(no subject)
Title - Gluttony (7/7)
Pairing - Unnamed/Xabi Alonso, Alvaro Arbeloa, Fernando Torres
Rating - R
Disclaimer - Not true
Summary - Last one. Promise. Short and sweet. A team of rooms.
Choose your own narrator. He is, indeed, nameless.
(*)
I am a glutton; this much is true, not a glutton for a punishment, not a glutton for cruelty or superiority.
I am simply a glutton for them.
This team, to me, is priceless.
They are all new experiences to me; new monuments to visit and new waters to bathe in. When I pass each one by I pick up a scent, a feel, a taste, like entering a new place and inhaling its contents for the first time; like walking through unfamiliar walls and touching everything in my wake and knowing that this is a new sensation. Every time, on every occurrence, I take a tiny piece of it and store it away in a little box in my mind.
These are trinkets.
Souvenirs.
They are not so crass as to be notches on my bedpost; instead small, cut pieces of fabric sewn together to make a quilt. Patchwork. Beautiful.
They warm me, when the nights are cold and I am alone.
My team-mates, they are new rooms decorated in decadence and as I pass through them I commit them all to memory - different textures, different smells, scents, tastes, uses, some practical, others totally indulgent.
They have their own space up there. Their own area.
Alvaro is a sunroom with sleek caramel walls and a great, bright window with rays streaming through. He is early morning in Springtime when the glistening rays dance off the surfaces; leave the room smiling. His scent is fresh, with a hint of cocoa, something sweet to roll of the tongue, to inhale. His is a purring, laughing joy of a sound and, when he speaks, its like the melodic hum of a bird at 5am, chirpy and good-natured.
As I lie with Alvaro, I feel warmth, always warmth, as if the skylight is open and the sunshine is dancing all over my skin. When he touches me he leaves imaginary tan-lines in his wake, ultraviolet exploration that never stings, never burns…
He kisses like the breeze, a ghost across my lips, barely there yet beautiful, so beautiful…
His arms open, like wide doors.
I step inside.
I step inside him.
Those doors and walls close around me as he whispers “Hola, hola…”
Xabi is a library, all Autumn colours and sepia tones, rich wood and soft pile carpets that I can run my fingers through when I have the need to feel the rough instead of the smooth. His face is permanently stubbled, like sandpaper, like the grating surface of sandpaper that burns my skin when I touch it. He is a wide space full of books and dreams. He is candlelit intensity in a dark, closed room.
When Xabi calls my name it doesn’t echo from empty walls because his room is full. The sound, itself, is close, reverberates, and the walls move closer. His eyes are a bookshelf, full of knowledge, full of age-old books with dusty covers that reek of intelligence.
His scent is something old, older than he is, something wise. Musk, perhaps; incense burning on an old table.
Xabi doesn't fuck; the word insults him. When he kisses it's deep, meaningful, and when he touches it's as if he's searing himself inside of me.
He wants me to learn. He is my teacher and I, his willing pupil.
He wants to enlighten me, and he does...
...he does...
Fabio, he enlightens me, too, a quiet room with soft, beige walls, a room for comfort and truth, and Pepe, he is a comedy club, a real riot of a room with loud music that bouncess from the ceiling and a face full of smiles and teeth and a good, hard fuck.
Fernando is sleek cedar and straw, his skin, his hair, not soft, not silky beneath fingertips, rather wiry. He has an underlying scent of cinnamon and I imagine if I kissed him there would be a hint of spice on his tongue; if I touched him, his skin would be cool, a polished surface that catches my finger as I try to explore it.
Fernando’s chest is alabaster-pale, his hair an unnatural shade of blonde yet his eyes, his eyes are oak-wood against chiselled ivory. When he smiles he gets tiny lines, crevices at the corners and, when he talks it’s a rumble, rather than a purr. The deep acoustics, those rich, bass sounds do not match. He almost sounds otherworldly.
Fernando, laid out, is like an offertory table; an altar, perhaps. He is still, and serene. His stomach curves into ripples of muscle with flesh pulled taut, and there is a monument between his thighs. He seems to illuminate, somehow, yet there is no light in his room. Some might say he’s a spiritual experience unto himself. He fills me with the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit.
There is God in his room, just as there is God in my life. I may sin but, He forgives me.
God forgives me.
I have riches of wealth at my disposal.
Is it any wonder I am a glutton for them all?
Pairing - Unnamed/Xabi Alonso, Alvaro Arbeloa, Fernando Torres
Rating - R
Disclaimer - Not true
Summary - Last one. Promise. Short and sweet. A team of rooms.
Choose your own narrator. He is, indeed, nameless.
(*)
I am a glutton; this much is true, not a glutton for a punishment, not a glutton for cruelty or superiority.
I am simply a glutton for them.
This team, to me, is priceless.
They are all new experiences to me; new monuments to visit and new waters to bathe in. When I pass each one by I pick up a scent, a feel, a taste, like entering a new place and inhaling its contents for the first time; like walking through unfamiliar walls and touching everything in my wake and knowing that this is a new sensation. Every time, on every occurrence, I take a tiny piece of it and store it away in a little box in my mind.
These are trinkets.
Souvenirs.
They are not so crass as to be notches on my bedpost; instead small, cut pieces of fabric sewn together to make a quilt. Patchwork. Beautiful.
They warm me, when the nights are cold and I am alone.
My team-mates, they are new rooms decorated in decadence and as I pass through them I commit them all to memory - different textures, different smells, scents, tastes, uses, some practical, others totally indulgent.
They have their own space up there. Their own area.
Alvaro is a sunroom with sleek caramel walls and a great, bright window with rays streaming through. He is early morning in Springtime when the glistening rays dance off the surfaces; leave the room smiling. His scent is fresh, with a hint of cocoa, something sweet to roll of the tongue, to inhale. His is a purring, laughing joy of a sound and, when he speaks, its like the melodic hum of a bird at 5am, chirpy and good-natured.
As I lie with Alvaro, I feel warmth, always warmth, as if the skylight is open and the sunshine is dancing all over my skin. When he touches me he leaves imaginary tan-lines in his wake, ultraviolet exploration that never stings, never burns…
He kisses like the breeze, a ghost across my lips, barely there yet beautiful, so beautiful…
His arms open, like wide doors.
I step inside.
I step inside him.
Those doors and walls close around me as he whispers “Hola, hola…”
Xabi is a library, all Autumn colours and sepia tones, rich wood and soft pile carpets that I can run my fingers through when I have the need to feel the rough instead of the smooth. His face is permanently stubbled, like sandpaper, like the grating surface of sandpaper that burns my skin when I touch it. He is a wide space full of books and dreams. He is candlelit intensity in a dark, closed room.
When Xabi calls my name it doesn’t echo from empty walls because his room is full. The sound, itself, is close, reverberates, and the walls move closer. His eyes are a bookshelf, full of knowledge, full of age-old books with dusty covers that reek of intelligence.
His scent is something old, older than he is, something wise. Musk, perhaps; incense burning on an old table.
Xabi doesn't fuck; the word insults him. When he kisses it's deep, meaningful, and when he touches it's as if he's searing himself inside of me.
He wants me to learn. He is my teacher and I, his willing pupil.
He wants to enlighten me, and he does...
...he does...
Fabio, he enlightens me, too, a quiet room with soft, beige walls, a room for comfort and truth, and Pepe, he is a comedy club, a real riot of a room with loud music that bouncess from the ceiling and a face full of smiles and teeth and a good, hard fuck.
Fernando is sleek cedar and straw, his skin, his hair, not soft, not silky beneath fingertips, rather wiry. He has an underlying scent of cinnamon and I imagine if I kissed him there would be a hint of spice on his tongue; if I touched him, his skin would be cool, a polished surface that catches my finger as I try to explore it.
Fernando’s chest is alabaster-pale, his hair an unnatural shade of blonde yet his eyes, his eyes are oak-wood against chiselled ivory. When he smiles he gets tiny lines, crevices at the corners and, when he talks it’s a rumble, rather than a purr. The deep acoustics, those rich, bass sounds do not match. He almost sounds otherworldly.
Fernando, laid out, is like an offertory table; an altar, perhaps. He is still, and serene. His stomach curves into ripples of muscle with flesh pulled taut, and there is a monument between his thighs. He seems to illuminate, somehow, yet there is no light in his room. Some might say he’s a spiritual experience unto himself. He fills me with the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit.
There is God in his room, just as there is God in my life. I may sin but, He forgives me.
God forgives me.
I have riches of wealth at my disposal.
Is it any wonder I am a glutton for them all?