fic: a lick of temptation
title: a lick of temptation
pairing: ricardo kaka/yoann gourcuff
rating: r
disclaimer: fiction
Though you were older than him by a substantial amount (four years is quite the age gap if you really think about it) you felt connected with him the most out of everyone. He was quiet as were you but warm and friendly as well. He always wore a smile; rain or shine, through family problems and self-doubt. Yoann saw positivity all around, emitted it with his smile, his touch, his gestures and actions.
You loved the fact that you could be yourself around him. He didn’t mock you tease you when you spoke about your faith, never rolled his eyes or stopped listening out of disinterest. He always turned his body towards yours, giving you his full attention, his eyes wide, head nodding to every word you uttered. He never agreed with you falsely but instead politely interjected with his (sometimes opposing) views. Yoann was genuine because that is who he was.
When he kissed you for the first time he mistook your surprise for rejection, your shock for disgust. He stuttered an apology before disappearing and you didn’t see or hear from him before the next training session (which wasn’t until two days later). He avoided you; his eyes didn’t dare to even gaze over to you during training. Nobody noticed of course.
When he kissed you the second time you mistook his inebriated state for lack of self-awareness. You had put your hand on his chest and pushed him away lightly, as you shook your head. He just smiled and mumbled something in French before walking out of the nightclub’s washroom. You looked at your reflection in the smeared mirror and wondered about your actions.
You never questioned him about it, never in the moment and never after. You weren’t sure what to say, if it was something you were supposed to talk about anyway. Yet it continued to happen whether it were stolen kisses in the shower after training and matches or in the car park, in restaurants’ restroom, anywhere. It became routine - one you didn’t question whatsoever.
When you fucked him for the first time you closed your eyes and begged your wife to forgive you though you knew you would never tell her. You told yourself it was wrong, beyond breaking every moral code you believed in. Yet you couldn’t stop, didn’t stop and when he dug his fingernails into your forearms you whipped your eyes open and watched him fall apart before you.
When you fucked him the second time you closed your eyes and begged God to forgive you. But deep down in the pit of your stomach, in the core of your body you knew it was too late. And he smiled at you sadly as if to say ‘Je suis désolé’.
pairing: ricardo kaka/yoann gourcuff
rating: r
disclaimer: fiction
Though you were older than him by a substantial amount (four years is quite the age gap if you really think about it) you felt connected with him the most out of everyone. He was quiet as were you but warm and friendly as well. He always wore a smile; rain or shine, through family problems and self-doubt. Yoann saw positivity all around, emitted it with his smile, his touch, his gestures and actions.
You loved the fact that you could be yourself around him. He didn’t mock you tease you when you spoke about your faith, never rolled his eyes or stopped listening out of disinterest. He always turned his body towards yours, giving you his full attention, his eyes wide, head nodding to every word you uttered. He never agreed with you falsely but instead politely interjected with his (sometimes opposing) views. Yoann was genuine because that is who he was.
When he kissed you for the first time he mistook your surprise for rejection, your shock for disgust. He stuttered an apology before disappearing and you didn’t see or hear from him before the next training session (which wasn’t until two days later). He avoided you; his eyes didn’t dare to even gaze over to you during training. Nobody noticed of course.
When he kissed you the second time you mistook his inebriated state for lack of self-awareness. You had put your hand on his chest and pushed him away lightly, as you shook your head. He just smiled and mumbled something in French before walking out of the nightclub’s washroom. You looked at your reflection in the smeared mirror and wondered about your actions.
You never questioned him about it, never in the moment and never after. You weren’t sure what to say, if it was something you were supposed to talk about anyway. Yet it continued to happen whether it were stolen kisses in the shower after training and matches or in the car park, in restaurants’ restroom, anywhere. It became routine - one you didn’t question whatsoever.
When you fucked him for the first time you closed your eyes and begged your wife to forgive you though you knew you would never tell her. You told yourself it was wrong, beyond breaking every moral code you believed in. Yet you couldn’t stop, didn’t stop and when he dug his fingernails into your forearms you whipped your eyes open and watched him fall apart before you.
When you fucked him the second time you closed your eyes and begged God to forgive you. But deep down in the pit of your stomach, in the core of your body you knew it was too late. And he smiled at you sadly as if to say ‘Je suis désolé’.