[oneshot] no hope, no love, no glory
Title: no hope, no love, no glory
Pairing: cristiano ronaldo/kaká
Rating: nc17
Genre: romance, slice-of-life, angst
Warnings: swearing, sexual themes
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: five times ricardo shuts cris down without even knowing it. 1,358 words.
1. meeting kaká in real life (as a member of his new team and not soaked in sweat, on opposing sides of a football match) is like meeting a fucking saint. his smile is dazzling with a quick flash of pearly whites underneath the locker room lights, clean-shaven chin sweeping across as he stands to meet cristiano.
“please,” he says, “call me ricardo.” the hand extended to him is warm and unyielding in his grip and it undermines the soft exterior of ricardo’s person, belies the gentle curl of his hair and the downward slope of his eyes.
“thanks,” cristiano mutters, and he doesn’t know how it’s possible but ricardo’s grin widens even further, crinkles his eyes into slits and he feels an irrational, inexorable need to kiss him.
fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, he thinks later) before he can do anything to act on this ridiculous urge, ricardo turns away to speak to one of their other teammates-royston, if he can remember correctly-and the moment is lost.
2. “ahh,” he coos at luca, waving his finger in the boy’s face and grinning when he latches on, shaking his other tiny fist in the air. “he’s so cute.”
“of course you can say that,” ricardo remarks from the armchair, “you don’t have to be around when he screams and cries and needs his diaper changed.”
cristiano thumbs the baby’s cheek and chuckles when luca gurgles softly, clapping his hands together. “whatever, ricky. i think i’d be a fantastic father, don’t you? luca seems to like me, at least.”
ricardo eyes him over his copy of the month’s sports illustrated and then leans in to study his face.
“what are you doing?” cristiano says, sucking in a breath. ricardo reaches out and smoothes a finger over his jaw, taps his head to the side. he’s so close that cristiano can hear him breathing, the dry inhale and exhale against his ear sending goosebumps all along his skin.
he wants to tilt his head back and touch those lips with his, but then caroline walks in with a kettle of tea and cups on a platter, smiling as she sets them down on the living room table. ricardo grins and reaches for a teacup, chatters in fluid portuguese about how cristiano would make a great father if he’d stop worrying so much about his hair gel and the level of his tan.
“thanks,” he says wryly, and caroline laughs high and clear, and he thinks with a sudden, guilty jolt of self-loathing that he could never ruin this-the beautiful family they have, the way ricardo lights up like fireworks on ano novo when he sees her, how in love they are.
he chalks up his attraction to lack of any substantial sexual encounters in the past couple of months and takes a long, cold shower when he gets home.
3. he’s sent off the field for the first time in a match against almeria, the red card still dancing across his vision even after the game is long over. the locker room is cold and he shivers when he leaves the heated shower, towels his hair dry slowly and tries to think of anything but the game.
“hey, stop beating yourself up about it,” comes a voice from behind him, and he twists around to see ricardo, still in his sweaty jersey.
cristiano’s lips tighten into a thin line. “i was stupid-i shouldn’t have taken my shirt off after that last goal. and the ref-”
“the ref was an imbecile,” ricardo says sharply.
“do you really mean that?” cristiano asks, voice weary, weighed down with lethargy and disappointment.
he thinks for a moment. “yes.” cristiano’s eyebrows go up and ricardo grins easily, shrugging. “come on, get up.” he kisses both cristiano’s cheeks and pats his bare shoulder, leaves a burning feeling there. “congratulations, you did well today.”
“you did too,” he manages, and the guilt comes creeping up again. he shoves it and his burgeoning arousal away, into the back of his mind, and pushes ricardo toward the shower stalls. “go clean up, you’re filthy.”
“bah, what do you care?” he returns good-naturedly.
“cleanliness is next to godliness.” ricardo inclines his head to acknowledge the point and walks away, pulling his shirt off as he goes.
that night, he picks up a random girl at a bar and has sex with her. he has sex with her and thinks of ricardo.
4. usually, there is some measure of escape from ricardo when cristiano is at home or out and about doing things unrelated to real madrid. but no, these days his teammate is all over the billboards downtown, modeling for armani and adidas, sprawled across advertisements like the ones inside the latest edition of gq wedged into cristiano’s mailbox.
“here,” ricardo says after practice one day, a heavy box in his arms. he hands it to cristiano, who almost staggers under the weight.
“what is this?”
“stacks of old magazines,” ricardo mutters, running an annoyed hand through his hair. “caroline ordered, like, a truckful because i was on the cover of some of them. obviously i don’t want or need any of it-”
“so you’re going to dump them on me?” he interrupts incredulously.
“you’re a good friend, cristiano. i’m sure you’ll find a way to help me get rid of them,” ricardo replies, flashing an innocent smile and strolling away. “i signed some!” he calls over his shoulder, and cristiano can’t help the corner of his mouth that lifts.
cristiano sighs and opens the box when he gets home, coughing when the dust gets in his face. then he sees the first gq, one from a couple of years ago, and-oh.
oh, because this is ricardo at his absolute finest. he is already devastatingly attractive under normal circumstances, but the emphasis of his jaw line and the smooth jut of his collarbone-this is professional photography and it makes him inexplicably hard, his dick pressing uncomfortably against tight jeans. he hesitates for a moment before unzipping them, pulling his boxers down and palming his erection, hot and firm in his hand. the small, niggling feeling of guilt at the back of his head twitches once and then is lost in the oblivion of cristiano’s arousal.
when he comes, it isn’t satisfying at all; instead, there is just a sick feeling pooling in his stomach, and he thrusts the mag back into the box and heaves it all underneath his bed, where he is always acutely aware of its existence.
“hey,” ricardo asks the next time he’s at cristiano’s apartment, “whatever happened to all those gentleman quarterlies i gave you that one time?” cristiano looks down and mumbles weakly about giving them away to family, and if ricardo can see through the blatantly transparent lie, he says nothing.
5. he sits next to ricardo at the team lunch and sergio laughs, points out that they’re wearing almost the same thing. xabi’s eyebrows go up and gonzalo makes a passing remark about how cristiano must be slowly learning class and taste. cristiano casts him an annoyed look and ricardo laughs, the individual strands of his shorter hair catching in the air as he tosses his head back, reveals a stretch of neck that reaches down to the edge of his polo’s dip.
cristiano’s hand curls around ricardo’s wrist, settles there like a warm bracelet, but ricardo just smiles, takes his hand briefly and murmurs about how his fashion sense did leave something to be desired.
that’s not what i wanted to talk about, there’s something else i want to say, he wants to tell him. this is ricardo, though; ricky with his caroline and his luca and a christian life that has nothing to do with cristiano, and it’s a thing a foreigner like him can’t ever hope to penetrate. and so he says nothing, pulls his hand back and rests it on ricardo’s arm until his food comes.
ricardo is happy, unbelievably happy despite his unfortunate hiatus, and cristiano would be damned before forcing himself on ricardo and taking that away.
fin
Pairing: cristiano ronaldo/kaká
Rating: nc17
Genre: romance, slice-of-life, angst
Warnings: swearing, sexual themes
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: five times ricardo shuts cris down without even knowing it. 1,358 words.
1. meeting kaká in real life (as a member of his new team and not soaked in sweat, on opposing sides of a football match) is like meeting a fucking saint. his smile is dazzling with a quick flash of pearly whites underneath the locker room lights, clean-shaven chin sweeping across as he stands to meet cristiano.
“please,” he says, “call me ricardo.” the hand extended to him is warm and unyielding in his grip and it undermines the soft exterior of ricardo’s person, belies the gentle curl of his hair and the downward slope of his eyes.
“thanks,” cristiano mutters, and he doesn’t know how it’s possible but ricardo’s grin widens even further, crinkles his eyes into slits and he feels an irrational, inexorable need to kiss him.
fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, he thinks later) before he can do anything to act on this ridiculous urge, ricardo turns away to speak to one of their other teammates-royston, if he can remember correctly-and the moment is lost.
2. “ahh,” he coos at luca, waving his finger in the boy’s face and grinning when he latches on, shaking his other tiny fist in the air. “he’s so cute.”
“of course you can say that,” ricardo remarks from the armchair, “you don’t have to be around when he screams and cries and needs his diaper changed.”
cristiano thumbs the baby’s cheek and chuckles when luca gurgles softly, clapping his hands together. “whatever, ricky. i think i’d be a fantastic father, don’t you? luca seems to like me, at least.”
ricardo eyes him over his copy of the month’s sports illustrated and then leans in to study his face.
“what are you doing?” cristiano says, sucking in a breath. ricardo reaches out and smoothes a finger over his jaw, taps his head to the side. he’s so close that cristiano can hear him breathing, the dry inhale and exhale against his ear sending goosebumps all along his skin.
he wants to tilt his head back and touch those lips with his, but then caroline walks in with a kettle of tea and cups on a platter, smiling as she sets them down on the living room table. ricardo grins and reaches for a teacup, chatters in fluid portuguese about how cristiano would make a great father if he’d stop worrying so much about his hair gel and the level of his tan.
“thanks,” he says wryly, and caroline laughs high and clear, and he thinks with a sudden, guilty jolt of self-loathing that he could never ruin this-the beautiful family they have, the way ricardo lights up like fireworks on ano novo when he sees her, how in love they are.
he chalks up his attraction to lack of any substantial sexual encounters in the past couple of months and takes a long, cold shower when he gets home.
3. he’s sent off the field for the first time in a match against almeria, the red card still dancing across his vision even after the game is long over. the locker room is cold and he shivers when he leaves the heated shower, towels his hair dry slowly and tries to think of anything but the game.
“hey, stop beating yourself up about it,” comes a voice from behind him, and he twists around to see ricardo, still in his sweaty jersey.
cristiano’s lips tighten into a thin line. “i was stupid-i shouldn’t have taken my shirt off after that last goal. and the ref-”
“the ref was an imbecile,” ricardo says sharply.
“do you really mean that?” cristiano asks, voice weary, weighed down with lethargy and disappointment.
he thinks for a moment. “yes.” cristiano’s eyebrows go up and ricardo grins easily, shrugging. “come on, get up.” he kisses both cristiano’s cheeks and pats his bare shoulder, leaves a burning feeling there. “congratulations, you did well today.”
“you did too,” he manages, and the guilt comes creeping up again. he shoves it and his burgeoning arousal away, into the back of his mind, and pushes ricardo toward the shower stalls. “go clean up, you’re filthy.”
“bah, what do you care?” he returns good-naturedly.
“cleanliness is next to godliness.” ricardo inclines his head to acknowledge the point and walks away, pulling his shirt off as he goes.
that night, he picks up a random girl at a bar and has sex with her. he has sex with her and thinks of ricardo.
4. usually, there is some measure of escape from ricardo when cristiano is at home or out and about doing things unrelated to real madrid. but no, these days his teammate is all over the billboards downtown, modeling for armani and adidas, sprawled across advertisements like the ones inside the latest edition of gq wedged into cristiano’s mailbox.
“here,” ricardo says after practice one day, a heavy box in his arms. he hands it to cristiano, who almost staggers under the weight.
“what is this?”
“stacks of old magazines,” ricardo mutters, running an annoyed hand through his hair. “caroline ordered, like, a truckful because i was on the cover of some of them. obviously i don’t want or need any of it-”
“so you’re going to dump them on me?” he interrupts incredulously.
“you’re a good friend, cristiano. i’m sure you’ll find a way to help me get rid of them,” ricardo replies, flashing an innocent smile and strolling away. “i signed some!” he calls over his shoulder, and cristiano can’t help the corner of his mouth that lifts.
cristiano sighs and opens the box when he gets home, coughing when the dust gets in his face. then he sees the first gq, one from a couple of years ago, and-oh.
oh, because this is ricardo at his absolute finest. he is already devastatingly attractive under normal circumstances, but the emphasis of his jaw line and the smooth jut of his collarbone-this is professional photography and it makes him inexplicably hard, his dick pressing uncomfortably against tight jeans. he hesitates for a moment before unzipping them, pulling his boxers down and palming his erection, hot and firm in his hand. the small, niggling feeling of guilt at the back of his head twitches once and then is lost in the oblivion of cristiano’s arousal.
when he comes, it isn’t satisfying at all; instead, there is just a sick feeling pooling in his stomach, and he thrusts the mag back into the box and heaves it all underneath his bed, where he is always acutely aware of its existence.
“hey,” ricardo asks the next time he’s at cristiano’s apartment, “whatever happened to all those gentleman quarterlies i gave you that one time?” cristiano looks down and mumbles weakly about giving them away to family, and if ricardo can see through the blatantly transparent lie, he says nothing.
5. he sits next to ricardo at the team lunch and sergio laughs, points out that they’re wearing almost the same thing. xabi’s eyebrows go up and gonzalo makes a passing remark about how cristiano must be slowly learning class and taste. cristiano casts him an annoyed look and ricardo laughs, the individual strands of his shorter hair catching in the air as he tosses his head back, reveals a stretch of neck that reaches down to the edge of his polo’s dip.
cristiano’s hand curls around ricardo’s wrist, settles there like a warm bracelet, but ricardo just smiles, takes his hand briefly and murmurs about how his fashion sense did leave something to be desired.
that’s not what i wanted to talk about, there’s something else i want to say, he wants to tell him. this is ricardo, though; ricky with his caroline and his luca and a christian life that has nothing to do with cristiano, and it’s a thing a foreigner like him can’t ever hope to penetrate. and so he says nothing, pulls his hand back and rests it on ricardo’s arm until his food comes.
ricardo is happy, unbelievably happy despite his unfortunate hiatus, and cristiano would be damned before forcing himself on ricardo and taking that away.
fin