passes in a haze of slow, deep kisses and gentle touches. You make love twice more once on the couch, with you in his lap and his hands cradling your face like you're made of glass, and once on the living room floor because neither of you can make it back to the bedroom.
Each time is intense in a different way.
"Thought you had all this stamina, birthday boy," you tease during a brief respite, and his eyes flash with competitive fire.
"Oh, you want to see stamina?" He's on you in an instant, and you're laughing as he pins you down, his mouth finding yours. "I'll show you stamina, princesa."
And just like that, the energy shifts again.
⸻
After forcing yourselves to eat something actual food, not just each other you're both exhausted but determined. The clock hasn't hit midnight yet, and Fernando is nothing if not committed to seeing this through.
"We're hitting midnight," he says, his voice taking on that competitive edge you recognize from when he's on the field. "I'm not letting you quit."
"Who said anything about quitting?" You raise an eyebrow, matching his energy. "I can go as long as you can."
"That's my girl." His grin is wicked as he pulls you toward the bedroom. "Let's see if you can back that up."
The music is low, something with a heavy beat that seems to sync with your pulse. The lights are dim, just enough to see the way his eyes darken as he looks at you, the way his muscles flex as he moves.
This round is rougher, he's louder now, less controlled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he drives into you. You're louder too, past the point of caring about anything except the feeling of him, the sound of his voice, the way he says your name.
"Fuck, just like that," he groans, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss your throat. "So fucking perfect for me."
You try to take control, to flip him over and show him you can give as good as you get, but he's stronger, and he uses it to his advantage.
"Nice try, baby," he says, and then he's moving again, harder, deeper, until you're crying out his name and clawing at his back.
"Fernando, fuck, Fernando—"
"That's it. Say it. Say my name."
"Fernando!"
You lose count after that. Lose track of time. It all blurs together his hands, his mouth, his voice in your ear telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are, how he never wants this to end.
At some point you're both laughing, delirious and exhausted and still somehow wanting more. He's relentless, and you match him, neither of you willing to be the first to give in.
"How are you still going?" you gasp at one point, and his laugh is breathless.
"Could ask you the same thing, mami."
"Competitive," you manage, and he grins.
"Damn right."
⸻
You're not sure what time it is when you notice the clock. You're on your back, Fernando above you, moving with a desperate intensity that suggests he's close to his limit. His face is buried in your neck, his breathing ragged, and you can feel the tremor in his muscles.
Then you see it. 11:59 PM.
"Fernando," you gasp, and he lifts his head, his eyes unfocused. "Look."
He follows your gaze to the clock, and you watch as realizes. He slows his movements, his eyes locked on the glowing numbers as they tick over.
11:59.
12:00.
"Happy birthday, mi amor," you whisper, reaching up to cup his face, pulling him down for a kiss.
You feel it in the way he kisses you back, desperate and overwhelming, in the way his hands grip you tighter, in the way he moves like he's been holding himself together and finally, finally can let go.
"Happy birthday, baby. I love you. Happy birthday."
Then he starts laughing. Soft at first, then louder, his whole body shaking with it.
"What?" you ask, running your fingers through his hair.
"I made it," he says, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes are bright, his smile wide and genuine. "It's my birthday. I actually made it."
"You made it," you agree, laughing with him. "You absolute maniac."
"Best birthday ever," he says, kissing you again. "Best fucking birthday ever."
⸻
You're sprawled on his chest, completely spent, every muscle in your body aching in the best possible way. Fernando's hand traces lazy circles on your back, his breathing finally steady and calm.
"Best birthday I've ever had," he says, his voice rough but satisfied.
"Better than when you hit a grand slam?" you tease, and he laughs.
"Way better. Not even close."
You smile against his skin, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I didn't think you'd actually make it twenty four hours."
"You had no faith." You can hear the smirk in his voice. "I told you, baby. Stamina."
"Athlete stamina is one thing. This was..." You trail off, shaking your head. "This was insane."
"Insane for you," he says for the third time, and it makes you smile every time.
You're quiet for a moment, just enjoying the closeness, the warmth of his body against yours. Then he shifts slightly, and you feel him start to harden again beneath you.
"Fernando," you say warningly.
"What?" He sounds entirely too innocent. "I'm just saying, technically I could go again—"
You smack his chest, and he winces but laughs, the sound rumbling through both of you.
"Okay, okay, I'm done. I promise." He wraps his arms around you tighter, pulling you impossibly closer. "Just want to hold you now."
"Good," you murmur, already feeling sleep pulling at you. "Because I don't think I could move if I wanted to."
"That was the goal," he says smugly, and you smack him again, gentler this time.
His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together and bringing them to rest over his heart. You can feel it beating, strong and steady, and something about the gesture makes your eyes sting with emotion.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For this. For everything. For being crazy enough to do this with me."
"Always," you promise, and you mean it.
You feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, and then his breathing starts to even out, his body relaxing into sleep. You follow soon after, safe and warm and loved, with his heart beating beneath your palm and his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.
And you wouldn't change a single second of it.
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MASTERLIST
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