Ficlet - JAR/Luis García - Black ink
Title: Black ink
Author: benitle
Pairing: John Arne Riise/Luis García
Rating: R
Word Count: Ca. 700
Fandom: Footballslash
Disclaimer: I do not know those people, it might all be lies.
Summary: Luis loves watching John’s tattoos.
Notes: Just a silly, short, unbeta'd ficlet. The plotbunny jumped on me the other day when I was reading an interview with Luis García over at ninamalfoy's where he admitted that he'd never get a tattoo because he's scared.
Stare in amazement. That’s all Luis can do.
He stares at the arm that rests on his flank before his eyes move to the hand on his chest. The pale, milky skin stands out against his fine, black dress shirt. It’s a hard contrast, yet so soft, so familiar, so - harmonic.
Luis didn’t bother change to sweat pants or pyjamas once they came back from dinner, the Spanish restaurant he made John love so much; the one next to the little square where you can sit outside during summer if it’s warm enough. Too bad that it’s never warm enough in Liverpool. Luis slightly chuckles at the thought of people freezing outside, just for the tiniest hint of Spain in England.
Instead of changing Luis headed straight for the living room, the sofa, comfortable and only a tad worn out, switching on the TV. John laughed, warm and soft and loving, calling Luis a TV junkie but what he doesn’t say is how he understands that Luis is simply proud of finally having found his way of living in this foreign country that is no longer eerie to him, a little less foreign each day, even though it couldn’t be more different from home. John then sat down with him, taking off nothing more than his suit jacket. Luis immediately rested his head in John’s lap - as if it belonged there, always and forever - while John softly began stroking his lover’s side. A careful hand running from Luis’ shoulders over the Spaniard’s upper arm, down his side to his hips and up again, teasingly slow. Surprisingly tender.
Here they are now, Luis watching John, his dark eyes soaking up every tiny little detail with careful attention. Pale skin marked with black ink that slowly fades to grey. There’s fine lines and sharp edges, it looks soft and hard at once.
It’s huge, powerful in every sense of the word. Luis knows how much it means to John, those letters that in their amazing interplay of sense spell that name on the sensitive, thin skin of John’s lower arm. It’s the name of John’s daughter, his only child.
Luis knows what that means. It’s not different for him, being the father of a child, the caretaker of something as fragile and wonderful as a child. Yet he’s never taken that step. And never will.
It’s not that he doesn’t find them beautiful, fascinating even somewhat mystical and powerful, no, that’s not it. John once laughed at him when Luis explained that he’s afraid of the pain, scared of the pointy needle, the shrill sound it will make while piercing his skin again and again, hundreds of times during endless hours of pure torture.
It’s not that bad, John had said but Luis wouldn’t want to believe, couldn’t.
Eventually John gave up. Gave up trying to convince Luis that it’s no big deal, that it of course depends on your own sensitivity to pain, the placement and some other factors. In the end they agreed it was simply the best if Luis continued to admire John’s tattoos and nothing more.
John’s hand cups the back of Luis’ head, his long fingers combing through the dark curls, while Luis’ soft fingertips stroke the dark lines on John’s arm. And when Luis carefully sits up to press a gender kiss on John’s lips, everything is forgotten for a moment - tattoos, the meanings, the ties they bring along. All that matters is the here and now, this one kiss that soon goes from soft to wet to heat to passion and wantwantwant and needyounow.
They barely make it to the bedroom, clothes discarded on their way down the hall. There’s a piece here and there, ready to be picked up in the morning with a smirk on the face and the thoughts of what happened that night.
When they move, slowly one against the other, carefully one inside the other, Luis feels the need to leave his own mark. Not in black ink, nothing quite as clearly visible, nothing quite as painful.
No, Luis marks with come and saliva and body heat. However, it might just be as permanent.
Author: benitle
Pairing: John Arne Riise/Luis García
Rating: R
Word Count: Ca. 700
Fandom: Footballslash
Disclaimer: I do not know those people, it might all be lies.
Summary: Luis loves watching John’s tattoos.
Notes: Just a silly, short, unbeta'd ficlet. The plotbunny jumped on me the other day when I was reading an interview with Luis García over at ninamalfoy's where he admitted that he'd never get a tattoo because he's scared.
Stare in amazement. That’s all Luis can do.
He stares at the arm that rests on his flank before his eyes move to the hand on his chest. The pale, milky skin stands out against his fine, black dress shirt. It’s a hard contrast, yet so soft, so familiar, so - harmonic.
Luis didn’t bother change to sweat pants or pyjamas once they came back from dinner, the Spanish restaurant he made John love so much; the one next to the little square where you can sit outside during summer if it’s warm enough. Too bad that it’s never warm enough in Liverpool. Luis slightly chuckles at the thought of people freezing outside, just for the tiniest hint of Spain in England.
Instead of changing Luis headed straight for the living room, the sofa, comfortable and only a tad worn out, switching on the TV. John laughed, warm and soft and loving, calling Luis a TV junkie but what he doesn’t say is how he understands that Luis is simply proud of finally having found his way of living in this foreign country that is no longer eerie to him, a little less foreign each day, even though it couldn’t be more different from home. John then sat down with him, taking off nothing more than his suit jacket. Luis immediately rested his head in John’s lap - as if it belonged there, always and forever - while John softly began stroking his lover’s side. A careful hand running from Luis’ shoulders over the Spaniard’s upper arm, down his side to his hips and up again, teasingly slow. Surprisingly tender.
Here they are now, Luis watching John, his dark eyes soaking up every tiny little detail with careful attention. Pale skin marked with black ink that slowly fades to grey. There’s fine lines and sharp edges, it looks soft and hard at once.
It’s huge, powerful in every sense of the word. Luis knows how much it means to John, those letters that in their amazing interplay of sense spell that name on the sensitive, thin skin of John’s lower arm. It’s the name of John’s daughter, his only child.
Luis knows what that means. It’s not different for him, being the father of a child, the caretaker of something as fragile and wonderful as a child. Yet he’s never taken that step. And never will.
It’s not that he doesn’t find them beautiful, fascinating even somewhat mystical and powerful, no, that’s not it. John once laughed at him when Luis explained that he’s afraid of the pain, scared of the pointy needle, the shrill sound it will make while piercing his skin again and again, hundreds of times during endless hours of pure torture.
It’s not that bad, John had said but Luis wouldn’t want to believe, couldn’t.
Eventually John gave up. Gave up trying to convince Luis that it’s no big deal, that it of course depends on your own sensitivity to pain, the placement and some other factors. In the end they agreed it was simply the best if Luis continued to admire John’s tattoos and nothing more.
John’s hand cups the back of Luis’ head, his long fingers combing through the dark curls, while Luis’ soft fingertips stroke the dark lines on John’s arm. And when Luis carefully sits up to press a gender kiss on John’s lips, everything is forgotten for a moment - tattoos, the meanings, the ties they bring along. All that matters is the here and now, this one kiss that soon goes from soft to wet to heat to passion and wantwantwant and needyounow.
They barely make it to the bedroom, clothes discarded on their way down the hall. There’s a piece here and there, ready to be picked up in the morning with a smirk on the face and the thoughts of what happened that night.
When they move, slowly one against the other, carefully one inside the other, Luis feels the need to leave his own mark. Not in black ink, nothing quite as clearly visible, nothing quite as painful.
No, Luis marks with come and saliva and body heat. However, it might just be as permanent.