Blue

ivorylasenza @ 2009-05-27T23:24:00

2009-05-27T22:25:08Z

God, how the best team won.

<333

Well worth the £126 quid, they were. Not tonight, obviously, but the other weekend.

The love.

The pure, unadulterated love.

ivorylasenza @ 2009-05-06T23:05:00

2009-05-06T22:05:53Z

God, I love Iniesta.

"I had to try. I stuck with my whole soul. If it had been five minutes earlier I would have probably put it in the second tier."

Angelic, that lad is. In the words of Guardiola, "a special boy."

I'd sell anyone but Gerrard and Torres to have that little thing in my team.

ivorylasenza @ 2009-05-04T14:40:00

2009-05-04T13:41:06Z

A sad, sad day :(

Really wanted him to stay, but I understand why he had to go.

Shall keep this picture here as a reminder.

ivorylasenza @ 2009-04-28T19:31:00

2009-04-28T18:31:52Z

(points to Icon)

(hoping this post gives beautiful Barca good luck)

(ahh, Bolo...)

ivorylasenza @ 2009-01-25T13:52:00

2009-01-25T13:52:50Z

Aw.

ivorylasenza @ 2009-01-18T20:17:00

2009-01-18T20:18:16Z

Oh, good God. Just for personal reference, these pictures must be kept. In my darkest days in forthcoming months, these pictures may keep me sane (and hey, Pep is a good name for a kid, no? No? Okay, no, it's not!)

God bless you, Pep.

Oh, I just can't stop looking at him. Who the feck is Mourinho, eh? As far as sexy managers go, this one just takes the gold medal.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-10-18T16:14:00

2008-10-18T15:14:35Z

Officially the worst month of my entire life.

And, now Wigan have parked the bus.

Great.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-09-27T15:48:00

2008-09-27T14:51:07Z

Oh, what's better than a Derby win? What's better than beating those idiots at home in front of their lame, 'adoring' crowd? What will be sweeter than going into my work Full of Blues on Monday and knowing, we stuffed you.

It wasn't even a lucky win. We battered them. The referee might have been appalling and determined, above all things, to stop the flow of the game but the stats are not lying today.

Not. One. Shot. On. Target. Reina had to do precisely nothing!!!

Loving Riera. Have still not 'bonded' with Keane nor do I think I ever will but, we have a tricky, dodgy looking left winger going on there, don't we? I expected nothing from him and he's come in and he's great.

He looks like he's been tear-gassed, though. He really does.

One thing that is upsetting me lately is Lucas.

He just...isn't working out, is he?

Le sigh.

Oh well, can't win 'em all I guess. Now to hope that everyone else slips up. Doubtful, though.

Ps

Check out Arbeloa's perm. It's amazing.

Ello, gorgeous!

ivorylasenza @ 2008-09-02T07:26:00

2008-09-02T06:27:22Z

Gahhh football died last night.

It died in Manchester...City AND United.

As if I couldn't dislike Manchester any more than I already do :(

ivorylasenza @ 2008-08-26T07:45:00

2008-08-26T06:45:33Z

http://community.livejournal.com/footballslash/1785516.html

Title – Art
Pairing – Daniel Agger/Martin Skrtel
Rating – NC17
Disclaimer – Not true
Summary – Sometimes a person would rather be flesh than canvass.

Just a little minific, really. Nothing more. First one in ages. First time I have breathed to this journal’s surface in a long, long time!

I hope you have all been well…have missed the community of it all but, I haven’t enough to say to remain part of it!

I hope to have some news soon, though.

I keep hoping…

ivorylasenza @ 2008-04-12T13:20:00

2008-04-12T12:21:43Z

Title – 1. Temperance
Rating – NC17
Pairing – Fernando Torres/Alvaro Arbeloa
Disclaimer – Not true, did not happen
Word count - 400
Summary – Temperance - Practicing self-control, abstention, and moderation.

Have not been around for awhile but, I felt a little creative and a little daft with words so I thought I would write something up.

Am trying to detatch, footballishly, because our club is in a mess, at present, but we did beat The Arse and that does make me feel rather special.

Oh, and no Christmas baby for me.

:(

(*)

Naked, hard, his skin glistens in the dim light and he offers himself dressed in nothing but dewdrop diamonds. They fade away when long fingers trail too-hot skin that responds without manipulation. His tongue presses between ivory teeth, flickering in and out, serpentine, yet not reptilian, and he kisses this mouth with no hesitation.

Alvaro surrenders to Fernando without reservation. He lets him kiss him until he cannot breathe, sometimes, lets him steal his air if Fernando chooses to, for he offers without moderation. He offers him love on a platter made of solid gold because that’s what he is.

Gold.

He doesn’t hold back, never holds back. Sometimes, he lets Fernando fuck him so hard that he bleeds, yet all the time he whispers his name, again and again, as if he will never wear it out…as if Fernando will never wear him out. When done, he will look at him with eyes as wide as the world itself and whisper, “Again?”

He whispers it, now, as he lies in strong arms, done, spent yet willing, a red flush dancing over his ever-ready body where the friction between them has burned him.

Again…

More?

Fernando abstains.

He abstains for Alvaro, for he has no abstinence.

He controls, for him, because he has no self-control.

He moderates…for, he understands no moderation, would give until he had nothing left, and Fernando would take, if he were less of a man.

Fernado practice a self-control that he never knew he possessed as he takes Alvaro's request and presses it back inside of him with tongue and lips and whispers “Not tonight,” as he tells him “you’ve given me enough.”

Not tonight, but tomorrow, perhaps – tomorrow, when the touch of his mouth against Alvaro's skin will feel fresh and warm; when the scent of his hair, to Fernando, will be new.

Not tonight, but tomorrow, when the sight of colour rising to his cheeks and his body will be novel and the gasping, aching sigh of Fernando's name against his will be fresh and untainted.

Not tonight but tomorrow, when he peels back his layers and shows Fernando his all, when he pulls off his clothes and strips down to the bone, naked and exposed – when the sight of these things will bring those butterflies to Torres' stomach and that smile to his face.

Tomorrow, not tonight.

He will love him in moderation.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-03-25T14:09:00

2008-03-25T13:56:15Z

Oh, good God.

Congratulations anyway, darling. At least you are doing us proud.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-03-15T11:13:00

2008-03-15T11:13:46Z

Title - Gluttony (7/7)
Pairing - Unnamed/Xabi Alonso, Alvaro Arbeloa, Fernando Torres
Rating - R
Disclaimer - Not true
Summary - Last one. Promise. Short and sweet. A team of rooms.

Choose your own narrator. He is, indeed, nameless.

(*)

I am a glutton; this much is true, not a glutton for a punishment, not a glutton for cruelty or superiority.

I am simply a glutton for them.

This team, to me, is priceless.

They are all new experiences to me; new monuments to visit and new waters to bathe in. When I pass each one by I pick up a scent, a feel, a taste, like entering a new place and inhaling its contents for the first time; like walking through unfamiliar walls and touching everything in my wake and knowing that this is a new sensation. Every time, on every occurrence, I take a tiny piece of it and store it away in a little box in my mind.

These are trinkets.

Souvenirs.

They are not so crass as to be notches on my bedpost; instead small, cut pieces of fabric sewn together to make a quilt. Patchwork. Beautiful.

They warm me, when the nights are cold and I am alone.

My team-mates, they are new rooms decorated in decadence and as I pass through them I commit them all to memory – different textures, different smells, scents, tastes, uses, some practical, others totally indulgent.

They have their own space up there. Their own area.

Alvaro is a sunroom with sleek caramel walls and a great, bright window with rays streaming through. He is early morning in Springtime when the glistening rays dance off the surfaces; leave the room smiling. His scent is fresh, with a hint of cocoa, something sweet to roll of the tongue, to inhale. His is a purring, laughing joy of a sound and, when he speaks, its like the melodic hum of a bird at 5am, chirpy and good-natured.

As I lie with Alvaro, I feel warmth, always warmth, as if the skylight is open and the sunshine is dancing all over my skin. When he touches me he leaves imaginary tan-lines in his wake, ultraviolet exploration that never stings, never burns…

He kisses like the breeze, a ghost across my lips, barely there yet beautiful, so beautiful…

His arms open, like wide doors.

I step inside.

I step inside him.

Those doors and walls close around me as he whispers “Hola, hola…”

Xabi is a library, all Autumn colours and sepia tones, rich wood and soft pile carpets that I can run my fingers through when I have the need to feel the rough instead of the smooth. His face is permanently stubbled, like sandpaper, like the grating surface of sandpaper that burns my skin when I touch it. He is a wide space full of books and dreams. He is candlelit intensity in a dark, closed room.

When Xabi calls my name it doesn’t echo from empty walls because his room is full. The sound, itself, is close, reverberates, and the walls move closer. His eyes are a bookshelf, full of knowledge, full of age-old books with dusty covers that reek of intelligence.

His scent is something old, older than he is, something wise. Musk, perhaps; incense burning on an old table.

Xabi doesn't fuck; the word insults him. When he kisses it's deep, meaningful, and when he touches it's as if he's searing himself inside of me.

He wants me to learn. He is my teacher and I, his willing pupil.

He wants to enlighten me, and he does...

...he does...

Fabio, he enlightens me, too, a quiet room with soft, beige walls, a room for comfort and truth, and Pepe, he is a comedy club, a real riot of a room with loud music that bouncess from the ceiling and a face full of smiles and teeth and a good, hard fuck.

Fernando is sleek cedar and straw, his skin, his hair, not soft, not silky beneath fingertips, rather wiry. He has an underlying scent of cinnamon and I imagine if I kissed him there would be a hint of spice on his tongue; if I touched him, his skin would be cool, a polished surface that catches my finger as I try to explore it.

Fernando’s chest is alabaster-pale, his hair an unnatural shade of blonde yet his eyes, his eyes are oak-wood against chiselled ivory. When he smiles he gets tiny lines, crevices at the corners and, when he talks it’s a rumble, rather than a purr. The deep acoustics, those rich, bass sounds do not match. He almost sounds otherworldly.

Fernando, laid out, is like an offertory table; an altar, perhaps. He is still, and serene. His stomach curves into ripples of muscle with flesh pulled taut, and there is a monument between his thighs. He seems to illuminate, somehow, yet there is no light in his room. Some might say he’s a spiritual experience unto himself. He fills me with the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit.

There is God in his room, just as there is God in my life. I may sin but, He forgives me.

God forgives me.

I have riches of wealth at my disposal.

Is it any wonder I am a glutton for them all?

ivorylasenza @ 2008-03-09T23:01:00

2008-03-09T23:01:41Z

God, I love this lad

ivorylasenza @ 2008-03-08T09:20:00

2008-03-08T09:20:29Z

Title - Sloth
Rating – NC17
Pairing – Daniel Agger/Martin Skrtel (my new ‘thing’)
Disclaimer – Never happened. Possibly never will. Probably never will.
Summary – Part 6 of 7

Too early, too soon, Daniel sleeps.

He looks comfortable and comforted; almost sweet, in repose. Gone is the sneer. Gone is the domineering personality.

Gone is the quick-wit that sometimes cuts too deep to be funny and leaves Martin bleeding internally.

Gone is the superiority; the attitude that suggests how much ‘better’ he is.

Whilst the words are often inciting the silence is nice. It’s nice to be back early, nice to be able to rest after a day of travelling and a night of team meetings and bonding. He spent an hour before retiring with Riise playing pool and losing.

Martin always loses against Riise, inferior on the green felt as he is regarded as superior on the pitch – a superior defender, a superior player yet, leave him with four balls and a black to down and he’ll always come up struggling.

They shook on it.

Martin vowed to beat him, next time and, when John waved a lazy hand in his direction to brush him off he didn’t protest too much. Martin’s strength has always been that he knows his limits.

His weakness is that he doesn’t know his limits with Agger; doesn’t know where he stands, at all.

His weakness is that he doesn’t want to know, is happy to take each act of love (lust) and violence as it comes – each moment of seduction and pain, of teacher, of pupil.

He's learning a lot.

On the pitch, nobody touches him, and Daniel praises him for that. Off the pitch, he comes back to him every single night and asks, do you want a piece of me?

He says it without words.

Martin knows.

Every night, Martin takes that piece hungrily as it's offered, devours it in one bite as Daniel takes more from him than he is often willing to give. Every night, Denmark defeats Slovakia as Slovakia holds up that white flag; waits for the red squares to be painted upon it.

The teacher sleeps, now, breathing quietly in the darkness and the pupil, tired as he is, strives not to wake him.

Martin stands by the floor to ceiling mirror and begins to undress slowly, slowly, so as not to wake his sleeping partner, first the shoes then the socks, then shorts, peeling them over his limbs and dropping them gently to the floor. He takes off his shirt, casting that downwards also, shed, discarded beside him. It’s not laziness that dictates that he leave them where they are.

It’s not sloth, but care.

He’s careful; careful not to wake the sleeping demon; wary of rousing the stupefied monster.

Smiling, he thinks, he doesn’t want to wake the baby, wants to kiss it goodnight and stroke its head; wants to patronise it as it so often patronises him yet his paternal instinct does not stretch so far as to endanger his own life. The baby would not wake up and scream; it would wake up and snap his head off for daring to treat it like the child that it so often acts as.

Instead, he climbs in slowly, quietly.

He mouths “Goodnight, God bless” to the still figure beside him yet the sigh is born dead, the whispered words choked before they’re brought to life.

Daniel moves, not faster than light or sound but faster than his demeanour suggested he could. His legs spring him into action, those vast, strong thighs and calves that flicker with the movement, that ripple beneath the surface of his skin.

His arms flex, his hands grasping and grabbing, burning skin as they come into contact with it.

Martin stutters.

Stammers.

Falls back and those hands, those hands that had formed barriers, they push at Daniel’s chest with an intensity that wasn’t there before yet he doesn’t dislodge the man; doesn’t remove him. He remains attached, leech-like, to his skin.

“Hey…” Martin says, a universal exclamation of shock that crosses any language barrier there is. His eyes reflect shock, electric blue sparking into life in darkness. “What’s this for?”

He’d thought Daniel sleeping.

He’d thought him unconscious; dead to the world at 10pm.

He’d thought him lazy…

“Hey, what? Hey, hello? Hey, how are you? Hey, don’t touch me? Hey, get your hands of me? Hey what, Martin? What’s this for? Why don’t you tell me?”

“I-I thought you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I waited for you. I got myself all wound up for nothing. Where were you?”

Where were you but here, where you should be?

Since Martin arrived, Daniel has been of the misinformed view that he owns him.

“I never asked you to wait up,” Martin chokes, without answering. The hand on his jaw forces his gaze yet he wouldn’t look away, even now. “It’s still early. I didn’t know you were tired. I didn't expect you'd be asleep when I got back."

Daniel can appear half asleep yet he is forever alert, a man on edge who sleeps with his eyes half open, expectant, primed for action.

This is action.

This is action, from inaction.

This is activity from sloth and Martin, his eternal-prey, is caught off-guard once more.

There is movement; movement between them.

There is heat, and cold.

“I had to touch myself,” Agger complains. “My hand instead of yours. My fingers on my own cock, and look. Look at me. I got nowhere. I'm still hard. Can you feel that?”

Can he? He pretends not, but he can feel that erection pressing against his thigh.

He can feel that physical exhibition of lust bruising him as it must be bruising itself.

Martin's lips part.

He exhales a sigh, yet no words come out.

Sometimes, the teacher makes the pupil feel so powerful. So capable.

A-star for performance and preparation, because Daniel's this worked up at just the thought of him.

"I," he starts, leaning forward, nervously clearing his thought, "I-want..."

“Is this what you want?” Daniel asks, disallowing the continuation of words as he twists his fingers into Martin's skin, as he leans forward, as he breathes hot-fire down Martin’s ear, so close that the young man can feel the tension; the hot poker between them – the tantric seduction that’s like a ghost between them.

Martin licks his lips; leans forward and daringly licks Daniel’s, too.

He trembles, only slightly.

He's learned.

Agger smiles; tastes Martin’s saliva, sweet, thick with unvoiced lust.

He’s asking for it.

“You want to fuck me? Or, were you too idle to learn the word for that?”

The touch hurts, a Chinese Burn deep within as the skin on his chest twists between Daniel's fingers.

"Were you just too lazy to learn how to ask?"

Martin professes that he doesn’t understand, hands up in supplication, “I surrender” written all over his face. He doesn’t understand; doesn’t get how the lounging tiger, so lazy in the sunlight, can suddenly snap to attention. He doesn’t understand the concept of the basking shark; he that lies in wait at the bottom of the ocean until its prey puts a foot wrong.

Daniel shakes his head.

"Try again."

All he did was get into bed.

All he did was say goodnight…yet the floodgates are open, now, and there’s no turning back.

There’s a lesson to be learned and a thrill to be sought and, if it takes six simple words to accomplish that then he won’t be too lethargic to utter them.

He moves his hand down between them.

He maintains eye contact throughout, knowing that to lose it is to lose.

Try again.

He won’t lose.

He strokes idly over Daniel’s cock before delving, deep, grasping, hard. He takes pleasure in the gasp he draws out of the three-days-older man.

His smile, it isn’t lazy. This is no half-hearted upturning of lips, nor is it a grin. Somewhere in between. A smirk, perhaps, dirty and wanton.

“I want you,” he says, with added inflection to his normally sedate voice, “to fuck me.”

There.

Was that so hard?

Was that so difficult?

Did that strain you too much?

Daniel smiles.

"There," he says.

There.

Martin doesn't understand the meaning, yet doesn't care, because the look of dare has gone, now, the challenge has been met.

He's home, now.

He's back.

In not so many words, he's apologised, and now it's time to call it quits; to fall into Daniel's arms and hope for the best.

Daniel gives in to the request yet, as he pushes Martin down onto his stomach and inches his legs apart he realises he's too tired for dominance; too languid for hour after hour of strenuous exercise so close to a game.

This is a game he has already won so so, why run the extra lap?

He lies down behind him, wraps his arms around a strong body just to still it; uses saliva on his hands to lubricate himself and just gently rocks against him.

Inside of him.

Within him.

"How's this?" he asks, twisting his fingers only when Martin doesn't respond.

"Good," he says, finally, when he feels as if his skin might bruise. "It's good, Daniel."

It's good to be dragged in, thrown against the wall and then pulled downwards for a gentle fuck.

It's good to be rewarded for the effort put into asking for what one wants.

It's good to be Daniel's...

"You just lie there," Daniel whispers. "Enjoy this while it lasts..."

It won't last for long.

Martin barely moves, too comfortable, to allow Daniel to do the work. He barely breathes as that spit-slick cock strokes him inside; as Daniel strokes him outside.

It won't always be this way.

It won't always be so comfortable, yet the pupil enjoys it for the quiet time that he rarely gets to see.

The recess.

The lazy hour.

Afterwards, Martin falls into a contented, exhausted sleep just after Daniel does. For awhile, before, he watches him sleep; comforts him to know that even the most predatory men are vulnerable, sometimes.

Even they need their rest, perhaps not with a finger or thumb to their lips but with their head to a pillow.

Goodnight, he whispers, for a second time this evening.

This time, the shark remains sleeping.

(*)

He opens his eyes to morning; to light shining in from between grey-white clouds. Instead of feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders he feels an arm, another across his chest, a painted arm; painted, like his own and he wonders, what do these words express?

A morning prayer?

A curse?

Do they say, wake me or leave me be?

Do they say, I want you, or, you’re nothing to me?

He feels breath on the side of his face, a body close to his own and, if he listens closely, he can hear his own heartbeat pulsing in his chest.

He turns over.

He runs his eyes over the implausibly beautiful face of his imperfect lover, teacher, too tired to touch but ready to look and he commits it all to memory – every line, every blemish, every spot where the razor missed, every lash, every bone, every shape and every plane.

He closes his eyes; returns to the sleep.

Returns to dreams.

Lazy.

Somnolent.

Indolent.

Sloth.

Also, bit of a spam

http://community.livejournal.com/footballslash/1494559.html

ivorylasenza @ 2008-03-02T20:45:00

2008-03-02T20:45:45Z

Title – Greed.
Pairing – Steven Gerrard/Steve Finnan, Steven Gerrard/Fabio Aurelio
Disclaimer – Not true, did not happen
Summary – Sometimes, people just overindulge – steal from somebody else’s plate. Nasty little shit, is our Gerrard, sometimes. Likes to break hearts, he does.

(*)

They sit in a field of green waiting for the sun to set. Steve’s house in the distance, it’s black against the red of the sky. They come here, sometimes, a quiet place that reminds Finnan of a ‘home’ he can barely recall to memory.

For Gerrard, it is a place of silence. Stillness.

A place of reflection and of self-preservation.

“Sometimes, I think that you’re the only person who sees me for what I really am,” Finnan says, as he picks a blade of grass between his fingers; lets it drop, like his gaze. “That’s sad. That’s really sad. Because, you don’t even see me as anything.”

"Oh, come on. That's not true, mate. I'm here, aren't I?"

The kiss tastes bitter, somehow.

"I'm with you, aren't I?"

"In body, yes."

In mind?

Gerrard enjoys the adulation; has a taste for it, now, and it satisfies his palate.

He thrives on the fact that he is exclusive, to Finnan – that there is no-one else. He indulges himself in the other man’s adoration whenever he hungers for it yet his taste extends elsewhere.

Not satisfied with just one flavour, Stevie likes to sample the entire menu.

Finnan looks too young and too old, and Steven’s tongue is coated in promises he can’t keep; promises at taste like bittersweetness, lemons and sugar.

“I’m not the type of guy who will ever settle down,” he says, “but, you’ll always be the one I go to first.”

Finnan is the starter.

The appetiser.

It’s no consolation, Gerrard knows it…yet, he hopes that this could be.

The Captain’s mouth on Finnan’s cock makes it rise as the sun sets. He wants to lick his sadness away, wants to splay him out, fuck his sorrows into the dirt of his own gravel path.

He wants to own him in that way, wants to devour his happiness, sadness, hope, fear.

He wants to taste each emotion and know; know that it’s his flavour upon them; that he seasoned them, perhaps – that he added the final ingredient that made them lurid; tangible..

”I’m a young man,” he whispers. “These opportunities won’t last forever. I have a shelf life, too. There’ll come a time when nobody wants Steven Gerrard.”

Spoken in third person.

Arrogance personified, and Finnan is too far gone to take objection.

Gerrard isn’t satisfied with just the one.

He wants everything.

“Don’t think about it now, mate,” he says. “I’m here with you, now. Isn’t that all that matters?”

He rocks in Finnan’s lap until the redness turns to black and his house becomes a ghost in the distance. He comforts him with everything he is but the truth.

It’s not enough.

It’s not enough, yet Finnan says nothing.

“I have to go,” Gerrard says, when the ritual is completed. His seed has been planted inside of Steve as Steve’s seed scattered over the grass like dewdrops; teardrops. “I have people I need to see. Places I need to go.”

“Then, go.”

Go. Taste them all.

Fuck every single one of them. See if I care…

As Gerrard steps up to, Steve remembers that he has nowhere; no-one else.

He doesn't pick.

He’s not that fucking greedy.

“This is the last time,” he says, bland, tasteless. “I’m not going to be your fucking ego trip any longer.”

Then, finally, “Swallow somebody else!”

There are so many flavours to choose from, after all.

He stays in the field, his field, with his back against the ground. He looks up at the stars; hungers for answers that starve him.

As Gerrard searches for his next conquest, Finnan’s eyes search for wisdom.

His hand searches for his shamrock in the grass.

His four-leaf clover.

His stroke of luck.

He asks the Almighty for a taste of his own; one that doesn't leave his mouth bitter and his tongue rancid, and disgusting.

(*)

Gerrard goes through the entire menu. Spanish tapas, a mix and match of Mediterranean flavours that satisfies his appetite for dark and sensual; Scandinavian, all alcohol, vodka and beer.

He fancies a taste of Brazilian tonight and so he reaches over to Sami’s plate; steals from it.

Fabio never indulges the musical customs of his home country. He has no rhythm, cannot dance, yet when his Captain shortens the distance between them he finds a sway in his hips that was never there before.

This is a forbidden dance. He belongs to Sami, Gerrard to Finnan. Or, so they all say.

“Don’t worry yourself,” Steven says, as he whispers in Fabio’s ear. “Finns knows I’m insatiable.”

Ravenous.

Greedy.

“And, Sami won’t mind. This is a Captain’s privilege.”

Eating from the plates of the infidels and the subordinates; isn’t that his right?

Fabio smiles as Gerrard reaches up; as he touches the side of his head, sensual, a caress, smooth, erotic.

They dance.

They dance, underneath dimmed-down hotel room lights in a city just East of England and Fabio wonders, is this foreplay?

Steven rides him, a slow-step designed to build up momentum, to savour the experience – an unhurried build up from defence to attack. He moves to preserve the impetus until those glass-fragile noises Fabio makes get him off too hard, too fast – until this clammy skin burns him, deep – satisfies him, wholly.

Gerrard dances the Samba in bed of white-cotton sheets, damp with desire, warm with expectancy and, when he comes, those brittle sounds are like music to his ears.

Those gasps.

Those cries.

Those panting breaths…

Delicious!

Steven leaves when Fabio’s thighs are still wet and warm; when his body is still hard and tense and his heart still beats, fast in his chest.

His eyes are full with confusion; starving for explanation.

There is no kiss goodbye, no love letter signed in lipstick and kisses left at the side of the bed.

There is no protestation.

Steven’s last words resound in Fabio’s head more than the silent music did.

“Sami wasn’t wrong about you. You certainly do fill a hole.”

The dance ends.

Captain takes the music with him.

As Fabio wraps his hand around his own cock, saddened and reluctant, he is forced to make his own concerto.

To dance to his own song.

He hungers.

He’s not the only one.

As Gerrard devours his own fill, they all hunger…

ivorylasenza @ 2008-03-02T15:31:00

2008-03-02T15:31:49Z

Love you, Fab

<3

ivorylasenza @ 2008-02-26T19:18:00

2008-02-26T19:18:42Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2pPXKVH2nk

Oh, the absolute CUTENESS.

<3 sweet, shy Fabio.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-02-20T21:01:00

2008-02-20T21:01:49Z

Title – Wrath (4 out of 7)
Pairing – Dagger/Squirtle
Rating – NC17
Disclaimer – Not true. All made up.
Summary – There’s a fine line…

(*)

”Agger?” he says, with a smile. “Oh, I’m better than him.”

“Really?”

Faux confidence, betrayed with a grin. A smile to frighten children; a face to inflict fear.

A laughing assassin…

“Better than Agger?”

“I wish,” he says, indicating the joke, but the cameras stop rolling; catch it only as an afterthought.

The comment stands framed.

Taken out of context.

(*)

“You think you’re better than me?”

Two chests, pressed against each other, velcro tabbed. Magnet against metal, pushed together.

Beating hearts colliding, throbbing out of rhythm with each other, one beating with fire; with resentment and one with apprehension.

They were born days apart yet polarities away from each other

Fine lines…

…lines crossed.

He looked like such a bad boy…

Martin looks away with manic, crazy eyes, just like they say, yet the book cover doesn’t reflect the novel inside.

Hard jaw relaxes, and his mouth falls open.

There is no fire; this dragon is all talk and armour.

“Well?”

“I-I don’t…I didn’t…fuck.“

He’d run away, but his back’s against the wall.

“You think you’re fucking better than me?”

“I didn’t say that, Daniel.”

One head tilts downwards, eyes burning into eyes - one jaw, clenched in aggression, muscles tense, veins like snakes underneath hot, clammy skin. Anger simmers, red, bubbled blood that pricks at white against blue, against green, against hazel.

Daniel’s eyes reflect antagonism, not worship.

They reflect disgust, not respect.

Eyes met across a crowded room, and it was love at first sight.

There is no love.

“Five fucking minutes,” he says. “You’ve been here five fucking minutes. You want to steal my thunder?”

He is pride.

He is wounded.

He is arrogant.

“I’m not a thief, Daniel.”

“Not a thief? Oh, fuck you. You think you’re funny?”

Spittle flies from tight lips in an ejaculation of rage as Agger mocks Skrtl with words; as he takes him down, piece by piece, inch by inch.

As he waits for the dam to burst, for the cracks to show…

He’s pissing on his corners, here. He’s marking his territory.

He’s showing his domination.

“I should do you over right here, just to show you what I’m capable of. Then we’ll see who’s better.”

“Not like this,” Martin says, eyes darting, voice painted with shame. “Be a man, Danny.”

“Be a man? Who do you think you are?”

Who does Skrtl think he is?

He’s Daniel.

He’s Daniel, two years ago, rookie-raw, skin made of white-porcelain and arms spun from tattoos.

He’s Daniel one year ago, head shaved down to nothing, bullet style, skull-shaped, thug, bully, neo-Nazi that reads poetry and spits on the ground.

They say that opposites attract. Likes only repel.

Martin is eagerness; angel painted black.

Daniel is pure wrath. The hand of God.

Viking. Warrior-like. Blazing battles and lightening bolts and beams, beams of aggression seeping from every pore, from every movement.

Sexual tension from every last gasp of breath.

He smiles.

Teeth like white bricks, tightly pressed, straining in their foundations. Words escape like prisoners dissolving through the cracks.

“Who do you think you are, eh?”

Martin might ask Daniel the question himself; knows the answer.

Who is Agger?

A messiah. A God.

A ghetto fucking superstar!

(*)

“You think you’re fucking better than me?”

Said again as the door of Agger’s apartment slams closed, as Skrtl’s back collides with plaster and brick and expensive décor; as his body tremors from tiny earthquakes that shake his very foundations as the force of his bones drag paintings down from walls.

And, the measure on the Richter scale was…

Skrtl’s hands wrap around Daniel’s wrists.

He pushes him away.

He says nothing. No words escape those lips; no prisoners, seeping through as they did with Agger.

He licks them.

Those lips…

Daniel licks his own. He is a natural disaster…but as he looks at those full, down-turned, inverted cherub-lips, at the intensity in these eyes, urging him on, daring, so daring, he finds himself overcome.

He whispers.

So close, he whispers, a breath against Martin’s skin.

A hand against Martin’s chest…bigger…bigger than his own…

Better…

“I’ll show you better.”

More able.

More willing.

More dominant

He’s all talk.

“Then, show me.”

Does he expect a fist? Daniel looks enraged.

Does he want to throw a punch?

Martin can give as good as he gets.

The sucker punch, though, it comes unexpectedly; winds him, without force.

There is no pain. No blood.

Lips like magnet and metal, like Velcro. Martin wouldn’t pull away even if he could. The better man tastes like spearmint and cigarettes, a vice that Martin would never wear yet enjoys the taste of.

He swallows Daniel’s drug as he swallows him.

He feels himself gasping for air as his skin burns from touch and, if he had hair it would be tight in Agger’s grip, his face against the softness of patterned wallpaper.

Primitive, primal, there is no face to face.

Wrath has no eyes; no smile.

Lust?

Lust has both.

As Agger exposes his chest; tears him down, as he renders him naked as a child with only those ink sleeves to keep him warm, Skrtl returns the favour.

He reads the back of Daniel as if he were a novel in a bookshop; wonders if the content is the same as these dark, morbid words.

“I’ll show you…”

I’ll show you who’s better…

…they are both as bad as each other…

(*)

Even now, after the act, the tension in the room is palpable, like a physical presence sharpened to a knife-point. For a brief moment everything is still, muscles taut on the edge of a word as Daniel slowly turns his head towards Martin, a smile of triumph curled his lips.

“Who do you think you are?” he pants, full circle.

Sweat drips from his forehead into wide, sated eyes. He stares at Martin, the predator, the spider to the fly in its web.

The fly looks back, happy to be caught.

It doesn’t struggle.

It never will.

It’s still hard. Hard, from the memory of strong hands on his cock and a sharp-lizard tongue on his thighs.

His back burns.

He tastes blood.

Daniel’s nails are talons…and, his teeth?

His teeth are fury carved from ivory.

Who does he think he is?

“Whoever you fucking want me to be.”

Daniel smiles, wrath abated, yet lingering.

Always lingering.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-02-04T09:18:00

2008-02-04T09:06:17Z

TItle - Pride
Pairing - Fernando Torres/Steven Gerrard (in a round about way)
Rating - R
Disclaimer - Not true
Summary - Part 3/7, yes.

The first thing they warned me about was the captain.

Tall, bold, arrogant, sensational, they told me that Steven Gerrard was the one in charge, Jamie Carragher his second in command and that the rest of the team were nothing better than foot-soldiers, bowing to his every request with an invisible salute and a "Sir, yes, sir!"

Why would I believe that?

I thought them foolish, building me up to a fall before I even arrived on British soil - the joke's on you, Torres, you gullible, naive idiot! He’s no monster. He’s no different to you. I’ll admit, I didn’t know what to expect – but I didn’t expect this.

They told me it was different in England than it was in Spain; that the Captain's role is far greater and deeper than my own was when I pulled on that red and white shirt, when I commanded the will and the desire of my team-mates out on that great, green pitch. I'd have to fall in line, they said, stripped of my badges and that arm-band that gave me such power; power I would never abuse, could not abuse.

They told me to expect the unexpected - and, here it is.

Here it is, in all its brazen un-glory, a disgrace to the profession, an abuse of power that only I, as a captain before, can see. Oh, but they melt at his feet, and he laps them up. All of them. I watch them look into his eyes and fold, like dominoes, all toppling over to please him. I see them fall in line, like good little boys wavering on the edge of adulthood yet still children.

Still children…

I see them laugh at his every joke and cater his every whim, each one desperate for that little shred of recognition that means their Captain is proud of them.

They claw for it, really they do, and anything he offers them only scratches at the surface, for them.

I see him take them, one by one, plucking them when they're ripe, perhaps, from the apple-tree of worshippers that all-but grows at the bottom of his garden. It's sour; sour, the way Lucas, a boy barely into adulthood, bows his head in shame, when the Captain calls him on a stray pass, how Kuyt's eyes light up when he's told that he did well, out there, knowing full well that he did not. The Captain gives him false hope as a way of sweetening him, and it's wrong. It's wrong, to do that, wrong to criticise one when you praise the other if that criticism is unwarranted, that praise undeserved.

I pat Lucas on the back and tell him “Well done,” and Gerrard glares at me as if I’ve stepped on his territory. My words, though, mean nothing to the young man with hair longer than my own and a face that reflects such sorrow after a 6 rated game that he believes has done nothing for his reputation.

I cannot comfort him; it’s not my job.

It isn’t Gerrard’s either, by the looks of it.

I see the way they clamour over themselves, hoping to achieve and acquire a kind word or a compliment that means so much to them, and I ask myself, are these men? Are these men that stand before me, following this playboy around from pillar to post? I wonder what spell he has them under; what invisible leash he has around their necks, what promises he has offered them, what gifts, what rewards.

Then, I see.

I see with my own eyes the unimaginable horror that this man has created within his ranks.

I see, with my own eyes, just what I have walked into - and the warnings ring, true.

Thank you.

Thank you, Garcia, for setting me straight before I even walked on Liverpool grounds.

“The way they look at him,” he told me, didn’t complete the sentence, simply shook his head and looked away.

I see the way Finnan reacts when the Captain offers him reward; a hand up, a suggestive glance towards the cloakroom where Armani coats populate, like designer ghosts hanging in darkness.

Come, those eyes say.

Come with me.

Finnan, he loses years before my eyes; reverts back to the persona of the star-struck child finally getting some special time with his hero. His eyes glow, gold.

He beams, bright as the sun.

I see him succumb and shrink, watch him melt beneath the scrutiny of Captain’s touch. I see him tilt his head to one side and, if he had hair as long as mine I believe he'd be twirling it in his fingers and playing the coy, coquettish woman with batted eyelashes and a delicate smile on his lips.

I see him led by the hand, eager, flirtatious, privileged. Then I see him thrown against a wall and kissed without love, sucking back anything the Captain sees fit to offer him.

Scraps.

He feeds them scraps, and they’re all so very hungry for him. Starving, perhaps.

I see him open and suggestible; vulnerable as the teenager he hasn't been for years as his flies are undone and his jeans pulled down around his ankles.

He's already hard; Gerrard has barely touched him, yet he's standing to attention like the good little soldier he is.

It embarrasses me.

He sinks to his knees, but this is not supplication. This is control.

This is control, and I refuse to be controlled by this.

He looks up.

He wants to shock me.

I stare, back.

"You and me soon, eh?" he says, and my blood does not run cold and my heard does not stop in my chest, and I do not feel the earth or the turf move beneath my feet. "I'll give you the full works. He was just the warm up."

This is my gift.

This is my intended reward, and Gerrard is my Man of the Match champagne.

Am I to be honoured?

He looks at me as if he expects it but I am a conquest for no man, no territory to be marked with sweat; with pearls of salt. He may be the Captain, but I do not salute him.

I am no deck of cards and I do not fold. I play my hand well, and it's a strong hand.

A full house.

I look him in the eye, yet he doesn't burn with intensity. He does not leave me dead in my tracks; does not force me to my knees with little more than a stare.

I smile at him.

I tell him "Some other time."

His eyes register confusion to my indifference, and I feed from it. That is my reward right there, the knowledge that I have established my place in this team; in Gerrard's world.

I am the one that rose above him, the one that turned him down.

I will not lay down my coat for him to walk upon; nor will I lay down my body.

I have my pride

Envy (2 out of 7)

2008-01-29T21:09:12Z

Title – Envy
Rating – NC17
Pairing – Paulo Ferreira/Alvaro Arbeloa
Disclaimer – So very not true.
Summary – Paulo looks at Alvaro, and he thinks “That could be me.”

Kind of dark. Kind of unpleasant. My sin series is going to be balanced out by my light, fluffy Virtues series where all of our poor, sinned upon boys might, just, get a bit of brightness.

Am attempting strange pairings, too. As you can see. And previous parts shall be in tag.

<3

(*)

When Paulo first sees him he thinks, “That could be me.”

That could be him out there, surfing the crowd and dancing on waves, feeling the game as if it were music to be danced to.

That could be him on that field, taking in the roar of the baying parsons all aching and jeering and desperate for success.

That could be him with the black, black hair and the willowy body, elongated and slender and smooth, smooth to touch, red to his blue, heat and passion to his coldness.

Playing, not forgotten, guarding the right like a sentinel.

That could be me.

He sits still, and silent. The bench makes his thighs cold and his hunger diminishes with every ninety minutes he misses. He hungers for it; hungers, as his beautiful other engorges himself on it.

That could be him out there, endearing and endeared, loving and loved…but it’s not.

He watches, his face reflective, green with envy.

(*)

They adopt the same position on that green coliseum, yet at this moment in time Paulo occupies the sidelines, banished, expelled, unwanted – as superfluous as his other is overused.

He is dormant. He is laden. He is clay, his face unmoving, chiselled and carved in view of beauty yet inexpressive; devoid of spark, and life. He is Pinocchio; the boy that does not live – the creature with no soul. He does not move. His face, his mouth, it does not crack to smile.

He is wax.

He is wax as Alvaro Arbeloa waxes lyrical with eyes full of Spanish charm and lighty, flighty energy, the same shade of brown-black, same shape, same wideness and roundness as Paulo’s own yet bridled with something more, some glimmer, some light, some little pinprick of energy that makes him human.

They say that Paulo is inhuman; monotone, monochrome.

They wonder if he ever smiles…

Paulo is a chasm of cold, hard barrenness whereas Alvaro is warmth, and fulfilment.

He is the soul that Ferreira can never wear.

His smile beams bright, like a thousand tiny glimmers of sunlight.

(*)

They meet in a red velvet player’s lounge with leather couches and a bar that serves nothing but fruit juice and energy drinks. They stand at the same height, the same weight, and their eyes, their eyes could be taken from the same face.

Their face holds the same beauty, and their skin holds that same tone of golden-brown, texture likes silk, not sand.

Paulo doesn’t normally mingle with the other side but today is different.

Today is special.

He approaches without caution; holds his hand out in front of him and says “I believe we’ve never met.”

Alvaro looks up, and smiles.

“No. No, I don’t suppose we have.”

Paulo smiles back, a feat in itself.

They take it from there, one heat, one cold.

They balance each other out, somehow. They talk into the night.

Paulo misses the flight home.

Nobody even notices him gone.

Nobody calls; nobody cares.

Alvaro receives a text around midnight asking, “Where the fuck are you?” from a team-mate waiting for him in a quiet little bar in the city centre.

He smiles.

He switches his phone off, but the damage has already been done.

“A man in demand,” Paulo states, nodding his head without feeling.

He wonders how that feels.

(*)

They meet again by choice, not chance, not circumstance, a planned event, written and diarised because Alvaro had been captivated by those thick, black lashes and the promise of what might come from dancing with the dark side.

They meet in the middle, 250 miles each way.

To talk.

To “get to know” each other.

Liverpool’s right back is quiet yet amiable.

Chelsea’s is silent; virtually friendless, yet somehow he chose Alvaro and that makes the Spaniard feel special; intrigued.

Ferreira turns up in a black satin shirt and a pair of Armani jeans yet somehow the name doesn’t suit him. He hides his eyes behind Armani sunglasses, a disguise, perhaps – a shroud across the deadness.

Alvaro wears no disguise, as open and exposed as if he were alone in a crowd. When he sees Paulo he lights up.

“Hey. You made it.”

“Take the back,” Paulo says, cold yet certain, “I don’t like being looked at.”

Alvaro’s smile fades in confusion as he says “Okay?”

They sit down at a table near to the rear of the bar and an Irish kid with ginger hair and an upturned nose asks Alvaro for his autograph before their drinks have even been served.

Nobody looks twice at Paulo. The Irish kid, he looks like through him as if he’s a spectre, a transparent being made of vapour or smoke.

Like he doesn’t matter…

Regardless of his protestations about having eyes upon him it makes him feel resentful.

Second-class.

It makes him feel…envious.

Alvaro sits opposite him once the moment of worship is done and dusted; smiles, enthusiastically, as he looks into orbs of black.

Armani glasses sit abandoned on the table in front.

”So, tell me,” he says, “What’s it like playing for your country? I envy you, getting to pull on your colours like that.”

Paulo’s eyes light up for just one second, not even that; a split second, perhaps.

For just a moment, he looks…alive.

“You envy me?” he asks. “Well, that’s unexpected.”

(*)

They talk.

For hours, they talk, the waxwork and the model sat on opposite sides of a table in the same way they play on opposite sides, on opposite sides of the country. Met in the middle, they’re on neutral ground, yet Paulo still feels like Alvaro has the edge over him. He succumbs, momentarily, to the soft, Spanish drawl so often highlighted by laughter; to the beautiful smile, so often sprawled across his equally beautiful face.

Sometimes, they tell him that the world might stand still if ever he raised an expression, yet Alvaro expresses freely.

It’s a beautiful thing. Paulo wonders what that’s like…

There is life in his eyes…effortless, and unsuppressed. There is happiness, therein, and it eats away at Ferreira.

It snatches his breath.

He wonders, Why not me?

Later that night when one thing leads to another, when they disappear into some low-key motel on the motorway and when they fuck, it’s impassioned and electric, a spark scratching against stone and causing a flame.

It’s spontaneous, unexpected, and Alvaro, he is spontaneous combustion once his clothes are shed. Paulo, cold, cold as stone, he feels sparks coming off that flawless skin, and it burns him. There is such reckless abandon when he moves; such effortless grace and such a beguiling persona. Their bodies are practical mirrors of each other, yet Alvaro has an inch on Paulo where it matters and his chest, it’s more expansive, less fragile.

It’s just another kick in the teeth; just another way in which the younger man succeeds in winning.

His nails, they are perfect crescents of white against tan and he’s as talented with his hands and his mouth as he is on the footballing field.

He is pleasant.

He is versatile.

He can make Paulo come without much thought, with effortless grace and poise…but he still can’t make him smile.

He still can’t crack the glass of his face; can’t shatter the barriers erected around every last bit of warmth he has.

When they’re done he takes on the guise of a self-conscious woman when he asks, “Was that okay?”

Paulo lies still for a moment before his eyes drift to the East and his voice whispers “Fine” without once changing tone.

He lies awake for hours after the act, staring in vain at the moonlight that washes over the two of them. He envies Alvaro’s ability to sleep through anything; through wind, through hail, through storms – through the rattle of a bedpost against paper-thin walls, next door.

He closes his eyes.

As he finally drifts away, he dreams about sucking the blood from that smooth, elegant throat of his.

(*)

Paulo leaves without saying goodbye, a ghost drifting off into the night leaving behind loved ones that never got a chance to say what they had to say.

Alvaro awakens feeling rejected; alone.

The bed beside him, it’s empty, and cold.

No difference there, then.

(*)

It happens again not twice but three times, a secret rendezvous, a careless, thoughtless Sleeping with the Enemy scenario because Paulo gets Alvaro off like no other and the element of risk that is always involved is more of a turn on than could possibly be described.

Alvaro follows, enthusiastically, sees Paulo as forbidden fruit, the apple he should not taste, the designer he should not wear.

Paulo sees Alvaro as a feeder; as the thing he wishes he could be and, as he fucks him he takes from him, all the while offering that which can never be.

Stability.

Love….

It’s a hopeless affair.

Damaging.

Self-destructive on both parts.

They say that rejection is the greatest aphrodisiac; that envy steals the life from even the strongest of men.

Alvaro is deceptively strong, yet even he can be shattered by it.

Every time he wakes up alone, he says it’ll be the last time.

And, every time he answers Paulo’s call the word on his lips is “Yes.”

That Arbeloa, they say.

Ever reliable.

Eager to please.

(*)

“Is this love?” he asks, one day, as the lie side by side. “Is this your idea of love, Paulo? A quick fuck, and a disappearing act? Because, I don’t love easily.”

“And, I don’t love at all. We can stop, if you’d like.”

Quiet, for just a second.

Silence, for just a minute.

“No…”

(*)

It goes on, and on, a vicious circle in which nothing changes.

Alvaro, he still smiles, only now his smile is distracted and Paulo, he’s still jealous but his jealousy is tempered by superiority.

Alvaro hopes tonight might be different, that if he digs deep enough he might just find warmth, a heart that beats from flesh, not stone.

If he pushes hard he might find a soul in the chasm, a little corner of heat in this body, as cold as a snowdrift.

If he scratches harder, he might draw blood, a sign of life from this otherwise dead young man, might burn, might simmer, might, just, find love.

Paulo thinks that Alvaro has it all, but the one thing he wants is irredeemably busy from his life.

The one thing he needs…

Alvaro digs his nails in deep to shoulder-blades that don’t flinch from the touch and Paul goes harder. Heat comes from the friction of body against body.
Skin burns as it sticks and drags apart through the motion of heartless, loveless sex.

“What's so special about you, to me?” Paulo asks in monotone, and Alvaro, in a breathless choke, answers “I don’t know…”

What is it he sees but himself?

Is this vanity?

Is this self pride?

Take me, Alvaro whispers, take all of me, and Paulo, envious, jealous, green-eyed, dormant Paulo, he scrapes that little bit more from him.

He’d steal the sun if it would make him brighter.

He’d steal the breath from Alvaro’s lungs because it might, just, be fresher than his own.

“Take me.”

“I want you.”

“Then, have me.”

“I want what you have.”

“Anything…”

Alvaro would give him anything just to feel something in return.

He would give him his soul…

“I don’t love easily,” he once said.

“And, I don’t love at all.”

The hope had been to prove those words as premature.

The need had been…

…yes.

Paulo positions himself once more on top, beauty from ice, ice coldness.
Underneath him, beneath him, Alvaro wishes he’d melt.

He never does.

He wants more.

Always.

When they finish, when that white-heat passes between them it’s Paulo that ends with a smile.

As he pulls out, stands up, Alvaro is left staring at the ceiling.

Blank.

Empty.

“You’re leaving now?” he asks, his voice empty in place of the smoothness it used to display.

“I have a plane to catch,” Paulo replies as he discards a used condom onto the bedside table.

The room is left in tatters; cracked glass where their bodies slammed against a wall; smashed an ornamental mirror, sheets and clothes scattered all around.

There’s blood on the carpet and God only knows how it got there.

He doesn’t envy Alvaro, having to clean it up.

(*)

Little by little he steals from him.

He takes.

He sucks the life from the addict, and he fills his body with liquid and juice that makes his symptoms worse.

He offers him morsels of hope as he tells him “Maybe I could love you,” and when Alvaro’s face expresses in return, he steals that, too.

He’d steal the stars from the sky, if only to make himself glimmer.

(*)

The team, they notice a decline in Alvaro’s physical appearance, a paleness that never befit him, a drawn look, pale as paper with eyes ringed with exhaustion; haunted and thoughtful, deep and morose.

They ask, “is anything wrong?” and he stares at them, lifeless, like wax, and says “Nothing at all.”

Like wax, as Paulo waxes lyrical, as his face begins to crack, as it loosens into a smile.

He is sated.

He is energised.

When they ask him, “is something wrong?” the smile becomes a grin.

“Everything’s perfect.”

Sparked.

Electrical.

Alien, on his usually vacant face.

He even signs an autograph, outside of training for a kid who asks where he’s been; when he’s coming back.

“Soon,” he says. “Very soon…”

(*)

Alvaro lies face down, clawing at his sheets for some purchase, wanting, needing, desperate for more, yet there is no rehab for this, no cold turkey – there is no methadone for an addiction this strong.

Paulo was envy and Alvaro becomes greed.

Give me more.

Take more from me.

Swallow me, whole, like the glutton I know that you are…

Feel something.

Give me something back.

Paulo pulls back and smiles a smile that does not belong to him, and his face, it shines with ethereality that isn’t his.

“I’ve taken all I can from you,” comes the honest, brutal response. “You’ve given me everything.”

The smile, it becomes a laugh. An alien sound.

He kisses Alvaro’s lips softly and says “I could’ve loved you…”

He offers one last hit.

Alvaro takes it dead-eyed and willingly, and there is no envy left.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-01-28T21:22:00

2008-01-28T21:23:35Z

Title - Lust (1 of 7)
Pairing – Sami Hyypia/Fabio Aurelio (the dark and the light)
Rating – NC17
Disclaimer – Not true
Summary – Sometimes, it’s better to say what you want.
Comments - Loved

Part 1 of 7. Bet you can’t guess what the theme is!!!

(*)

“What do you want?”

There is a predator leaning against a tree. It doesn’t yawn. It doesn’t look away. It doesn’t stalk or circle its prey but it bides its time, lazy and contented, pleased, indeed, to keep momentum in this long, a drawn-out chase of which there can be only one victor.

The prey frowns, confused. It isn’t used to being asked what it wants; what it needs and desires.

It asks, “What do I want?”

The predator blows smoke into the air, the dead ghost of tobacco from thin-drawn lips on a face that doesn’t smile. The smoke fleets upwards and the prey coughs; chokes on the poisonous air that seeps into its lungs. This is no burning incense but it is incensed.

“Yes,” the predator says. “What do you want? It’s a simple question; a concept even you’d understand.”

The predator, it dominates in tone and the prey, it sinks back, subjagated; humiliated.

Sami looks up at his wanton plaything suspended above him in a tender facsimile of crucifixion. It hangs like a fly in a web with its lips parted and its moon-white teeth showing through. Its arms are strained outward with its palms outfacing; with its legs spread wide.

It shows its lifeline to the dormant sky, and Sami reads its palm as his own.

Fabio is hot, but he is shivering. His body quakes and trembles.

It’s anticipation, perhaps; the promise of things to come.

He answers: “I-I don’t..I mean, I want...”

“You don’t know?”

Sami brought him here on a whim, an outing in the night, a quick dance under a moonlit sky. He stripped him naked, to skin, to bone; drew a pentagram on his bare chest with the tip of his tongue. He signed his name before God; his signature in gap-toothed distinction and distemper on the inside of Fabio’s thigh and he didn’t cry out when his skin split but moaned in pleasure; in lust.

“I want you,” he’d said, then, as his muscle burned and his skin tingled, and here, now, now he wants it all.

He wants it all, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

(*)

They are Druids in an open field yet they walk the fine line as Pagans, as the fire burns brightly to the side of them. It makes Finnish-pale Sami’s eyes glow, amber-red, devilish, and sinful.

Fabio is suffused in moonlight – Brazilian gold, angelic, pious. He is devoid of all sound, now, but that of his laboured breathing. He sways between two trees, bound at the wrist, at the ankle, a perfect X shape against a backdrop of black.

His frail-strong body strains at every curve, every angle, every strip of sinewy flesh. It invites without saying a word and, abandoning his sentry-post by the tree, Sami makes his strides to touch the offering.

He runs his fingers across each and every one of its defining features.

Every curve.

Every angle.

He bites that every strip of sinewy flesh until the shallow breathing becomes hitched, and urgent; until that carved marble appendage between sculpted legs, that labour of sleek, soft skin becomes hard; harder…

…until it pulses between his long, long fingers…until it glistens with dew, with diamonds and pearls.

“What do you want me to do for you, Fabio? What do you want me to do to you?”

The plaything tries to speak. It tries to respond, but can’t, numb, dumb, anxious and over-stimulated. Its cheekbones are tempered the colour of a sunset sky not from humiliation but from lust.

It loses language.

It forgets.

“I-I don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

There are lips on his ear; sweet breath on his face and a hand between his legs that presses so hard, so deep.

He loses words.

He loses sense.

“You don’t…what, Fabio? You don’t know?”

He tries once more as the hot, moist air brush-strokes across his bare-naked chest. The breeze tries in vain to cool him but he is aflame, a raging inferno of want and need cascading through his veins leaving him fraught, and close to tears.

He is aching-hard.

He is desperate.

If he could, he would sink to his knees.

If he could…

“I-I want…ah…”

The hand quicken pace and he wants this.

"What do you want?"

He wants to be taken; strung up like the offering that he always is, his body that of a lamb waiting to be given up to God, his lips an invitation. His neck, the pulse of carotoid, gush of heat beneath the thin skin, it’s begging to be pierced by the lion’s sharp teeth.

He is soft and vulnerable.

Hard and aching.

He cannot express himself through words but his eyes, his eyes speak, at length; express at will.

It’s a shame they’re closed.

“Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Sami’s eyes are cut glass. They sear. They cut through Fabio’s spirit leaving it bleeding and damaged.

“Tell me what you fucking want.”

He puts out his cigarette on a budding ivy leaf that dances up the tree bark; kills it where it dances, leaves it withering and pathetic.

Fabio shudders; feels its pain.

He imagines that burning hot stick burrowing its way into his own flesh, singeing it, scarring him for life; a brand, a mark of ownership.

He imagines a collar around his neck; a tag that bears Sami’s name.

That’s what he wants.

That’s what he wants, though he’d never say it aloud.

He doesn’t say anything aloud.

Sami smiles, his face just inches away.

The picture of deprivation.

Of rejection.

“You don’t know what you want,” he says, as his touch ceases to be, as he steps away, as he deprives, as he abandons.

He looks down at Fabio’s erection. That, too, it withers, and dies, it drops, like the leaves of that newly deceased ivy sprig sent to its grave on this hot, dark night.

Lust dies.

It's not what he wants.

Fabio’s face burns bright.

Brighter than a blood-red moon as he whispers “Please, Sami…”

(*)

ivorylasenza @ 2008-01-24T10:32:00

2008-01-24T10:21:33Z

It just occurred to me.

Havant and Waterlooville are living in dream land with relation to Saturdays game. This is their cup final. This is their special day. This is what the part time boys have daydreamed about probably since they started playing non league football.

Are we going to ruin that for them by once again making it a spectacle of vitriol instead of supporting our team?

*sighs* We can’t do that to them.

We just…can’t.

Vent your spleens before and after. Let them have their moment.

ivorylasenza @ 2008-01-12T23:45:00

2008-01-12T23:46:28Z

Fic – Shepherd’s Delight
Pairing – Steve Finnan/Alvaro Arbeloa
Rating – NC17
Disclaimer – Not true
Summary – The sky can be many colours, over the course of a relationship. And I write this only because this gang of bastards make me want to cry, right now, and I wanted to think of something nice.
Because, Alvaro says he and ‘Finn’ are great mates and he loves him, etc.

(*)

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight…

There are no handshakes; no formal introductions.

The first time Alvaro meets Steve, the sky is grey, like a painted wall, like cement, drying on a building site - pasty grey, devoid of life and colour, and when the sun tries to beat through the thick layer of clouds it lights the whole greyness a pallid shade of white.

It’s cold. Unforgiving.

Harsh.

It’s harsh, like the nerves of being new, like the First Day, the butterflies that burrow in the stomach and lay their eggs there only to hatch and flutter and nauseate as the desire to impress attacks, full throttle.

It’s harsh, like the rule of No English that he simply cannot adhere to, like the mishmash of sounds that reverberate around him yet fail to execute themselves in his consciousness.

Harsh…like the tackle that Steve Finnan puts in on him, first off, an introduction, a “Hello,” perhaps, a ‘Welcome to England.”

The laughter clouds around his new-found team mates when he finds himself covered in deep-brown mud that washes itself clean and wet in the rain.

He looks up.

He smiles, through gritted teeth, and the brightness of that dull-white sky blinds him even more than the embarrassment does.

He tells Steve “Gracias” as the rain lands in his eyes, leaves him blinking, and confused as Steve rejoins his team, adorned in yellow bibs that look like shrouds; that glow in the dark, torches in the shadows.

He feels the ominent atmosphere bearing down on him, already…

“Finnan’s a tough-nut” he’s told, “don’t let the pretty face tell you any differently.”

‘The Pretty Face’ flushes, red, just like his own, and is Celtic and English at once. Perhaps it’s a warning, like a red sky in morning-time that throws caution to the elderly farmer when his flock of sheep are itching and flaking to roam free on the stormy moors.

Perhaps it’s Steve’s way of showing that there’s still life in the old goat, yet – that he won’t give up his place without a fight.

Perhaps it’s just a warm English welcome that will leave him as ashen as the sky is. Either way, it leaves him itching, and aching to retaliate – to turn the grey of his mood into something brighter, something more passionate here on the training fields.

(*)

Tough nuts are not impossible to crack. It’s a philosophy that has brought him through the ranks of Real Madrid, here, to the new ranks of Northern England, where the weather oppresses more than the fans do.

This is his chance to shine.

This is his opportunity to rewind, and erase, to take back his first performance and to turn it into something worth talking about.

Finnan warned him…

Alvaro warns back, slides in, thick and fast, and bruises his shin in the process.

He wins the ball.

He smiles, self-satisfied, the new kid that did something right.

Finnan smiles back at him and says “nice touch.”

The words mean nothing, just sounds to Alvaro’s ears, but the smile says a lot without saying anything whatsoever.

There is warmth, finally, warmth in the coldness.

That’s when the sun peeps through the clouds; insulates them all, just a little. When the same clouds part, ever so slightly, that blueness of the sky is reflected in the other man’s eyes.

A dialogue is opened without using words.

Finnan’s cheekbones cut through the language barrier, swift, quick-smart.

He holds out his hand, ripe for shaking.

Alvaro swears he sees a rainbow forming and wonders if Steve is the leprechaun that dances at its feet.

(*)

The first time they play together the sky is pink and yellow at once, a thunderstorm in the making, a deep, thick weather anomaly that clears the air of any impurity; of intolerance, of argument.

Nature has her ways of dealing with stress.

She builds up pressure.

She gathers tension.

When the thunder roars and the lightning strikes it’s always followed by an unearthly calm that washes over the atmosphere because the tension is spent and the anger has been screamed and blinded away.

As Alvaro channels the left side, Steve deals with the right.

His position. His possession that he doesn’t wish to give up.

They go against the storm that is Barcelona, and they weather it well. There are no crashes, no flashes, nor are there any battering rains or winds that pummel them into the ground.

The final whistle blows without so much as a peep. Alvaro steals Steve’s thunder with a performance that goes against all that should be; contains the raging Messi Monsoon and writes himself into the paper-prints.

Steve holds his hand out, once more, a bolt of lightning that hits Alvaro deep in the chest.

He smiles, as bright as the floodlights that burn into the dark sheet of the night.

He offers his congratulations.

(*)

The first time Finnan makes him smile it’s snowing, and the whole world seems blank, and untouched.

They sky is white, once more, yet the air is not so cold. There is frozen rain blanketing the ground, yet the temperature is surprisingly mild.

They train outside; roll up and down Pako Hill like children and their feet brutalise the cover of snow with neither thought nor care, crisping, crunching, sliding, slushing.

There’s something so primarily childlike about playing in the snow and they lose years of their lives as they kick an orange ball around a place that was once green yet lost colour, overnight, became white, against their dark tracksuits, a monochrome backdrop; a living black and white painting.

Their chilled breathing moves in time with one another, peopling Melwood with spirits of breath that are born from the mouth yet die once more when they escape to freedom.

There is no freedom in war.

The players, they roll little balls of whiteness in their hands, lining up their ammunition as they might line themselves up for a defensive move, or a free kick.

Finnan readies.

Aims.

Fires in Alvaro’s direction and hits him, dead in the face before rushing on over to assess the damage his targeted aim has made.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as black gloved hands remove the debris from a pink, chapped face. “It’s a rarity that I actually hit the target, long range.”

Such is the truth.

Alvaro smiles, as Xabi translates the words into a language he can better understand, including the words ‘reckless cunt’ and ‘poor shooter’ in for good measure.

“It was just an instinctive shot.”

As Finnan tenderly adjusts the woollen hat on his head Alvaro’s smile fades.

So does Finnan’s.

Perhaps that’s instinctive, too, so as not to make a joke of where they’re going, whether they want to or not.

(*)

The first time they kiss, the sky is yellow, the sun setting over an August afternoon; sunshine yellow, like daffodils and buttercups – like pale gold, glistening in the softness of light. There is warmth in the kiss, an exchange of heat between full lips and, as Alvaro closes his eyes he cannot see yellow at all.

Behind Finnan’s eyes the moment sparks off colours galore; yellow to orange to green to blue to pink and then, to red.

He wasn’t expecting this on this, their last day of pre-season, he wasn’t expecting to start off on a tender footing.

As Alvaro said goodbye after this, their final training session before it all starts up again, Finnan had felt the need to do something…instinctive.

The first time they kiss, it comes from nowhere, a summer’s day in the middle of winter, a bright blue sky that’s born from the parting of the clouds, or an unexpected, soothing April shower.

He feels the blood rushing to his head, and to his eyes, the heat painting his cheeks pink as they burn, burn deep not with embarrassment but with the flush of something new.

Finnan opens sea-blue eyes and he swears he can see the sunshine in Alvaro’s smile.

It’s a long time since he saw anything of the sort.

It’s a long time since he felt it, too.

(*)

The first time they make love, the sky turns from blue to black, a gigantic cosmic bruise that doesn’t hurt but presses hard, and deep, vast and omnipresent.

The blackness, it suffocates, and the stars burn their eyes, yet the moonlight, in all her beauty, illuminates the moment without the need for spotlights that only enhance the fact that this rookie performance does not yet belong on the stage.

Steve’s touch is electric, like lightning, like sparks that illuminate the sky.

Alvaro’s reciprocation is the beginnings of a flame, that light, bright orange that dances into life when a match touches a candlewick.

Steve is the passion…yet Alvaro is the warmth.

Together, they are an amalgamation of all things, a combustible entity that could light the world, given half the chance.

When they fuck it’s earth, wind, rain and fire all at once, an elemental impossibility that just happens to work.

“I’ve been wanting to do that,” Steve whispers, ‘since the first time I tackled you in training.”

Perhaps that was the start of all of this; tense, terse exchanges, born on a rainy day.

Perhaps they made the earth move for each other.

Perhaps they rained down sulphur.

Perhaps they painted the sky red…

(*)

Alvaro lies, contented, as the early morning sun rises once more behind a wall of cumulonimbus. Steve lies beside him, dreaming away, lazing contentedly in the land of REM.

The Spaniard drifts.

Drifts, like the clouds.

The sky is, indeed, red this morning, red, like their skin, puckered and impassioned in the afterglow of love, heated and nurtured and full-blooded and fervent.

There are no shepherd’s warnings here; now.

They would go unheeded, regardless.

END

ivorylasenza @ 2008-01-06T17:59:00

2008-01-06T18:00:45Z

God.

I don't really have anything to say about that, really.

How poor are we? And the worst player on the pitch?

The Fangirls Favourite.

Finnan? Appalling.

Oh, and Riise?

Do fuck off!

ps shall reply to stuff when my brain is not melting, buttercupaisley and liversan

ETA how many forum threads blaming "the bloody Americans."

Grow up.

What has that poor, lazy, ridiculous display got to do with them? Tis not their job to motivate the players, nor is it their job to tell them how to play.

ETA again - 99% certain that Momo is leaving. Apparently from The Man Himself. Am sure he would not lie about such things.

God Bless you, Momo. I always hoped you'd come good. Such a shame you never could get yourself back to what you once was.

<3