jt and fatty are up to no good.
title: Who Would You Rather?
pairing: Frank Lampard & John Terry
rating: PG-13 (but there's quite a bit of language and if you don't like the f-word it might make you cry tears of agony)
disclaimer: tbh, i bet this happened. but to be safe, IT DIDN'T. I MADE IT ALL UP.
summary: oh just a little breakfast-time banter. sickeningly fluffy. short. 1,343 words.
notes: okay, this was really fun to write, firstly. secondly, i am neither a frank lampard fan nor a chelsea fan (at all), so bear with me on that. thirdly, i love xabi alonso and i don't think he's a diver and his ankles are delicate and should be treated with love. fourthly, this is all adorerdollylux's fault so blame her i take no responsibility. she made me.
“Okay, so. Who would you rather: Wazza or that Benayoun kid up at Liverpool?”
John pulls a face, looking up from his tea that he’s making oh-so-painstakingly (exactly eight squeezes of lemon and no more or no less than eight minutes with the teabag. Eight is a good number. John likes eight).
It’s morning in the Terry house. And quiet for once: Toni and the kids are out on “an axkurshun, Daddy!!” To the zoo, John believes, if the face-paint and the tiger noises were any indication.
“Christ, Lampsy, you go straight for both ends of the ugly spectrum, don’t you? Fat and ginger right on over to skinny and sickly-looking.” John grins across the broad oak table, loving the quiet, the tea, the temperature of the air, the sound of the newspaper crinkling, the smell of the toast and jam in front of him, and the company. Especially the company.
“You’ve got to choose, mate.” Frank’s eyes sparkle a little as he steals a sip of John’s tea (it hasn’t been eight minutes yet!! Panic panic panic!).
“Wazza. And give that back right now oh God it’s not ready yet you’re going to mess it up oh God Lamps just give it back stop that right now.” John’s eyes are wide and scared and dangerous.
Frank takes another sip, leisurely savouring the flavour and John’s distress. Mostly the latter, because the tea doesn’t actually taste that good. To fuckin’ sour from all that fuckin’ lemon.
“Wazza, hm? Justify.” Frank pushes the teacup back towards him.
John laughs, relieved beyond measure at the return of his beverage. “I dunno…I like a little meat on my men. You know. Gives me something to grab onto. Like, if I were to slap that ass, I could be sure it’d keep wobblin’.”
“Are you saying you like fat men?” Frank asks, his voice bordering on shrill.
John grins evilly. “You’re a little analytical this morning, Frankie. How’s the ol’ self esteem?”
“Fuck you,” Frank growls, “Or better yet, go fuck Wayne Rooney. God knows he needs it. Ronaldo must give him chronic blue balls.”
John laughs, which seems to light up the room (Frank admits this grudgingly, covertly poking his stomach). “Alright, Lampsy. How about you? Who would you rather? Xabi Alonso or Cristiano Ronaldo?”
“What, you think I have a bleedin’ death wish? I’d have to fuckin’ bathe in disinfectant if I fucked Ronaldo, but with Xabi I’d have to worry about the ol’ knife to the throat routine. Do you hate me? Is that the issue here?”
“You have to choose, mate,” John mimics, scrunching his nose at the man across the table. He counts out eight small freckles on Frank’s nose. Eight freckles to go with the eight flecks of hazel in his eyes that have eight small laugh lines surrounding them. John really, really, really likes eight.
“Well, Christ, JT. I mean, if you want to get rid of me, just say the word. I don’t need some bloody foreigner doin’ your dirty work for you.”
“Choose, Lampsy, or I won’t feed you.”
“Will you stop calling me fat?”
John simply smirks and takes a bite of toast, tauntingly.
Frank heaves a sigh and steals the other half of John’s toast. “Fine, you cruel cocksucker. Xabi. And not because I am a masochist or a sadist or whatever the fuck it is. I hear he has delicate ankles. And I like that.”
John laughs again, swatting Frank’s hands away from his last piece of toast. “Firstly, I am an excellent cocksucker and don’t even pretend otherwise or I do not think you will be pleased with yourself. And secondly, I think Alonso probably would never, ever let you near his ankles, so that fetish is out.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve noticed that one, mate. Probably why he falls over every time I’m within a five-foot radius. Got me fuckin’ red carded for causin’ a breeze or some shit.”
John just shakes his head, amused. He loves days like this. Days he can just spend talking bantering joking smiling laughing. Days he can just forget about the table or the knockout or the club. Days he can just spend with those people he loves. That person he loves. That midfielder he loves. That number eight he loves. Christ, what the fuck was this? The sentimentality shit is usually saved for happy hour.
“Okay, Stevie G or Carra?” Frank was oblivious to John’s train of thought; focused on their game. (It’s ongoing, actually. It started probably when Frank joined the club and sidled up and asked him whether or not he thought Thierry Henry was fuckable. John would probably remember that moment for the rest of his life).
“Christ, Lamps, have you got a thing for Scousers?”
“Hey, you’re the one who wants to stick it up Wazza, mate, not me.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. One white hot night of passion with Wayne Rooney. All I could ever ask for.”
“Oh, quit trying to make me jealous. Gerrard or Carragher?”
“Did I not tell you about that time Stevie and I fucked, though?”
“What.” Frank’s eyes are narrowed dangerously, almost daring John to have had the insolence to fuck someone else.
“Yeah, it was a threesome, actually. Me, Stevie, and Wazza. Bloody hot, let me tell you. A hotel in the fuckin’ Czech Republic or Croatia or Hungary or something. Cocks flyin’ every which way. Barely knew which way was up at the end of that night.”
“That,” Frank growled, “is not funny.”
Shoulders shaking with silent mirth, John gasps, “Oh, Jesus, your face. Oh God, you looked as though I took your candy bar.”
“Fuck you. So I take it you’d fuck Gerrard? Is this going to be an issue? Am I going to have to break his ankle too?”
“So, what, if I tell you I’m attracted to someone - anyone - you’re just going to go flying in, studs out? God, Lamps, keep it in your pants. I know you love me, but Christ, have a little humanity. It's not their fault I'm bleedin' gorgeous.”
“Shut up. You are less than amusing. Also you need to be more careful with me. My self-image is fragile and you are causing your presence to become an unsafe environment for me. Especially because I am too scared to tell you when I am hungry and want you to make me breakfast.”
“Your self-image is anything but fragile, cupcake. You could stand to be taken down a few notches. I’ve seen you in front of mirrors, don’t forget. Someone could shoot themselves and you wouldn’t notice; you’re too busy flexing and pretending, oh, I don’t know, an esteemed publication such as Men’s Health would ever ask you to grace the cover of their magazine.”
“FOR YOUR INFORMATION, PLENTY OF MAGAZINES WANT ME.”
“I’m sure, sweetie, I’m sure.” John winks at Frank, who clearly thinks his pout is irresistible. “Now, what kind of breakfast do you want? Probably something with a lot of fiber and nutrients and vitamins, right? Everything a growing boy needs.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Seriously, I know you have those cinnamon rolls I like, can we just cut out that bloody middleman which entails you mocking me? I bet I weigh less than you do, anyway.”
“You do not!” John retorts.
“You’re two inches taller than I am!”
“Yeah, well, you make up for that in every other direction!”
“Oh, that’s right. I guess muscle mass does factor in. Fair point, well made."
John splutters for a moment, before grinning and conceding. “Oh, Lampsy. I tell you what. I’ll make you those cinnamon rolls if you go make yourself all whorish and whatnot in my bedroom and I’ll be in in a minute.”
“Excuse me? Exactly who do you take me for? Is this what bloody Gerrard does for you?”
“Oh, just shut it and get in bed and I will feed you, then fuck you and all will be well.”
“…But then I’ll just be hungry again!”
“It’s a vicious cycle, my boy. A vicious cycle.”
pairing: Frank Lampard & John Terry
rating: PG-13 (but there's quite a bit of language and if you don't like the f-word it might make you cry tears of agony)
disclaimer: tbh, i bet this happened. but to be safe, IT DIDN'T. I MADE IT ALL UP.
summary: oh just a little breakfast-time banter. sickeningly fluffy. short. 1,343 words.
notes: okay, this was really fun to write, firstly. secondly, i am neither a frank lampard fan nor a chelsea fan (at all), so bear with me on that. thirdly, i love xabi alonso and i don't think he's a diver and his ankles are delicate and should be treated with love. fourthly, this is all adorerdollylux's fault so blame her i take no responsibility. she made me.
“Okay, so. Who would you rather: Wazza or that Benayoun kid up at Liverpool?”
John pulls a face, looking up from his tea that he’s making oh-so-painstakingly (exactly eight squeezes of lemon and no more or no less than eight minutes with the teabag. Eight is a good number. John likes eight).
It’s morning in the Terry house. And quiet for once: Toni and the kids are out on “an axkurshun, Daddy!!” To the zoo, John believes, if the face-paint and the tiger noises were any indication.
“Christ, Lampsy, you go straight for both ends of the ugly spectrum, don’t you? Fat and ginger right on over to skinny and sickly-looking.” John grins across the broad oak table, loving the quiet, the tea, the temperature of the air, the sound of the newspaper crinkling, the smell of the toast and jam in front of him, and the company. Especially the company.
“You’ve got to choose, mate.” Frank’s eyes sparkle a little as he steals a sip of John’s tea (it hasn’t been eight minutes yet!! Panic panic panic!).
“Wazza. And give that back right now oh God it’s not ready yet you’re going to mess it up oh God Lamps just give it back stop that right now.” John’s eyes are wide and scared and dangerous.
Frank takes another sip, leisurely savouring the flavour and John’s distress. Mostly the latter, because the tea doesn’t actually taste that good. To fuckin’ sour from all that fuckin’ lemon.
“Wazza, hm? Justify.” Frank pushes the teacup back towards him.
John laughs, relieved beyond measure at the return of his beverage. “I dunno…I like a little meat on my men. You know. Gives me something to grab onto. Like, if I were to slap that ass, I could be sure it’d keep wobblin’.”
“Are you saying you like fat men?” Frank asks, his voice bordering on shrill.
John grins evilly. “You’re a little analytical this morning, Frankie. How’s the ol’ self esteem?”
“Fuck you,” Frank growls, “Or better yet, go fuck Wayne Rooney. God knows he needs it. Ronaldo must give him chronic blue balls.”
John laughs, which seems to light up the room (Frank admits this grudgingly, covertly poking his stomach). “Alright, Lampsy. How about you? Who would you rather? Xabi Alonso or Cristiano Ronaldo?”
“What, you think I have a bleedin’ death wish? I’d have to fuckin’ bathe in disinfectant if I fucked Ronaldo, but with Xabi I’d have to worry about the ol’ knife to the throat routine. Do you hate me? Is that the issue here?”
“You have to choose, mate,” John mimics, scrunching his nose at the man across the table. He counts out eight small freckles on Frank’s nose. Eight freckles to go with the eight flecks of hazel in his eyes that have eight small laugh lines surrounding them. John really, really, really likes eight.
“Well, Christ, JT. I mean, if you want to get rid of me, just say the word. I don’t need some bloody foreigner doin’ your dirty work for you.”
“Choose, Lampsy, or I won’t feed you.”
“Will you stop calling me fat?”
John simply smirks and takes a bite of toast, tauntingly.
Frank heaves a sigh and steals the other half of John’s toast. “Fine, you cruel cocksucker. Xabi. And not because I am a masochist or a sadist or whatever the fuck it is. I hear he has delicate ankles. And I like that.”
John laughs again, swatting Frank’s hands away from his last piece of toast. “Firstly, I am an excellent cocksucker and don’t even pretend otherwise or I do not think you will be pleased with yourself. And secondly, I think Alonso probably would never, ever let you near his ankles, so that fetish is out.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve noticed that one, mate. Probably why he falls over every time I’m within a five-foot radius. Got me fuckin’ red carded for causin’ a breeze or some shit.”
John just shakes his head, amused. He loves days like this. Days he can just spend talking bantering joking smiling laughing. Days he can just forget about the table or the knockout or the club. Days he can just spend with those people he loves. That person he loves. That midfielder he loves. That number eight he loves. Christ, what the fuck was this? The sentimentality shit is usually saved for happy hour.
“Okay, Stevie G or Carra?” Frank was oblivious to John’s train of thought; focused on their game. (It’s ongoing, actually. It started probably when Frank joined the club and sidled up and asked him whether or not he thought Thierry Henry was fuckable. John would probably remember that moment for the rest of his life).
“Christ, Lamps, have you got a thing for Scousers?”
“Hey, you’re the one who wants to stick it up Wazza, mate, not me.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. One white hot night of passion with Wayne Rooney. All I could ever ask for.”
“Oh, quit trying to make me jealous. Gerrard or Carragher?”
“Did I not tell you about that time Stevie and I fucked, though?”
“What.” Frank’s eyes are narrowed dangerously, almost daring John to have had the insolence to fuck someone else.
“Yeah, it was a threesome, actually. Me, Stevie, and Wazza. Bloody hot, let me tell you. A hotel in the fuckin’ Czech Republic or Croatia or Hungary or something. Cocks flyin’ every which way. Barely knew which way was up at the end of that night.”
“That,” Frank growled, “is not funny.”
Shoulders shaking with silent mirth, John gasps, “Oh, Jesus, your face. Oh God, you looked as though I took your candy bar.”
“Fuck you. So I take it you’d fuck Gerrard? Is this going to be an issue? Am I going to have to break his ankle too?”
“So, what, if I tell you I’m attracted to someone - anyone - you’re just going to go flying in, studs out? God, Lamps, keep it in your pants. I know you love me, but Christ, have a little humanity. It's not their fault I'm bleedin' gorgeous.”
“Shut up. You are less than amusing. Also you need to be more careful with me. My self-image is fragile and you are causing your presence to become an unsafe environment for me. Especially because I am too scared to tell you when I am hungry and want you to make me breakfast.”
“Your self-image is anything but fragile, cupcake. You could stand to be taken down a few notches. I’ve seen you in front of mirrors, don’t forget. Someone could shoot themselves and you wouldn’t notice; you’re too busy flexing and pretending, oh, I don’t know, an esteemed publication such as Men’s Health would ever ask you to grace the cover of their magazine.”
“FOR YOUR INFORMATION, PLENTY OF MAGAZINES WANT ME.”
“I’m sure, sweetie, I’m sure.” John winks at Frank, who clearly thinks his pout is irresistible. “Now, what kind of breakfast do you want? Probably something with a lot of fiber and nutrients and vitamins, right? Everything a growing boy needs.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Seriously, I know you have those cinnamon rolls I like, can we just cut out that bloody middleman which entails you mocking me? I bet I weigh less than you do, anyway.”
“You do not!” John retorts.
“You’re two inches taller than I am!”
“Yeah, well, you make up for that in every other direction!”
“Oh, that’s right. I guess muscle mass does factor in. Fair point, well made."
John splutters for a moment, before grinning and conceding. “Oh, Lampsy. I tell you what. I’ll make you those cinnamon rolls if you go make yourself all whorish and whatnot in my bedroom and I’ll be in in a minute.”
“Excuse me? Exactly who do you take me for? Is this what bloody Gerrard does for you?”
“Oh, just shut it and get in bed and I will feed you, then fuck you and all will be well.”
“…But then I’ll just be hungry again!”
“It’s a vicious cycle, my boy. A vicious cycle.”