fic: an open vein
title: an open vein
pairing: frank lampard/john terry
rating: r/nc-17 for themes
warning: talks of blood/cutting
disclaimer: fiction
for the lovely inesdelsol who wanted blue/blood with these two. i haven't written (or read for that matter) lamps/jt in a very long time so this is short and disjointed. i have always seen frank as the 'top', 'dominant', whatever you want to call it. i don't know if this is what you were looking for but the prompt is mighty interesting and i think i will be looking at it again. maybe.
Sometimes Frank wonders if it’s too much - what they have with one another, what they demand from one another. He knows he will never admit it if it was and neither would John and that makes him real damn curious. Because he knows it’s a push, a real test of their limits. Yet John won’t say no, won’t say stop. And neither will he. Frank doesn’t want to be known as the one who gave in first. Who does?
Like now with John underneath him, his body tense with energy - extra energy, nervous energy. The champagne from the celebrations had lulled them for a moment but as soon as Frank had slipped his fingers into John’s towel in the locker room, sobriety had quickly settled in.
The blunt fingernails of one hand dig into his hip and though his breath hitches, John doesn’t dare to break the eye contact with Frank. Blue. Like his own. Like their club. Like their heart. He flicks out his tongue to wet his lips. When Frank’s eyes deter to follow the motion, John lets out a little puff of laughter. It’s only a second later does he feel Frank’s fingers claw in harder. John chokes on his breath as Frank smiles.
Frank has made him bleed before, literally, and John doesn’t doubt that he is capable of doing it again. If it’s too much for either man, the confession has gone unheard. And it’s more than just a simple breaking of the skin, more than overzealous fingernails. Neither man will ever forget the blade that cut the trembling surface; the near perfect lines carved into just as nearly perfect skin. But of course, Frank had taken care of John afterward; he always does. Smeared blood had been cleaned away, ointment applied, kisses laid to still trembling skin. Frank always takes care of John.
But it still makes him wonder. He can’t help it. After securing another title (together, always together), John had pulled him close, their bodies closer and whispered a faint ‘thank you’ into his ear. Frank knows it’s for more than football, than standing by him during all the personal shit that got dragged into the public. Frank wonders if John was saying his thanks for the pain he inflicts to his body on a regular basis because he needs it, begs for it even if he doesn’t always use words.
Frank however knows how to read John perfectly. He pushes, sometimes too hard, but he knows where to stop, how to stop. So when John tilts his hips slightly in attempt to get Frank to move on, Frank obliges. He knows John. Perfectly.
Right now he doesn’t need the extra pleasure and pain of a blade’s kiss or the caress of metal cuffs or tickle of a whip. Right now all he needs is Frank. Everything else is just extra. And Frank knows this. He always does.
pairing: frank lampard/john terry
rating: r/nc-17 for themes
warning: talks of blood/cutting
disclaimer: fiction
for the lovely inesdelsol who wanted blue/blood with these two. i haven't written (or read for that matter) lamps/jt in a very long time so this is short and disjointed. i have always seen frank as the 'top', 'dominant', whatever you want to call it. i don't know if this is what you were looking for but the prompt is mighty interesting and i think i will be looking at it again. maybe.
Sometimes Frank wonders if it’s too much - what they have with one another, what they demand from one another. He knows he will never admit it if it was and neither would John and that makes him real damn curious. Because he knows it’s a push, a real test of their limits. Yet John won’t say no, won’t say stop. And neither will he. Frank doesn’t want to be known as the one who gave in first. Who does?
Like now with John underneath him, his body tense with energy - extra energy, nervous energy. The champagne from the celebrations had lulled them for a moment but as soon as Frank had slipped his fingers into John’s towel in the locker room, sobriety had quickly settled in.
The blunt fingernails of one hand dig into his hip and though his breath hitches, John doesn’t dare to break the eye contact with Frank. Blue. Like his own. Like their club. Like their heart. He flicks out his tongue to wet his lips. When Frank’s eyes deter to follow the motion, John lets out a little puff of laughter. It’s only a second later does he feel Frank’s fingers claw in harder. John chokes on his breath as Frank smiles.
Frank has made him bleed before, literally, and John doesn’t doubt that he is capable of doing it again. If it’s too much for either man, the confession has gone unheard. And it’s more than just a simple breaking of the skin, more than overzealous fingernails. Neither man will ever forget the blade that cut the trembling surface; the near perfect lines carved into just as nearly perfect skin. But of course, Frank had taken care of John afterward; he always does. Smeared blood had been cleaned away, ointment applied, kisses laid to still trembling skin. Frank always takes care of John.
But it still makes him wonder. He can’t help it. After securing another title (together, always together), John had pulled him close, their bodies closer and whispered a faint ‘thank you’ into his ear. Frank knows it’s for more than football, than standing by him during all the personal shit that got dragged into the public. Frank wonders if John was saying his thanks for the pain he inflicts to his body on a regular basis because he needs it, begs for it even if he doesn’t always use words.
Frank however knows how to read John perfectly. He pushes, sometimes too hard, but he knows where to stop, how to stop. So when John tilts his hips slightly in attempt to get Frank to move on, Frank obliges. He knows John. Perfectly.
Right now he doesn’t need the extra pleasure and pain of a blade’s kiss or the caress of metal cuffs or tickle of a whip. Right now all he needs is Frank. Everything else is just extra. And Frank knows this. He always does.