Dreams, Hubbies and Helping Hands
Title: Dreams, Hubbies and Helping Hands
Author: salmiaggi
Rating: PG-13
Paring: Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Genre: romance, slight longing kind of angst
Summary: They’re on different continents. Xabi is where he is most needed, but not necessarily wanted, the most, at the time, and Steven is where he is, home in England
Disclaimer: You have no idea how much I wish this would be true, but it isn’t.
Author’s Notes: This fic is a birthday/wedding gift for my beloved wifey Pauline. I hope you enjoy it, love.
Feedback: keeps me alive and writing.
They’re on different continents, Xabi is where he is needed, but not necessarily wanted, the most, at the time, and Steven is where he is, home in England. Xabi’s serving his country the best and only way he knows, and it might not be as brave and glorious as serving one’s country by fighting against numerous enemies in a battle field in stead of a football field, but in his eyes it isn’t any less important.
When he now trains or plays for his country, all the thoughts of a certain Scouser leave him and he can again concentrate on passing and tackling and shooting and making the crowd gasp every time he attempts a goal from his own half.
When he’s wearing that kit, wearing those boots, with his team mates, defending and attacking, everything makes sense again. He loves the feeling of his boot hitting the ball, his kit sliding over the grass in the aftermath of a tackle, the top of his head protecting their goal by sending the ball far, far away. And at the same time, it makes no sense at all, how could it, when he hasn’t got Steven around. Because when he has got his husband, his humanly flawed, but sweet and gorgeous, husband, with him, somehow everything just feels so right. Even more so than when he’s playing the beautiful game.
When he’s not on that pitch, training or playing or just having fun with his mates in general, he misses that husband of his, misses him so much it hurts to even think of him, what he’s doing, what it would feel like to be with him right at that moment in time, to touch him the way he has touched and been touched countless times before, to just lie on the sofa, skin against skin, reading books or papers, and feel the other’s fingertips caressing cheeks or stroking hair.
He does have his right hand with him. It and the things he can do with it are no way near as good and pleasurable as Steven’s fingers and tongue and mouth and prick and sweet, sweet arse would be, though. Oh, how he misses that arse and oh, how he wishes he could have his cock up his husband’s tight arse right here, right now.
He might turn to his hand for some release in the evening when missing Steven is too much for him to handle. He might dial his captain’s number and tell him all the not-so-innocent things he wants to do to him, and Steven tells him, equally eager, what he is going to do the minute he gets his beloved husband back. It might not be anything mind-blowing or ground-breaking, but it does its job, he climaxes, he falls asleep, he sees sweet dreams about his man.
As much as he enjoys playing and doesn’t mind Fernando offering a helping hand to him one night, even if it is only a joke, and refuses the offer without even thinking about it, he cannot wait for first winning this damn cup for his country and then flying back home to England, walking right into his husband’s arms at the John Lennon airport. It’s what he dreams about after his liberating orgasms and thinks about as he changes into his kit and ties the shoelaces of his football boots, smiling.
Author: salmiaggi
Rating: PG-13
Paring: Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Genre: romance, slight longing kind of angst
Summary: They’re on different continents. Xabi is where he is most needed, but not necessarily wanted, the most, at the time, and Steven is where he is, home in England
Disclaimer: You have no idea how much I wish this would be true, but it isn’t.
Author’s Notes: This fic is a birthday/wedding gift for my beloved wifey Pauline. I hope you enjoy it, love.
Feedback: keeps me alive and writing.
They’re on different continents, Xabi is where he is needed, but not necessarily wanted, the most, at the time, and Steven is where he is, home in England. Xabi’s serving his country the best and only way he knows, and it might not be as brave and glorious as serving one’s country by fighting against numerous enemies in a battle field in stead of a football field, but in his eyes it isn’t any less important.
When he now trains or plays for his country, all the thoughts of a certain Scouser leave him and he can again concentrate on passing and tackling and shooting and making the crowd gasp every time he attempts a goal from his own half.
When he’s wearing that kit, wearing those boots, with his team mates, defending and attacking, everything makes sense again. He loves the feeling of his boot hitting the ball, his kit sliding over the grass in the aftermath of a tackle, the top of his head protecting their goal by sending the ball far, far away. And at the same time, it makes no sense at all, how could it, when he hasn’t got Steven around. Because when he has got his husband, his humanly flawed, but sweet and gorgeous, husband, with him, somehow everything just feels so right. Even more so than when he’s playing the beautiful game.
When he’s not on that pitch, training or playing or just having fun with his mates in general, he misses that husband of his, misses him so much it hurts to even think of him, what he’s doing, what it would feel like to be with him right at that moment in time, to touch him the way he has touched and been touched countless times before, to just lie on the sofa, skin against skin, reading books or papers, and feel the other’s fingertips caressing cheeks or stroking hair.
He does have his right hand with him. It and the things he can do with it are no way near as good and pleasurable as Steven’s fingers and tongue and mouth and prick and sweet, sweet arse would be, though. Oh, how he misses that arse and oh, how he wishes he could have his cock up his husband’s tight arse right here, right now.
He might turn to his hand for some release in the evening when missing Steven is too much for him to handle. He might dial his captain’s number and tell him all the not-so-innocent things he wants to do to him, and Steven tells him, equally eager, what he is going to do the minute he gets his beloved husband back. It might not be anything mind-blowing or ground-breaking, but it does its job, he climaxes, he falls asleep, he sees sweet dreams about his man.
As much as he enjoys playing and doesn’t mind Fernando offering a helping hand to him one night, even if it is only a joke, and refuses the offer without even thinking about it, he cannot wait for first winning this damn cup for his country and then flying back home to England, walking right into his husband’s arms at the John Lennon airport. It’s what he dreams about after his liberating orgasms and thinks about as he changes into his kit and ties the shoelaces of his football boots, smiling.