Ficlet: It's In His Kiss (JT/FL, PG)
Title: It’s In His Kiss
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Prompt: Lovers
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The events depicted in this entirely fictional story are a figment of my sick and twisted imagination. Or to put it simply: not true, never happened, all lies.
Summary: Frank and John are more than friends.
Notes: Fourth ficlet for the challenge and grade A fluff. *g* Inspired by the words of Mr. John Terry himself.
It’s not in the way they always seek each other out during celebrations. How, regardless of who scored the goal, there’ll always be surreptitious glances in each other’s direction, an unnecessary touch or ruffle of the hair. But those things so often go unnoticed in the melee of ecstatic players and, even if picked up on, can easily be confused for general camaraderie in the elation of the moment.
It’s not in the way they cling to each other when the referee blows the final whistle either. At those moments everyone’s hugging everyone, whooping and screaming and patting each other on the back. Who’d see any wrongdoing in the Captain and Vice-Captain celebrating the win of their team?
It’s also not in the way they train together, mostly coming up against each other, with perhaps a little bit more physical contact than strictly necessary when Frank curls his legs around John’s, trying to get the ball off him. It’s not how they warm up, the two of them in a corner of the pitch, kicking the ball to and fro as if nothing else existed in the world, as if the entire universe consisted of that little patch of green they found themselves on and their team mates around them were suddenly blown into oblivion. Nor is it in the way they exit hotels together when travelling to away games or the way they board the team bus in tandem nor even in the way their voices faintly soften when mentioning the other in post-match interviews.
It’s in the way they lie together, at night, sticky with sweat and cum and high on post-coital bliss, and John’s hand alights softly on Frank’s cheek, prompting the other man to lean into the touch. And in the way John then bends down slowly to press his lingering mouth to Frank’s lips and murmurs against them, “Love ya, Lampsy”, before sinking down next to him and letting Frank’s arms surround him.
Because then even a blind man could see that they’re lovers.
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Prompt: Lovers
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The events depicted in this entirely fictional story are a figment of my sick and twisted imagination. Or to put it simply: not true, never happened, all lies.
Summary: Frank and John are more than friends.
Notes: Fourth ficlet for the challenge and grade A fluff. *g* Inspired by the words of Mr. John Terry himself.
It’s not in the way they always seek each other out during celebrations. How, regardless of who scored the goal, there’ll always be surreptitious glances in each other’s direction, an unnecessary touch or ruffle of the hair. But those things so often go unnoticed in the melee of ecstatic players and, even if picked up on, can easily be confused for general camaraderie in the elation of the moment.
It’s not in the way they cling to each other when the referee blows the final whistle either. At those moments everyone’s hugging everyone, whooping and screaming and patting each other on the back. Who’d see any wrongdoing in the Captain and Vice-Captain celebrating the win of their team?
It’s also not in the way they train together, mostly coming up against each other, with perhaps a little bit more physical contact than strictly necessary when Frank curls his legs around John’s, trying to get the ball off him. It’s not how they warm up, the two of them in a corner of the pitch, kicking the ball to and fro as if nothing else existed in the world, as if the entire universe consisted of that little patch of green they found themselves on and their team mates around them were suddenly blown into oblivion. Nor is it in the way they exit hotels together when travelling to away games or the way they board the team bus in tandem nor even in the way their voices faintly soften when mentioning the other in post-match interviews.
It’s in the way they lie together, at night, sticky with sweat and cum and high on post-coital bliss, and John’s hand alights softly on Frank’s cheek, prompting the other man to lean into the touch. And in the way John then bends down slowly to press his lingering mouth to Frank’s lips and murmurs against them, “Love ya, Lampsy”, before sinking down next to him and letting Frank’s arms surround him.
Because then even a blind man could see that they’re lovers.