(no subject)
First and foremost, this is all rondaview's fault. I wanted to write a short little one shot to take my mind off the epics currently on my plate, and though I had originally planned to write Totti/C.Ronaldo porn just to offend both Roma and Manchester United fans alike, this came out instead. I blame it on the fact that Monday's Word of the Day was abecedarian (meaning: pertaining to the letters of the alphabet) and, as mentioned before, rondaview, the hor.
fighting words (and all our infidelities)
alessandro nesta & zlatan ibrahimović. hard r, for a lot of sex and gratuitous use of the word fuck.
There's no framework to their romance.
Zlatan fucks him for the first time before Sandro even realizes he's being courted, a bloody nose, a mention of his mother and a donkey, then he's pinned against a wall with the heavy hand of Zlatan Ibrahimović between his legs, on his dick. Sandro is unsure which event in his life thus far has made him deserving of this, what unspeakable act he has surely repressed, and he is wholly unprepared, clinging for some nonexistent grip on the wall as he shudders on the tail-end of an orgasm while Zlatan pulls his hips back and fucks into him, easy, as if he's done it a hundred times before.
(Sandro equates their first kiss to a solid uppercut, as sharp and potentially brain-rattling as rough knuckles against the underside of his chin. Someone bites his tongue, probably Zlatan, and there's blood in his mouth. "Don't think this means I like you," Sandro says. And Zlatan returns, "Don't think I give a shit.")
There's no exchange of interested looks and casual brushes of fingers and elbows, no flirtation, only the trainwreck of consummation. Sandro gets no bouquets of flowers, no chocolates, no gifts at all, just a quick fuck against a wall so thin he can hear people talking on the other side, and a semen stain on his jeans. He's never thought of himself as an easy man -- though he bends readily enough when Gabriella so much as looks in his direction. He is a defender, a rossoneri, a modern-day warrior, and he can stand against Zlatan on the field, but this is not among the assault tactics he'd been expecting.
They make no attempt to woo each other, and Sandro hardly calls what they do dating.
"Affair is the word you're looking for, idiot," Zlatan coos over the line. Sandro holds the phone between his shoulder and jaw, one hand palming his erection through the thin cotton of pajama pants, the other over his mouth, and he never thought he was one for autoerotic asphyxiation but suffocation seems like a bright possibility. Gabriella is in the shower, Sandro can hear the sound of water and her soft, low singing, and Zlatan is still talking: "Two-timing, infidelity, an illicit rendezvous with the enemy, a little hanky-panky on the side, should I keep going?"
"You are a horrible person," Sandro tells him, from between his fingers.
Zlatan only laughs. "Of course. Now stop touching your dick. You're going to put your fingers up your ass, and you're going to make sure I hear it."
"Fuck you."
"Sweet talker," Zlatan sighs. "Now do it."
There's no framework, no reasoning or explanation, and certainly no rules. All's fair in love and war, and they fuck like they fight. White sheets are as good as the lush green of a well-groomed pitch, headboards for sidelines, the only thing missing: an official with a whistle in his mouth, someone to call the shots. It's as necessary now as it ever was. For each foul, there is no advantage given, just Zlatan with his hand in Sandro's hair, the perfect imprint of his teeth on the perfect curve of Sandro's throat. There are no cards, no warnings. Sandro digs blunt-tipped nails into hard muscle and Zlatan gives a cry, a plea for justice, but there's no one listening.
"Motherfucker," Zlatan pants, "you dirty son of a whore."
If they had an audience, fans screaming at either end of the bed, they would seem to be wrestling more than anything else. Unclothed like the ancient fighters, open palms skidding along sweat-slick skin, reaching, grabbing. Sandro gets a firm grip on the back of Zlatan's neck and holds him to the bed, face down, his ass up in the air like an offer. Checkmate, it seems, but at the lilt of Sandro's victorious laughter, a rather pretty sound, Zlatan bucks up and turns. The back of his head rears in front of Sandro, a harmless six inches away, but he draws back anyway, wary, as many times as the man before him has drawn blood. They flip, positions reversed, a knee between Sandro's thighs, and it's not playing fair, but when has Zlatan ever?
Never, says his grin. Not a single fucking time.
They continue on until they're both sweating, the sheets sticking to their sides and back, their cheeks flush with exertion. It stops only when Sandro makes it, going limp, Zlatan sitting across his chest, hands tight as manacles around his wrists. Zlatan is smirking, of course. That insufferable baring of teeth, not unlike a snarl, the expression of an animal on the scent of blood, tracking. He edges farther up Sandro's chest, up and up until his cock bumps the line of Sandro's jaw, jumping over and across his mouth, followed by a guttural laugh.
"Cry uncle," Zlatan says.
Sandro opens his mouth, and takes it.
There's no room for guilt. Sandro covers it up as best as he can, and though Gabriella sometimes gives him the odd questioning look, she doesn't dare broach the subject. There is nothing to talk about, after all. His life with her and this thing, this affair, seem to exist in separate worlds, on entirely different planes of existence. Sandro is not the same person with Zlatan as he is with her. He loves her, his Gabriella, and he may be weak, weaker than he ever thought he could be, but that doesn't change his feelings for her. One day, this will end, Zlatan will pull back his claws and let him go, and she'll still be there.
And if she were to ever find out, well. Sandro doesn't like to think about that.
"This has to end," he says, once.
Zlatan looks at him from across the bed. There's a brief second of emotion in his eyes, an unreadable expression on his face, before he flips over to his grin, his default look of mockery. "Is that so?"
"Yes. There are other people involved," Sandro waves his hand vaguely, glaring when Zlatan only smirks. "Someone could get hurt."
Zlatan crawls through the bedclothes, the muscles in his back rippling, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. Sandro goes tense all over, his mouth dry. He lies there, helpless, and watches Zlatan come to him. His protest has died and settled heavily in the pit of his stomach, like ashes in his parched throat, and when Zlatan touches him, his hand on Sandro's bare chest, he leans into it, arching for more. Zlatan leans down, licks a stripe down Sandro's throat and across his collarbone, flicks a nipple with one finger.
"Tell me to stop," Zlatan urges, pausing only to bite at Sandro's lip, almost gently. "Tell me to stop and I will. If you don't want this then tell me so, and I'll find someone else to fuck. You're not pretty enough to make me work for it, lover."
Sandro raises a hand meant to strike Zlatan, but it settles on his shoulder instead, pulling him closer.
"So predictable." Zlatan clucks his tongue, then leans down for a kiss.
(The first night they actually spend together in the same bed, sleeping, occurs months and months down the road, almost a year into their so-called affair. Sandro wakes slowly, drowsy. When he slits his eyes open, Zlatan is less than an inch from his face, open-mouthed and snoring. He doesn't look young, and he certainly doesn't look innocent, but his face is relaxed, the brittle expression of ego and defense eased away in sleep. Sandro, unconscious of his own movement, fits his hand against the curve of Zlatan's cheek and smiles, weakly. This is the only time he ever catches himself looking at Zlatan with any sort of kindness, any sort of affection, and the warmth in his chest fades as soon as Zlatan opens his eyes.)
There are a hundred times Sandro means to end it. He starts again and again, his mouth open and ready to supply his own version of a goodbye ("Choke and die, you piece of shit.") but somehow it never works out, somehow he never does it. The problem is in the entire structure of the affair, there is no clear-cut beginning and certainly no reason for it -- unless one is aroused by physical violence, and Sandro isn't, most of the time. It never should have happened in the first place, but now that it's started there's no way to derail, no emergency brakes. The game was set up without rules, without boundaries, and Sandro doesn't even have an offside trap to rely on, an easy way to step forward and relieve the pressure.
The line between love and hate is a thin one, and Sandro is stuck straddling it, on guard against Zlatan's constant attack. He can hardly hold his own ground let alone think of a counterattack, some way to get himself out of this. He is powerless against Zlatan, and he hates himself for it -- more than he wants Zlatan, more than he loves Gabriella.
Sandro would end it, if only he could find the strength.
"You look nice below me," Zlatan whispers in his ear, a fist in his hair, and Sandro, despite himself, shudders. "All hard and shivering, you're a fucking picture. You look like you belong there, Nesta."
"Fuck you," Sandro says. Then softer, "Fuck me."
fighting words (and all our infidelities)
alessandro nesta & zlatan ibrahimović. hard r, for a lot of sex and gratuitous use of the word fuck.
There's no framework to their romance.
Zlatan fucks him for the first time before Sandro even realizes he's being courted, a bloody nose, a mention of his mother and a donkey, then he's pinned against a wall with the heavy hand of Zlatan Ibrahimović between his legs, on his dick. Sandro is unsure which event in his life thus far has made him deserving of this, what unspeakable act he has surely repressed, and he is wholly unprepared, clinging for some nonexistent grip on the wall as he shudders on the tail-end of an orgasm while Zlatan pulls his hips back and fucks into him, easy, as if he's done it a hundred times before.
(Sandro equates their first kiss to a solid uppercut, as sharp and potentially brain-rattling as rough knuckles against the underside of his chin. Someone bites his tongue, probably Zlatan, and there's blood in his mouth. "Don't think this means I like you," Sandro says. And Zlatan returns, "Don't think I give a shit.")
There's no exchange of interested looks and casual brushes of fingers and elbows, no flirtation, only the trainwreck of consummation. Sandro gets no bouquets of flowers, no chocolates, no gifts at all, just a quick fuck against a wall so thin he can hear people talking on the other side, and a semen stain on his jeans. He's never thought of himself as an easy man -- though he bends readily enough when Gabriella so much as looks in his direction. He is a defender, a rossoneri, a modern-day warrior, and he can stand against Zlatan on the field, but this is not among the assault tactics he'd been expecting.
They make no attempt to woo each other, and Sandro hardly calls what they do dating.
"Affair is the word you're looking for, idiot," Zlatan coos over the line. Sandro holds the phone between his shoulder and jaw, one hand palming his erection through the thin cotton of pajama pants, the other over his mouth, and he never thought he was one for autoerotic asphyxiation but suffocation seems like a bright possibility. Gabriella is in the shower, Sandro can hear the sound of water and her soft, low singing, and Zlatan is still talking: "Two-timing, infidelity, an illicit rendezvous with the enemy, a little hanky-panky on the side, should I keep going?"
"You are a horrible person," Sandro tells him, from between his fingers.
Zlatan only laughs. "Of course. Now stop touching your dick. You're going to put your fingers up your ass, and you're going to make sure I hear it."
"Fuck you."
"Sweet talker," Zlatan sighs. "Now do it."
There's no framework, no reasoning or explanation, and certainly no rules. All's fair in love and war, and they fuck like they fight. White sheets are as good as the lush green of a well-groomed pitch, headboards for sidelines, the only thing missing: an official with a whistle in his mouth, someone to call the shots. It's as necessary now as it ever was. For each foul, there is no advantage given, just Zlatan with his hand in Sandro's hair, the perfect imprint of his teeth on the perfect curve of Sandro's throat. There are no cards, no warnings. Sandro digs blunt-tipped nails into hard muscle and Zlatan gives a cry, a plea for justice, but there's no one listening.
"Motherfucker," Zlatan pants, "you dirty son of a whore."
If they had an audience, fans screaming at either end of the bed, they would seem to be wrestling more than anything else. Unclothed like the ancient fighters, open palms skidding along sweat-slick skin, reaching, grabbing. Sandro gets a firm grip on the back of Zlatan's neck and holds him to the bed, face down, his ass up in the air like an offer. Checkmate, it seems, but at the lilt of Sandro's victorious laughter, a rather pretty sound, Zlatan bucks up and turns. The back of his head rears in front of Sandro, a harmless six inches away, but he draws back anyway, wary, as many times as the man before him has drawn blood. They flip, positions reversed, a knee between Sandro's thighs, and it's not playing fair, but when has Zlatan ever?
Never, says his grin. Not a single fucking time.
They continue on until they're both sweating, the sheets sticking to their sides and back, their cheeks flush with exertion. It stops only when Sandro makes it, going limp, Zlatan sitting across his chest, hands tight as manacles around his wrists. Zlatan is smirking, of course. That insufferable baring of teeth, not unlike a snarl, the expression of an animal on the scent of blood, tracking. He edges farther up Sandro's chest, up and up until his cock bumps the line of Sandro's jaw, jumping over and across his mouth, followed by a guttural laugh.
"Cry uncle," Zlatan says.
Sandro opens his mouth, and takes it.
There's no room for guilt. Sandro covers it up as best as he can, and though Gabriella sometimes gives him the odd questioning look, she doesn't dare broach the subject. There is nothing to talk about, after all. His life with her and this thing, this affair, seem to exist in separate worlds, on entirely different planes of existence. Sandro is not the same person with Zlatan as he is with her. He loves her, his Gabriella, and he may be weak, weaker than he ever thought he could be, but that doesn't change his feelings for her. One day, this will end, Zlatan will pull back his claws and let him go, and she'll still be there.
And if she were to ever find out, well. Sandro doesn't like to think about that.
"This has to end," he says, once.
Zlatan looks at him from across the bed. There's a brief second of emotion in his eyes, an unreadable expression on his face, before he flips over to his grin, his default look of mockery. "Is that so?"
"Yes. There are other people involved," Sandro waves his hand vaguely, glaring when Zlatan only smirks. "Someone could get hurt."
Zlatan crawls through the bedclothes, the muscles in his back rippling, gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. Sandro goes tense all over, his mouth dry. He lies there, helpless, and watches Zlatan come to him. His protest has died and settled heavily in the pit of his stomach, like ashes in his parched throat, and when Zlatan touches him, his hand on Sandro's bare chest, he leans into it, arching for more. Zlatan leans down, licks a stripe down Sandro's throat and across his collarbone, flicks a nipple with one finger.
"Tell me to stop," Zlatan urges, pausing only to bite at Sandro's lip, almost gently. "Tell me to stop and I will. If you don't want this then tell me so, and I'll find someone else to fuck. You're not pretty enough to make me work for it, lover."
Sandro raises a hand meant to strike Zlatan, but it settles on his shoulder instead, pulling him closer.
"So predictable." Zlatan clucks his tongue, then leans down for a kiss.
(The first night they actually spend together in the same bed, sleeping, occurs months and months down the road, almost a year into their so-called affair. Sandro wakes slowly, drowsy. When he slits his eyes open, Zlatan is less than an inch from his face, open-mouthed and snoring. He doesn't look young, and he certainly doesn't look innocent, but his face is relaxed, the brittle expression of ego and defense eased away in sleep. Sandro, unconscious of his own movement, fits his hand against the curve of Zlatan's cheek and smiles, weakly. This is the only time he ever catches himself looking at Zlatan with any sort of kindness, any sort of affection, and the warmth in his chest fades as soon as Zlatan opens his eyes.)
There are a hundred times Sandro means to end it. He starts again and again, his mouth open and ready to supply his own version of a goodbye ("Choke and die, you piece of shit.") but somehow it never works out, somehow he never does it. The problem is in the entire structure of the affair, there is no clear-cut beginning and certainly no reason for it -- unless one is aroused by physical violence, and Sandro isn't, most of the time. It never should have happened in the first place, but now that it's started there's no way to derail, no emergency brakes. The game was set up without rules, without boundaries, and Sandro doesn't even have an offside trap to rely on, an easy way to step forward and relieve the pressure.
The line between love and hate is a thin one, and Sandro is stuck straddling it, on guard against Zlatan's constant attack. He can hardly hold his own ground let alone think of a counterattack, some way to get himself out of this. He is powerless against Zlatan, and he hates himself for it -- more than he wants Zlatan, more than he loves Gabriella.
Sandro would end it, if only he could find the strength.
"You look nice below me," Zlatan whispers in his ear, a fist in his hair, and Sandro, despite himself, shudders. "All hard and shivering, you're a fucking picture. You look like you belong there, Nesta."
"Fuck you," Sandro says. Then softer, "Fuck me."