10
name: dei giraffes e delle viole
pairing: kaká/andriy shevchenko
for: the the irreplaceable, unmistakeable, irrepressible samantha
wordcount: 609
prompt: giraffe, violets
disclaimer: not mine, never was, never will be, finite?
a/n: "the purples exploded behind his eyes as he imagined a field filled with them, kaká standing in the middle dressed only in white, pure white. a giraffe appeared, and kaká laughed, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, as he petted the animal and made cooing noises." i am trying out a new genre; crangst.
andriy remembers stepping through the threshold into the kaká residence one evening; nothing particularly special about it at all, just a warm evening on the twenty-second of july. a birthday party was to be attended that night, and ricky had called him, distressed, unable to pick a wine to give as a gift. caroline and kirsten had already left to meet up with all the other wives, and andriy was the second logical choice, of course.
kaká appeared as he shut the door quietly, his brow knitted together in worry, it smoothing out as soon as he noticed the ukrainian. "andriy!" he called, and rushed forwards with all the elegance of a giraffe. wrapping his arms around the older man, he kissed his cheeks, fingers splayed on the sides of his head, carding through andriy's gently styled hair; his eyes glowing. "come!" he exclaimed, and laced their fingers together, leading him to the wine cellar. andriy smelt violets all over kaká; wondered if he had partaken in a quick moment of passion with his wife before she left. dismissed the idea, because really- this was ricky, his ricky. the (boy) man did not seem the type for a "quicky" in any sense of the word; took him longer to develop anything, from conversation to the build up for a goal.
they reached the bottom and ricky dragged him over, holding up two dusty bottles for him to inspect. "i don't...i don't know." he finally said, his bottom lip jutting out, petulant like a child but with the grace of an adult. it was amazing how contradictory his ricky could be, sometimes. andriy smiled and closed the distance, pressing a slow, soft kiss to his pouted lips and lacing his fingers around the wine in his left hand. "this one will be quite adequate, ricardo." he whispered, pulling back and placing the other in its home. ricky nodded, slightly dazed, and andriy led him to the stairs. dusting the bottle off and placing it in a bag, andriy held his door open while kaká loped out, fumbling with his keys, mobile, wallet and present. andriy chuckled softly and took the keys and present, and kaká blushed.
"where would i be without you, andriy?" he said, his smile spreading, and andriy couldn't help but smile himself. "you would be late, have probably lost your keys down that grill and would be worried about the wine for the entire evening." he answered, walking to his own car, his eyes trained (as always) on the gentle brasilian with his hands full, standing on his doorstep. "come along, ricky. we are going to be late," he said playfully as kaká snapped out of his daze and dashed to his car. andriy closed his eyes and leant against his, waiting, inhaling as kaka walked past and the scent of violets enchanted him. those violets.
the purples exploded behind his eyes as he imagined a field filled with them, ricky standing in the middle, dressed only in white. a giraffe appeared and ricky laughed, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, as he petted the animal and made cooing noises. watching him pat that giraffe had to be one of the most peaceful things he had done all year, and was content to stand there in the evening had ricky not blasted his horn. gasping, he jolted forwards and heard ricky's laugher. "come on andriy, we're going to be late!" he called, pulling out the driveway, his laughter tumbling behind him.
andriy merely smiled, the violets still lingering in his nose and the spots of the giraffe in his eyes as he followed kaka down the road.
name: il capitano
pairing: fernando torres/steven gerrard
for: and only for; vy
wordcount: 279
prompt: armband
disclaimer: not mine, never was, never will be, finite?
a/n: "fernando pursed his lips and steven straightened up, and wordlessly he pulled steven's arm out, slipping the band gently over his hand, his breath hitching in his throat as his fingers ran across steven's arm."
fernando has always enjoyed the feel of the captain's band on his skin. the course cotton rubbing against his skin, slick with sweat from a hard day’s work, or crisp from its packet, untouched. it's one of the only things he misses about being in england (that and the heat of madrid, the language, his friends, his family, living just around the corner from half his la selección team-mates...that's all, honestly).
once his mastery of the (scouse) english language was complete, he found himself inexplicably drawn to steven. "stevie," the skipper would always admonish with a wave of his hand. fernando would blush (god, how long had it been) and xabi would smile from the other side of the room, and stevie would nudge him with his elbow and fernando would blush further. one afternoon before the game, he caught steven without his captain's band on. frowning, he walked over and asked him where it was. "oh, it's here. i haven't gotten around to putting it on, yet." steven replied, handing the polyester band to the younger man.
fernando pursed his lips and steven straightened up. wordlessly he pulled steven's arm out, slipping the band gently over his hand, his breath hitching in his throat as his fingers ran across steven's arm. biting his lip, he did not fail to hear steven's do the same; his breath snagging in his throat. the band sits, perfectly symmetrical on his arm now, and fernando smoothes down the material around it. "there," he finishes, a smile on his face. steven looks worried, but smiles back and pats him on the arm.
"thanks, nando." he replies, and fernando desperately tries not to blush.
name: posse
pairing: jose mourinho, kakà, implied kakà/andriy shevchenko
for: and only for; vy
wordcount: 758
prompt: morocco, tea
disclaimer: not mine, never was, never will be, finite?
a/n: "kakà closes his eyes as the spicy cologne invades his senses, his eyelashes fluttering against a raw cheek. "you will be mine. and shevchenko will score goals because of it. in spite of it.""
it is not every day that kakà dines with jose mourinho. "consider this a once-a-year phenomenon." jose mused over the phone. kakà was not aware jose was able to say phenomenon in english; then again, jose never failed to surprise him. sitting at the oak table in the mansion that jose rented for the two weeks he and his family were holidaying in italy for, it was no surprise when jose asked him if he liked moroccan tea.
"of course," he replied, quietly puzzled but androgynous enough to hide it behind his glasses and porcelain. jose nods and rises from his chair, disappearing for exactly seven minutes, leaving kakà to sit there with his thoughts. he crosses one long leg over the other, his finger running underneath his bottom lip as he stares out at the grey skyline, the grey reminding him of a time long ago, the colour a pair of eyes would turn when in the passion of a moment. jose returns, stirring kakà from his daydreams, a silver tray between his hands. setting it down on the table, he pours two cups and passes one to kakà, who gratefully accepts.
jose joins him, a little closer this time, and kakà blows on the tea gently. "why did you wish to see me, jose?" he asks, perpetually polite, his confusion forgiven for his beauty was otherworldly. jose places his cup on the table and mimics kakà's pose, clasping his hands in front of him and staring out at the horizon. "andriy. he is...not settling. at all." he begins in english. kakà is amused. "you flew all the way to milan to tell me this? i have espn and a telephone, jose." he replies. jose waves a hand, slipping into their native português. "he is not settling well and i don't want him there; this is not news to you. nor did i come here to tell you this. i came for my wife and family. i am merely filling my time before they return from a day's shopping." he says, training his eyes on the younger man.
kakà nods. "and what do you wish me to do about the form of a friend that no longer wears my colours?" he asks. jose sighed loudly, raking a hand through his hair, relaxing into the chair. "come to chelsea. i believe it would suffice." kakà, who had chosen that moment to take a drink, almost chokes. jose glares at him. "i wanted you, anyway. i told roman to get me you, ricardo. he refused, gives me this useless ukranian instead." he snaps cooly, and kakà feels something dark and ugly rear its head inside him. "do not ever speak about sheva like that in front of me. ever. do you hear me?" jose's chest heaves for a moment, but he sighs again and nods.
"andriy is better then i could ever be. you should be thanking God himself that you are blessed with a wealthy owner that could remove him from us, unnaturally." jose's anger has now given way to curiosity. "unnaturally? so you are watching the games, then." kakà blushes. "the english league intrigues me." he begins, but jose's smile has already developed. "money is not a problem. nor is your price tag. the problem is you, kakà." he sips from his tea, deliberate and measured. kakà is unnerved. his fingers drum on the table and his teeth muse at his lips. "you won't ever have both of us. ancelotti won't let me leave. and i don't wish to. i won't make the same mistakes andriy has." he replies after a pregnant pause.
jose's smile, although he has just been told no- nobody ever tells jose no, continues to stay on his face; a wolf in sheep's clothing, perhaps. kakà drains his tea, and stands tall, the staffer at the door disappearing to get his coat. "this has been a most insightful meeting, jose. we must do it again, soon." kakà says, perpetually polite, and jose stands as well, stepping in his way. he traces a finger down kakà's face and stops at his chin, tilting it upwards.
leaning closer, kakà closes his eyes as the spicy cologne invades his senses, his eyelashes fluttering against a raw cheek. "you will be mine. and shevchenko will score goals because of it. in spite of it."
he can barely hear the words, and jose has disappeared and is now replaced with a jacket and the freezing winds outside, but kakà, for only the second time in his life, is deathly afraid.
~~~FIN
pairing: kaká/andriy shevchenko
for: the the irreplaceable, unmistakeable, irrepressible samantha
wordcount: 609
prompt: giraffe, violets
disclaimer: not mine, never was, never will be, finite?
a/n: "the purples exploded behind his eyes as he imagined a field filled with them, kaká standing in the middle dressed only in white, pure white. a giraffe appeared, and kaká laughed, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, as he petted the animal and made cooing noises." i am trying out a new genre; crangst.
andriy remembers stepping through the threshold into the kaká residence one evening; nothing particularly special about it at all, just a warm evening on the twenty-second of july. a birthday party was to be attended that night, and ricky had called him, distressed, unable to pick a wine to give as a gift. caroline and kirsten had already left to meet up with all the other wives, and andriy was the second logical choice, of course.
kaká appeared as he shut the door quietly, his brow knitted together in worry, it smoothing out as soon as he noticed the ukrainian. "andriy!" he called, and rushed forwards with all the elegance of a giraffe. wrapping his arms around the older man, he kissed his cheeks, fingers splayed on the sides of his head, carding through andriy's gently styled hair; his eyes glowing. "come!" he exclaimed, and laced their fingers together, leading him to the wine cellar. andriy smelt violets all over kaká; wondered if he had partaken in a quick moment of passion with his wife before she left. dismissed the idea, because really- this was ricky, his ricky. the (boy) man did not seem the type for a "quicky" in any sense of the word; took him longer to develop anything, from conversation to the build up for a goal.
they reached the bottom and ricky dragged him over, holding up two dusty bottles for him to inspect. "i don't...i don't know." he finally said, his bottom lip jutting out, petulant like a child but with the grace of an adult. it was amazing how contradictory his ricky could be, sometimes. andriy smiled and closed the distance, pressing a slow, soft kiss to his pouted lips and lacing his fingers around the wine in his left hand. "this one will be quite adequate, ricardo." he whispered, pulling back and placing the other in its home. ricky nodded, slightly dazed, and andriy led him to the stairs. dusting the bottle off and placing it in a bag, andriy held his door open while kaká loped out, fumbling with his keys, mobile, wallet and present. andriy chuckled softly and took the keys and present, and kaká blushed.
"where would i be without you, andriy?" he said, his smile spreading, and andriy couldn't help but smile himself. "you would be late, have probably lost your keys down that grill and would be worried about the wine for the entire evening." he answered, walking to his own car, his eyes trained (as always) on the gentle brasilian with his hands full, standing on his doorstep. "come along, ricky. we are going to be late," he said playfully as kaká snapped out of his daze and dashed to his car. andriy closed his eyes and leant against his, waiting, inhaling as kaka walked past and the scent of violets enchanted him. those violets.
the purples exploded behind his eyes as he imagined a field filled with them, ricky standing in the middle, dressed only in white. a giraffe appeared and ricky laughed, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, as he petted the animal and made cooing noises. watching him pat that giraffe had to be one of the most peaceful things he had done all year, and was content to stand there in the evening had ricky not blasted his horn. gasping, he jolted forwards and heard ricky's laugher. "come on andriy, we're going to be late!" he called, pulling out the driveway, his laughter tumbling behind him.
andriy merely smiled, the violets still lingering in his nose and the spots of the giraffe in his eyes as he followed kaka down the road.
name: il capitano
pairing: fernando torres/steven gerrard
for: and only for; vy
wordcount: 279
prompt: armband
disclaimer: not mine, never was, never will be, finite?
a/n: "fernando pursed his lips and steven straightened up, and wordlessly he pulled steven's arm out, slipping the band gently over his hand, his breath hitching in his throat as his fingers ran across steven's arm."
fernando has always enjoyed the feel of the captain's band on his skin. the course cotton rubbing against his skin, slick with sweat from a hard day’s work, or crisp from its packet, untouched. it's one of the only things he misses about being in england (that and the heat of madrid, the language, his friends, his family, living just around the corner from half his la selección team-mates...that's all, honestly).
once his mastery of the (scouse) english language was complete, he found himself inexplicably drawn to steven. "stevie," the skipper would always admonish with a wave of his hand. fernando would blush (god, how long had it been) and xabi would smile from the other side of the room, and stevie would nudge him with his elbow and fernando would blush further. one afternoon before the game, he caught steven without his captain's band on. frowning, he walked over and asked him where it was. "oh, it's here. i haven't gotten around to putting it on, yet." steven replied, handing the polyester band to the younger man.
fernando pursed his lips and steven straightened up. wordlessly he pulled steven's arm out, slipping the band gently over his hand, his breath hitching in his throat as his fingers ran across steven's arm. biting his lip, he did not fail to hear steven's do the same; his breath snagging in his throat. the band sits, perfectly symmetrical on his arm now, and fernando smoothes down the material around it. "there," he finishes, a smile on his face. steven looks worried, but smiles back and pats him on the arm.
"thanks, nando." he replies, and fernando desperately tries not to blush.
name: posse
pairing: jose mourinho, kakà, implied kakà/andriy shevchenko
for: and only for; vy
wordcount: 758
prompt: morocco, tea
disclaimer: not mine, never was, never will be, finite?
a/n: "kakà closes his eyes as the spicy cologne invades his senses, his eyelashes fluttering against a raw cheek. "you will be mine. and shevchenko will score goals because of it. in spite of it.""
it is not every day that kakà dines with jose mourinho. "consider this a once-a-year phenomenon." jose mused over the phone. kakà was not aware jose was able to say phenomenon in english; then again, jose never failed to surprise him. sitting at the oak table in the mansion that jose rented for the two weeks he and his family were holidaying in italy for, it was no surprise when jose asked him if he liked moroccan tea.
"of course," he replied, quietly puzzled but androgynous enough to hide it behind his glasses and porcelain. jose nods and rises from his chair, disappearing for exactly seven minutes, leaving kakà to sit there with his thoughts. he crosses one long leg over the other, his finger running underneath his bottom lip as he stares out at the grey skyline, the grey reminding him of a time long ago, the colour a pair of eyes would turn when in the passion of a moment. jose returns, stirring kakà from his daydreams, a silver tray between his hands. setting it down on the table, he pours two cups and passes one to kakà, who gratefully accepts.
jose joins him, a little closer this time, and kakà blows on the tea gently. "why did you wish to see me, jose?" he asks, perpetually polite, his confusion forgiven for his beauty was otherworldly. jose places his cup on the table and mimics kakà's pose, clasping his hands in front of him and staring out at the horizon. "andriy. he is...not settling. at all." he begins in english. kakà is amused. "you flew all the way to milan to tell me this? i have espn and a telephone, jose." he replies. jose waves a hand, slipping into their native português. "he is not settling well and i don't want him there; this is not news to you. nor did i come here to tell you this. i came for my wife and family. i am merely filling my time before they return from a day's shopping." he says, training his eyes on the younger man.
kakà nods. "and what do you wish me to do about the form of a friend that no longer wears my colours?" he asks. jose sighed loudly, raking a hand through his hair, relaxing into the chair. "come to chelsea. i believe it would suffice." kakà, who had chosen that moment to take a drink, almost chokes. jose glares at him. "i wanted you, anyway. i told roman to get me you, ricardo. he refused, gives me this useless ukranian instead." he snaps cooly, and kakà feels something dark and ugly rear its head inside him. "do not ever speak about sheva like that in front of me. ever. do you hear me?" jose's chest heaves for a moment, but he sighs again and nods.
"andriy is better then i could ever be. you should be thanking God himself that you are blessed with a wealthy owner that could remove him from us, unnaturally." jose's anger has now given way to curiosity. "unnaturally? so you are watching the games, then." kakà blushes. "the english league intrigues me." he begins, but jose's smile has already developed. "money is not a problem. nor is your price tag. the problem is you, kakà." he sips from his tea, deliberate and measured. kakà is unnerved. his fingers drum on the table and his teeth muse at his lips. "you won't ever have both of us. ancelotti won't let me leave. and i don't wish to. i won't make the same mistakes andriy has." he replies after a pregnant pause.
jose's smile, although he has just been told no- nobody ever tells jose no, continues to stay on his face; a wolf in sheep's clothing, perhaps. kakà drains his tea, and stands tall, the staffer at the door disappearing to get his coat. "this has been a most insightful meeting, jose. we must do it again, soon." kakà says, perpetually polite, and jose stands as well, stepping in his way. he traces a finger down kakà's face and stops at his chin, tilting it upwards.
leaning closer, kakà closes his eyes as the spicy cologne invades his senses, his eyelashes fluttering against a raw cheek. "you will be mine. and shevchenko will score goals because of it. in spite of it."
he can barely hear the words, and jose has disappeared and is now replaced with a jacket and the freezing winds outside, but kakà, for only the second time in his life, is deathly afraid.
~~~FIN