(no subject)
One for the Beckett fans - In his World Cup blog for the LRB, John Lanchester notes Rooney's intertextual reference to kicking 'among' one's victim's testicles.
I see Stevie is promoting washing whiter than white with Persil. Hmm.
An AU Fragment
Note: I have no idea where they are or what the hell they're doing. It went Stevie - laundry and I'm too hot to think it through.
Stevie takes his football things down to the river to wash them. He suds up his scrap of soap and lathers his wet t-shirt, then slaps it against the flat rocks. The sun is insistently hot against the back of his neck. After a while, Xabi joins him for the same chore. Stevie nods, curtly. Xabi says, "Hola," and they don't talk after that, just clean and wring out, the cool water bubbling and whispering around their ankles, carrying away the suds as they slip and slide from their hands and clothes.
When Stevie's satisfied that he's got his kit clean, he spreads it out over the bank. Lying back, Stevie watches Xabi finish his work, the muscles moving under the smooth brown skin of his back as he bends and stretches, flicking bright green river weed away when it comes too close to the clothes he dips and retrieves. But the sun is too bright for Stevie to open his eyes against for long, he has to drop his lids. Xabi is still there, but bathed in red, hazy through Stevie's eyelashes. The steady purl of the river soothes him. Stevie drifts...
And then Xabi is over him, leaning in, kissing him with dry lips and a hot mouth; like he's thirsty, like Stevie's water.
I see Stevie is promoting washing whiter than white with Persil. Hmm.
An AU Fragment
Note: I have no idea where they are or what the hell they're doing. It went Stevie - laundry and I'm too hot to think it through.
Stevie takes his football things down to the river to wash them. He suds up his scrap of soap and lathers his wet t-shirt, then slaps it against the flat rocks. The sun is insistently hot against the back of his neck. After a while, Xabi joins him for the same chore. Stevie nods, curtly. Xabi says, "Hola," and they don't talk after that, just clean and wring out, the cool water bubbling and whispering around their ankles, carrying away the suds as they slip and slide from their hands and clothes.
When Stevie's satisfied that he's got his kit clean, he spreads it out over the bank. Lying back, Stevie watches Xabi finish his work, the muscles moving under the smooth brown skin of his back as he bends and stretches, flicking bright green river weed away when it comes too close to the clothes he dips and retrieves. But the sun is too bright for Stevie to open his eyes against for long, he has to drop his lids. Xabi is still there, but bathed in red, hazy through Stevie's eyelashes. The steady purl of the river soothes him. Stevie drifts...
And then Xabi is over him, leaning in, kissing him with dry lips and a hot mouth; like he's thirsty, like Stevie's water.