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lobelia321Title: Half-time
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lobelia321
Fandom: Football
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro / Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite (aka Kaká)
Rating: 18 (US rating: NC-17)
Length: c. 6,000 words
Archive: Beautiful Games, My niche
Feedback: Yes, please! Even if it is only one line -- one word, even!
Disclaimer: I do not know these people. This is a piece of amateur fiction. None of this ever happened. I am making no money.
Summary: Cristiano Ronaldo, in his hotel room in Germany, turned over onto his stomach, his fists trapped against his belly, and tried not to think of Kaká.
Author Notes: Set during the World Cup 2006, between the Portugal/Netherlands and the Portugal/England games. Written before the Portugal/England game. Thanks to everyone who encouraged the writing of this fic. :-) Pics and notes on canon resources used at the end.
Half-time
by Lobelia
By Thursday, Cristiano Ronaldo had exhausted all the possibilities his hotel had to offer.
He had: played billiards, swum in the pool, sat in the dry sauna, sat in the wet sauna, worked out in the gym (but only lightly, very lightly! 'Don't move that leg more than you have to. An hour's massage twice a day.'), hung out in the communal rooms, hung out on the deckchairs, trotted back to his room.
In his room, he had: washed his hair, dried his hair with the dryer provided, gelled his hair, gone to the loo, operated the remote-control blinds, opened and shut the drawers, looked under the bed (no monsters today, not like the horned grooblies hiding under his bunk, gnashing their teeth in time with the waves rolling into the bay of Funchal).
He'd rung people, he'd been rung. He'd changed the ring tone on his phone.
He'd done press-ups on the tufted hotel room carpet, then push-ups, then sit-ups, then leg lifts, then stopped because he'd been told not to over-exercise.
He'd fiddled with the playlists on his ipod.
He'd have liked to go out on the town, at least just for a bit, but he could see the mob of fans from his window; he'd never make it past the fenced-in grounds.
He'd drunk one tiny bottle from the mini-bar but then stopped for fear of losing even more of his match fitness.
He'd zapped through all of the channels on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, two-thirds of which were incomprehensible to him and half of which showed nothing but interviews with colleagues, shots of excited fans and endless replays of goals.
He'd looked at the porn channels of which there seemed to be a perverse amount in Germany. Mostly, he looked at them in the afternoon, during siesta time, when he was drowsiest and most easily bored.
In the middle of some moça moaning 'oh yes, harder', he got up to catch a stray fly in his hollow hand, and he fed it to the spider in the ceiling corner, balancing on the edge of the bed with one hand on the wall. The fly struggled and buzzed, the spider pounced.
He lay back down, supine on the made king-size bed, his head drowning in the immense cushions, white and soft as clouds. He was wearing boxer shorts and socks and the bead necklace from Machico and an elasticated bandage around his upper thigh; he had his hands crossed behind his head and stared at the spider, its web fluttering in the stream of air from the air con.
He turned over onto his stomach, his fists trapped against his belly, and tried not to think of Kaká.
The attempt was phenomenally unsuccessful.
He hadn't actually met Kaká in the flesh since the friendly in April. And then at that fateful game against AC Milan when Man United had lost by a goal and he, Cristiano, had burst into tears.
He always burst into tears when his side lost.
This was in March, over a year ago. He'd been kneeling on the side line where he'd dropped when the whistle went. His face crumpled as if of its own volition. Everyone milled around, hands ruffled his hair, hands patted his back. Roy sat in goal and looked shell-shocked. The crowd's roar was distant surf. Cristiano's earring hurt, his leg hurt, the grass was bent and squashed.
Somewhere, in the left corner of his vision, the other team was falling on top of each other in celebration.
And at some point, Kaká had come over.
"Hi, mate," he'd said, and he'd said it in Portuguese, not in English.
He was smiling all over his face. He was glutted with success. He looked flushed, mussed and spectacularly happy.
Cristiano didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so purely happy, so full of ingenuous unadulterated ecstasy.
It made his heart contract into a lump.
"Come on," Kaká said in Portuguese, still radiant, stretching out his hand and offering it to Cristiano.
And for some reason, in that confused moment, with the surf roaring in his head and the grass so squashed underneath him, it had seemed as if Kaká were smiling solely at him, as if it was because of him that he looked so happy. Because of him, Cristiano.
Cristiano took the hand and let himself be pulled up. "Thanks", he'd said inanely, in Portuguese, trying not to sob out aloud. But the 'thanks' was already too much; he had to pout and blow his lips three or four times in quick succession to stop himself from breaking down all over again.
Later, he'd regretted not having said more, not having exploited the moment. It had been nice to speak Portuguese. And somehow it had been especially nice to speak Portuguese to someone from Brazil where nobody made fun of his Madeiran dialect, or so he imagined.
Much, much later, he'd lie awake in hotel rooms, eyes trained on the ceilings (stuccoed or not, artexed or not, chandeliered, light-bulbed, cobwebbed or not), and call to mind Kaká's wide smile and the strong sweaty warmth of his hand and the furry lilt of his vowels.
Lisbon in April had been a disaster.
Not the game. The game was just a friendly and fun. It was the aftermath that had been a disaster.
Initially, he had tried to get close to Kaká in the pre-match jostle. He'd worked up his nerve (he never normally needed nerves for this!) to clap Kaká on the back and to say, "Hi again", in a completely non-chalant fashion, or what he hoped would pass for such.
The addition of the simple 'again' had been enough to convulse his guts.
Kaká's dark eyes turned on him, smiling as ever, his eyebrows two arches along his brows. "Yeah," he'd said, "hi", and the world had jolted in its gears.
But then: nothing. Kaká had disappeared with other people, they'd hardly encountered each other on the pitch, and afterwards, out of breath and out of nouse, Cristiano had said, "Want to do something later?" And as soon as it was out of his mouth, it sounded preposterous.
Also, completely impossible. He had only three days in Lisbon, and there were people to see and things to do; his sister had insisted on taking him out that very night.
Kaká had looked at him; it had been a strange look, a guarded look. "No, no," he'd said, "I can't." And indeed, he'd turned up at some do with his wife, his wife, because he'd got married since the Champions League; there was a ring on his finger; he was brilliant and radiant, and Cristiano pouted in consternation at his hotel room mirror.
Best to forget this silliness. Still, there was no escape. Brazil was all over the TV programmes. Whenever Kaká was on screen, something churned in Cristiano's guts.
Kaká running. Kaká tackling. Kaká making a phenomenal run, accepting a pass, tapping it in. Boys jumping all over him, and he onto them.
He'd got a new haircut. Shorter; sharper.
Cristiano passed his hand over his own hair, over the front of his head.
Think only of the match ahead. Think not of what might be, could be, wouldn't ever be.
'Nothing will happen,' he told himself. 'Nothing will happen at all.'
'If, however', he continued, on his bed in his room with the cloud cushions muffling his face, 'we were to play Brazil, just say, if.'
He could barely breathe with the thought. Or was that the goose-down filling of the pillows, choking him?
To play Brazil! To play the world!
And Kaká, like a dervish in midfield.
Cristiano sat up against the headboard. He turned on the remote. He zapped himself through to one of the porn channels. A blonde with curly hair and a tattoo above her coccyx was applying herself to the cock of an otherwise unseen man. She tucked her ringlets behind her ear to allow the camera access to the sight of her mouth around the man's penis, half-way down. There was a bulge in her cheek: the guy's glans.
Cristiano freed himself from his boxers; already, a moist spot had formed on the slitted front. He looked at the woman's mouth, and then, following a downwards pan, at her round tits, nipples soft and aureoles as big as saucers.
Just as he'd stroked himself to an acceptable hardness and was starting to descend into that land of not-quite-with-it, an explosion erupted, the windows stove in, and the carpet got covered in glass.
There was a cut on his elbow, that was all, and a nick above his pubis. Miraculously, he had escaped unscathed. The only thing that ached was his thigh, from where he'd fallen on it when he'd rolled off the bed in the direction of the wall, dick still in hand, instincts throbbing, and blood oozing from his arm. Warm air blew papers around the room, laundry order forms, hotel letter sheets. The curly-haired woman moaned incomprehensible syllables on the TV.
Security guards burst in; and in a nightmarish frenzy, Cristiano scrabbled round for his boxers.
They yelled at him in German; then, when he blinked at them in a daze, they switched to English. They paid no attention to the televisual blowjob.
In the coach, surrounded by hubbub, he started to shake.
Mobiles rang in a dozen different ring tones. He tried to remember which he had set his own phone to, and then discovered that he didn't even have his phone on him, only some random hotel bathrobe, his wallet, flip-flops over his socks and, for whatever inexplicable reason, a pack of mints.
Someone else passed him their own mobile, and he rang his mother. Her voice was preternaturally calm.
"I'm fine, mãe," he said to her in the voice he always used to his mother on the phone. "I'm perfectly safe. I have a scratch on my elbow. I'm match fit!"
He wished she were more hysterical. That would have given him the chance to act calm and cool. As it was, whatever he said, sounded in his own ears more hysterical than her unruffled intonation.
By the time they arrived at wherever they were being ferried to, the day was just losing its heat but the June sky was still luminous.
He couldn't remember the exact name of the town, something complicated and German. But it was Brazil's HQ, and that is where, by some insane law of chance, they had been taken.
And this was how, over a week before he had ever thought it likely, he ran into Kaká again.
Cristiano had barely entered the lobby, dazed, rubbing the band-aid on his elbow, rubbing the bandage on his thigh, rubbing his hair, when all of a sudden and seemingly out of nowhere, there was Kaká's face, centimetres away from his own.
Cristiano's shakes underwent a strange amplifying process, as if they were sound waves, dopplering in on themselves and intensifying his heart rate.
"You okay, mate?" said Kaká, in Portuguese.
And touched him on the arm.
"What?" said Cristiano.
Kaká peered at him, sunshine tripping off his skin.
"Come on up to my room," Kaká said, "while they sort all this out." "What?" Cristiano said again. "Come on up," said Kaká and tugged on his arm, "you can crash for a bit." "Where is my stuff?" Cristiano said, and Kaká: "They'll bring it, don't worry; you don't look too good."
"I'll be totally fine," Cristiano said, and that's what he'd said before the qualifier against Russia, hours after his father had died, and it had been, too. It had been absolutely totally fine.
He ended up in Kaká's room, anyway, because he seemed to have lost a will of his own. Kaká's hotel room was larger than his own room in Marienfeld had been, with antique furniture scattered about and pale paintings on the wall. The loo was on the other side, as was the bed, and there wasn't any glass all over the carpet.
"Here, lie down."
Cristiano sat down on the edge of the bed which was enormous and made up with some ruffle-hemmed counterpane. Miniature chocolates rested on the pillows. Cristiano was still clutching his pack of mints.
There was a TV in a pretend wooden cupboard opposite the bed. He wondered if Kaká had been watching porn, maybe even the selfsame channel, the one with the curly-haired blonde, and then he recalled that Kaká was married now, plus wasn't he religious or something, and maybe he didn't go in for that sort of thing, and now Cristiano's head was spinning around the room in an alarming fashion.
"You sure you're okay?"
"Just a bit dizzy," said Cristiano.
He was also still shaking. He was shaking so hard that the ruffles on the coverlet rustled.
"Look, you better lie down. You lie down and... and I'll see about your stuff. Here, um. You can have a T-shirt of mine, and some shorts."
Kaká's voice came to him through a thick haze. The voice seemed to be shaking, just like the ruffles but it was difficult to be sure.
When he woke up, it was evening. His pillow was moist, and Kaká's silhouette emerged from the bathroom.
"Hi," Kaká's voice said from inside the dark shadow of Kaká's face.
Cristiano blinked and struggled to lean up on his elbows.
"You probably want to know," said Kaká, "that they found out it wasn't terrorism or anything like that. It was just a bunch of out-of-control fans. They let off home-made fireworks."
"Oh," said Cristiano.
He remembered the glass flying across his room. His left arm gave a shiver.
"I'm fine," he said. "I'll be totally fine. I've got the game coming up."
Kaká came over to the bed and crouched down on the carpet. His teeth flashed a smile in the semi-dusk. "You'll be ...," he said.
And Cristiano wasn't quite sure what Kaká had said because Kaká had used a verb that he didn't recognise, and then the slithers of Kaká's final consonants and the lazy drawl of Kaká's vowels distracted him, and the brilliance of Kaká's smile, and without forethought he lifted his hand,
and just in time said, "Sharp new haircut,"
and ruffled Kaká's hair as he might ruffle anybody's hair. As he had his own hair ruffled ten times a match.
"Sharp?" Kaká said, as if he didn't know that word. His voice quaked on the still air.
The power of words failed Cristiano after that. Helplessly, he ruffled Kaká's hair again until a strange tenderness crept up out of his heart along his shoulder into his arm and hand. His movements slowed down, and before he could stop himself, his fingers were stroking through Kaká's hair with an almost painful gentleness.
Kaká's skull was hard against his palm. The top of his ear bent slightly under the pressure of Cristiano's little finger. His thumb slid along the hairline above Kaká's left temple, his fingers combed the hair up and away from Kaká's forehead.
And Kaká let him.
That was the wonder of it: Kaká crouched there motionless and let him do it, with an unreadable expression on his face and his eyes dark and dewy.
Cristiano continued stroking Kaká's hair which was thick and a little oily at the roots, and after a while, he slipped his hand down from the hairline, and now it was actually off Kaká's hair altogether. His hand cupped the side of Kaká's face, his thumb against the bony ridge on the outside of Kaká's left eye, his palm on Kaká's cheek, his fingers crawling along the top of Kaká's ear, his breath streaming in and out of his open throat in a trance.
And then it was too much. He had to do something to break the spell. Quick as a kick, Cristiano rose up further on his left elbow, using the hand against Kaká's head for leverage, nearly toppled Kaká in the process but managed to steady him and himself, and to pull himself across the edge of the bed to press a kiss onto the top of Kaká's forehead.
That seemed almost not out of the ordinary.
Almost. Almost like the sort of kiss he might have planted on anybody's forehead, any team mate's head, done a hundred times before.
But then, he didn't know how or wherefore, if either his mouth slipped or, more dizzyingly, Kaká had lifted his head deliberately -- but suddenly, he found his mouth no longer pressed to Kaká's forehead but to Kaká's eyebrow, and then his mouth slipped further down, onto the closed lid over Kaká's left eyeball. His own eyes were closed; he was proceeding blindly, by touch only, still further, against the side of Kaká's nose, and in the split second before it happened he could predict where his mouth would land next.
He could see the next move in slow motion, like a glass of milk falling, suspended in mid-air and inevitably tumbling and shattering to pieces on the ground.
Inexorably, in slowest motion, his mouth landed on Kaká's mouth, and Kaká's mouth opened to receive him.
All Cristiano could do was to hold on with his hand to the life buoy of Kaká's face and stay electrically still.
It was Kaká who moved, Kaká who welcomed him in.
For one chaotic, delirious moment, Kaká's hot wild tongue was in Cristiano's mouth, and Cristiano was at sea.
"No," he said, and pushed Kaká away. "Yes. Sorry. I mean..."
Kaká fell back into a seated position on the carpet. He had the strangest look on his face, a look of reckless determination.
It was only when Kaká's hand dropped away that Cristiano realised that his wrist had been gripped in Kaká's fist.
Kaká backed off. Cristiano could hear his heavy breathing.
Then Kaká was up. He mumbled something incoherent. The bathroom door clacked shut behind him.
Cristiano did not have a shred of an idea what to do next.
He lay on Kaká's hotel bed, with Kaká's T-shirt damp against his armpits, with the moisture of Kaká's lips still on his own, and he listened to the sounds of Kaká in the bathroom.
At first, there was no sound.
Then water came on, the shower, the squeak of bare feet in a plastic tub.
'Nothing has happened', Cristiano told himself. 'Nothing has happened at all.'
Mellow air wavered around the antique side tables and the upholstered chairs with curlicue legs. The windows were open; birds tweeted.
In the bathroom, the shower stopped.
A short silence ensued. Then there was the clink of glass against enamel and the sound of items being moved about.
Cristiano sat up and ran his hand over his hair.
Something crashed in the bathroom, a bang against the tiles.
Cristiano swung his legs over the side of the bed. His eyes felt fuzzy.
Outside the windows, the midsummer night waned with aching slowness. Inside the room, the furniture refused to yield up its shadows.
The bathroom door opened.
Kaká stood there, outlined against the yellow rectangle. He wore a white singlet and white briefs. His underclothes were dazzling against his milk-tea complexion.
"Look," Cristiano said, stood up and stumbled.
"You can stay here, mate," Kaká said, in a voice full of some sort of resolution.
He walked across to the wardrobe, pulled out a drawer, didn't look at Cristiano, walked to the window, fiddled with the curtain rod, said things that Cristiano didn't quite catch because there was a roaring in his ears, as if he were in a packed stadium, just after the national anthems.
And the entire match was still before him, to be played.
"What?" he said blankly. He tried to focus.
"Reception," said Kaká. "Your stuff is at reception. They didn't know what to pack so they brought the lot. You can pick up a key, and tomorrow apparently, you can go back to your own hotel; it's all being fixed up. Oh, and your, um, mother rang." He used an odd word for 'mother'. "And..." He drew the curtains half-way, then tugged them open again with the rod. "...you can still crash here.
If you want."
'Nothing is happening', Cristiano told himself.
Out loud, his voice said, without any conscious input of his brain, "But where will you sleep?"
It was a big room but there was no second bed.
"Oh," said Kaká. He coughed. "There." He pointed to the right-hand side of the bed, the side unmussed by Cristiano's body. "Bed's big..." He cleared his throat. "...big enough for. For two. Or four."
A fly bashed its head against the open window pane. There was no spider web in the corner.
"I need the loo," Cristiano said quickly.
In the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. There was a red smudge on each of his cheeks. His eyelids looked swollen.
His lips looked kissed.
Kaká's toothbrush was propped inside a glass with the hotel's logo etched into its side. The bristles were wet.
Cristiano unwrapped the hotel's complimentary toothbrush, squeezed out the hotel's complimentary herbal toothpaste from its tiny tube, and brushed his teeth very fast.
He rinsed. He knocked the toothbrush dry against the tap and placed it in the glass, next to Kaká's.
He took the toothbrush out again and laid it on the basin countertop.
He peed, standing up, shook himself dry, flushed the loo, then, for no discernible reason, got a wad of loo paper, moistened it, and washed himself.
He hoicked up his leg and inspected his thigh. He took off his socks, washed his feet, chose an unused face towel, dried his feet, and dropped his socks onto the bathroom mat.
He pulled a grinning grimace in the mirror.
The band-aid dangled by one end from his elbow; he pulled it off and left it on the countertop.
Then he ran his finger over the Paco Rabanne aftershave next to the basin, and over the electric shaver and the pack of aspirins and the floss and the Colgate tube, squeezed with its end neatly rolled up into a butterfly proboscis.
There wasn't much here. Cristiano himself always brought a tonne of stuff. He wondered where it had all got to, his gels and his lotions and his Q-tips and his nail file and his comb and his scalp brush and his necklaces and his rings, stuffed into the netted part of his cosmetics bag, the kind with a hanger that he'd fixed to the bathroom door of his own hotel and that was now probably downstairs at reception, packed any which way.
His condoms, too. Packed by strangers.
He dabbed a drop of Paco Rabanne onto his jugular but he actually didn't like Paco Rabanne; it made his nose seize up.
He washed it off again.
Inexplicably, he dabbed a drop into the crease of his crotch.
Then he turned off the light, opened the door, and prepared himself to say, 'Thanks for the offer and all but I'd better be off, then; bye and see ya.'
In the room, Kaká was a hump under the right-hand bedclothes, and Cristiano never said his prepared sentence.
Instead, he walked, as if through crowded water, to the bed. He took off his necklace and curled it up on the night stand. He took off Kaká's shorts and Kaká's T-shirt and let them crumple to the floor.
He paused.
He put Kaká's T-shirt back on again.
He lifted the billowing German duvet; it crackled crisply. He slid underneath, in his boxers and in Kaká's T-shirt, trying not to make a sound over the pounding of his heartbeat.
"I rang reception," said Kaká, and Cristiano jumped. "Your bags are in Room 31."
"Right," said Cristiano. 'I'll be off to Room 31, then.' But that last part was said only in his head.
The mattress pressed against his back. It slanted towards the middle. A hectare of sheet stretched between him and Kaká.
Then, they both spoke at the same time. "About the thing..." Kaká said, and "Nothing happened," Cristiano said.
The bed trembled. Or was that just his voice?
Kaká shifted over on his own side of the mattress.
He was kilometres away on the window-side of the bed.
"It's just," Kaká said, "because of what we're going to do."
"Why?" said Cristiano. "What?" The blood roared through his eardrums. "What are we going to do?" He tried for banter mode but it came out wrong; it came out all breathless.
Kaká rolled over, traversed the kilometres, took Cristiano's face in one hand and kissed him with a fierce ruthlessness that caught Cristiano entirely off guard.
'Nothing's happening', his brain flashed at him but his tongue knew otherwise, and so did his lips, even as Kaká plunged into his mouth with that reckless determination, mixed in with such an innocent tenderness that it was like a sobbing in Cristiano's heart.
Cristiano's own mouth opened up to this kiss in a startled hiccup, and then sank into the rhythm of it as into a dream.
Cristiano never normally kissed like this. He liked to kiss quickly, urgently, deeply, taking what he wanted, not tasting what was offered. He wasn't usually so helpless, helpless to do much beyond drinking at the fount of Kaká's mouth, beyond producing involuntary moans from the back of his throat, deep hums of mindless pleasure and undefined need.
How long they remained like this, he couldn't tell. At one point, Kaká had his fingers round Cristiano's earring and gently tugged, and the tiny pinprick of pain sent jolts into Cristiano's loins. Then he had his own hand on the back of Kaká's head, in that thick hair, and then on the back of Kaká's neck, warm and softly fuzzed, and then on the broad shoulder strap of Kaká's singlet, and then under the shoulder strap, his whole hand curving round Kaká's round shoulder.
And then Kaká made a noise, and Cristiano, in a crazed swoon, rolled him over and rolled right on top of him, against all of Kaká's sweet hard body.
They both moaned in unison. Their bodies moved against and with each other. Cristiano's thigh didn't hurt at all.
Nothing was no longer happening. Kaká's kisses, and his movements, and skin on skin, cotton against cotton: it was all happening; all happening in one glorious, turbulent swoop.
Cristiano's mind had gone into lockdown but his body knew what to do. His hands had wills of their own, as did his legs, slung along Kaká's hips, and his tongue had long ago abandoned itself to the white-water rush of desire.
They didn't say a word to each other. They didn't open their eyes. They breathed sighs into each other's open mouths.
Kaká put his hand on the front of Cristiano's boxers, and Cristiano exhaled all the air in his lungs in one long loud gasp.
They were already into a rhythm by then; they didn't have to break stride; they slipped out of underpants and pressed into each other. Cristiano lost his hold of Kaká's mouth and found himself gulping into Kaká's neck, Kaká's hair against his temple and Paco Rabanne in his nostrils, Kaká's salty skin on his tongue and Kaká's warm flesh under his teeth.
Kaká's hot hand was around Cristiano's cock. Anything and everything seemed possible so that it was almost no surprise to thrust into that hand which was a large hand, and strong on Cristiano's cock, defiant and at the same time tentative. The whole mix of timidity and determination, of the stubborn down and up of Kaká's hand and then the hitch of hesitation at the tip, drove Cristiano into a state of disorientation, and finally into a bewildered storm of an orgasm.
"God," he moaned, "oh God. Oh Jesus."
It was like coming up through a cloud of sand and seaweed, after having been dumped by an Atlantic breaker, coughing up salt and tumbling into the sunlight.
There he coasted for a while, in that still sunlit space, catching his breath.
He wondered where his come had gone, and then he became aware of Kaká's hand on his softened dick, and of the smell of aftershave, and of the beat of Kaká's heart in the pulse of his neck. Reality flooded back; it had acute angles and precise contours.
He opened his eyes onto the dusky room.
"Hang on," whispered Kaká. "Hang on."
Their limbs disentangled. Kaká did something at the side of the bed, rummaged around in the bedclothes, then produced his discarded white briefs and spread them across the tip of Cristiano's dick.
Cristiano dabbed at himself. He focused on the wiping so that he wouldn't have to pay attention to all those harsh lines and all those detailed edges. But these were Kaká's underclothes, and he was smearing his cooling jism into the place where Kaká's cock usually nestled, and this was making Cristiano feel giddy.
He didn't dare look up at Kaká but then he did.
Kaká's face wore an open look of eager surprise.
Cristiano's veins were frozen by that look.
"Here," Cristiano said; just managed to say. "Wait."
The angles in Kaká's face shimmered across his emphatic eyebrows.
Impelled perhaps by the hazy glow of his own loins or by some other force, the force that had got him into this situation to begin with, Cristiano pressed his mouth to the cotton-clad chest of Kaká while his fingers slipped in under the hem and rolled the singlet up until it met his own chin.
The muscles under Cristiano's hand dithered and tautened.
He transferred his mouth to skin; this was skin without Paco Rabanne; this was raw Kaká.
Much as his lips had earlier travelled from Kaká's forehead to Kaká's mouth, so they now travelled from Kaká's lower ribs across Kaká's solar plexus, paused at the hollow dell of Kaká's navel, burrowed through a thick thatch of springy curls. He closed his eyes because he couldn't bear looking. Seeing was too much; seeing was overwhelming.
He closed his eyes and made his way by touch, using his tongue as a guide. Curls, skin, sweat, and then the smooth, impossible muscle of Kaká's cock.
He rested his lips crosswise on Kaká's shaft. Under his right palm, he felt the tense vibration of Kaká's diaphragm. His nostrils were full of the musky tang of crotch: essence of Kaká.
His thoughts shaped themselves around the outlined reality of Kaká's cock.
But then Kaká let out a tempestuous gasp, and reality irised in and whited out.
Cristiano's tongue took on a life of its own, as if it had always known how to do this. As if it had always known how to pleasure Kaká's cock, how to lick its shaft, how to lose itself in the length and breadth of Kaká.
He rubbed his lips through his own slick spit, back and forth in a lateral dance, curving his mouth around his teeth. Kaká's diaphragm shuddered in time with Cristiano's movements; it was a hypnotic rhythm, an elated lost orbit.
Wild thoughts swarmed through Cristiano's baffled mind. Thoughts of clutching Kaká's buttocks, cupping Kaká's balls, pressing his thumb against the base of Kaká's scrotum, doing more, doing madly unimaginable things. Cristiano swam on the tide of Kaká's cock, in that space slithering with saliva, and anything else was impossible.
This was impossible. Impossible that he should be here, plying his tongue on Kaká's nakedness, with his own sated dick burrowing into the damp sheets.
It wasn't happening. Mightn't, couldn't, wouldn't ever happen.
"God," he moaned; he couldn't help it.
It came out "mm" against Kaká's bergamot cock.
Impossible, too, that he should be allowed to continue with it, that Kaká let him do this, had practically invited him to do it.
With his hands still immobile on Kaká's skin, Cristiano, without stopping for thought, grabbed the tip of Kaká's cock in his open-lipped mouth.
It tasted of skin and crotch sweat.
He curled his tongue around the edge of Kaká's glans. He jigged his mouth around the very top of Kaká's cock. The very top of his own head threatened to fly off; clouds and sparks vied for dominance; tumult invaded the recesses of his mind.
Kaká's diaphragm hummed under his moist palm. The ragged breaths drawn from Kaká's lungs syncopated with the knock of heartbeats in Cristiano's own bloodstream: Kaká's unruly pulse in Cristiano's ear, pressed into Kaká's belly; and Cristiano's own raging heart.
A siren wailed somewhere in the balmy distance. The curtains whispered in the breeze.
Kaká gasped brokenly; his frame shuddered, then stiffened; Cristiano snatched his mouth up and pressed it, wet-tongued, to Kaká's shaft as he watched, in cross-eyed close-up, the blur of off-white semen creaming into the dip of Kaká's navel.
He took his mouth away.
Because he had no idea what to do next, he put his mouth back on Kaká's cock.
Kaká was still large but more malleable; long breaths made his belly rise and fall.
And suddenly, Kaká started to shake. His diaphragm and his jism-filled navel and his hips and his chest, all juddered in staccato spasms.
It took Cristiano several split seconds to realise that Kaká was shaking with laughter.
Cristiano looked up. Kaká had his head pressed back against the mattress, next to the dislodged pillow, and was laughing a deep-throated, low and chuckling laugh.
"What?" Cristiano said, panic nipping at his nerves. "What?"
But Kaká's face was heedless, his eyebrows guileless, his teeth radiant. He looked happy, and pleased with himself. He looked like someone who had managed to pull something off.
"What?" said Cristiano again, with less verve.
In the end, Kaká's laugh was infectious. Cristiano let out a short confused laugh himself, and this seemed to spin Kaká into further peals which, in turn, opened a valve in the depths of Cristiano so that he sat up, sheets and duvet and clothes crumpling around him, counterpane rustling, and laughed back, a bit cautiously.
At which Kaká scrambled into a sitting position, grabbed hold of both Cristiano's ears and imprinted a rough, sloppy kiss on each of his cheeks.
Cristiano was used to this; he was used to getting rough, sloppy kisses on his cheeks. Rough, sloppy kisses happened all the time.
Mirth lived just below the surface.
So there they were, two guys on a bed, chuckling, batting at each other's hands, two guys with sticky skin and limp dicks, slapping one another on the knee and arm, cuffing one another round the back of the head.
"Okay, okay, wait," said Kaká, catching his breath; and "you've got to wipe yourself, look at you", said Cristiano, roses on his cheeks; and "ah, who cares", said Kaká and wiped at his belly with the hem of his white singlet, and then went "eew" as the vest snapped back into position around his ribs. Cristiano pulled at it and pulled it off, tugged awkwardly around Kaká's ears, left Kaká's hair standing up oddly.
"Sharp haircut," Cristiano said again, for something to say and because the sight of Kaká's mussed hair made the laughter fizz out inside his guts.
"Yeah," said Kaká and smiled and looked directly at Cristiano who could not tell whether the 'yeah' was by way of affirmation of the compliment, or directed at some other, more general state of affairs.
Cristiano held Kaká's gaze, all the while his stomach effervescent.
Kaká ducked his head and glanced away.
Cristiano was overcome by another assault of tenderness. He put his hand on Kaká's wrist, then took it away again. He looked at his own hands, he put a finger on his lips -- the lips that had touched Kaká's cock --, he looked again at Kaká's averted eyes, the pupils dark underneath lowered lashes.
He studied his hands again and said, "Kaká."
It occurred to him that he barely knew this boy. Kaká's T-shirt clung to his own chest.
He added, "Can I call you something else, actually?" Thinking, 'The whole world calls you Kaká.' He didn't want to be the whole world.
"What do they call you?" Kaká asked the duvet. "Cristiano? Cris?" His voice was suddenly full of smoke and unspoken moans.
"Or Ronnie," said Cristiano. "Some call me Ronnie."
"Ronnie?" Kaká pronounced it 'Honnie'.
"We share a surname." Cristiano offered this on a tenterhook.
"Yeah," said Kaká again, lifted his head and gave Cristiano a brilliant smile, bold and shy all at once.
An unknown emotion flooded the lower regions of Cristiano's insides. Something impelled him forwards; he pressed his lips to Kaká's smiling face, to the corners of the smile; he held his lips there until he'd kissed the smile away.
"Senhor Leite", Cristiano murmured.
"That's daft," said Kaká's smoky voice, then dropped to a rumble so low it was barely audible over the sighing of the moonlit wind: "But I like the way you say it."
Cristiano found himself unable to shift his lips from Kaká's waned smile.
"Senhor Leite," Kaká imitated his pronunciation. Or tried to; it still sounded like a laid-back drawl. "You're so peninsular."
"Not peninsular", mumbled Cristiano into Kaká's skin. "Insular."
And maybe it was Cristiano's tongue on the down of Kaká's cheek that made Kaká's voice stumble when he replied, "Insular?"
"Madeira," said Cristiano. And suddenly, with conviction, "But you knew that."
"Yeah," said Kaká, and Cristiano slipped his mouth leftwards, a tiny nudge of a movement, and Kaká's hand was hard on Cristiano's damp nape.
-----
THE END.
All original parts of this story © to Lobelia. Posted 3 July 2006
More Author's Notes:
Pics of Sporthotel Klosterpforte, in Marienfeld, near Gütersloh (abode of Portugal squad)
Pics of Kempinski Hotel Falkenstein, in Königstein im Taunus, near Frankfurt am Main , (abode of Brazil squad)
Manchester United/AC Milan, 0:1, Feb. 2005 (I have no idea whether Cristiano Ronaldo wept.)
The pre-World Cup friendly Portugal/Brazil in Lisbon, April 2002. Yup, unfortunately I got the date for this one wrong, *g*, so it's pure non-canon.
Info on the boys from
English Wikipedia (Kaka) and English Wikipedia (Cristiano Ronaldo).
Random inspirational sites on Brazilian Portuguese, European (or peninsular) Portuguese and Argentinian Spanish here and here.
Cristiano Ronaldo:
Kaká:
Author:
lobelia321Fandom: Football
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro / Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite (aka Kaká)
Rating: 18 (US rating: NC-17)
Length: c. 6,000 words
Archive: Beautiful Games, My niche
Feedback: Yes, please! Even if it is only one line -- one word, even!
Disclaimer: I do not know these people. This is a piece of amateur fiction. None of this ever happened. I am making no money.
Summary: Cristiano Ronaldo, in his hotel room in Germany, turned over onto his stomach, his fists trapped against his belly, and tried not to think of Kaká.
Author Notes: Set during the World Cup 2006, between the Portugal/Netherlands and the Portugal/England games. Written before the Portugal/England game. Thanks to everyone who encouraged the writing of this fic. :-) Pics and notes on canon resources used at the end.
Half-time
by Lobelia
By Thursday, Cristiano Ronaldo had exhausted all the possibilities his hotel had to offer.
He had: played billiards, swum in the pool, sat in the dry sauna, sat in the wet sauna, worked out in the gym (but only lightly, very lightly! 'Don't move that leg more than you have to. An hour's massage twice a day.'), hung out in the communal rooms, hung out on the deckchairs, trotted back to his room.
In his room, he had: washed his hair, dried his hair with the dryer provided, gelled his hair, gone to the loo, operated the remote-control blinds, opened and shut the drawers, looked under the bed (no monsters today, not like the horned grooblies hiding under his bunk, gnashing their teeth in time with the waves rolling into the bay of Funchal).
He'd rung people, he'd been rung. He'd changed the ring tone on his phone.
He'd done press-ups on the tufted hotel room carpet, then push-ups, then sit-ups, then leg lifts, then stopped because he'd been told not to over-exercise.
He'd fiddled with the playlists on his ipod.
He'd have liked to go out on the town, at least just for a bit, but he could see the mob of fans from his window; he'd never make it past the fenced-in grounds.
He'd drunk one tiny bottle from the mini-bar but then stopped for fear of losing even more of his match fitness.
He'd zapped through all of the channels on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, two-thirds of which were incomprehensible to him and half of which showed nothing but interviews with colleagues, shots of excited fans and endless replays of goals.
He'd looked at the porn channels of which there seemed to be a perverse amount in Germany. Mostly, he looked at them in the afternoon, during siesta time, when he was drowsiest and most easily bored.
In the middle of some moça moaning 'oh yes, harder', he got up to catch a stray fly in his hollow hand, and he fed it to the spider in the ceiling corner, balancing on the edge of the bed with one hand on the wall. The fly struggled and buzzed, the spider pounced.
He lay back down, supine on the made king-size bed, his head drowning in the immense cushions, white and soft as clouds. He was wearing boxer shorts and socks and the bead necklace from Machico and an elasticated bandage around his upper thigh; he had his hands crossed behind his head and stared at the spider, its web fluttering in the stream of air from the air con.
He turned over onto his stomach, his fists trapped against his belly, and tried not to think of Kaká.
The attempt was phenomenally unsuccessful.
He hadn't actually met Kaká in the flesh since the friendly in April. And then at that fateful game against AC Milan when Man United had lost by a goal and he, Cristiano, had burst into tears.
He always burst into tears when his side lost.
This was in March, over a year ago. He'd been kneeling on the side line where he'd dropped when the whistle went. His face crumpled as if of its own volition. Everyone milled around, hands ruffled his hair, hands patted his back. Roy sat in goal and looked shell-shocked. The crowd's roar was distant surf. Cristiano's earring hurt, his leg hurt, the grass was bent and squashed.
Somewhere, in the left corner of his vision, the other team was falling on top of each other in celebration.
And at some point, Kaká had come over.
"Hi, mate," he'd said, and he'd said it in Portuguese, not in English.
He was smiling all over his face. He was glutted with success. He looked flushed, mussed and spectacularly happy.
Cristiano didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so purely happy, so full of ingenuous unadulterated ecstasy.
It made his heart contract into a lump.
"Come on," Kaká said in Portuguese, still radiant, stretching out his hand and offering it to Cristiano.
And for some reason, in that confused moment, with the surf roaring in his head and the grass so squashed underneath him, it had seemed as if Kaká were smiling solely at him, as if it was because of him that he looked so happy. Because of him, Cristiano.
Cristiano took the hand and let himself be pulled up. "Thanks", he'd said inanely, in Portuguese, trying not to sob out aloud. But the 'thanks' was already too much; he had to pout and blow his lips three or four times in quick succession to stop himself from breaking down all over again.
Later, he'd regretted not having said more, not having exploited the moment. It had been nice to speak Portuguese. And somehow it had been especially nice to speak Portuguese to someone from Brazil where nobody made fun of his Madeiran dialect, or so he imagined.
Much, much later, he'd lie awake in hotel rooms, eyes trained on the ceilings (stuccoed or not, artexed or not, chandeliered, light-bulbed, cobwebbed or not), and call to mind Kaká's wide smile and the strong sweaty warmth of his hand and the furry lilt of his vowels.
Lisbon in April had been a disaster.
Not the game. The game was just a friendly and fun. It was the aftermath that had been a disaster.
Initially, he had tried to get close to Kaká in the pre-match jostle. He'd worked up his nerve (he never normally needed nerves for this!) to clap Kaká on the back and to say, "Hi again", in a completely non-chalant fashion, or what he hoped would pass for such.
The addition of the simple 'again' had been enough to convulse his guts.
Kaká's dark eyes turned on him, smiling as ever, his eyebrows two arches along his brows. "Yeah," he'd said, "hi", and the world had jolted in its gears.
But then: nothing. Kaká had disappeared with other people, they'd hardly encountered each other on the pitch, and afterwards, out of breath and out of nouse, Cristiano had said, "Want to do something later?" And as soon as it was out of his mouth, it sounded preposterous.
Also, completely impossible. He had only three days in Lisbon, and there were people to see and things to do; his sister had insisted on taking him out that very night.
Kaká had looked at him; it had been a strange look, a guarded look. "No, no," he'd said, "I can't." And indeed, he'd turned up at some do with his wife, his wife, because he'd got married since the Champions League; there was a ring on his finger; he was brilliant and radiant, and Cristiano pouted in consternation at his hotel room mirror.
Best to forget this silliness. Still, there was no escape. Brazil was all over the TV programmes. Whenever Kaká was on screen, something churned in Cristiano's guts.
Kaká running. Kaká tackling. Kaká making a phenomenal run, accepting a pass, tapping it in. Boys jumping all over him, and he onto them.
He'd got a new haircut. Shorter; sharper.
Cristiano passed his hand over his own hair, over the front of his head.
Think only of the match ahead. Think not of what might be, could be, wouldn't ever be.
'Nothing will happen,' he told himself. 'Nothing will happen at all.'
'If, however', he continued, on his bed in his room with the cloud cushions muffling his face, 'we were to play Brazil, just say, if.'
He could barely breathe with the thought. Or was that the goose-down filling of the pillows, choking him?
To play Brazil! To play the world!
And Kaká, like a dervish in midfield.
Cristiano sat up against the headboard. He turned on the remote. He zapped himself through to one of the porn channels. A blonde with curly hair and a tattoo above her coccyx was applying herself to the cock of an otherwise unseen man. She tucked her ringlets behind her ear to allow the camera access to the sight of her mouth around the man's penis, half-way down. There was a bulge in her cheek: the guy's glans.
Cristiano freed himself from his boxers; already, a moist spot had formed on the slitted front. He looked at the woman's mouth, and then, following a downwards pan, at her round tits, nipples soft and aureoles as big as saucers.
Just as he'd stroked himself to an acceptable hardness and was starting to descend into that land of not-quite-with-it, an explosion erupted, the windows stove in, and the carpet got covered in glass.
There was a cut on his elbow, that was all, and a nick above his pubis. Miraculously, he had escaped unscathed. The only thing that ached was his thigh, from where he'd fallen on it when he'd rolled off the bed in the direction of the wall, dick still in hand, instincts throbbing, and blood oozing from his arm. Warm air blew papers around the room, laundry order forms, hotel letter sheets. The curly-haired woman moaned incomprehensible syllables on the TV.
Security guards burst in; and in a nightmarish frenzy, Cristiano scrabbled round for his boxers.
They yelled at him in German; then, when he blinked at them in a daze, they switched to English. They paid no attention to the televisual blowjob.
In the coach, surrounded by hubbub, he started to shake.
Mobiles rang in a dozen different ring tones. He tried to remember which he had set his own phone to, and then discovered that he didn't even have his phone on him, only some random hotel bathrobe, his wallet, flip-flops over his socks and, for whatever inexplicable reason, a pack of mints.
Someone else passed him their own mobile, and he rang his mother. Her voice was preternaturally calm.
"I'm fine, mãe," he said to her in the voice he always used to his mother on the phone. "I'm perfectly safe. I have a scratch on my elbow. I'm match fit!"
He wished she were more hysterical. That would have given him the chance to act calm and cool. As it was, whatever he said, sounded in his own ears more hysterical than her unruffled intonation.
By the time they arrived at wherever they were being ferried to, the day was just losing its heat but the June sky was still luminous.
He couldn't remember the exact name of the town, something complicated and German. But it was Brazil's HQ, and that is where, by some insane law of chance, they had been taken.
And this was how, over a week before he had ever thought it likely, he ran into Kaká again.
Cristiano had barely entered the lobby, dazed, rubbing the band-aid on his elbow, rubbing the bandage on his thigh, rubbing his hair, when all of a sudden and seemingly out of nowhere, there was Kaká's face, centimetres away from his own.
Cristiano's shakes underwent a strange amplifying process, as if they were sound waves, dopplering in on themselves and intensifying his heart rate.
"You okay, mate?" said Kaká, in Portuguese.
And touched him on the arm.
"What?" said Cristiano.
Kaká peered at him, sunshine tripping off his skin.
"Come on up to my room," Kaká said, "while they sort all this out." "What?" Cristiano said again. "Come on up," said Kaká and tugged on his arm, "you can crash for a bit." "Where is my stuff?" Cristiano said, and Kaká: "They'll bring it, don't worry; you don't look too good."
"I'll be totally fine," Cristiano said, and that's what he'd said before the qualifier against Russia, hours after his father had died, and it had been, too. It had been absolutely totally fine.
He ended up in Kaká's room, anyway, because he seemed to have lost a will of his own. Kaká's hotel room was larger than his own room in Marienfeld had been, with antique furniture scattered about and pale paintings on the wall. The loo was on the other side, as was the bed, and there wasn't any glass all over the carpet.
"Here, lie down."
Cristiano sat down on the edge of the bed which was enormous and made up with some ruffle-hemmed counterpane. Miniature chocolates rested on the pillows. Cristiano was still clutching his pack of mints.
There was a TV in a pretend wooden cupboard opposite the bed. He wondered if Kaká had been watching porn, maybe even the selfsame channel, the one with the curly-haired blonde, and then he recalled that Kaká was married now, plus wasn't he religious or something, and maybe he didn't go in for that sort of thing, and now Cristiano's head was spinning around the room in an alarming fashion.
"You sure you're okay?"
"Just a bit dizzy," said Cristiano.
He was also still shaking. He was shaking so hard that the ruffles on the coverlet rustled.
"Look, you better lie down. You lie down and... and I'll see about your stuff. Here, um. You can have a T-shirt of mine, and some shorts."
Kaká's voice came to him through a thick haze. The voice seemed to be shaking, just like the ruffles but it was difficult to be sure.
When he woke up, it was evening. His pillow was moist, and Kaká's silhouette emerged from the bathroom.
"Hi," Kaká's voice said from inside the dark shadow of Kaká's face.
Cristiano blinked and struggled to lean up on his elbows.
"You probably want to know," said Kaká, "that they found out it wasn't terrorism or anything like that. It was just a bunch of out-of-control fans. They let off home-made fireworks."
"Oh," said Cristiano.
He remembered the glass flying across his room. His left arm gave a shiver.
"I'm fine," he said. "I'll be totally fine. I've got the game coming up."
Kaká came over to the bed and crouched down on the carpet. His teeth flashed a smile in the semi-dusk. "You'll be ...," he said.
And Cristiano wasn't quite sure what Kaká had said because Kaká had used a verb that he didn't recognise, and then the slithers of Kaká's final consonants and the lazy drawl of Kaká's vowels distracted him, and the brilliance of Kaká's smile, and without forethought he lifted his hand,
and just in time said, "Sharp new haircut,"
and ruffled Kaká's hair as he might ruffle anybody's hair. As he had his own hair ruffled ten times a match.
"Sharp?" Kaká said, as if he didn't know that word. His voice quaked on the still air.
The power of words failed Cristiano after that. Helplessly, he ruffled Kaká's hair again until a strange tenderness crept up out of his heart along his shoulder into his arm and hand. His movements slowed down, and before he could stop himself, his fingers were stroking through Kaká's hair with an almost painful gentleness.
Kaká's skull was hard against his palm. The top of his ear bent slightly under the pressure of Cristiano's little finger. His thumb slid along the hairline above Kaká's left temple, his fingers combed the hair up and away from Kaká's forehead.
And Kaká let him.
That was the wonder of it: Kaká crouched there motionless and let him do it, with an unreadable expression on his face and his eyes dark and dewy.
Cristiano continued stroking Kaká's hair which was thick and a little oily at the roots, and after a while, he slipped his hand down from the hairline, and now it was actually off Kaká's hair altogether. His hand cupped the side of Kaká's face, his thumb against the bony ridge on the outside of Kaká's left eye, his palm on Kaká's cheek, his fingers crawling along the top of Kaká's ear, his breath streaming in and out of his open throat in a trance.
And then it was too much. He had to do something to break the spell. Quick as a kick, Cristiano rose up further on his left elbow, using the hand against Kaká's head for leverage, nearly toppled Kaká in the process but managed to steady him and himself, and to pull himself across the edge of the bed to press a kiss onto the top of Kaká's forehead.
That seemed almost not out of the ordinary.
Almost. Almost like the sort of kiss he might have planted on anybody's forehead, any team mate's head, done a hundred times before.
But then, he didn't know how or wherefore, if either his mouth slipped or, more dizzyingly, Kaká had lifted his head deliberately -- but suddenly, he found his mouth no longer pressed to Kaká's forehead but to Kaká's eyebrow, and then his mouth slipped further down, onto the closed lid over Kaká's left eyeball. His own eyes were closed; he was proceeding blindly, by touch only, still further, against the side of Kaká's nose, and in the split second before it happened he could predict where his mouth would land next.
He could see the next move in slow motion, like a glass of milk falling, suspended in mid-air and inevitably tumbling and shattering to pieces on the ground.
Inexorably, in slowest motion, his mouth landed on Kaká's mouth, and Kaká's mouth opened to receive him.
All Cristiano could do was to hold on with his hand to the life buoy of Kaká's face and stay electrically still.
It was Kaká who moved, Kaká who welcomed him in.
For one chaotic, delirious moment, Kaká's hot wild tongue was in Cristiano's mouth, and Cristiano was at sea.
"No," he said, and pushed Kaká away. "Yes. Sorry. I mean..."
Kaká fell back into a seated position on the carpet. He had the strangest look on his face, a look of reckless determination.
It was only when Kaká's hand dropped away that Cristiano realised that his wrist had been gripped in Kaká's fist.
Kaká backed off. Cristiano could hear his heavy breathing.
Then Kaká was up. He mumbled something incoherent. The bathroom door clacked shut behind him.
Cristiano did not have a shred of an idea what to do next.
He lay on Kaká's hotel bed, with Kaká's T-shirt damp against his armpits, with the moisture of Kaká's lips still on his own, and he listened to the sounds of Kaká in the bathroom.
At first, there was no sound.
Then water came on, the shower, the squeak of bare feet in a plastic tub.
'Nothing has happened', Cristiano told himself. 'Nothing has happened at all.'
Mellow air wavered around the antique side tables and the upholstered chairs with curlicue legs. The windows were open; birds tweeted.
In the bathroom, the shower stopped.
A short silence ensued. Then there was the clink of glass against enamel and the sound of items being moved about.
Cristiano sat up and ran his hand over his hair.
Something crashed in the bathroom, a bang against the tiles.
Cristiano swung his legs over the side of the bed. His eyes felt fuzzy.
Outside the windows, the midsummer night waned with aching slowness. Inside the room, the furniture refused to yield up its shadows.
The bathroom door opened.
Kaká stood there, outlined against the yellow rectangle. He wore a white singlet and white briefs. His underclothes were dazzling against his milk-tea complexion.
"Look," Cristiano said, stood up and stumbled.
"You can stay here, mate," Kaká said, in a voice full of some sort of resolution.
He walked across to the wardrobe, pulled out a drawer, didn't look at Cristiano, walked to the window, fiddled with the curtain rod, said things that Cristiano didn't quite catch because there was a roaring in his ears, as if he were in a packed stadium, just after the national anthems.
And the entire match was still before him, to be played.
"What?" he said blankly. He tried to focus.
"Reception," said Kaká. "Your stuff is at reception. They didn't know what to pack so they brought the lot. You can pick up a key, and tomorrow apparently, you can go back to your own hotel; it's all being fixed up. Oh, and your, um, mother rang." He used an odd word for 'mother'. "And..." He drew the curtains half-way, then tugged them open again with the rod. "...you can still crash here.
If you want."
'Nothing is happening', Cristiano told himself.
Out loud, his voice said, without any conscious input of his brain, "But where will you sleep?"
It was a big room but there was no second bed.
"Oh," said Kaká. He coughed. "There." He pointed to the right-hand side of the bed, the side unmussed by Cristiano's body. "Bed's big..." He cleared his throat. "...big enough for. For two. Or four."
A fly bashed its head against the open window pane. There was no spider web in the corner.
"I need the loo," Cristiano said quickly.
In the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. There was a red smudge on each of his cheeks. His eyelids looked swollen.
His lips looked kissed.
Kaká's toothbrush was propped inside a glass with the hotel's logo etched into its side. The bristles were wet.
Cristiano unwrapped the hotel's complimentary toothbrush, squeezed out the hotel's complimentary herbal toothpaste from its tiny tube, and brushed his teeth very fast.
He rinsed. He knocked the toothbrush dry against the tap and placed it in the glass, next to Kaká's.
He took the toothbrush out again and laid it on the basin countertop.
He peed, standing up, shook himself dry, flushed the loo, then, for no discernible reason, got a wad of loo paper, moistened it, and washed himself.
He hoicked up his leg and inspected his thigh. He took off his socks, washed his feet, chose an unused face towel, dried his feet, and dropped his socks onto the bathroom mat.
He pulled a grinning grimace in the mirror.
The band-aid dangled by one end from his elbow; he pulled it off and left it on the countertop.
Then he ran his finger over the Paco Rabanne aftershave next to the basin, and over the electric shaver and the pack of aspirins and the floss and the Colgate tube, squeezed with its end neatly rolled up into a butterfly proboscis.
There wasn't much here. Cristiano himself always brought a tonne of stuff. He wondered where it had all got to, his gels and his lotions and his Q-tips and his nail file and his comb and his scalp brush and his necklaces and his rings, stuffed into the netted part of his cosmetics bag, the kind with a hanger that he'd fixed to the bathroom door of his own hotel and that was now probably downstairs at reception, packed any which way.
His condoms, too. Packed by strangers.
He dabbed a drop of Paco Rabanne onto his jugular but he actually didn't like Paco Rabanne; it made his nose seize up.
He washed it off again.
Inexplicably, he dabbed a drop into the crease of his crotch.
Then he turned off the light, opened the door, and prepared himself to say, 'Thanks for the offer and all but I'd better be off, then; bye and see ya.'
In the room, Kaká was a hump under the right-hand bedclothes, and Cristiano never said his prepared sentence.
Instead, he walked, as if through crowded water, to the bed. He took off his necklace and curled it up on the night stand. He took off Kaká's shorts and Kaká's T-shirt and let them crumple to the floor.
He paused.
He put Kaká's T-shirt back on again.
He lifted the billowing German duvet; it crackled crisply. He slid underneath, in his boxers and in Kaká's T-shirt, trying not to make a sound over the pounding of his heartbeat.
"I rang reception," said Kaká, and Cristiano jumped. "Your bags are in Room 31."
"Right," said Cristiano. 'I'll be off to Room 31, then.' But that last part was said only in his head.
The mattress pressed against his back. It slanted towards the middle. A hectare of sheet stretched between him and Kaká.
Then, they both spoke at the same time. "About the thing..." Kaká said, and "Nothing happened," Cristiano said.
The bed trembled. Or was that just his voice?
Kaká shifted over on his own side of the mattress.
He was kilometres away on the window-side of the bed.
"It's just," Kaká said, "because of what we're going to do."
"Why?" said Cristiano. "What?" The blood roared through his eardrums. "What are we going to do?" He tried for banter mode but it came out wrong; it came out all breathless.
Kaká rolled over, traversed the kilometres, took Cristiano's face in one hand and kissed him with a fierce ruthlessness that caught Cristiano entirely off guard.
'Nothing's happening', his brain flashed at him but his tongue knew otherwise, and so did his lips, even as Kaká plunged into his mouth with that reckless determination, mixed in with such an innocent tenderness that it was like a sobbing in Cristiano's heart.
Cristiano's own mouth opened up to this kiss in a startled hiccup, and then sank into the rhythm of it as into a dream.
Cristiano never normally kissed like this. He liked to kiss quickly, urgently, deeply, taking what he wanted, not tasting what was offered. He wasn't usually so helpless, helpless to do much beyond drinking at the fount of Kaká's mouth, beyond producing involuntary moans from the back of his throat, deep hums of mindless pleasure and undefined need.
How long they remained like this, he couldn't tell. At one point, Kaká had his fingers round Cristiano's earring and gently tugged, and the tiny pinprick of pain sent jolts into Cristiano's loins. Then he had his own hand on the back of Kaká's head, in that thick hair, and then on the back of Kaká's neck, warm and softly fuzzed, and then on the broad shoulder strap of Kaká's singlet, and then under the shoulder strap, his whole hand curving round Kaká's round shoulder.
And then Kaká made a noise, and Cristiano, in a crazed swoon, rolled him over and rolled right on top of him, against all of Kaká's sweet hard body.
They both moaned in unison. Their bodies moved against and with each other. Cristiano's thigh didn't hurt at all.
Nothing was no longer happening. Kaká's kisses, and his movements, and skin on skin, cotton against cotton: it was all happening; all happening in one glorious, turbulent swoop.
Cristiano's mind had gone into lockdown but his body knew what to do. His hands had wills of their own, as did his legs, slung along Kaká's hips, and his tongue had long ago abandoned itself to the white-water rush of desire.
They didn't say a word to each other. They didn't open their eyes. They breathed sighs into each other's open mouths.
Kaká put his hand on the front of Cristiano's boxers, and Cristiano exhaled all the air in his lungs in one long loud gasp.
They were already into a rhythm by then; they didn't have to break stride; they slipped out of underpants and pressed into each other. Cristiano lost his hold of Kaká's mouth and found himself gulping into Kaká's neck, Kaká's hair against his temple and Paco Rabanne in his nostrils, Kaká's salty skin on his tongue and Kaká's warm flesh under his teeth.
Kaká's hot hand was around Cristiano's cock. Anything and everything seemed possible so that it was almost no surprise to thrust into that hand which was a large hand, and strong on Cristiano's cock, defiant and at the same time tentative. The whole mix of timidity and determination, of the stubborn down and up of Kaká's hand and then the hitch of hesitation at the tip, drove Cristiano into a state of disorientation, and finally into a bewildered storm of an orgasm.
"God," he moaned, "oh God. Oh Jesus."
It was like coming up through a cloud of sand and seaweed, after having been dumped by an Atlantic breaker, coughing up salt and tumbling into the sunlight.
There he coasted for a while, in that still sunlit space, catching his breath.
He wondered where his come had gone, and then he became aware of Kaká's hand on his softened dick, and of the smell of aftershave, and of the beat of Kaká's heart in the pulse of his neck. Reality flooded back; it had acute angles and precise contours.
He opened his eyes onto the dusky room.
"Hang on," whispered Kaká. "Hang on."
Their limbs disentangled. Kaká did something at the side of the bed, rummaged around in the bedclothes, then produced his discarded white briefs and spread them across the tip of Cristiano's dick.
Cristiano dabbed at himself. He focused on the wiping so that he wouldn't have to pay attention to all those harsh lines and all those detailed edges. But these were Kaká's underclothes, and he was smearing his cooling jism into the place where Kaká's cock usually nestled, and this was making Cristiano feel giddy.
He didn't dare look up at Kaká but then he did.
Kaká's face wore an open look of eager surprise.
Cristiano's veins were frozen by that look.
"Here," Cristiano said; just managed to say. "Wait."
The angles in Kaká's face shimmered across his emphatic eyebrows.
Impelled perhaps by the hazy glow of his own loins or by some other force, the force that had got him into this situation to begin with, Cristiano pressed his mouth to the cotton-clad chest of Kaká while his fingers slipped in under the hem and rolled the singlet up until it met his own chin.
The muscles under Cristiano's hand dithered and tautened.
He transferred his mouth to skin; this was skin without Paco Rabanne; this was raw Kaká.
Much as his lips had earlier travelled from Kaká's forehead to Kaká's mouth, so they now travelled from Kaká's lower ribs across Kaká's solar plexus, paused at the hollow dell of Kaká's navel, burrowed through a thick thatch of springy curls. He closed his eyes because he couldn't bear looking. Seeing was too much; seeing was overwhelming.
He closed his eyes and made his way by touch, using his tongue as a guide. Curls, skin, sweat, and then the smooth, impossible muscle of Kaká's cock.
He rested his lips crosswise on Kaká's shaft. Under his right palm, he felt the tense vibration of Kaká's diaphragm. His nostrils were full of the musky tang of crotch: essence of Kaká.
His thoughts shaped themselves around the outlined reality of Kaká's cock.
But then Kaká let out a tempestuous gasp, and reality irised in and whited out.
Cristiano's tongue took on a life of its own, as if it had always known how to do this. As if it had always known how to pleasure Kaká's cock, how to lick its shaft, how to lose itself in the length and breadth of Kaká.
He rubbed his lips through his own slick spit, back and forth in a lateral dance, curving his mouth around his teeth. Kaká's diaphragm shuddered in time with Cristiano's movements; it was a hypnotic rhythm, an elated lost orbit.
Wild thoughts swarmed through Cristiano's baffled mind. Thoughts of clutching Kaká's buttocks, cupping Kaká's balls, pressing his thumb against the base of Kaká's scrotum, doing more, doing madly unimaginable things. Cristiano swam on the tide of Kaká's cock, in that space slithering with saliva, and anything else was impossible.
This was impossible. Impossible that he should be here, plying his tongue on Kaká's nakedness, with his own sated dick burrowing into the damp sheets.
It wasn't happening. Mightn't, couldn't, wouldn't ever happen.
"God," he moaned; he couldn't help it.
It came out "mm" against Kaká's bergamot cock.
Impossible, too, that he should be allowed to continue with it, that Kaká let him do this, had practically invited him to do it.
With his hands still immobile on Kaká's skin, Cristiano, without stopping for thought, grabbed the tip of Kaká's cock in his open-lipped mouth.
It tasted of skin and crotch sweat.
He curled his tongue around the edge of Kaká's glans. He jigged his mouth around the very top of Kaká's cock. The very top of his own head threatened to fly off; clouds and sparks vied for dominance; tumult invaded the recesses of his mind.
Kaká's diaphragm hummed under his moist palm. The ragged breaths drawn from Kaká's lungs syncopated with the knock of heartbeats in Cristiano's own bloodstream: Kaká's unruly pulse in Cristiano's ear, pressed into Kaká's belly; and Cristiano's own raging heart.
A siren wailed somewhere in the balmy distance. The curtains whispered in the breeze.
Kaká gasped brokenly; his frame shuddered, then stiffened; Cristiano snatched his mouth up and pressed it, wet-tongued, to Kaká's shaft as he watched, in cross-eyed close-up, the blur of off-white semen creaming into the dip of Kaká's navel.
He took his mouth away.
Because he had no idea what to do next, he put his mouth back on Kaká's cock.
Kaká was still large but more malleable; long breaths made his belly rise and fall.
And suddenly, Kaká started to shake. His diaphragm and his jism-filled navel and his hips and his chest, all juddered in staccato spasms.
It took Cristiano several split seconds to realise that Kaká was shaking with laughter.
Cristiano looked up. Kaká had his head pressed back against the mattress, next to the dislodged pillow, and was laughing a deep-throated, low and chuckling laugh.
"What?" Cristiano said, panic nipping at his nerves. "What?"
But Kaká's face was heedless, his eyebrows guileless, his teeth radiant. He looked happy, and pleased with himself. He looked like someone who had managed to pull something off.
"What?" said Cristiano again, with less verve.
In the end, Kaká's laugh was infectious. Cristiano let out a short confused laugh himself, and this seemed to spin Kaká into further peals which, in turn, opened a valve in the depths of Cristiano so that he sat up, sheets and duvet and clothes crumpling around him, counterpane rustling, and laughed back, a bit cautiously.
At which Kaká scrambled into a sitting position, grabbed hold of both Cristiano's ears and imprinted a rough, sloppy kiss on each of his cheeks.
Cristiano was used to this; he was used to getting rough, sloppy kisses on his cheeks. Rough, sloppy kisses happened all the time.
Mirth lived just below the surface.
So there they were, two guys on a bed, chuckling, batting at each other's hands, two guys with sticky skin and limp dicks, slapping one another on the knee and arm, cuffing one another round the back of the head.
"Okay, okay, wait," said Kaká, catching his breath; and "you've got to wipe yourself, look at you", said Cristiano, roses on his cheeks; and "ah, who cares", said Kaká and wiped at his belly with the hem of his white singlet, and then went "eew" as the vest snapped back into position around his ribs. Cristiano pulled at it and pulled it off, tugged awkwardly around Kaká's ears, left Kaká's hair standing up oddly.
"Sharp haircut," Cristiano said again, for something to say and because the sight of Kaká's mussed hair made the laughter fizz out inside his guts.
"Yeah," said Kaká and smiled and looked directly at Cristiano who could not tell whether the 'yeah' was by way of affirmation of the compliment, or directed at some other, more general state of affairs.
Cristiano held Kaká's gaze, all the while his stomach effervescent.
Kaká ducked his head and glanced away.
Cristiano was overcome by another assault of tenderness. He put his hand on Kaká's wrist, then took it away again. He looked at his own hands, he put a finger on his lips -- the lips that had touched Kaká's cock --, he looked again at Kaká's averted eyes, the pupils dark underneath lowered lashes.
He studied his hands again and said, "Kaká."
It occurred to him that he barely knew this boy. Kaká's T-shirt clung to his own chest.
He added, "Can I call you something else, actually?" Thinking, 'The whole world calls you Kaká.' He didn't want to be the whole world.
"What do they call you?" Kaká asked the duvet. "Cristiano? Cris?" His voice was suddenly full of smoke and unspoken moans.
"Or Ronnie," said Cristiano. "Some call me Ronnie."
"Ronnie?" Kaká pronounced it 'Honnie'.
"We share a surname." Cristiano offered this on a tenterhook.
"Yeah," said Kaká again, lifted his head and gave Cristiano a brilliant smile, bold and shy all at once.
An unknown emotion flooded the lower regions of Cristiano's insides. Something impelled him forwards; he pressed his lips to Kaká's smiling face, to the corners of the smile; he held his lips there until he'd kissed the smile away.
"Senhor Leite", Cristiano murmured.
"That's daft," said Kaká's smoky voice, then dropped to a rumble so low it was barely audible over the sighing of the moonlit wind: "But I like the way you say it."
Cristiano found himself unable to shift his lips from Kaká's waned smile.
"Senhor Leite," Kaká imitated his pronunciation. Or tried to; it still sounded like a laid-back drawl. "You're so peninsular."
"Not peninsular", mumbled Cristiano into Kaká's skin. "Insular."
And maybe it was Cristiano's tongue on the down of Kaká's cheek that made Kaká's voice stumble when he replied, "Insular?"
"Madeira," said Cristiano. And suddenly, with conviction, "But you knew that."
"Yeah," said Kaká, and Cristiano slipped his mouth leftwards, a tiny nudge of a movement, and Kaká's hand was hard on Cristiano's damp nape.
-----
THE END.
All original parts of this story © to Lobelia. Posted 3 July 2006
More Author's Notes:
Pics of Sporthotel Klosterpforte, in Marienfeld, near Gütersloh (abode of Portugal squad)
Pics of Kempinski Hotel Falkenstein, in Königstein im Taunus, near Frankfurt am Main , (abode of Brazil squad)
Manchester United/AC Milan, 0:1, Feb. 2005 (I have no idea whether Cristiano Ronaldo wept.)
The pre-World Cup friendly Portugal/Brazil in Lisbon, April 2002. Yup, unfortunately I got the date for this one wrong, *g*, so it's pure non-canon.
Info on the boys from
English Wikipedia (Kaka) and English Wikipedia (Cristiano Ronaldo).
Random inspirational sites on Brazilian Portuguese, European (or peninsular) Portuguese and Argentinian Spanish here and here.
Cristiano Ronaldo:
Kaká:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-03 07:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-03 07:13 pm (UTC)Gott, oh Gott, oh Gott - weia!
Date: 2006-07-03 08:00 pm (UTC)The beginning - love the description of all the random things you do when you're bored and the way you do just one thing after the other without really *doing* something.
Loved the spider-thingie. It made my think of my sister who fed a spider in her studio with ants and was so very fascinated because she swears the spider had to learn how to grab and kill ants... Okay, back to the story.
Someone's been doing her homework - the two games Cristiano and Kaka met. The interaction. Cristiano's insecurity, Kaka's kindness. Also I'm just now realizing that this is Cristiano's pov. Hey, didn't you say/write that you'd write it the other way around since you wanted to 'be' Kaka and wanted to 'do' Cristiano? Worked out perfectly. Conflicted, insecure, sensuous Cristiano... *swoons*
For some reason I just love this sentence. The randomness. It seems so true.
Just this one part was worth the wait for this fic. The way Cristiano is still so insecure and he may very well be. His school time seems to have been not so much fun as far as I've read... People always making fun of him. Assholes, the lot of them. :)
The explosion. My heart nearly stopped. Thank you for not making this some kind of terrorist threat.
Lol. The mental image. The horror he will feel later when he remembers that image. *grins widly*
*swallows hard and is speechless*
Can totally imagine that Cristiano kisses like that... *imagines it dreamily* *imagines the rest even more dreamily*
To sum it up - loved it! Sequel maybe? Or even better - a companion piece from Kaka's pov? Pretty please. Why he laughed, what he thought during the two games, when he saw a shaking, shocky Cristiano.... Please?
Sooooo looking forward to your Rooney/Cristiano fic!!!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-03 08:01 pm (UTC)Especially the name thing at the end was great!
I am so glad you liked this! I was humming and hawing about it, and fiddling about with it. But it was really inspired by a whole lot of (mostly German speaking) people going 'ergh, what a silly name is Kaká *g*
More, please!
Well, I have started a Wayne Rooney / Cristiano Ronaldo fic... *stabs self* :-)
Thanks so much for your kind and thoughtful comments.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-03 08:19 pm (UTC)*LOL* Yes, that's what I thought. Silliest name of them all. I really can't quite understand how a pretty guy like him could want to be called that. *facepalm* But as long as he's pretty and shagging C. Ronaldo, there are more important things than his name. ;)
Oh, and I forgot to say, thanks for including pictures. I did watch their games, of course, but you don't get to see the players as well as you might want. :) They really fit together very well!
Re: Gott, oh Gott, oh Gott - weia!
Date: 2006-07-03 08:20 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked the spider thing and Cristiano doing stuff in the hotel. I have a soft spot for character/inanimate object interaction, and I enjoyed getting the initial characterisation going without the aid of other characters. Also, I thought of him as such a boy so playlists and spider-feeding fitted right in.
Someone's been doing her homework - the two games Cristiano and Kaka met.
Well, if you read to the end you will realise that I got the friendly game totally and utterly wrong because it took place in 2003 but, oh well... I tried and tried to find pics of Kaká and Cristiano on the pitch together but to no avail. And this World Cup is also cheating us of that sight!!
Also I'm just now realizing that this is Cristiano's pov. Hey, didn't you say/write that you'd write it the other way around since you wanted to 'be' Kaka and wanted to 'do' Cristiano?
I'm amazed you remember this! It was really in the wake of that conversation that I rethought my take on Cristiano. I was a bit frightened of him, which is why my first short ficlets were Kaká pov, and which is why I specifically wanted to switch to Cristiano because he was more of a challenge. And then I stared at more pics and read the thing about the accent and thought, hm, the scarier they are on the outside and the more arrogant, the more insecure on the inside. And I thought, if Kaká is married and religious, that will give him a certain amount of security that 21-year-old Madeiran boy may well lack. Also with the weeping!!
Thank you for liking the squashed grass. I was rather pleased with the squashed grass. (Inanimate object again!)
a companion piece from Kaka's pov?
After thinking and writing quite a bit of Cristiano-pov, I realised I needed to know what Kaká was thinking or I would get stuck. So I replayed the whole scene in my mind from Kaká's pov and have a pretty good idea why he laughed. *g* But it seems cheating the fic to say what I think; I hope the fic itself conveyed at least something. ;-) But I didn't really want to reveal too much because a) Cristiano has no clue why Kaká is doing this, really, and b) These are not the kinds of boys who would reveal their motivations to each other so I couldn't have Kaká coming out with it in direct speech.
Sooooo looking forward to your Rooney/Cristiano fic!!!
You are? *boggles* It's going to be quite brutal... Argh.
Thanks again! This is such happy-making feedback! And makes me think about my own fic.
... almost forgot.
Date: 2006-07-03 08:20 pm (UTC)OMGWHAT??? O_O
*wants*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-03 08:31 pm (UTC)thanks for including pictures
I remembered what I always used to do for rps: put inspirational pics on my desktop while typing! So I did it again for this fic and then thought, eh, I'll just post these pics. Also, 2/3 of my Flist cares nothing for football and has no idea who these people are so I'm spreading the love.
Re: ... almost forgot.
Date: 2006-07-03 08:32 pm (UTC)You are a bunch of twisted people! ;-p
Re: Gott, oh Gott, oh Gott - weia!
Date: 2006-07-03 09:23 pm (UTC)Exactly the way I see him. Especially concerning the language thing. He seems to be quite insecure about that. Still prefering to give interviews in Portugese after living in England for 3 (?) years. Seeing that clip of him talking about how he did not ask the ref to give Rooney the red card - his English is still a bit rough. But god, he's just so pretty.
I didn't even comment on the weeping, did I? Well, I guess by now you know that I have a soft spot for crying Cristianochen.
Of course. And no, it wouldn't fit to have them 'talk about their feelings' or something like that. I mean, boys.
And I would sure think that Rooney/Cristiano is going to be brutal. I can't really imagine them any other way with each other. They're both so very physical if you know what I mean. So I am really looking forward to it.
God, look what I found!
Date: 2006-07-03 09:30 pm (UTC)Gotta love gettyimages because there I found this. And the first one just proves that your are a goddess - it's like your fic sprang to life... Cristiano looks as if his world has just come crashing down. He's so going to cry any minute, any second - and I'm so going crazy. ;)
Re: God, look what I found!
Date: 2006-07-03 09:42 pm (UTC)I can't breathe.
*stares*
*licks screen*
That first picture! The look on Kaká's face! The eyebrows! They are positively glowering! And the gloves: they look evil! (What's with those gloves, anyway?) But the second one is also not bad because we have physical contact.
*Thank you!!!!*
Re: God, look what I found!
Date: 2006-07-03 09:55 pm (UTC)Now on to the prettiness - aren't they like perfect together? Contact - good!!! I guess, he wears gloves because it was March and cold? But that also means that he couldn't really touch Cristiano, a barrier between them - and now my mind has completely dived into the gutter - because maybe Kaka wondered what it would have felt like without the gloves?
Mein klarer Vorsatz für nach der WM? Champions League gucken. Brauche mein Cristianochen-Fix. Wenigstens gelegentlich. Beneide dich um Möglichkeit eines regelmäßigen, wöchentlichen Cristianochens... Gott, wer hätte das gedacht... Sorry somehow the Egnglish language just slipped from my mind...
Re: God, look what I found!
Date: 2006-07-03 10:12 pm (UTC)If it's so cold, how come C.Ronaldo hasn't got any gloves on?
No, no, these are Evol Gloves of Doom and Angst and BDSM! He will run one of his black, gloved index fingers slowly along Cristiano's cheek and use the other to tighten a cruel knot in his leather whip. And then Cristiano opens his mouth and sucks on the gloved finger, and perhaps pulls the glove off with his teeth. Or Kaka forces his gloved fingers into Cristiano's mouth and makes him gag. (Gag for more.)
Um. These pics seem to be inducing an entire new characterisation...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-04 03:07 am (UTC)Re: God, look what I found!
Date: 2006-07-04 03:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-04 03:22 am (UTC)I just.
♥
I've printed it out to reread before I go to bed and I'll be back in the morning with proper feedback. I just wanted to know that I adored it the first few times that I read it.
You must write more of this pairing.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-04 04:05 am (UTC)friend you :) *is shy and totally dorky*
Re: God, look what I found!
Date: 2006-07-04 07:10 am (UTC)He got used to the English weather and now Italy in March seems warm to him? Or maybe he just doesn't like playing in glove. Changes your feel for the game, I'd think. Feel...
*panting* They certainly do but that's not a bad thing. And really the way Cristiano looks in that pic? All shocked innocence, big, unbelieving eyes... And Kaka so relaxed and sure of himself... Write something?!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-04 07:45 am (UTC)And should I mention this is my favourite pairing? ;] I mean, what can be hotter than two pretty boys (yeah, I prefer calling them 'boys'- they don't have those extremely masculine features, rather boyish... that's probably what I like the most about them- exactly 'my' kind of guys... and weeping C.Ronaldo is soo amazingly cute- just a big kid *swoons*) slashed together? x]
As for 'funny' meaning of the word 'kaka'... Well, in polish (my first language, sorry for my crappy english btw) it means... a poo. In a kid manner of speaking. So, at first, it was pretty traumatizing for me, calling him this way... Well, but that doesn't sound THAT bad.
Anyways... Thanks for sharing!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-04 01:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-04 06:35 pm (UTC)So, needless to say, this was quite hot and even though I was expecting Kaka to go off about religion and clutching rosary beads while Cristiano went down on him, um - I'm glad that that didn't happen in the story (but, you know - that could also be hot). So yes! So glad that you wondered over to this little fandom.
And your crying!Ronaldo icon is nifty. Poor dear probably lost one pound with all the tears he shed due to matches.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-04 06:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-05 08:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-05 01:38 pm (UTC)