Puppy In Love
The Weight of the Crown
The mid-morning sun at Valdebebas was relentless, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from Sergio’s skin. He was twenty-two, in the peak physical condition of his life, yet every time he stood within a five-foot radius of Luka Modrić, he felt like he was vibrating out of his own skin.
It had been three weeks since the night at the villa, three weeks since Luka had finally stopped laughing at him and started letting him in. But "letting him in" was a relative term with Luka. The veteran was a master of the midfield and an even greater master of his own boundaries. On the pitch, he was the commander, the silent engine that kept the greatest club in the world running. In private, he was a demanding, teasing, and utterly intoxicating enigma who still insisted on calling Sergio "puppy."
Sergio loved it. He hated it. He lived for it.
He was currently standing in the ice bath, the freezing water numbing his legs, while Luka sat on the edge of the adjacent tub, leaning back on his elbows. Luka’s training shorts were hiked up, exposing those legendary thighs—thick, corded with muscle, and currently sporting a faint, yellowish bruise that Sergio knew he had caused three nights ago.
"You’re staring again, Sergio," Luka said without opening his eyes. "It’s a wonder you don't trip over your own feet on the pitch with how much time you spend looking at me."
"I’m just making sure my captain is recovering well," Sergio countered, his voice dropping an octave. "You put in a lot of work yesterday. In the match. And after."
Luka opened one eye, a sharp, icy blue that seemed to cut right through Sergio’s bravado. A slow, mocking smirk spread across his face. "Is that what we’re calling it? Work? You were practically whimpering, Sergio. For a big, tough defender, you’re remarkably easy to break."
Sergio felt the heat crawl up his neck, contrasting sharply with the ice water. "I wasn't whimpering. I was... appreciative."
Luka let out a soft, melodic laugh that echoed in the tiled room. He sat up, reaching out to pat Sergio’s cheek. The touch was condescending, the way one might pet a particularly large and enthusiastic Great Dane. "You’re a puppy. A big, loyal, slightly dim-witted puppy who thinks he’s a wolf."
Sergio grabbed Luka’s wrist before he could pull his hand away. The difference in their sizes was never more apparent than in moments like this. Sergio’s hand swallowed Luka’s wrist entirely. He could feel the delicate bone, the frantic pulse, and the hidden strength that lay beneath the surface.
"I’m man enough to handle you, Luka," Sergio whispered, his eyes dark with a sudden, fierce intensity. "You know that better than anyone."
Luka didn't flinch. He didn't even try to pull away. Instead, he leaned forward, his face inches from Sergio’s. The smell of him—expensive soap and that underlying scent of grass and sweat—made Sergio’s head spin.
"Strength isn't just about how hard you can grip, Sergio," Luka murmured, his voice like velvet over gravel. "It’s about knowing when to let go. And right now, you’re holding on like you’re afraid I’ll vanish if you don't."
"I am," Sergio admitted, his voice cracking slightly.
Luka’s expression softened, just for a heartbeat, before the mask of the veteran clicked back into place. He yanked his hand back and stood up, grabbing a towel. "Dry off. We have a tactical meeting in ten minutes. And try to keep your tongue in your mouth when the coach is talking. It’s embarrassing."
The meeting was a blur of whiteboards and laser pointers. Sergio sat three rows behind Luka, his eyes fixed on the back of the older man’s neck. He watched the way the fine, blonde hairs curled at the nape, the way Luka leaned his head to the side when he was thinking.
He felt a deep, aching sense of shame that he was so obsessed, so utterly consumed by a man who seemed to treat him like a favorite pet. He was Sergio Ramos. He was the future of the Spanish national team. He was supposed to be the one leading, the one dominating. But one look from Luka, one quiet "good boy" whispered in the dark of a bedroom, and Sergio was ready to crawl.
After the meeting, the squad headed to the canteen. Sergio found himself sandwiched between Iker and Marcelo, but his focus was entirely on the table where Luka sat with the other seniors. They were laughing, talking about wine and investments, things that made Sergio feel his age more than any training drill ever could.
"You’re doing it again," Marcelo whispered, nudging Sergio with his elbow.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at him like he’s the last bottle of water in the desert. Dial it down, man. People are going to start asking questions."
"I don't care," Sergio muttered, though he forced his eyes down to his plate of grilled chicken.
"You should. Luka’s private. He doesn't like the noise. If you make too much noise, he’ll shut the door on you."
The thought sent a cold shiver through Sergio. He spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of quiet desperation, trying to be the professional Luka expected him to be. He trained harder, tackled fiercer, and didn't look at the veteran once.
It lasted until the locker room cleared out after the final session of the day.
Sergio was sitting on the bench, his head in his hands, when he felt a presence in front of him. He looked up to find Luka standing there, fully dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, looking every bit the legend he was.
"You were very quiet today, puppy," Luka said, his tone unreadable. "Did I hurt your feelings?"
"No," Sergio said, standing up. He towered over Luka, but the older man didn't move an inch. "I was just... practicing letting go. Like you said."
Luka looked him up and down, a slow, predatory glint entering his eyes. He reached out, his hand sliding under the hem of Sergio’s training shirt, his palm flat against the warm skin of Sergio’s stomach. Sergio’s breath hitched.
"I didn't say I wanted you to let go right now," Luka whispered. "I just said you should know how."
"Luka—"
"Shh." Luka’s hand moved higher, his fingers tracing the line of Sergio’s ribs. "My apartment. One hour. I have a new bottle of wine, and I find myself in need of someone to pour it for me."
"I’ll be there in thirty minutes," Sergio said, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"One hour, Sergio. Don't be eager. It’s a bad look."
Luka patted his chest one last time and walked out, the click of his expensive shoes echoing in the empty room.
Exactly sixty minutes later, Sergio was standing outside Luka’s door. When it opened, he didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and pulled Luka into his arms.
He lifted the older man off his feet, his hands hooking under Luka’s thighs. Luka let out a small, surprised huff of air, his arms automatically looping around Sergio’s neck. He felt so small, so perfectly balanced in Sergio’s grip. Sergio could feel the power in those legs even now, the way they squeezed his waist to stay upright.
"You’re late," Luka lied, a smirk playing on his lips.
"I’m exactly on time," Sergio growled, burying his face in the crook of Luka’s neck. "God, you drive me crazy. I spent all day trying to be the man you want, and all I could think about was biting you."
Luka tilted his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. "Then bite me, Sergio. Stop talking about it and do it."
Sergio didn't need to be told twice. He carried Luka toward the sofa, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of Luka’s neck, leaving a mark that would definitely need concealer the next morning. He dropped Luka onto the leather cushions and followed him down, his large frame pinning the smaller man into the upholstery.
Luka’s hands were in Sergio’s hair, his fingers tugging with a surprising amount of force. "You think you’re so strong, don't you? Because you can lift me? Because you’re younger?"
"I am strong," Sergio said, his hands sliding down to grip Luka’s thighs, squeezing the muscle until Luka let out a sharp, jagged breath. "I could break you if I wanted to."
"You could try," Luka challenged, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, competitive fire. "But I’ve been playing this game since before you could tie your own shoes, puppy. I know exactly how to handle a big, clumsy thing like you."
Luka suddenly shifted, his legs hooking behind Sergio’s knees and his weight shifting in a way that used Sergio’s own momentum against him. In a flash, Sergio was the one pinned to the sofa, and Luka was sitting astride his chest, his weight concentrated and commanding.
Sergio gasped, the air knocked out of him not by the weight, but by the sheer audacity of the move. Luka looked down at him, his blonde hair falling over his face, his expression one of absolute, calm authority.
"You forget who the captain is, Sergio," Luka said, his voice a low, terrifying purr. "You’re the muscle. I’m the brain. You move when I tell you to move. You stay when I tell you to stay."
"Yes, Luka," Sergio breathed, his hands reaching up to rest on Luka’s knees. He felt a wave of pure, unadulterated devotion wash over him. He wanted to be dominated. He wanted to be the one who served.
Luka leaned down, his lips brushing against Sergio’s ear. "Good boy. Now, I want you to look at me. I want you to see exactly who owns you."
Sergio looked. He saw the legend, the veteran, the man who had won everything there was to win. And he saw the man who, in the privacy of this room, allowed Sergio to see the fire beneath the ice.
"I’m yours," Sergio whispered. "Always."
Luka’s expression softened, his hand reaching down to stroke Sergio’s hair with a genuine tenderness that was more intoxicating than any of the teasing. "I know you are, puppy. That’s why I keep you around."
Luka shifted his weight, his thighs pressing firmly against Sergio’s sides. The sheer strength in them was incredible; Sergio could feel the power that allowed Luka to run for ninety minutes without tiring, the power that made him the best in the world. Sergio’s hands moved up, his fingers digging into the muscle, his thumbs tracing the lines of Luka’s quadriceps.
"I want to mark them," Sergio confessed, his voice thick with desire. "I want everyone to know they belong to me."
"They belong to the game, Sergio," Luka corrected, though he leaned down to kiss Sergio’s forehead. "But tonight... tonight you can pretend."
Sergio moved with a desperate, youthful hunger, but he was learning. He was learning the rhythm that Luka liked, the way to touch him that made the veteran lose his composure. He worshipped those thighs, his mouth leaving a trail of heat and pressure that made Luka groan and arch his back.
As the night progressed, the power dynamic shifted back and forth, a dance of strength and surrender. Sergio would manhandle Luka, lifting him and turning him as if he weighed nothing, only for Luka to reclaim control with a single word or a well-placed grip.
They ended up tangled together in the large bed, the sheets a mess around them. Sergio was lying on his back, and Luka was draped across him, his head resting on Sergio’s chest. Sergio’s arm was wrapped tightly around Luka’s waist, holding him close, as if afraid he would float away if the grip loosened.
"Luka?" Sergio whispered into the darkness.
"Hmm?"
"Do you ever... do you ever regret this? With me? Being so much younger?"
Luka was silent for a long time. Sergio could hear the steady beat of his heart, the calm rhythm of a man who was rarely rattled.
"Sometimes," Luka admitted, his voice quiet. "You’re very loud, Sergio. You’re very bright. Sometimes it’s exhausting to be around so much life."
Sergio’s heart sank, but then Luka shifted, his hand sliding up to rest over Sergio’s heart.
"But then I remember how it felt before you got here," Luka continued. "Everything was very quiet. Very professional. Very... old. You remind me that the game isn't just about trophies and tactics. It’s about the fire. You have so much fire, Sergio. It keeps me warm."
Sergio squeezed him tighter, his eyes stinging with a sudden, unexpected emotion. "I’ll always keep you warm, Luka. I’ll be whatever you need me to be."
"I know you will, puppy," Luka said, his voice drifting off as sleep began to take him. "Now be quiet. I have training in the morning, and I need my rest."
Sergio lay awake for a long time, watching the way the moonlight hit the silver-blonde strands of Luka’s hair. He felt a sense of peace he hadn't known since he arrived in Madrid. He was a new signing, a young star, a man with the world at his feet. But here, in the quiet of this room, he was simply Luka’s.
He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of Luka’s head.
"Goodnight, Captain," he whispered.
In his sleep, Luka let out a small, contented hum and burrowed deeper into Sergio’s side. The puppy had found his place, and the legend had found a reason to stay young. As the city of Madrid slept beneath them, the two of them remained anchored to each other—a defender who would guard his heart with his life, and a midfielder who had finally found the one person he didn't want to play past.