various bojan ficlets
Fandom/Pairing: Football RPS/All Bojan-centric
☆ I do not own any of the characters mentioned in the following works of fiction. any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental.
★ 4 ficlets I have written this past week. some storylines have circled in my head a couple of months now so it was about time I wrote them :)
guilty pleasure - víctor valdés/bojan krkić - 313words
"I love your hands,"
You've got to look twice to make sure that this is happening.
"I love your arms,"
He's practically throwing himself at you, stroking soft, strong hands over your skin, leaving it prickling with want.
"So big, so strong,"
You want him. He's sinful. He knows how to get under your skin.
"So sexy,"
His innocence is overrated. You know that despite how naive and unknowing he looks, there's a wiser man behind the boy's face.
"Victor," he whispers your name slow in your ear, making sure to to drag it out, making sure that it catches your attention and makes your breath hitch. Making sure that he's pressed up against you, warm skin against warm skin. You're both naked.
You smile. Not an amused one. Not wolfish either. It's a smirk, bordering his level of sin.
Your hands search his neck, your fingers playing idly against the pulse. He moans. Bojan moans and it feels good to hear that sound. It's you who made him make that sound.
Your hands trail quickly downwards with a clear goal but they wander off, getting distracted by the smooth skin.
Bojan's hands twitch and clench at your shoulders as you own hands reach homebase. His ass is round and just as smooth as the rest of him. Bojan moans again, pressing against you and at the same time pushing back into your hands.
He's so compliant. It makes you want him more.
It's a dream.
No, it's not.
This will never be true.
Victor drifts out of sleep. The alarmclock on his nightstand reads 04:05 and the birds outside the window probably started chirping an hour ago.
He swears when he still feels the want crawling under his skin.
The words still echo in his head.
This will never be true.
But he'll never stop dreaming.
mine for life - thierry henry/bojan krkić - 420words
They had chosen white lilies to decorate the place. In the aisle, around the coffin, by the altar. They were beautiful, Thierry thought, but they didn't fit Bojan. He was color, life and beauty. Sure, he was young and had the optimistic enthusiasm only a 20-year-old could possess, but the light he shone ran deeper than time and experience. It was as if it shone straight from his soul and radiated from his skin.
So when they had brought out the coffin and lowered it six feet deep into the ground and the crowd had scattered into smaller groups across the churchyard, Thierry couldn't help but stay behind with his rose of goodbye still in a firm grip in his hand, staring down the hole in the ground.
His mind still couldn't wrap around the fact his young lover had been ripped from his side after such a short time of happiness but when he felt a winddust caressing his cheek, he was brought out of his trance-like state. It's not quite there but it's yet so familiar, the invisible force moved itself over his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps where it had passed, down to his empty hand filling the palm with warmth as it nestled there.
He just might see a pair of green sad eyes staring up at him hopefully when he looks down. Probably not, he dismisses and lets go of the pink and yellow rose.
When Thierry sits in the backseat of Pique's car on the way back it's quiet and the sun has gone down. No one tries to strike a conversation because there isn't anything to say, sorrow lying heavy in the air. The warmth gets stronger while spreading up his arm and settles against his shoulder. It tingles a bit and feels so so familiar but he can't quite put it under a label so he welcomes the relaxation the warmth brings and settles with putting a stop to his running thoughts by staring at the passing orange street lights.
When they pass a tunnel Thierry just might see a brown-haired head leaning on his shoulder in the reflection of the window. Probably not, he dismisses and closes his eyes instead.
The light and warm pressure in his hold doesn't disappear even when Thierry comes back to his rented hotel room for yet another sleepless night spent in front of the tv in company of the scotch bottle to numb the pain. This time though, he's not so sure he's alone.
learning is a two-way street - sergio canales/bojan krkić - 273words
Sergio is somewhat of a teacher.
Not like Pep who teaches Bojan about strategy.
Not like Yaya who teaches him how to defend himself from the bigger players' tackles.
Not like Valdés who teaches him that a friendly pat on the back can mean the world when he subconsciously really needs it.
Not like Gerard who tries to teach him about love by setting him up with girls.
No, in Sergio's own awkward way, he teaches him about life, everything included.
When they're out on the pitch, together, on the same team, he learns to appreciate all the victorious moments - how big or small they might be.
When they're on the pitch, on opposing teams, he gets the importance of being humble both in victory and defeat when the goes to shake opponents hands and patting teammates on the back.
When they're out with friends he gets closer to unwinding and having fun - yes he has grown up so much these past months, but he's still young and gets away with shenanigans with a flash of puppy-dog eyes.
When he takes surprise trips up to Madrid, they stay up all night talking on the couch in the living room. He learns to take it slow and open up.
When he gets surprise visits from Sergio they stay up all night exploring and mapping each other out, because, well, Bojan's bed is more comfortable than Sergio's.
Yes, Sergio might be younger than he is - a year - but Bojan learns to be a better man by his side so it doesn't matter. Because Bojan knows that he teaches Sergio the same things.
going where the sun keeps shining - pep guardiola/bojan krkić - 1049words
The knots of nervousness in Bojan's stomach had only grew the minutes he had stood outside the door to Pep's office, torturing himself with the decision if he should knock or not. He knew that he had to grab the bull by its horns and go in there sometime soon but it was so difficult to lift his hand and knock once he had planted his feet in front of the light wood.
He feels nauseous, ill to his stomach, feels the urge to throw up, like he always does nowadays, but he mentally slaps himself across his face and tells himself that he's grown up - a man - so don't chicken out.
And so he knocks.
There's a moment right after the sound registers in Bojan's mind that seems to drag out for hours and his breathing slows just like his time apprehension, before Pep's familiar voice infiltrates his ears.
Knocking was one thing but it's harder to get his hand to move towards the doorhandle but he manages somehow.
When he actually gets the door open and passes the opening, his tired eyes meets Pep's surprised ones. The older man is on the phone though so he just gestures for him to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
The floor seems very interesting while he waits for Pep to finish his conversation on the phone, droning on forever and ever. Waiting seems to be all he is doing these days. Waiting for testresults, confirmation and bad news. He's tired of it. It makes him squeamish.
It's just been two weeks and he's already sick of it. How will he ever survive the upcoming months? If he even has a shot at surviving.
Pep's voice brings Bojan out of his thoughts and when his eyes searches for the source of the sound, Pep has moved to the other side of the desk - Bojan's side, barely a meter from him - where he leans back on it, arms crossed.
"Bojan, you okay?" he says with worried eyes and the younger hates him for it. He's tired of sympathetic eyes that take pity on him. He just wants this disease to be gone. He wants to rewind time and get rid of it before it even existed within him. He wants to be normal again.
Most of all, he doesn't want to have this conversation. Ever.
"I was at the doctor's," he starts but trails off quickly, not sure how to bring the news.
"And then you disappeared and no one could get a hold of you, yes?" Pep says, not wanting to seem harsh, but he had been past worried, borderline frantic these past days and now Bojan had turned up at his office, looking miserable and small, for some reason.
"Yes well," Bojan couldn't say that he wasn't ashamed of that fact, but what was he supposed to do? He had to take some alone-time, "The doctor said that I," here he takes another pause to prepare to say the heavy word, nausea slowly climbing up his throat, "have cancer. A tumour in my stomach. Right below my ribcage."
Heavy silence fills the air between them.
He can't sit still all of a sudden. His hands keep shaking, his left foot keeps tapping an irregular beat and his right shoulder twitches.
"I'm starting chemo next week," Bojan's still looking at his hands (one playing with the other's fingers) afraid to look the other man in the eyes. Afraid to show that he's afraid, afraid of too much emotion. Afraid of what he'll see reflected in the dark orbs.
He scratches his neck - to occupy his hands - and bites his lip. He still can't raise his eyes.
Pep doesn't even seem to breathe. At least not soundly. But his shoes makes sounds as they move back to his swirly chair behind the desk. He sits down heavily and the chair groans.
"Shit,"
Shit indeed, echoes in Bojan's mind.
They sit in silence not even looking at each other, both running miles in their own minds, and somehow Bojan's grateful for that. He doesn't want to answer questions right now. He doesn't want promising words and peppy voices. But half an hour of sitting in silence wears him out so he rises from the chair still without looking at the other man, doesn't even know if Pep acknowledges that he has moved.
When he's at the door though, he hesitates, hand near the doorhandle. He almost smiles at the irony. He was so reluctant to go in and now he's not sure he wants to leave.
He doesn't even get near to making a decision before Pep's hand brushes his hair, not as lustrous as it once was.
Bojan doesn't know exactly when it happened but at one point Pep decided to give in and reach out first. Bojan's grateful for that. The past weeks have been a cruel rollercoaster of emotional tumbling. He can't deal with reaching out and not finding anything there.
He turns around.
His eyes still doesn't search for the other's, but his own has dared to move upwards a bit and his hands finds their way to the other man's hips. He's glad that he wears casual clothes - not his usual suits - they remind Bojan too much of the past. Too much what was but isn't now.
The slightly larger hand, more calloused with time - Pep's hand - move down to his cheek caressing with fingertips so light that they tickle lightly before leaving his face altogether. The find their way around him instead, pulling him in a warm embrace which Bojan welcomes, once again glad for the silence. It's comfortable as he lets himself relax for the first time this week, let's himself forget about what's about to happen in the near future. And he wires tired arms around Pep's waist to fully lean his weight on him, knowing he'll hold him up.
They were like this before. Quiet. And happy.
They're still quiet. But there's a bump in the happiness-road.
They'll overcome it, Bojan decides. Cancer or not.
☆ I do not own any of the characters mentioned in the following works of fiction. any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental.
★ 4 ficlets I have written this past week. some storylines have circled in my head a couple of months now so it was about time I wrote them :)
guilty pleasure - víctor valdés/bojan krkić - 313words
"I love your hands,"
You've got to look twice to make sure that this is happening.
"I love your arms,"
He's practically throwing himself at you, stroking soft, strong hands over your skin, leaving it prickling with want.
"So big, so strong,"
You want him. He's sinful. He knows how to get under your skin.
"So sexy,"
His innocence is overrated. You know that despite how naive and unknowing he looks, there's a wiser man behind the boy's face.
"Victor," he whispers your name slow in your ear, making sure to to drag it out, making sure that it catches your attention and makes your breath hitch. Making sure that he's pressed up against you, warm skin against warm skin. You're both naked.
You smile. Not an amused one. Not wolfish either. It's a smirk, bordering his level of sin.
Your hands search his neck, your fingers playing idly against the pulse. He moans. Bojan moans and it feels good to hear that sound. It's you who made him make that sound.
Your hands trail quickly downwards with a clear goal but they wander off, getting distracted by the smooth skin.
Bojan's hands twitch and clench at your shoulders as you own hands reach homebase. His ass is round and just as smooth as the rest of him. Bojan moans again, pressing against you and at the same time pushing back into your hands.
He's so compliant. It makes you want him more.
It's a dream.
No, it's not.
This will never be true.
Victor drifts out of sleep. The alarmclock on his nightstand reads 04:05 and the birds outside the window probably started chirping an hour ago.
He swears when he still feels the want crawling under his skin.
The words still echo in his head.
This will never be true.
But he'll never stop dreaming.
mine for life - thierry henry/bojan krkić - 420words
They had chosen white lilies to decorate the place. In the aisle, around the coffin, by the altar. They were beautiful, Thierry thought, but they didn't fit Bojan. He was color, life and beauty. Sure, he was young and had the optimistic enthusiasm only a 20-year-old could possess, but the light he shone ran deeper than time and experience. It was as if it shone straight from his soul and radiated from his skin.
So when they had brought out the coffin and lowered it six feet deep into the ground and the crowd had scattered into smaller groups across the churchyard, Thierry couldn't help but stay behind with his rose of goodbye still in a firm grip in his hand, staring down the hole in the ground.
His mind still couldn't wrap around the fact his young lover had been ripped from his side after such a short time of happiness but when he felt a winddust caressing his cheek, he was brought out of his trance-like state. It's not quite there but it's yet so familiar, the invisible force moved itself over his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps where it had passed, down to his empty hand filling the palm with warmth as it nestled there.
He just might see a pair of green sad eyes staring up at him hopefully when he looks down. Probably not, he dismisses and lets go of the pink and yellow rose.
When Thierry sits in the backseat of Pique's car on the way back it's quiet and the sun has gone down. No one tries to strike a conversation because there isn't anything to say, sorrow lying heavy in the air. The warmth gets stronger while spreading up his arm and settles against his shoulder. It tingles a bit and feels so so familiar but he can't quite put it under a label so he welcomes the relaxation the warmth brings and settles with putting a stop to his running thoughts by staring at the passing orange street lights.
When they pass a tunnel Thierry just might see a brown-haired head leaning on his shoulder in the reflection of the window. Probably not, he dismisses and closes his eyes instead.
The light and warm pressure in his hold doesn't disappear even when Thierry comes back to his rented hotel room for yet another sleepless night spent in front of the tv in company of the scotch bottle to numb the pain. This time though, he's not so sure he's alone.
learning is a two-way street - sergio canales/bojan krkić - 273words
Sergio is somewhat of a teacher.
Not like Pep who teaches Bojan about strategy.
Not like Yaya who teaches him how to defend himself from the bigger players' tackles.
Not like Valdés who teaches him that a friendly pat on the back can mean the world when he subconsciously really needs it.
Not like Gerard who tries to teach him about love by setting him up with girls.
No, in Sergio's own awkward way, he teaches him about life, everything included.
When they're out on the pitch, together, on the same team, he learns to appreciate all the victorious moments - how big or small they might be.
When they're on the pitch, on opposing teams, he gets the importance of being humble both in victory and defeat when the goes to shake opponents hands and patting teammates on the back.
When they're out with friends he gets closer to unwinding and having fun - yes he has grown up so much these past months, but he's still young and gets away with shenanigans with a flash of puppy-dog eyes.
When he takes surprise trips up to Madrid, they stay up all night talking on the couch in the living room. He learns to take it slow and open up.
When he gets surprise visits from Sergio they stay up all night exploring and mapping each other out, because, well, Bojan's bed is more comfortable than Sergio's.
Yes, Sergio might be younger than he is - a year - but Bojan learns to be a better man by his side so it doesn't matter. Because Bojan knows that he teaches Sergio the same things.
going where the sun keeps shining - pep guardiola/bojan krkić - 1049words
The knots of nervousness in Bojan's stomach had only grew the minutes he had stood outside the door to Pep's office, torturing himself with the decision if he should knock or not. He knew that he had to grab the bull by its horns and go in there sometime soon but it was so difficult to lift his hand and knock once he had planted his feet in front of the light wood.
He feels nauseous, ill to his stomach, feels the urge to throw up, like he always does nowadays, but he mentally slaps himself across his face and tells himself that he's grown up - a man - so don't chicken out.
And so he knocks.
There's a moment right after the sound registers in Bojan's mind that seems to drag out for hours and his breathing slows just like his time apprehension, before Pep's familiar voice infiltrates his ears.
Knocking was one thing but it's harder to get his hand to move towards the doorhandle but he manages somehow.
When he actually gets the door open and passes the opening, his tired eyes meets Pep's surprised ones. The older man is on the phone though so he just gestures for him to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
The floor seems very interesting while he waits for Pep to finish his conversation on the phone, droning on forever and ever. Waiting seems to be all he is doing these days. Waiting for testresults, confirmation and bad news. He's tired of it. It makes him squeamish.
It's just been two weeks and he's already sick of it. How will he ever survive the upcoming months? If he even has a shot at surviving.
Pep's voice brings Bojan out of his thoughts and when his eyes searches for the source of the sound, Pep has moved to the other side of the desk - Bojan's side, barely a meter from him - where he leans back on it, arms crossed.
"Bojan, you okay?" he says with worried eyes and the younger hates him for it. He's tired of sympathetic eyes that take pity on him. He just wants this disease to be gone. He wants to rewind time and get rid of it before it even existed within him. He wants to be normal again.
Most of all, he doesn't want to have this conversation. Ever.
"I was at the doctor's," he starts but trails off quickly, not sure how to bring the news.
"And then you disappeared and no one could get a hold of you, yes?" Pep says, not wanting to seem harsh, but he had been past worried, borderline frantic these past days and now Bojan had turned up at his office, looking miserable and small, for some reason.
"Yes well," Bojan couldn't say that he wasn't ashamed of that fact, but what was he supposed to do? He had to take some alone-time, "The doctor said that I," here he takes another pause to prepare to say the heavy word, nausea slowly climbing up his throat, "have cancer. A tumour in my stomach. Right below my ribcage."
Heavy silence fills the air between them.
He can't sit still all of a sudden. His hands keep shaking, his left foot keeps tapping an irregular beat and his right shoulder twitches.
"I'm starting chemo next week," Bojan's still looking at his hands (one playing with the other's fingers) afraid to look the other man in the eyes. Afraid to show that he's afraid, afraid of too much emotion. Afraid of what he'll see reflected in the dark orbs.
He scratches his neck - to occupy his hands - and bites his lip. He still can't raise his eyes.
Pep doesn't even seem to breathe. At least not soundly. But his shoes makes sounds as they move back to his swirly chair behind the desk. He sits down heavily and the chair groans.
"Shit,"
Shit indeed, echoes in Bojan's mind.
They sit in silence not even looking at each other, both running miles in their own minds, and somehow Bojan's grateful for that. He doesn't want to answer questions right now. He doesn't want promising words and peppy voices. But half an hour of sitting in silence wears him out so he rises from the chair still without looking at the other man, doesn't even know if Pep acknowledges that he has moved.
When he's at the door though, he hesitates, hand near the doorhandle. He almost smiles at the irony. He was so reluctant to go in and now he's not sure he wants to leave.
He doesn't even get near to making a decision before Pep's hand brushes his hair, not as lustrous as it once was.
Bojan doesn't know exactly when it happened but at one point Pep decided to give in and reach out first. Bojan's grateful for that. The past weeks have been a cruel rollercoaster of emotional tumbling. He can't deal with reaching out and not finding anything there.
He turns around.
His eyes still doesn't search for the other's, but his own has dared to move upwards a bit and his hands finds their way to the other man's hips. He's glad that he wears casual clothes - not his usual suits - they remind Bojan too much of the past. Too much what was but isn't now.
The slightly larger hand, more calloused with time - Pep's hand - move down to his cheek caressing with fingertips so light that they tickle lightly before leaving his face altogether. The find their way around him instead, pulling him in a warm embrace which Bojan welcomes, once again glad for the silence. It's comfortable as he lets himself relax for the first time this week, let's himself forget about what's about to happen in the near future. And he wires tired arms around Pep's waist to fully lean his weight on him, knowing he'll hold him up.
They were like this before. Quiet. And happy.
They're still quiet. But there's a bump in the happiness-road.
They'll overcome it, Bojan decides. Cancer or not.