Bits & Pieces: Tennisslash and Football
I have not written anything in absolutely ages, approaching the two year mark if not more. Well, this isn't much but I gathered what bits and pieces I'd jotted down from various ideas and figured I'd post them in case anyone on my flist my enjoy them :). It seems unlikely these will every become the reasonable length fics I'd originally envisioned them as, and they might as well be aired out while they are still vaguely relevant haha. Unedited, unbeta'd: you have been warned (yes Lirpa I can see you wincing at my butchering of the English language, oops?)
Feedback much appreciated still though! <3
Tennis:
this isn't forever (so cram what you can in week)
NC-17 (david/juanqui/marat)
Valencia, early 2000's. Juan Carlos may be young, but David is younger. and unlearned. Juanqui sets out to rectify this, with a little help.
it's a wonderful opportunity, david--and david's coach--thinks, to spend a week with his countryman who is already making a name for himself as one of the best on the atp tour. valencia is close to both their hearts, and perhaps that is why juan carlos ferrero, who is accomplished and beautiful and cooly confident, agrees to help him, david ferrer, who is...not.
what he doesn't expect, the things juan carlos teaches him (and yet). he goes into it eyes wide open, because he wants it. there's a lot he doesn't see, maybe, but he might never get another chance to learn.
david shoves helplessly up into juanqui, further into that tight clench as juan carlos bears down to meet his thrust
david forces his eyes open as juan carlos rises a little way up off his cock-
a door slams. a voice calls through the apartment, "hola juanqui!"
david freezes. marat. and here he is fucking the russian's boyfriend in what might well be their bed and this is probably the time to panic-
juan carlos slams back down and pleasure races through him, erasing thoughts from his mind. his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth drops open
david's arms are lying at his sides and juan carlos's hands come to encircle his wrists, effectively pinning him as juanca rides him, seemingly undaunted by the thought of his boyfriend discovering them
david hears footsteps come nearer and nearer. a large, warm hand settles over his and juanqui's. another slips over his thigh.
and then something- no, a tongue- touches his cock, right where it disappears into juan carlos's ass. david jerks at the contact, groans as marat licks his way up david's dick, chasing the rim of juanqui's hole as he rises once more, tracing a burning path back to the base as, slowly, juanqui sinks back down. marat's tongue snakes over swollen flesh to press firmly at the skin behind david's balls
david comes, unendingly it seems, into the black, into a sweltering haze.
(earlier, david remembers. juan carlos flush against him, crotch grinding against his ass. him a needy, shaking mess as juan carlos blew a hot breathe against the back of his neck, and whispered:
"it's never too late. but don't fool yourself if it's not there.")
Glorious
Juan Carlos / Marat
Juan Carlos looks back on his relationship with Marat. 2010, a tour without Marat, and written with the Golden Swing in mind.
They fucked and they cheated and they fought and they made up.
It was destructive. It was the best thing, the best feeling Juanca had, other than victories.
And nowadays, those were few and far between. (The few he had, he celebrated with David.)
At the end of the day, when Marat's wandering path brought him to the same city as Juanca and Juanca opened his hotel room door to find Marat lounging on the other side of it, Juanca always let him in.
Love is a corollary (just the most glorious one).
Football:
Delay (Club or Country?)
David Silva/ David Villa
Set last fall after Spain wins the World Cup, sometime soon after Silva scores his first league goal with Man City against Blackburn; Villa with Barcelona is finding woodwork more often than not.
Silva wonders which of them handled it better. Leaving Valencia, leaving each other- it tore him up, and during the World Cup it showed. It hurt to play on the same field as Villa, but it hurt more, maybe, to see David play without him- play heroically.
And yet they were campeons, and that didn't hurt at all.
He'd done nothing of note in South Africa, but he was playing as well as he'd ever done at Manchester City. Villa, on the other hand, was struggling in Barcelona. Perhaps he was finally feeling the absence of Silva. A delayed reaction to the near-collapse of their shared former club (of them). Who, David wonders in his more melancholy moments, had made the right choice?
Sacrifice club for country, or country for club?
War Wounds
Xabi, gen fic. Iker, Busquets.
In the midst of the celebrations in the locker room right after Spain's victory in the World Cup final, and featuring De Jong's infamous 'kung fu' tackle on Xabi Alonso. I picked Iker because he's captain and Busquets because he was one of the players arguing with the ref the most fiercely during the game after Xabi went down.
Iker eyed Xabi sitting on a bench alone, smiling a little too dazedly.
"Are you okay?"
Xabi nodded. Iker watched his national and Real Madrid teammate wearily. "I'm fine." He smiled beatifically. "Busi is getting me a cold beer."
"Xabi, I don't think it's a good idea for you to drink any more..." They were all hyped up on the win, but Iker felt responsible and Xabi looked rather worse for the wear. Iker wasn't even sure Xabi had seen a trainer or medic after that horror tackle, caught up first in the match and then the roar of celebrations.
"Hmmm?...Busi!" Sergio reappeared at that moment with an ice cold beer, looking worried. He and Iker glanced at each other, than at Xabi's still out of focus smile.
"Here you go." Sergio tentatively handed him the bottle.
"Thank you," Xabi said, taking the beer and...pressing it against his chest. "Ahhhhh." Xabi leaned back and closed his eyes, shifting the cold bottle to the perfect spot over his cleat-shaped sore.
Feedback much appreciated still though! <3
Tennis:
this isn't forever (so cram what you can in week)
NC-17 (david/juanqui/marat)
Valencia, early 2000's. Juan Carlos may be young, but David is younger. and unlearned. Juanqui sets out to rectify this, with a little help.
it's a wonderful opportunity, david--and david's coach--thinks, to spend a week with his countryman who is already making a name for himself as one of the best on the atp tour. valencia is close to both their hearts, and perhaps that is why juan carlos ferrero, who is accomplished and beautiful and cooly confident, agrees to help him, david ferrer, who is...not.
what he doesn't expect, the things juan carlos teaches him (and yet). he goes into it eyes wide open, because he wants it. there's a lot he doesn't see, maybe, but he might never get another chance to learn.
david shoves helplessly up into juanqui, further into that tight clench as juan carlos bears down to meet his thrust
david forces his eyes open as juan carlos rises a little way up off his cock-
a door slams. a voice calls through the apartment, "hola juanqui!"
david freezes. marat. and here he is fucking the russian's boyfriend in what might well be their bed and this is probably the time to panic-
juan carlos slams back down and pleasure races through him, erasing thoughts from his mind. his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth drops open
david's arms are lying at his sides and juan carlos's hands come to encircle his wrists, effectively pinning him as juanca rides him, seemingly undaunted by the thought of his boyfriend discovering them
david hears footsteps come nearer and nearer. a large, warm hand settles over his and juanqui's. another slips over his thigh.
and then something- no, a tongue- touches his cock, right where it disappears into juan carlos's ass. david jerks at the contact, groans as marat licks his way up david's dick, chasing the rim of juanqui's hole as he rises once more, tracing a burning path back to the base as, slowly, juanqui sinks back down. marat's tongue snakes over swollen flesh to press firmly at the skin behind david's balls
david comes, unendingly it seems, into the black, into a sweltering haze.
(earlier, david remembers. juan carlos flush against him, crotch grinding against his ass. him a needy, shaking mess as juan carlos blew a hot breathe against the back of his neck, and whispered:
"it's never too late. but don't fool yourself if it's not there.")
Glorious
Juan Carlos / Marat
Juan Carlos looks back on his relationship with Marat. 2010, a tour without Marat, and written with the Golden Swing in mind.
They fucked and they cheated and they fought and they made up.
It was destructive. It was the best thing, the best feeling Juanca had, other than victories.
And nowadays, those were few and far between. (The few he had, he celebrated with David.)
At the end of the day, when Marat's wandering path brought him to the same city as Juanca and Juanca opened his hotel room door to find Marat lounging on the other side of it, Juanca always let him in.
Love is a corollary (just the most glorious one).
Football:
Delay (Club or Country?)
David Silva/ David Villa
Set last fall after Spain wins the World Cup, sometime soon after Silva scores his first league goal with Man City against Blackburn; Villa with Barcelona is finding woodwork more often than not.
Silva wonders which of them handled it better. Leaving Valencia, leaving each other- it tore him up, and during the World Cup it showed. It hurt to play on the same field as Villa, but it hurt more, maybe, to see David play without him- play heroically.
And yet they were campeons, and that didn't hurt at all.
He'd done nothing of note in South Africa, but he was playing as well as he'd ever done at Manchester City. Villa, on the other hand, was struggling in Barcelona. Perhaps he was finally feeling the absence of Silva. A delayed reaction to the near-collapse of their shared former club (of them). Who, David wonders in his more melancholy moments, had made the right choice?
Sacrifice club for country, or country for club?
War Wounds
Xabi, gen fic. Iker, Busquets.
In the midst of the celebrations in the locker room right after Spain's victory in the World Cup final, and featuring De Jong's infamous 'kung fu' tackle on Xabi Alonso. I picked Iker because he's captain and Busquets because he was one of the players arguing with the ref the most fiercely during the game after Xabi went down.
Iker eyed Xabi sitting on a bench alone, smiling a little too dazedly.
"Are you okay?"
Xabi nodded. Iker watched his national and Real Madrid teammate wearily. "I'm fine." He smiled beatifically. "Busi is getting me a cold beer."
"Xabi, I don't think it's a good idea for you to drink any more..." They were all hyped up on the win, but Iker felt responsible and Xabi looked rather worse for the wear. Iker wasn't even sure Xabi had seen a trainer or medic after that horror tackle, caught up first in the match and then the roar of celebrations.
"Hmmm?...Busi!" Sergio reappeared at that moment with an ice cold beer, looking worried. He and Iker glanced at each other, than at Xabi's still out of focus smile.
"Here you go." Sergio tentatively handed him the bottle.
"Thank you," Xabi said, taking the beer and...pressing it against his chest. "Ahhhhh." Xabi leaned back and closed his eyes, shifting the cold bottle to the perfect spot over his cleat-shaped sore.