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flywomanTitle: no is the saddest experience
Characters: Cristiano Ronaldo/Lionel Messi
Rating: M
Word Count: ~1800
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: Lionel Messi visits Cristiano Ronaldo after Portugal fail to make it out of the group stage at World Cup 2014. A sort of sequel to one is the loneliest number.
It's over. He can hardly believe it. Nothing he'd done had been enough to rescue his team after their humiliation at the hands of Germany - not the perfect assist in the last fifteen seconds against the U.S., not the goal he'd gotten against Ghana that will make him Man of the Match. Too little, too late. Once again he will be leaving the World Cup early, heartsore and empty-handed.
Feeling numb and hollow, Cristiano Ronaldo goes through the motions of congratulating his African opponents, of consoling his exhausted teammates. There are no tears from him tonight despite his despondency. Although his eyes stay dry, everything passes by in a blur. How many 33-year-old strikers score in the World Cup? He knows that this might well have been his last big chance.
Back in his hotel room, he strips off his fresh shirt, already sticky with humidity, and takes another cool shower, closing his eyes as he lets the spray hit him full in the face. He doesn't get out until he's started shivering, and then he towels himself off as quickly as his tired muscles can manage and pulls on his pajamas.
He's sprawling barefoot on the bed, about to open a bottle of water, when he hears the soft scrape of fingernails at the front door.
Cris knows better, of course he does after nearly a decade of fame, but just now he's beyond caring, thinks that he might even enjoy giving hell to some poor schmuck for daring to invade his privacy, and so he doesn't bother peering through the peephole before unlatching and yanking open the door.
Somehow he isn't even a little bit surprised to see that Lionel Messi is standing in his hallway, right arm still raised.
Cris shivers again, feeling his skin crawl with a sudden sensation of deja vu.
The four years since the first time have aged Leo, almost a stranger now with his close-cropped hair, his incipient wrinkles, the ugly tattoo clasping the back of his bare calf. His t-shirt is plain but clean and actually fits him, clinging to the slight slopes of his pecs, the flat plane of his stomach, before it disappears beneath his shorts. But his maturity is even more evidenced by the confident way he plants his feet and by the steady gaze that he has trained on Cris, determination in his close-set brown eyes.
Cris opens his mouth to say, Beat it, asshole or Some nerve you've got, after the last time, or possibly even, What the fucking fuck? but what actually comes out is "Oof!" as Leo takes advantage of his hesitation to dart inside the doorway and launch himself against Cris' body, crushing that cute cleft chin against his sternum. His arms lock around Cris' waist and squeeze so tightly that the unshed tears finally force their away out and over his cheeks, not because Leo's hurting him but because his emotional barriers have just been shattered. He's absolutely mortified to hear a strangled sob escape his lips.
Without looking, Leo lifts his leg and gently kicks the door closed. The arms encircling Cris' hips as he shakes are solid and surprisingly strong. He continues to cry helplessly, covering his face with one hand and resting the other arm across Leo's shoulders.
They stand like that for a long while, Leo gradually relaxing his death grip, allowing his hands to stroke the small of Cris' back.
And then, before Cris quite realizes what's happening, they've slipped down further, under the waistband of his white silk pajamas, and are cupping his glutes, pulling him forward against the warmth of Leo's stomach.
Cris squirms, feeling an answering warmth of his own, and tries to push Leo away, but the shorter man is as impossible to budge on his living room floor as he is on the football field. He's grinding their bodies together, gently but firmly, with a slow sweetness that makes Cris' breath catch and his balls ache.
He should end this right now, he should kick the little motherfucker out the door, but his tears are still wet on his cheeks, his chest feels loose and free for the first time in what seems like days, and Leo's nimble fingers are doing something absolutely amazing to his ass. He can't help letting out a low groan as the head of his hardening cock rubs against Leo's rucked t-shirt, and at that moment the other man looks up at him, and he knows he's lost.
He doesn't even protest as Leo lowers himself to his knees, pulling Cris' pajama pants and underwear down with him. He fixes his eyes on Cris' bobbing cock for a few seconds, the expression on his face unreadable, before he wraps one hand around it and closes his lips around the head, his other hand grabbing the back of Cris' thigh for balance. Cris gasps as Leo's tongue swirls and laps, his warm hand sliding up his length, his beaky nose huffing cool breaths against the sensitive skin at the root. He finds himself threading his fingers through Leo's fine brown hair and tugging gently, guiding his rhythm.
It's an embarrassingly short amount of time before he's shuddering between Leo's lips, the tension in his core reaching a crescendo and then, just as suddenly, draining away.
When his vision clears, Cris is down on the carpet leaning against Leo, who's wiping his glistening lips on the sleeve of his t-shirt. He blinks and scoots backward, fetching up against the side of the sofa, and Leo follows him and snuggles companionably against his side. Cris can see the telltale bulge at the crotch of the other man's shorts even in the low light, but Leo makes no move to request reciprocation. It's just as well since Cris is in no mood to exert himself; his limbs are heavy, his heart still hammering in his chest.
"You've been practicing since the last time," Cris observes at last with a quirk of his lips, partly because it's clear that Leo has, partly because his curiosity is piqued.
Leo doesn't answer, but the flush that floods up his pale neck to his ears gives the game away.
"Someone from Barcelona?" Cris asks, as nonchalantly as he can.
"No," Leo says, too quickly. Cris raises an eyebrow at him, and he blushes harder, obviously embarrassed to be caught out, and then amends, "At least... not anymore."
Now that IS interesting, but Leo has clamped his lips together with the stubborn set to his jaw that Cris knows so well from his run-ups to free kicks, so he drops the subject for now. Perhaps he'll be able to pump one of his Spanish teammates with secondhand ties to Barcelona later. Or possibly Pipita.
"Why'd you stop by?" he asks instead, but Leo only shrugs. Cris wants to push it, wants to demand to know why Leo never returned his calls, and why it took him four fucking years to get around to this... whatever this was, after the first time, but he isn't a goddamned teenage girl, so he doesn't. Instead, he sighs and leans his head against the plush of the armrest and closes his eyes.
After a few seconds he feels the rough skin of Leo's fingertip gently stroking his still-damp cheek. Fucking fantastic.
"Some people said you were faking it," Leo says suddenly, as if out of nowhere.
"Faking what?" Cris asks without opening his eyes. "If you mean what happened just now, don't think you deserve all the credit, but yes it was real."
Leo laughs, a short bark of surprise. "No," he says, "I meant at the awards. The Balón de Oro." As Cris straightens in indignation and opens his mouth to protest, Leo quickly brings his stubby finger to his lips to still them. "But I didn't believe that."
Cris turns to regard him for a few seconds; Leo's eyes are earnestly wide, and he's gnawing his lower lip now as if worried that he's overstepped. "How would you know," Cris says at last, but his words are weary, not biting.
When Leo speaks again, his voice is so low that Cris can barely make them out. "You think I don't know anything about crying?"
"I think," Cris says, keeping his tone as level as he can, "that you have no fucking idea how it feels to get something like that after wanting it so badly for so long."
Now Leo pulls away from him and looks down between his knees; Cris is dimly aware that the bulge has deflated. "I hope that soon I'll get to find out."
To his considerable surprise, Cris finds himself saying, "I hope you do too." As Leo cocks his head inquiringly, he adds, trying to pass it off as a joke, "Now that Portugal is out of the running, I mean."
Leo gives him a smile; it's small, but it reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "Obviously."
"It will be interesting if Argentina wins," Cris continues, thinking out loud, already looking ahead to this year's ceremonies. "Considering that we got La Décima and the Copa del Rey while Barcelona didn't take home any titles. Getting Portugal to the semis probably would have clinched it."
"Is that why you played with this?" and Leo places his hand on Cris' traitorous knee and squeezes it so that the heat rises to his face and pools once again in his groin.
"Says the man who pukes on the pitch before practically every match," Cris counters without thinking, and Leo frowns and withdraws his hand.
"Not that often," he mumbles, his Argentinian accent suddenly even thicker than usual. "It's nothing. I've had a million tests." Abruptly he rocks forward onto his knees and pushes himself to his feet.
"Leaving already?" Cris asks, even though he knows the answer.
"It's getting late," Leo says, ending on an unfeigned yawn.
"Sure you don't want me to..." and Cris makes a suggestive little gesture with his hand that sets Leo to shaking his head and smiling.
"That's all right." And then, more mischievously than Cris would have expected, "I'd rather you owed me one."
"Okay," Cris agrees, gifting Leo with his most dazzling grin without getting up off the floor. "Call it a rain check. When the World Cup is over, maybe stop by Madeira for a while. You'd like it there."
"That depends," Leo answers honestly, "on how it ends for us." His hand is already on the doorknob, his shoulders hunched as if he's bracing himself for impact.
"But that's not a no," Cris presses him, and Leo pauses and turns his head, giving him a last slow, shy smile that twists something deep in his stomach.
"It's not a no," he agrees, and then he's gone.
Characters: Cristiano Ronaldo/Lionel Messi
Rating: M
Word Count: ~1800
Disclaimer: While inspired by real persons and events, this is a work of fiction.
Summary: Lionel Messi visits Cristiano Ronaldo after Portugal fail to make it out of the group stage at World Cup 2014. A sort of sequel to one is the loneliest number.
It's over. He can hardly believe it. Nothing he'd done had been enough to rescue his team after their humiliation at the hands of Germany - not the perfect assist in the last fifteen seconds against the U.S., not the goal he'd gotten against Ghana that will make him Man of the Match. Too little, too late. Once again he will be leaving the World Cup early, heartsore and empty-handed.
Feeling numb and hollow, Cristiano Ronaldo goes through the motions of congratulating his African opponents, of consoling his exhausted teammates. There are no tears from him tonight despite his despondency. Although his eyes stay dry, everything passes by in a blur. How many 33-year-old strikers score in the World Cup? He knows that this might well have been his last big chance.
Back in his hotel room, he strips off his fresh shirt, already sticky with humidity, and takes another cool shower, closing his eyes as he lets the spray hit him full in the face. He doesn't get out until he's started shivering, and then he towels himself off as quickly as his tired muscles can manage and pulls on his pajamas.
He's sprawling barefoot on the bed, about to open a bottle of water, when he hears the soft scrape of fingernails at the front door.
Cris knows better, of course he does after nearly a decade of fame, but just now he's beyond caring, thinks that he might even enjoy giving hell to some poor schmuck for daring to invade his privacy, and so he doesn't bother peering through the peephole before unlatching and yanking open the door.
Somehow he isn't even a little bit surprised to see that Lionel Messi is standing in his hallway, right arm still raised.
Cris shivers again, feeling his skin crawl with a sudden sensation of deja vu.
The four years since the first time have aged Leo, almost a stranger now with his close-cropped hair, his incipient wrinkles, the ugly tattoo clasping the back of his bare calf. His t-shirt is plain but clean and actually fits him, clinging to the slight slopes of his pecs, the flat plane of his stomach, before it disappears beneath his shorts. But his maturity is even more evidenced by the confident way he plants his feet and by the steady gaze that he has trained on Cris, determination in his close-set brown eyes.
Cris opens his mouth to say, Beat it, asshole or Some nerve you've got, after the last time, or possibly even, What the fucking fuck? but what actually comes out is "Oof!" as Leo takes advantage of his hesitation to dart inside the doorway and launch himself against Cris' body, crushing that cute cleft chin against his sternum. His arms lock around Cris' waist and squeeze so tightly that the unshed tears finally force their away out and over his cheeks, not because Leo's hurting him but because his emotional barriers have just been shattered. He's absolutely mortified to hear a strangled sob escape his lips.
Without looking, Leo lifts his leg and gently kicks the door closed. The arms encircling Cris' hips as he shakes are solid and surprisingly strong. He continues to cry helplessly, covering his face with one hand and resting the other arm across Leo's shoulders.
They stand like that for a long while, Leo gradually relaxing his death grip, allowing his hands to stroke the small of Cris' back.
And then, before Cris quite realizes what's happening, they've slipped down further, under the waistband of his white silk pajamas, and are cupping his glutes, pulling him forward against the warmth of Leo's stomach.
Cris squirms, feeling an answering warmth of his own, and tries to push Leo away, but the shorter man is as impossible to budge on his living room floor as he is on the football field. He's grinding their bodies together, gently but firmly, with a slow sweetness that makes Cris' breath catch and his balls ache.
He should end this right now, he should kick the little motherfucker out the door, but his tears are still wet on his cheeks, his chest feels loose and free for the first time in what seems like days, and Leo's nimble fingers are doing something absolutely amazing to his ass. He can't help letting out a low groan as the head of his hardening cock rubs against Leo's rucked t-shirt, and at that moment the other man looks up at him, and he knows he's lost.
He doesn't even protest as Leo lowers himself to his knees, pulling Cris' pajama pants and underwear down with him. He fixes his eyes on Cris' bobbing cock for a few seconds, the expression on his face unreadable, before he wraps one hand around it and closes his lips around the head, his other hand grabbing the back of Cris' thigh for balance. Cris gasps as Leo's tongue swirls and laps, his warm hand sliding up his length, his beaky nose huffing cool breaths against the sensitive skin at the root. He finds himself threading his fingers through Leo's fine brown hair and tugging gently, guiding his rhythm.
It's an embarrassingly short amount of time before he's shuddering between Leo's lips, the tension in his core reaching a crescendo and then, just as suddenly, draining away.
When his vision clears, Cris is down on the carpet leaning against Leo, who's wiping his glistening lips on the sleeve of his t-shirt. He blinks and scoots backward, fetching up against the side of the sofa, and Leo follows him and snuggles companionably against his side. Cris can see the telltale bulge at the crotch of the other man's shorts even in the low light, but Leo makes no move to request reciprocation. It's just as well since Cris is in no mood to exert himself; his limbs are heavy, his heart still hammering in his chest.
"You've been practicing since the last time," Cris observes at last with a quirk of his lips, partly because it's clear that Leo has, partly because his curiosity is piqued.
Leo doesn't answer, but the flush that floods up his pale neck to his ears gives the game away.
"Someone from Barcelona?" Cris asks, as nonchalantly as he can.
"No," Leo says, too quickly. Cris raises an eyebrow at him, and he blushes harder, obviously embarrassed to be caught out, and then amends, "At least... not anymore."
Now that IS interesting, but Leo has clamped his lips together with the stubborn set to his jaw that Cris knows so well from his run-ups to free kicks, so he drops the subject for now. Perhaps he'll be able to pump one of his Spanish teammates with secondhand ties to Barcelona later. Or possibly Pipita.
"Why'd you stop by?" he asks instead, but Leo only shrugs. Cris wants to push it, wants to demand to know why Leo never returned his calls, and why it took him four fucking years to get around to this... whatever this was, after the first time, but he isn't a goddamned teenage girl, so he doesn't. Instead, he sighs and leans his head against the plush of the armrest and closes his eyes.
After a few seconds he feels the rough skin of Leo's fingertip gently stroking his still-damp cheek. Fucking fantastic.
"Some people said you were faking it," Leo says suddenly, as if out of nowhere.
"Faking what?" Cris asks without opening his eyes. "If you mean what happened just now, don't think you deserve all the credit, but yes it was real."
Leo laughs, a short bark of surprise. "No," he says, "I meant at the awards. The Balón de Oro." As Cris straightens in indignation and opens his mouth to protest, Leo quickly brings his stubby finger to his lips to still them. "But I didn't believe that."
Cris turns to regard him for a few seconds; Leo's eyes are earnestly wide, and he's gnawing his lower lip now as if worried that he's overstepped. "How would you know," Cris says at last, but his words are weary, not biting.
When Leo speaks again, his voice is so low that Cris can barely make them out. "You think I don't know anything about crying?"
"I think," Cris says, keeping his tone as level as he can, "that you have no fucking idea how it feels to get something like that after wanting it so badly for so long."
Now Leo pulls away from him and looks down between his knees; Cris is dimly aware that the bulge has deflated. "I hope that soon I'll get to find out."
To his considerable surprise, Cris finds himself saying, "I hope you do too." As Leo cocks his head inquiringly, he adds, trying to pass it off as a joke, "Now that Portugal is out of the running, I mean."
Leo gives him a smile; it's small, but it reaches his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "Obviously."
"It will be interesting if Argentina wins," Cris continues, thinking out loud, already looking ahead to this year's ceremonies. "Considering that we got La Décima and the Copa del Rey while Barcelona didn't take home any titles. Getting Portugal to the semis probably would have clinched it."
"Is that why you played with this?" and Leo places his hand on Cris' traitorous knee and squeezes it so that the heat rises to his face and pools once again in his groin.
"Says the man who pukes on the pitch before practically every match," Cris counters without thinking, and Leo frowns and withdraws his hand.
"Not that often," he mumbles, his Argentinian accent suddenly even thicker than usual. "It's nothing. I've had a million tests." Abruptly he rocks forward onto his knees and pushes himself to his feet.
"Leaving already?" Cris asks, even though he knows the answer.
"It's getting late," Leo says, ending on an unfeigned yawn.
"Sure you don't want me to..." and Cris makes a suggestive little gesture with his hand that sets Leo to shaking his head and smiling.
"That's all right." And then, more mischievously than Cris would have expected, "I'd rather you owed me one."
"Okay," Cris agrees, gifting Leo with his most dazzling grin without getting up off the floor. "Call it a rain check. When the World Cup is over, maybe stop by Madeira for a while. You'd like it there."
"That depends," Leo answers honestly, "on how it ends for us." His hand is already on the doorknob, his shoulders hunched as if he's bracing himself for impact.
"But that's not a no," Cris presses him, and Leo pauses and turns his head, giving him a last slow, shy smile that twists something deep in his stomach.
"It's not a no," he agrees, and then he's gone.
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no subject
Date: 2014-07-10 11:37 pm (UTC)"Someone from Barcelona?" Cris asks, as nonchalantly as he can.
"No," Leo says, too quickly. Cris raises an eyebrow at him, and he blushes harder, obviously embarrassed to be caught out, and then amends, "At least... not anymore."
IT WAS DAVID, WASN'T IT.
Sorry, dude, you deserve a better comment like that, but my brain is not doing very well right now. This is great, basically. I guffawed a little at "cute cleft chin, beaky nose, stubby finger" xD You're not making Leo out to be very attractive...
no subject
Date: 2014-07-11 12:17 am (UTC)Well... guess we'll find out on Sunday ;).
IT WAS DAVID, WASN'T IT.
Heh, I deliberately left it ambiguous, but David is definitely a strong candidate! (There's a darker side of me that enjoys speculation about a little Messi/Guardiola action... and then, Cesc had already signed for Chelsea, so Baby Dream Team threesome fans can back that horse if they want to!)
Sorry, dude, you deserve a better comment like that, but my brain is not doing very well right now. This is great, basically.
Not at all, I'm delighted by your comment! It's so much more fun to put fics out there when I actually get to talk to someone about them!
I guffawed a little at "cute cleft chin, beaky nose, stubby finger" xD You're not making Leo out to be very attractive...
Hahaha, well, I figure that Cris would be quite mystified by the attraction, given that in a side-by-side comparison, Messi can't help coming up short, as it were. At least this time he managed to get a haircut and put clean clothes on before coming over ;).
no subject
Date: 2014-07-11 01:59 am (UTC)How do you feel about Cesc's transfer to Chelsea? I feel kind of bad for him; he wanted to return to Barcelona so badly, and there was so much hype - the prodigal son returning home - but he never really lived up to it, and now he's gone. (Yeah I know it was up to the reader, and all that was going through my head was MESSILLA MESSILLA MESSILLA xD I think, since David's retirement from international football, I've just been shipping him with everyone. I want him to have all the love.)
It's so much more fun to put fics out there when I actually get to talk to someone about them! - Isn't it sad what's happened to football fandom? If you posted this fic a couple of years ago, there would be so many more people commenting. I feel like most people have left the fandom. Even the World Cup isn't bringing them back.
The haircut suits him ^^ My roommmate thinks Leo looks old, and I was like girl what are you talking about, he looks like a little boy.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-11 02:47 am (UTC)Hmm... I don't know! Writing from Cris' perspective for this one and the previous story has been a novel experience and a lot of fun. But I never say never. Who knows, maybe the final will inspire me.
How do you feel about Cesc's transfer to Chelsea? I feel kind of bad for him; he wanted to return to Barcelona so badly, and there was so much hype - the prodigal son returning home - but he never really lived up to it, and now he's gone.
Ugh, such mixed feelings. You put it very well - we all thought it would be happily ever after once he returned, but the Barcelona fans never really embraced him, the second half of his seasons kind of sucked, and now it seems he would rather be in London with Daniella and Lia even if it means working under Mourinho. So sad.
(Yeah I know it was up to the reader, and all that was going through my head was MESSILLA MESSILLA MESSILLA xD I think, since David's retirement from international football, I've just been shipping him with everyone. I want him to have all the love.)
I do know what you mean! I started writing a WC 2014 sequel to my Xavi fics Never a Bride and Catch a Falling Star, and (much to my surprise) it seems to be heading towards Xavi/Villa because of the rumors that Xavi might go to the NY Red Bulls too.
Isn't it sad what's happened to football fandom? If you posted this fic a couple of years ago, there would be so many more people commenting. I feel like most people have left the fandom. Even the World Cup isn't bringing them back.
It's very, very sad. I have a history of arriving late to the party, but I've never been one of the few left standing before this. I loved how active the discussion was on LJ when I first started posting stories here, but that's over, and I haven't found a replacement posting forum. For example, this fic got lots of kudos on AO3, but no comments :(.
I've also thought about finding a new fandom, but no luck there yet.
The haircut suits him ^^ My roommmate thinks Leo looks old, and I was like girl what are you talking about, he looks like a little boy.
Hee, he does look older imo, but that's not saying much considering that four years ago he looked about 12! It can be hard for me to even imagine the man having sex. I'm all, "Little brother! Let me cuddle you!"
no subject
Date: 2014-07-11 04:59 pm (UTC)even if it means working under Mourinho - I just cannot see that. I can't.
the rumors that Xavi might go to the NY Red Bulls too - really? All I've heard of are the Qatar rumours. I can't picture Xavi leaving Barcelona; in so many ways, he embodies Barcelona, it's be like Madrid without Iker *shudder* And I totally forgot that New York had another team, haha. Wow, New York having two football teams (or "soccer", blerg, I don't like that word), imagine that. America doesn't even like football.
For example, this fic got lots of kudos on AO3, but no comments - AO3 is like that, sadly. My friend said "it's so easy to press the Kudos button but not so easy to comment", and I get that (lately I've gotten so lazy with commenting, it's like as I progressed more from "reader" to "writer" - not that you can't be both - I totally lost my ability to leave lengthier, more insightful comments), but I don't think it takes that much effort. I mean, if you like a fic, don't you want to say something about it? I definitely want the writer to know my appreciation of their work, even if I suck at expressing that these days. But I guess AO3 is still more alive than LJ for the fandom these days.
I have already moved to a new fandom a while ago, so. I spent a while wishing I could be into hockey, because there are SO MANY FICS, and it seems pretty active. But, despite it ruling my country, I'm just not very interested. I also spent a while being into tennis, but that's definitely died these past few years too.
I thought Leo looked like a puppy in the rain for...many years. It's amazing what a haircut can do. He just screams cuddles, doesn't he?
no subject
Date: 2014-07-11 09:30 pm (UTC)It seems unfortunate, given that we actually like a lot of the same players!
All I've heard of are the Qatar rumours. I can't picture Xavi leaving Barcelona; in so many ways, he embodies Barcelona, it's be like Madrid without Iker *shudder* And I totally forgot that New York had another team, haha. Wow, New York having two football teams (or "soccer", blerg, I don't like that word), imagine that. America doesn't even like football.
I am just GUTTED that he is leaving Barcelona, but I hold out hope that he might come to NY, in which case I could potentially still see him play from time to time.
A lot of Americans like football (or soccer, anyway). The problem, I think, is that our media outlets hate it because the only commercials come at half time and people can get up and walk away for fifteen minutes ;).
I have already moved to a new fandom a while ago, so. I spent a while wishing I could be into hockey, because there are SO MANY FICS, and it seems pretty active. But, despite it ruling my country, I'm just not very interested.
A good friend from my previous fandom moved to hockey rpf, and while I enjoy her fic, I don't like the sport and so am not interested in following the fandom.
I thought Leo looked like a puppy in the rain for...many years. It's amazing what a haircut can do. He just screams cuddles, doesn't he?
Little Leo! Seeing pictures of him modeling underwear makes me feel dirty.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-11 10:46 pm (UTC)Hey, that'd be neat if you could see him play! I think NY is better than Qatar. Then again I know nothing about MLS or whatever Qatar's league is called. I'd rather live in NY than Qatar, anyway.
Oh, really? I've always gotten the impression that soccer is very low on the sports ladder in America. That's how it is here, anyway, and we're very similar, us neighbours. (Except you guys are richer, more powerful, more advanced, etc.)
Yeah, I feel like a bad Canadian, because hockey has never interested me. I just feel like when you watch it, it's so exciting hat it's not exciting. And you can barely see the puck, it's so small, and everything is too fast.
I saw his D&G pics, and - yeah. Too weird for me :P Then again, even seeing some of Cris' Armani photos was a bit - awkward.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-12 04:14 am (UTC)I also like Sergio Ramos and Mesut Ozil and Kaka and Cristiano Ronaldo (at least the way you write him). Might be hard to tell when I'm writing from Xavi's POV though ;).
Hey, that'd be neat if you could see him play! I think NY is better than Qatar. Then again I know nothing about MLS or whatever Qatar's league is called. I'd rather live in NY than Qatar, anyway.
Unless you're a wealthy Qatari male, who wouldn't?
Oh, really? I've always gotten the impression that soccer is very low on the sports ladder in America.
It's changed a lot with the rise in Hispanic immigrants, I think. Most kids play soccer growing up here. Unfortunately athletes in other sports get paid more, but I don't think it's necessarily a reflection of how much people like the sport. The MLS is also kind of weird (to me at least) since players switch between teams a lot with the annual draw - there's no real basis for team loyalty other than living nearby.
That's how it is here, anyway, and we're very similar, us neighbours. (Except you guys are richer, more powerful, more advanced, etc.)
I have my doubts about whether we're more advanced, and most people in the population probably aren't richer either (wealth is more evenly distributed in Canada isn't it?).
no subject
Date: 2014-07-12 05:11 am (UTC)Yes basketball people earn a lot more, don't they? Ah, I didn't know that about the MLS. That's - it makes sense, but I can't really imagine players casually shuffling around like that.
As a country, at least ^^ I really don't know, dude. I know nothing about the economy (which is really bad, but oh well). I can see that though. Probably.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-20 10:26 pm (UTC)Lovely little into, with just enough said to lay out the disappointment, and the isolation of such a loss. I always think that even though the team loses, the loss must be very individual, especially as Ronaldo will be 33 the next time he's on this stage.
And then Messi - I love Messi - and I really enjoyed him here. You described him perfectly - with his close-cropped hair, his incipient wrinkles, the ugly tattoo clasping the back of his bare calf. His t-shirt is plain but clean and actually fits him, clinging to the slight slopes of his pecs, the flat plane of his stomach, before it disappears beneath his shorts. But his maturity is even more evidenced by the confident way he plants his feet and by the steady gaze that he has trained on Cris, determination in his close-set brown eyes.
And then the hot, angsy sex. Nicely done! The ending was beautifully open...hence the sequel :)
But this line was amazing - He should end this right now, he should kick the little motherfucker out the door, but his tears are still wet on his cheeks, his chest feels loose and free for the first time in what seems like days, and Leo's nimble fingers are doing something absolutely amazing to his ass.
I really enjoyed this! <3
no subject
Date: 2014-07-21 01:25 am (UTC)It's quite unfair how the one or two star players on each team are blamed if they can't pull everyone else to a victory, I feel. I'm sure that both Ronaldo and Messi took their teams' losses very personally.
It's striking how much older Leo looks if you compare him with the shy, long-haired, baby-faced kid of four years ago. I'm glad that you thought I captured that well <3.
I did leave the ending open, waiting to see how the WC would end. And I'm happy to say that I have gotten a couple of requests for a sequel ;).
Most other people who write this pairing have Ronaldo come over and seduce Leo. I really enjoy taking the other tack, having Leo make the advances and Ronaldo not really knowing what hit him. Hee!
Thanks so much for reading and commenting! :D