Prompted drabbles
Title: Birthday Wishes
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 452
Pairing: Rio Ferdinand/Nemanja Vidic
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: What the hell's going on? Otherwise known as Vida Is Confused. Requested by piccasoed.
By the time Vida gets home, he doesn't want much other than a copious amount of alcohol and then bed. He's been tied up at Carrington for most of the day by one idiotic thing after another, first trainers insisting he needed extra therapy for a pulled muscle when there was nothing wrong with him because they'd mixed up their schedules, then his clothes mysteriously being missing because the laundry ladies had decided to come early, and several other delays which mean he's getting home in the dark and seriously displeased with his life in general.
The realization that his house seems to have been broken into by a group of burglars very interested in throwing bottles out the windows and taking advantage of his (admittedly excellent, so he doesn't blame them) stereo system does not improve his mood.
Until, of course, he gets inside to find most of the team singing along to the White Stripes in his sitting room, and watches as Rio causes a large dent in the ceiling with the cork as he pops open a bottle of champagne.
"Hi?"
"Hey! There he is," Fletcher slurs, waving a bottle of real ale. "Three - hic! - cheers!"
"What are you doing?" Vida stammers. It's not like he isn't pleased to see them all, but...
"Um." Rio says, champagne dripping around his fingers as he blinks. "It's the twenty-first of October."
Vida wrinkles his nose. "Yes, it is. What means that? Is special day?"
There is a long silence, broken only by Giggsy cackling quietly in a corner somewhere. Then Rio's head lowers, ever so slowly, until his forehead thunks into the tabletop. "It's your birthday, you great prat."
Vida squeaks. "Oh. Oh! Yes, yes, that. Thank you?"
"Thank us, we brought the booze!" Wayne roars, and with that, everything sets off again, and whoops and cheers fill the room as the drinking continues. Edwin seems to already be at the stage where he starts very seriously trying to untangle and then re-braid Anderson's hair, which means a lot of alcohol has been consumed, so Vida is pathetically grateful when Rio grabs his wrist and tugs him into the relative quiet of the kitchen, even if it does look as though a nuclear bomb has gone through it with all the discarded bottles, half-eaten sandwiches, empty crisp packets and bits of toast.
"So," Rio smirks, his eyes twinkling as he swigs from a nearby can of beer, "y'didn' think any of us would remember, did you?"
"Er," Vida says, not sure whether to panic or giggle as Rio's free hand slides around his waist. "No?"
"Silly of you," Rio smiles, and proceeds to fulfill the first of many birthday wishes.
Title: Milan
Rating: R
Wordcount: 394
Pairing: Federico Macheda/Ritchie De Laet
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: Kiko and Ritchie are both in the team for a CL away game. Requested by favouriteday. It didn't turn out quite sexy, more contemplative, but I hope you like it!
You're just the Boy from Belgium, and everyone treats you as such. It's not as if you mind, particularly, because usually that's good enough, at least for the Reserves or the Youth Team, and you're happy with that for now. It's not as if Patrice is ever ill, or as if there will ever actually be a vacancy at right back, or that anyone will get ahead of Johnny for replacing Rio, and you're satisfied with that.
Kiko isn't.
He's always pushing for a spot, pushing for a place, bouncing on his toes as you all wait for the manager to make his squad decision. He's a ball of nervous energy who teaches you, in a frantic, barely coherent way, to vaguely long for that feeling he's had, and can't get enough of - the one you'll never have, because you're not a striker, and there are all those other obstacles, but still.... he makes you wonder.
And now, in Milan, the two of you are sitting on the bench, the real bench, as in the one where substitutes come from, and as much as you're trying to focus on the match you keep getting distracted by Kiko twitching next to you, overflowing with nervousness and ambition. It's annoying, but also endearing, and so when he clutches at your jersey when chances come and go, and then practically jumps into your lap when United score just before halftime, you grin and more than bear it.
In the tunnel at halftime, he hugs you tight, breathless. "Fuck, I love this," he says, and you know exactly what he means - he's meant to be here, meant to be in Italy, and you're both meant to be in Europe, and for a few fleeting seconds you give into the hype and hug him back as hard as you can. You go with it, and before you know it you've pressed him up against the wall of the tunnel and he's grinning in the dim light, dazling white teeth which are soon biting at your lips.
You're pretty sure, when you stumble into a tiny deserted pressroom and you've got hands down each others shorts, that neither of you will even bother to remember this happening. It's just the heat of the moment; you're Ritchie De Laet, and he's Kiko Macheda.
But then again, this is Milan.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 452
Pairing: Rio Ferdinand/Nemanja Vidic
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: What the hell's going on? Otherwise known as Vida Is Confused. Requested by piccasoed.
By the time Vida gets home, he doesn't want much other than a copious amount of alcohol and then bed. He's been tied up at Carrington for most of the day by one idiotic thing after another, first trainers insisting he needed extra therapy for a pulled muscle when there was nothing wrong with him because they'd mixed up their schedules, then his clothes mysteriously being missing because the laundry ladies had decided to come early, and several other delays which mean he's getting home in the dark and seriously displeased with his life in general.
The realization that his house seems to have been broken into by a group of burglars very interested in throwing bottles out the windows and taking advantage of his (admittedly excellent, so he doesn't blame them) stereo system does not improve his mood.
Until, of course, he gets inside to find most of the team singing along to the White Stripes in his sitting room, and watches as Rio causes a large dent in the ceiling with the cork as he pops open a bottle of champagne.
"Hi?"
"Hey! There he is," Fletcher slurs, waving a bottle of real ale. "Three - hic! - cheers!"
"What are you doing?" Vida stammers. It's not like he isn't pleased to see them all, but...
"Um." Rio says, champagne dripping around his fingers as he blinks. "It's the twenty-first of October."
Vida wrinkles his nose. "Yes, it is. What means that? Is special day?"
There is a long silence, broken only by Giggsy cackling quietly in a corner somewhere. Then Rio's head lowers, ever so slowly, until his forehead thunks into the tabletop. "It's your birthday, you great prat."
Vida squeaks. "Oh. Oh! Yes, yes, that. Thank you?"
"Thank us, we brought the booze!" Wayne roars, and with that, everything sets off again, and whoops and cheers fill the room as the drinking continues. Edwin seems to already be at the stage where he starts very seriously trying to untangle and then re-braid Anderson's hair, which means a lot of alcohol has been consumed, so Vida is pathetically grateful when Rio grabs his wrist and tugs him into the relative quiet of the kitchen, even if it does look as though a nuclear bomb has gone through it with all the discarded bottles, half-eaten sandwiches, empty crisp packets and bits of toast.
"So," Rio smirks, his eyes twinkling as he swigs from a nearby can of beer, "y'didn' think any of us would remember, did you?"
"Er," Vida says, not sure whether to panic or giggle as Rio's free hand slides around his waist. "No?"
"Silly of you," Rio smiles, and proceeds to fulfill the first of many birthday wishes.
Title: Milan
Rating: R
Wordcount: 394
Pairing: Federico Macheda/Ritchie De Laet
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true. Woe.
Summary: Kiko and Ritchie are both in the team for a CL away game. Requested by favouriteday. It didn't turn out quite sexy, more contemplative, but I hope you like it!
You're just the Boy from Belgium, and everyone treats you as such. It's not as if you mind, particularly, because usually that's good enough, at least for the Reserves or the Youth Team, and you're happy with that for now. It's not as if Patrice is ever ill, or as if there will ever actually be a vacancy at right back, or that anyone will get ahead of Johnny for replacing Rio, and you're satisfied with that.
Kiko isn't.
He's always pushing for a spot, pushing for a place, bouncing on his toes as you all wait for the manager to make his squad decision. He's a ball of nervous energy who teaches you, in a frantic, barely coherent way, to vaguely long for that feeling he's had, and can't get enough of - the one you'll never have, because you're not a striker, and there are all those other obstacles, but still.... he makes you wonder.
And now, in Milan, the two of you are sitting on the bench, the real bench, as in the one where substitutes come from, and as much as you're trying to focus on the match you keep getting distracted by Kiko twitching next to you, overflowing with nervousness and ambition. It's annoying, but also endearing, and so when he clutches at your jersey when chances come and go, and then practically jumps into your lap when United score just before halftime, you grin and more than bear it.
In the tunnel at halftime, he hugs you tight, breathless. "Fuck, I love this," he says, and you know exactly what he means - he's meant to be here, meant to be in Italy, and you're both meant to be in Europe, and for a few fleeting seconds you give into the hype and hug him back as hard as you can. You go with it, and before you know it you've pressed him up against the wall of the tunnel and he's grinning in the dim light, dazling white teeth which are soon biting at your lips.
You're pretty sure, when you stumble into a tiny deserted pressroom and you've got hands down each others shorts, that neither of you will even bother to remember this happening. It's just the heat of the moment; you're Ritchie De Laet, and he's Kiko Macheda.
But then again, this is Milan.