Fic: The Elephant in The Room
Title: The Elephant in The Room
Pairing: John Terry/ Frank Lampard
Rating: 15
Word count: 822
Disclaimer: All lies.
Summary: Angst. John and Frank spend one of their last evenings together.
A/n: hello everyone! I know I’ve been properly MIA recently (well a bit longer than recently) but I can’t say how much I miss the fandom and our two boys, so just a little one I wrote on the train back to London today. Please read, comment and enjoy J. P.s I don’t think I’m alone in saying I will be hysterical if (when) Frank leaves this summer LL
Toni’s conveniently away at her parents’ for the weekend so you have the whole house to yourselves. 15 empty rooms and no one to fill them but you and Frank. 7 years ago, this would have been a treat, a competition to see how many room you could consummate before you were both completely spent. Rampant rabbits filled with energy, lust and an endless appetite for sex. But you’re older now the urgency’s gone, it’s not about sexual tension and release, no it’s desire, it’s pleasure and dare you say it? It’s love.
You cook him dinner. Well, M&S cook the dinner, you just bung it in the oven for 40 minutes and take all the credit; he’s none the wiser. The wine flows freely as you kick back and reminisce. You speak of the past, golden memories, friends and teammates who’ve come and gone. The elephant’s in the room, but you both studiously carry on regardless. Hours fly by in minutes, precious time ticking away. You want to catch it and keep it, stay locked in this moment forever.
You’re on the sofa when you start to kiss. You’re relaxed back with a glass of wine; he’s lounging next to you, his head on your shoulder, his hair tickling your chin. Your fingers are idly toying with his hair; he’s just had it cut, the short strands feel slightly alien to touch. He soon grows bored of what’s flickering across the screen, his fingers finding entertainment toying with the hem of your shirt. A hand slips underneath and suddenly the screen seems far less interesting than it was before. You look down to find him stroking your chest, your abs, a surprising softness to his rough fingers. You place two fingers under his chin, and raise it up to look at you and, like many times before, when his eyes meet yours it takes your breath away. You bring your lips together, the spark’s still there after all these years. His tongue probes your lips, asking for entry, knowing you’ll give it to him and once again your mouths enter into their well rehearsed dance, causing a stirring deep within you both. It doesn’t take long for it to become heated, hand roaming all over each other, mouths biting licking teasing, as if you’re trying to devour him whole.
You’ve calmed down again by the time you reached the bedroom, maybe it’s your old age, or maybe it’s his influence, but you’ve mellowed with age. You take your time slipping off his shirt, sliding his trousers down and off, revealing supple golden skin. You run your fingers over every crevice, every mark and definition. Your fingertips delight in its firm softness, teasing your senses, you caress it all as if it is the first time, seeking out new territory, new pleasures. When he moans and pulls you down into another kiss, you instinctively know what he’s hinting, you’ve done this enough times before, as much as you’re enjoying yourself, you’re there for a purpose, the bigger plan. Afterall, there’ll always be another chance to admire his body, won’t there?
It’s slow, it’s sensual, it’s perfect. You glide in and out, used to each other bodies, knowing exactly what you want, he clenches writhes and moans and you hit the place deep inside that drives him crazy. It feels so good, you want to do it again, you thrust, he bucks, hips meeting in the middle, bodies melded into one, how it’s meant to be. You pray that this will never end.
Your eyes meet as you come and everything is said without words, after all, what are words other than highlighters of the inadequacies of communication; looks are far more powerful. In that one look you say everything you’ve ever wanted to. It’s a declaration of love, of undying, unyielding, unrelenting passion, it’s a question, a beg; don’t leave.
You fall asleep first, so you don’t see him pulling you closer and wrapping his arms around you. You don’t see the way his fingers caress your face, his nose nuzzles your hair and his lips grace yours. You don’t see the tears.
You wake up in the middle of the night; he’s still lying beside you, the moonlight casting an innocent glow over his beaten features. He’s changed, 12 years together is a long time, but those 12 years are mapped out on his face, the freckles, scars, each line and crevice tells a story and you can name every single one. You pull him closer, entwining your legs, holding him close, almost as if you’re hoping by holding him close the inevitable won’t come.
* * *
Morning finally breaks through your curtains and you wake to find the bed beside you empty and cold. It’s expected, but it doesn’t make the pain any less crippling, you knew this would happen; after all, goodbye is just too hard to say.
Pairing: John Terry/ Frank Lampard
Rating: 15
Word count: 822
Disclaimer: All lies.
Summary: Angst. John and Frank spend one of their last evenings together.
A/n: hello everyone! I know I’ve been properly MIA recently (well a bit longer than recently) but I can’t say how much I miss the fandom and our two boys, so just a little one I wrote on the train back to London today. Please read, comment and enjoy J. P.s I don’t think I’m alone in saying I will be hysterical if (when) Frank leaves this summer LL
Toni’s conveniently away at her parents’ for the weekend so you have the whole house to yourselves. 15 empty rooms and no one to fill them but you and Frank. 7 years ago, this would have been a treat, a competition to see how many room you could consummate before you were both completely spent. Rampant rabbits filled with energy, lust and an endless appetite for sex. But you’re older now the urgency’s gone, it’s not about sexual tension and release, no it’s desire, it’s pleasure and dare you say it? It’s love.
You cook him dinner. Well, M&S cook the dinner, you just bung it in the oven for 40 minutes and take all the credit; he’s none the wiser. The wine flows freely as you kick back and reminisce. You speak of the past, golden memories, friends and teammates who’ve come and gone. The elephant’s in the room, but you both studiously carry on regardless. Hours fly by in minutes, precious time ticking away. You want to catch it and keep it, stay locked in this moment forever.
You’re on the sofa when you start to kiss. You’re relaxed back with a glass of wine; he’s lounging next to you, his head on your shoulder, his hair tickling your chin. Your fingers are idly toying with his hair; he’s just had it cut, the short strands feel slightly alien to touch. He soon grows bored of what’s flickering across the screen, his fingers finding entertainment toying with the hem of your shirt. A hand slips underneath and suddenly the screen seems far less interesting than it was before. You look down to find him stroking your chest, your abs, a surprising softness to his rough fingers. You place two fingers under his chin, and raise it up to look at you and, like many times before, when his eyes meet yours it takes your breath away. You bring your lips together, the spark’s still there after all these years. His tongue probes your lips, asking for entry, knowing you’ll give it to him and once again your mouths enter into their well rehearsed dance, causing a stirring deep within you both. It doesn’t take long for it to become heated, hand roaming all over each other, mouths biting licking teasing, as if you’re trying to devour him whole.
You’ve calmed down again by the time you reached the bedroom, maybe it’s your old age, or maybe it’s his influence, but you’ve mellowed with age. You take your time slipping off his shirt, sliding his trousers down and off, revealing supple golden skin. You run your fingers over every crevice, every mark and definition. Your fingertips delight in its firm softness, teasing your senses, you caress it all as if it is the first time, seeking out new territory, new pleasures. When he moans and pulls you down into another kiss, you instinctively know what he’s hinting, you’ve done this enough times before, as much as you’re enjoying yourself, you’re there for a purpose, the bigger plan. Afterall, there’ll always be another chance to admire his body, won’t there?
It’s slow, it’s sensual, it’s perfect. You glide in and out, used to each other bodies, knowing exactly what you want, he clenches writhes and moans and you hit the place deep inside that drives him crazy. It feels so good, you want to do it again, you thrust, he bucks, hips meeting in the middle, bodies melded into one, how it’s meant to be. You pray that this will never end.
Your eyes meet as you come and everything is said without words, after all, what are words other than highlighters of the inadequacies of communication; looks are far more powerful. In that one look you say everything you’ve ever wanted to. It’s a declaration of love, of undying, unyielding, unrelenting passion, it’s a question, a beg; don’t leave.
You fall asleep first, so you don’t see him pulling you closer and wrapping his arms around you. You don’t see the way his fingers caress your face, his nose nuzzles your hair and his lips grace yours. You don’t see the tears.
You wake up in the middle of the night; he’s still lying beside you, the moonlight casting an innocent glow over his beaten features. He’s changed, 12 years together is a long time, but those 12 years are mapped out on his face, the freckles, scars, each line and crevice tells a story and you can name every single one. You pull him closer, entwining your legs, holding him close, almost as if you’re hoping by holding him close the inevitable won’t come.
* * *
Morning finally breaks through your curtains and you wake to find the bed beside you empty and cold. It’s expected, but it doesn’t make the pain any less crippling, you knew this would happen; after all, goodbye is just too hard to say.