lessons; on parentheses
Title: On Parentheses
Rating: R
Pairing: Cesc Fàbregas/Philippe Senderos
The air is as thick as your accent (but not quite as lovely) and there is a sadness in your eyes (and a crease on your forehead) that makes his heart beat faster (fasterfaster then s l o w l y s l o w l y) as he drops to his knees and takes your hands in his (he grips them tight), and whispers, “Cesc? (baby look at me).”
(You don’t, you don’t) Your shoulders slump, leaning back into the lockers (a knob presses into your skin) and you say (in Spanish), “I don’t understand,” and he replies in Spanish (because nobody else is around and it’s your secret language), “It will be okay.” So you shake your head (“It won’t, it won’t”) and wonder why it hurts so much (please make it stop).
He moves closer now (too close, too close) and your eyes are closed now (too closed, too closed), then your lips touch and your fingers entwine (the knob burns a hole in you that he’s trying to fill) when you lean back and he leans forward (like a tango lesson), moving his body against yours (like sex is a dance) until you say, “Fuck me, Philippe” (because he’s not just Phil, he’s your Philippe).
(And it’s times like these when) The silence means everything, because he doesn’t say a word; only keeps moving his lips and his hips and his hands (you moan his name, moan your pain) and you come violently and he shakesshakes (like sinking ships, like you’re the heroes of something tragic)-it’s just tragic, (the bruises on your bones) the red on your back, which he touches, touches and says, “Mi amor, it only hurts because it’s love” (and you open your eyes, you look into his) and you won’t trade it for anything.
Rating: R
Pairing: Cesc Fàbregas/Philippe Senderos
The air is as thick as your accent (but not quite as lovely) and there is a sadness in your eyes (and a crease on your forehead) that makes his heart beat faster (fasterfaster then s l o w l y s l o w l y) as he drops to his knees and takes your hands in his (he grips them tight), and whispers, “Cesc? (baby look at me).”
(You don’t, you don’t) Your shoulders slump, leaning back into the lockers (a knob presses into your skin) and you say (in Spanish), “I don’t understand,” and he replies in Spanish (because nobody else is around and it’s your secret language), “It will be okay.” So you shake your head (“It won’t, it won’t”) and wonder why it hurts so much (please make it stop).
He moves closer now (too close, too close) and your eyes are closed now (too closed, too closed), then your lips touch and your fingers entwine (the knob burns a hole in you that he’s trying to fill) when you lean back and he leans forward (like a tango lesson), moving his body against yours (like sex is a dance) until you say, “Fuck me, Philippe” (because he’s not just Phil, he’s your Philippe).
(And it’s times like these when) The silence means everything, because he doesn’t say a word; only keeps moving his lips and his hips and his hands (you moan his name, moan your pain) and you come violently and he shakesshakes (like sinking ships, like you’re the heroes of something tragic)-it’s just tragic, (the bruises on your bones) the red on your back, which he touches, touches and says, “Mi amor, it only hurts because it’s love” (and you open your eyes, you look into his) and you won’t trade it for anything.