[Fic] A multitude of drabbles
koba-sama made me do it. These have been written throughout weeks worth of traded IMs (and bribes) between Serena and I. If you have any questions, since they're kind of all over the place and mostly unlabeled, feel free to ask.
ETA I've edited this post after having a few people convince me I was being a bit of a douche about my writing. I love you guys. ♥
• • •
IMPRESSIONS OF THIS YEAR'S PREMIERSHIP
The number eight burned into his sockets a kind of distrust. He hated the rounded look of it this week about as much as he resented the fall in status of his club. Eighth. Bloody eighth in this end of October week. The solid win against Aston Villa was a reprise from the losses, but he still had not scored. Not once. Stevie had missed the mark both on the pitch and off. The sodding press snapping at his door, digging up trash about Alex and the girls. And panic set in momentarily when he found Xabi's lips against his neck after the match. Just a whisper of a thrill and anxiety crept along his arms.What if those dogs caught that? Would they dissect every motion, every touch into something more? Or would the concentration remain on his failings? Christ. He hoped so.
• • •
INTERACTION WITH A TEAMMATE
Luis had a horrific sense of humour; filthy, utterly depraved at his most inebriated. He would shout and flail his arms, constructing obscene gestures and inventing sexual positions that were most likely impossible. Xabi couldn't stand being around him on his off-time. Luis would pull him down with this thin arms, would rub his hand down Xabi's face and murmur to him in Spanish his drunken innuendo, he would let his leg slip between Xabi's and let his eyes roll around as he blacked-out with someone's name on his lips.
"Xabi, llevame a casa. Vamos a follar, no?"
But the smaller man didn't mean it. Luis was the loneliest of the Liverpool players. The most isolated. He found comfort in Xabi's Spanish accent, in his familiar scent. But it didn't mean anything.
"Xabi, Xabi --"
"Calma, Luis. Te llevo a casa, viejo."
Xabi opened the creaking door of the sparse flat, dropping Luis onto the couch. His lips were still wet from the alcohol kiss outside the door and Xabi brought his fingers up to his mouth, wistful for autumn scents and the taste of spearmint.
• • •
FAVOURITE PLAYER'S SIGNIFICANT OTHER
He was envious and begrudged everyone their falsified happily ever afters. Stevie couldn't help it and the ice of it was frosting his limbs and damaging his frayed nerves. He attempted to rationalize that he was too young to want so much, that not enough time had passed for there to be such fist-tightening anger, to have such a smolder of emotion.
Xabi was closed with his reactions concerning his private life. An inscrutable man with a sculpted face that betrayed the inner self only on the pitch. And that's where Stevie found himself wanting him the most. On the pitch amid the rush of a crowd, with the lingering salt of sweat and the burn of grass on their limbs. Because it's the only time Xabi would allow for overtness and Stevie was near bursting with jealousy.
Fernando would never have to wring his hands in question, would not have to stumble through half a season because of questions left to be thought out loud. Fernando had his Raul; the arrogant prince who sneered and raged against people questioning his actions. He wore Fernando on his chest and back for months, mingling his body with his lover in the only manner he could. And Stevie could only count on stolen milliseconds after a goal to be able to display the proverbial heart on his sleeve.
• • •
LEAVING THE CLUB
Separate the filthy scene
It was a creep between his shoulder blades, 'fuck you's snarled out and messages deleted, letters stamped 'RETURN TO SENDER' in slammed down red. He felt cursed with it, a mark of green, of filth and treachery. Signing away years of his life to a club that wasn't Milan aged him even as his hand remained unwavering. There was still so much left for him, dreams he hadn't managed, records he's wished to surpass, schools that he'd chosen for his child, restaurants he still wanted to dine in -- but he had responsibilities to people other than himself and eventually she wore him down, Abramovich wore him down -- but it was the look on Kaka's face that ripped him up.
It's the only feeling I've kept towards you
Distance and time, age and a different ideal for his end years. Sheva felt his best form, his prime slipping past his fingers and trailing behind his legs on the pitch. Stones were tied around his waist, were forcing him to a sluggish pace of becoming the public pet of a man who he had no connections with that weren't monetary. London was a travesty of a city; dull and bleak, a water mess of shouts and chipped brick. The sunburst beauty of Milan ached in his chest, on the pitch. The colours red and black made him choke back memories and it was only by closing his eyes that he could pretend the English crash of voices were Italian cantos and chants of his name being held up in love.
• • •
WHY THEY LOVE LIKE THEY DO
I had a relationship brought up from necessity. I was lonely; secluded by language and 9pm closing times that forced me to troll around for underground clubs that didn't exist. I wanted someone simple, someone who wouldn't be able to make people understand that I was sexually harassing him and wouldn't be believed anyway. Someone who had other relationships like I did, other responsibilities that he could drop me for when it suited him. Because I planned to do the same the minute my something better came to England.
• • •
(TWO) REASONS WHY HERNAN CRESPO RAN AWAY FROM CHELSEA
• Money. Plata. It spoke in Chelsea, even more than their striker's goal ratio and Abramovich's unbearable grin or Mourinho's clammy favour. Hernan Crespo had grown up a poor boy, but at 20 he was worth cities and at 30 worth small countries. Money was an intoxicant; dull and a great success to use on the vapid. Hernan hoped that after 56 caps for his home country and the miscalculation of his move to London that he was no longer so fresh-faced.
• English fans, much like Catholics, mourned their faith, mourned the game and their teams. They weren't happy unless they were miserable and ailing, unless their strikers had destroyed tendons or their defenders were in casts --- they thrived on failure. Such a contrast to joyousness of Italian fans. Even despite their cynicism, they remained celebratory, they hoped for a recovery, for a new chance. Italian fans reveled in the ability of their teams to pace themselves into recovery, whether there would be a miracle. They mourned failed promise, not spectacle.
• • •
FUNCTION; APPEAL
My own version -- of myself, filled with hard-set poignancy.
She'd always been taller than I was; even flat-heeled and sloping -- her small shoulders would brush atop mine and her menthol-thinned arms were the ones that spilled over the back of my seats. Dark-haired waif in her large-rimmed eyes and iron-smoothed hair. She was a jeans and black-shirted girl -- no purse, just a cloth bag with a men's wallet, lighter and cigarette box.
(She changed her earrings everyday, a small vanity she kept in a messy drawer)
She was full of old ways; the feminine ideal of several years past.
"She doesn't suit you, Xabi?" It always sounded like a question to me. "You've no time for her?" But still, there's this appeal I can't break through. There's this function to how I see her.
(In truth, he hated smoking, but the caustic musk that clung to her hair -- intertwining with the men's soap she showered with -- made him feel as if the nicotine was rushing into his system.
Her blunt nails would rake over his shoulders, sometimes leaving an accident of scratches on his cheeks or hips.)
...it surrendered like a lie -- his explanation for her...
• • •
TRYING MY LUCK (WITH YOU)
It was a chance; un riesgo de mala calculación during a time heavy with indifference and honeyed encouragements delivered in an acrid wrapping. "There's no turning back."
He was seared from the experience -- felt withered past his ability to care. From the disputable number one club in the world to be wooed away like a whore under the pretext of being a top consort.
"Cut bargain replacement," the translation to him amounted to imbecil sensillo a precio descuentado. Untrue and he wouldn't lower his ego enough to believe it -- but still the self-expressed moniker slipped achingly over his skin.
He wanted to be inebriated -- to falter with purposeful carelessness into his empty flat -- to be a true obnoxious drunk and vomit out his resentments in favour of filling himself up with the garbled hopes of his new skipper. This Steven Gerrard who so brazenly assured him of better performances, gave him intangible promise of glory.
Xabi believed it. The fool was tentative; cautious in a noble manner, but Luis could see it -- he knew. Xabi was struck. The fool was brushed over in lamb's blood red and he was breathing for the sake of Anfield, not the sangre y oro colours.
• • •
LOVER'S SPIT
(It's time that we grow old & do some shit)
"I like it all that way."
Cinco meses y medio.
You allowed the close-eyed desperation to carry forward - for the black thread of the number nine to fray; burning along the edges - the letters of his surname to begin a greying decline. Your five months of penitence for holding your goodbye in a cordial tone, for refusing to see him off at the airport - for watching his introduction to the English in a post-coital haze that had left you carve out with disappointment.
• • •
WHY XABI ALONSO AND KAKÁ COULD NEVER BE ON THE SAME TEAM
• Dark fantastic passion.
You're a mid-fielder. A golden-skinned accompaniment to a man clad completely in red; mind and kit, dreams and expectations. Your skipper garbed in clothing that drips with blood tied to club and history. The matching frown lines building up along your brows, the shared scent of harsh cologne and hair wax; the preternatural ease of crosses and how you can close your eyes and still know with unerring certainty where he will be.
Twice. The flash and lure of blue money, of black cases stuffed with it, dripping in oil richness, in promises of continued wins and silver to add to his collection. But twice he let it all collapse around him, twice he stayed and a part of you thought: "With me. You stayed with me." For you. With you. Sanguine.
• But it's alright, I lie.
You're a mid-fielder. The effervescence of a declining national team, the exuberant hope of a marred club. The wunderkind with a skipping Italian accent and ready smile. Your eyes have added a slope of rancour, your kiss a sardonic twist.
It's okay, here's another lie
A partnership short of its diamond anniversary, short of another goal-scoring milestone. A duo, rossonori coloured, dualistic in style, in understanding, matching smiles, of ready grace and equalled success. Happiness embedded in the viridescent of Italy, your adopted homecountry. The satiated grasp of fingers through your hair, the slip of whispered affections and sweat-coated kisses.
Let's fight, let's feel alive --- Passion, tremble
"It's alright." That was your response, spoken in dulcet tones and a halted smile. "It's alright." Because he left without a curse or leaden-heart. Because his handshake was firm and his face radiant in Prussian blue.
• • •
LUIS GARCÍA: TIMES WHEN HIS 'AFFECTION' FOR JOHN ARNE RIISE WAS ALMOST DISCOVERED
He had been waiting for the masseuse to come in, standing beside Riise, who was sprawled out on the table, achy and only covered up a small white towel. The room was humid; sweat just beginning to bead on his forehead. Riise was on his stomach, head tilted to the side, eyes shut, a sound of discomfort the only noise aside from the air conditioning. Luis let his gaze trail down from the wet curls of Riise's head down to his legs.
Riise's calves were firmly toned, the muscles prominent beneath pale skin. The massage he was waiting for was a lower body massage as he'd been cramping up on the field more than usual, with the latest incident forcing him to be momentarily taken off the pitch three times in the last game. Luis figured that if the team was going to pay an expensive masseuse for Riise, he might as well get the club its money's worth and get in on the action.
But now, as he stood silent and assessing, he wondered if maybe he could get something else out of it. Luis brought a hand down to Riise's ankle.
"Luis?"
With his fingers barely lingering against Riise's skin, Luis could feel him tense up, could feel the intake of breath as his hand trailed lightly up one leg. He smirked as he halted at the junction of Riise's knee, only to get a jolt of disappointment from the man. Luis slipped his hand beneath the edge of the towel, hand just grazing the curve of Riise's ass when the door opened, Crouch bursting in with something about the masseuse being late.
"He said he'll be here within the next half hour if traffic lets up," the bean-stalk of a man beamed down at them. "How are you holding up there, Riise?"
Riise turned a red bright enough to blend into his hair and buried his face into the table while Luis, still somewhat startled, struggled to hide his laughter.
• • •
FIVE TIMES SERGIO RAMOS DOUBTED HE WAS A FLAMING HOMO
1. Two sisters about three years apart in age, legs made to wrap around a man's waist, mouths a natural pink superior to that of his Gucci sunglasses. They barely knew a word of Spanish, but it's not as if sucking him off took good verbal skills.
2. Meeting Mrs. Cannavaro. The perfect wife and mother. Warmth, intelligence. The sight of her didn't get him immediately hard, but the way she handled her children, how her presence eased a sparkle into Fabio's eyes---Sergio had never coveted a woman more.
3. The ability to break down the confidence of an anorexic supermodel. Of having her screaming in Italian outside his door while he sat on his couch contemplating what to purchase next. Women were satisfying to play. But unlike a man, a woman could fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked, could make you come and never be close to it herself. Women were masters at manipulation and the game was exciting to him.
4. The Maldini and Beckham boys and the thought that he might never have children of his own.
5. His first time with a man. A pair of stupid boys too young to know what they were doing---the blood and the pain afterwards. Humiliation. Of being destroyed and dropped for being a bad lay when he was too frightened to ask about preparations, too unsure of himself to be able to protect himself.
• • •
FAVOURITE PHRASES (WORDS)
Daniel was a new student, rushing and leafing madly through a small satchel of dictionaries he kept hidden away beneath the seat of his car. Luis has cornered him at practice, small hands running against his arm, causing goosebumps to rise up while Danny's eyes rounded and his breath caught. He hadn't understood what the man was telling him. Had it been "Stay out of the locker room?" or perhaps "Keep watch!" He just hadn't been able to catch the Spanish well enough and so he'd come home without a shower and feeling like he'd somehow failed sentry duty.
Flipping through the book, he found the word he was looking for. Gilipolla. Oh. Idiot. So he was calling him an idiot. Okay. Next word. Follar, follar, follar... To fuck.
Stringing together words as he looked them up, Daniel closed his books and shoved them back in the bag. Why Luis had felt compelled to tell him to stop being a moron and let Finnan fuck him was unclear. But he felt better now that he knew it wasn't his fault for the captain walking in on Riise while Luis was jerking him off in the shower stall.
• • •
And I think I'm going to go hide in a hole now. Thanks.
ETA I've edited this post after having a few people convince me I was being a bit of a douche about my writing. I love you guys. ♥
• • •
IMPRESSIONS OF THIS YEAR'S PREMIERSHIP
The number eight burned into his sockets a kind of distrust. He hated the rounded look of it this week about as much as he resented the fall in status of his club. Eighth. Bloody eighth in this end of October week. The solid win against Aston Villa was a reprise from the losses, but he still had not scored. Not once. Stevie had missed the mark both on the pitch and off. The sodding press snapping at his door, digging up trash about Alex and the girls. And panic set in momentarily when he found Xabi's lips against his neck after the match. Just a whisper of a thrill and anxiety crept along his arms.What if those dogs caught that? Would they dissect every motion, every touch into something more? Or would the concentration remain on his failings? Christ. He hoped so.
• • •
INTERACTION WITH A TEAMMATE
Luis had a horrific sense of humour; filthy, utterly depraved at his most inebriated. He would shout and flail his arms, constructing obscene gestures and inventing sexual positions that were most likely impossible. Xabi couldn't stand being around him on his off-time. Luis would pull him down with this thin arms, would rub his hand down Xabi's face and murmur to him in Spanish his drunken innuendo, he would let his leg slip between Xabi's and let his eyes roll around as he blacked-out with someone's name on his lips.
"Xabi, llevame a casa. Vamos a follar, no?"
But the smaller man didn't mean it. Luis was the loneliest of the Liverpool players. The most isolated. He found comfort in Xabi's Spanish accent, in his familiar scent. But it didn't mean anything.
"Xabi, Xabi --"
"Calma, Luis. Te llevo a casa, viejo."
Xabi opened the creaking door of the sparse flat, dropping Luis onto the couch. His lips were still wet from the alcohol kiss outside the door and Xabi brought his fingers up to his mouth, wistful for autumn scents and the taste of spearmint.
• • •
FAVOURITE PLAYER'S SIGNIFICANT OTHER
He was envious and begrudged everyone their falsified happily ever afters. Stevie couldn't help it and the ice of it was frosting his limbs and damaging his frayed nerves. He attempted to rationalize that he was too young to want so much, that not enough time had passed for there to be such fist-tightening anger, to have such a smolder of emotion.
Xabi was closed with his reactions concerning his private life. An inscrutable man with a sculpted face that betrayed the inner self only on the pitch. And that's where Stevie found himself wanting him the most. On the pitch amid the rush of a crowd, with the lingering salt of sweat and the burn of grass on their limbs. Because it's the only time Xabi would allow for overtness and Stevie was near bursting with jealousy.
Fernando would never have to wring his hands in question, would not have to stumble through half a season because of questions left to be thought out loud. Fernando had his Raul; the arrogant prince who sneered and raged against people questioning his actions. He wore Fernando on his chest and back for months, mingling his body with his lover in the only manner he could. And Stevie could only count on stolen milliseconds after a goal to be able to display the proverbial heart on his sleeve.
• • •
LEAVING THE CLUB
Separate the filthy scene
It was a creep between his shoulder blades, 'fuck you's snarled out and messages deleted, letters stamped 'RETURN TO SENDER' in slammed down red. He felt cursed with it, a mark of green, of filth and treachery. Signing away years of his life to a club that wasn't Milan aged him even as his hand remained unwavering. There was still so much left for him, dreams he hadn't managed, records he's wished to surpass, schools that he'd chosen for his child, restaurants he still wanted to dine in -- but he had responsibilities to people other than himself and eventually she wore him down, Abramovich wore him down -- but it was the look on Kaka's face that ripped him up.
It's the only feeling I've kept towards you
Distance and time, age and a different ideal for his end years. Sheva felt his best form, his prime slipping past his fingers and trailing behind his legs on the pitch. Stones were tied around his waist, were forcing him to a sluggish pace of becoming the public pet of a man who he had no connections with that weren't monetary. London was a travesty of a city; dull and bleak, a water mess of shouts and chipped brick. The sunburst beauty of Milan ached in his chest, on the pitch. The colours red and black made him choke back memories and it was only by closing his eyes that he could pretend the English crash of voices were Italian cantos and chants of his name being held up in love.
• • •
WHY THEY LOVE LIKE THEY DO
I had a relationship brought up from necessity. I was lonely; secluded by language and 9pm closing times that forced me to troll around for underground clubs that didn't exist. I wanted someone simple, someone who wouldn't be able to make people understand that I was sexually harassing him and wouldn't be believed anyway. Someone who had other relationships like I did, other responsibilities that he could drop me for when it suited him. Because I planned to do the same the minute my something better came to England.
• • •
(TWO) REASONS WHY HERNAN CRESPO RAN AWAY FROM CHELSEA
• Money. Plata. It spoke in Chelsea, even more than their striker's goal ratio and Abramovich's unbearable grin or Mourinho's clammy favour. Hernan Crespo had grown up a poor boy, but at 20 he was worth cities and at 30 worth small countries. Money was an intoxicant; dull and a great success to use on the vapid. Hernan hoped that after 56 caps for his home country and the miscalculation of his move to London that he was no longer so fresh-faced.
• English fans, much like Catholics, mourned their faith, mourned the game and their teams. They weren't happy unless they were miserable and ailing, unless their strikers had destroyed tendons or their defenders were in casts --- they thrived on failure. Such a contrast to joyousness of Italian fans. Even despite their cynicism, they remained celebratory, they hoped for a recovery, for a new chance. Italian fans reveled in the ability of their teams to pace themselves into recovery, whether there would be a miracle. They mourned failed promise, not spectacle.
• • •
FUNCTION; APPEAL
My own version -- of myself, filled with hard-set poignancy.
She'd always been taller than I was; even flat-heeled and sloping -- her small shoulders would brush atop mine and her menthol-thinned arms were the ones that spilled over the back of my seats. Dark-haired waif in her large-rimmed eyes and iron-smoothed hair. She was a jeans and black-shirted girl -- no purse, just a cloth bag with a men's wallet, lighter and cigarette box.
(She changed her earrings everyday, a small vanity she kept in a messy drawer)
She was full of old ways; the feminine ideal of several years past.
"She doesn't suit you, Xabi?" It always sounded like a question to me. "You've no time for her?" But still, there's this appeal I can't break through. There's this function to how I see her.
(In truth, he hated smoking, but the caustic musk that clung to her hair -- intertwining with the men's soap she showered with -- made him feel as if the nicotine was rushing into his system.
Her blunt nails would rake over his shoulders, sometimes leaving an accident of scratches on his cheeks or hips.)
...it surrendered like a lie -- his explanation for her...
• • •
TRYING MY LUCK (WITH YOU)
It was a chance; un riesgo de mala calculación during a time heavy with indifference and honeyed encouragements delivered in an acrid wrapping. "There's no turning back."
He was seared from the experience -- felt withered past his ability to care. From the disputable number one club in the world to be wooed away like a whore under the pretext of being a top consort.
"Cut bargain replacement," the translation to him amounted to imbecil sensillo a precio descuentado. Untrue and he wouldn't lower his ego enough to believe it -- but still the self-expressed moniker slipped achingly over his skin.
He wanted to be inebriated -- to falter with purposeful carelessness into his empty flat -- to be a true obnoxious drunk and vomit out his resentments in favour of filling himself up with the garbled hopes of his new skipper. This Steven Gerrard who so brazenly assured him of better performances, gave him intangible promise of glory.
Xabi believed it. The fool was tentative; cautious in a noble manner, but Luis could see it -- he knew. Xabi was struck. The fool was brushed over in lamb's blood red and he was breathing for the sake of Anfield, not the sangre y oro colours.
• • •
LOVER'S SPIT
(It's time that we grow old & do some shit)
"I like it all that way."
Cinco meses y medio.
You allowed the close-eyed desperation to carry forward - for the black thread of the number nine to fray; burning along the edges - the letters of his surname to begin a greying decline. Your five months of penitence for holding your goodbye in a cordial tone, for refusing to see him off at the airport - for watching his introduction to the English in a post-coital haze that had left you carve out with disappointment.
• • •
WHY XABI ALONSO AND KAKÁ COULD NEVER BE ON THE SAME TEAM
• Dark fantastic passion.
You're a mid-fielder. A golden-skinned accompaniment to a man clad completely in red; mind and kit, dreams and expectations. Your skipper garbed in clothing that drips with blood tied to club and history. The matching frown lines building up along your brows, the shared scent of harsh cologne and hair wax; the preternatural ease of crosses and how you can close your eyes and still know with unerring certainty where he will be.
Twice. The flash and lure of blue money, of black cases stuffed with it, dripping in oil richness, in promises of continued wins and silver to add to his collection. But twice he let it all collapse around him, twice he stayed and a part of you thought: "With me. You stayed with me." For you. With you. Sanguine.
• But it's alright, I lie.
You're a mid-fielder. The effervescence of a declining national team, the exuberant hope of a marred club. The wunderkind with a skipping Italian accent and ready smile. Your eyes have added a slope of rancour, your kiss a sardonic twist.
It's okay, here's another lie
A partnership short of its diamond anniversary, short of another goal-scoring milestone. A duo, rossonori coloured, dualistic in style, in understanding, matching smiles, of ready grace and equalled success. Happiness embedded in the viridescent of Italy, your adopted homecountry. The satiated grasp of fingers through your hair, the slip of whispered affections and sweat-coated kisses.
Let's fight, let's feel alive --- Passion, tremble
"It's alright." That was your response, spoken in dulcet tones and a halted smile. "It's alright." Because he left without a curse or leaden-heart. Because his handshake was firm and his face radiant in Prussian blue.
• • •
LUIS GARCÍA: TIMES WHEN HIS 'AFFECTION' FOR JOHN ARNE RIISE WAS ALMOST DISCOVERED
He had been waiting for the masseuse to come in, standing beside Riise, who was sprawled out on the table, achy and only covered up a small white towel. The room was humid; sweat just beginning to bead on his forehead. Riise was on his stomach, head tilted to the side, eyes shut, a sound of discomfort the only noise aside from the air conditioning. Luis let his gaze trail down from the wet curls of Riise's head down to his legs.
Riise's calves were firmly toned, the muscles prominent beneath pale skin. The massage he was waiting for was a lower body massage as he'd been cramping up on the field more than usual, with the latest incident forcing him to be momentarily taken off the pitch three times in the last game. Luis figured that if the team was going to pay an expensive masseuse for Riise, he might as well get the club its money's worth and get in on the action.
But now, as he stood silent and assessing, he wondered if maybe he could get something else out of it. Luis brought a hand down to Riise's ankle.
"Luis?"
With his fingers barely lingering against Riise's skin, Luis could feel him tense up, could feel the intake of breath as his hand trailed lightly up one leg. He smirked as he halted at the junction of Riise's knee, only to get a jolt of disappointment from the man. Luis slipped his hand beneath the edge of the towel, hand just grazing the curve of Riise's ass when the door opened, Crouch bursting in with something about the masseuse being late.
"He said he'll be here within the next half hour if traffic lets up," the bean-stalk of a man beamed down at them. "How are you holding up there, Riise?"
Riise turned a red bright enough to blend into his hair and buried his face into the table while Luis, still somewhat startled, struggled to hide his laughter.
• • •
FIVE TIMES SERGIO RAMOS DOUBTED HE WAS A FLAMING HOMO
1. Two sisters about three years apart in age, legs made to wrap around a man's waist, mouths a natural pink superior to that of his Gucci sunglasses. They barely knew a word of Spanish, but it's not as if sucking him off took good verbal skills.
2. Meeting Mrs. Cannavaro. The perfect wife and mother. Warmth, intelligence. The sight of her didn't get him immediately hard, but the way she handled her children, how her presence eased a sparkle into Fabio's eyes---Sergio had never coveted a woman more.
3. The ability to break down the confidence of an anorexic supermodel. Of having her screaming in Italian outside his door while he sat on his couch contemplating what to purchase next. Women were satisfying to play. But unlike a man, a woman could fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked, could make you come and never be close to it herself. Women were masters at manipulation and the game was exciting to him.
4. The Maldini and Beckham boys and the thought that he might never have children of his own.
5. His first time with a man. A pair of stupid boys too young to know what they were doing---the blood and the pain afterwards. Humiliation. Of being destroyed and dropped for being a bad lay when he was too frightened to ask about preparations, too unsure of himself to be able to protect himself.
• • •
FAVOURITE PHRASES (WORDS)
Daniel was a new student, rushing and leafing madly through a small satchel of dictionaries he kept hidden away beneath the seat of his car. Luis has cornered him at practice, small hands running against his arm, causing goosebumps to rise up while Danny's eyes rounded and his breath caught. He hadn't understood what the man was telling him. Had it been "Stay out of the locker room?" or perhaps "Keep watch!" He just hadn't been able to catch the Spanish well enough and so he'd come home without a shower and feeling like he'd somehow failed sentry duty.
Flipping through the book, he found the word he was looking for. Gilipolla. Oh. Idiot. So he was calling him an idiot. Okay. Next word. Follar, follar, follar... To fuck.
Stringing together words as he looked them up, Daniel closed his books and shoved them back in the bag. Why Luis had felt compelled to tell him to stop being a moron and let Finnan fuck him was unclear. But he felt better now that he knew it wasn't his fault for the captain walking in on Riise while Luis was jerking him off in the shower stall.
• • •
And I think I'm going to go hide in a hole now. Thanks.