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Fic: Compensation (Gianluigi Buffon/Mauro Camoranesi)
Title: Compensation
Summary: Mauro says something he shouldn't, Gigi asks him to make it up to him.
Pairing: Gianluigi Buffon/Mauro Camoranesi
Warnings: Slash.
Rating: NC-15, let's say.
Wordcount: just over 1,000 words.
Disclaimers: this isn’t real, because I made it all up in my head, and I’m not getting any money out of it (more’s the pity!).
A/N: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
miss_black91, who came up with the whole idea and asked me to write it; the pics Mauro is looking at? This and that, for example.
“I hate it.”
Gigi lifts his gaze. He’s been lounging on the bed while Mauro checks his e-mail, reads the newspapers, looks for new hairstyling products, or whatever it is he does on his laptop.
“What?” he asks, mildly concerned, because Mauro is usually the calm one of the two (this, he doesn’t like to dwell on, because it doesn’t speak kindly of Gigi’s own temper) and he reserves that tone of voice for serious matters.
“This…”
The Italian goalkeeper sits up in bed to be able to see the screen. And finds his own face staring right back, from the front row of one of the fashion shows he has attended lately.
“You hate pictures of me?” he asks, just to make sure he understands.
“No!” answers Mauro, frustrated, closing the browser and leaving just the media player that wafts something jazzy and slow through the room. “It’s just... I...” The anger leaves his voice, and he almost mutters the next words to himself, “I hate to think that so many people will be looking at you like that...”
Gigi opens his mouth twice before he can speak. He knows Mauro won’t take his laughter kindly, but, really, it’s all he can do not to laugh. He’s not too modest (Alessa would tell him he’s way too conceited, and then go on to list a moments that proved it), but he finds Mauro’s complaint really amusing.
“Ah, bambino,” he says, just to see Mauro glare at him and mutter, ‘dos años mayor, Gianluigi, soy dos años mayor que tú’ [two years older, Gianluigi, I'm two years older than you]. “Yes, all those people can see me like that, with my hair all gelled and my favourite scarf... but how many people can see me like this, Mauro?”
And Mauro has no option but to look at Gigi, with his hair a mess, old pyjama pants and a t-shirt of Mauro’s that, obviously, it’s just a bit too tight and too short on the goalie’s long body, spread out on his bed.
“Right,” he says, feeling a bit foolish and yet at the same time enjoying how Gigi *always* ends up winning their arguments.
“Yeah...” Gigi smiles, a smile that is even more dangerous and tempting than the one he was sporting in the damn pictures. “Still, I think I’m kind of offended that you don’t like my photos...”
“What?!”
“Yes,” says Gigi, nodding decisively. “I am deeply offended and want you to make it up to me.”
Mauro laughs, but Gigi is not laughing.
“Gianluigi...” says the midfielder threateningly.
“You said you hated seeing pictures of me on the internet!”
“I...”
“Offended is the least I can be!”
“Alright, alright,” says Mauro, before Gigi gets carried away in his own dramatics and ends up *really* offended; it wouldn’t be the first time. “I’ll make it up to you... what do you want? Shall I bring you breakfast in bed tomorrow? Prank Iaquinta next time we’re training?”
Gigi shakes his head and looks at Mauro with a smile that makes a shiver run up his spine.
“I want a striptease.”
Mauro gapes. Then, he closes his mouth, because Gigi is giggling.
“What?! You want... you want me to bring you a stripper, or...?”
“No, tonto,” says Gigi, laughing openly. “I want *you* to do a striptease for me. Here. Now.”
“Gigi...” whines Mauro, because while it’s hardly the most ridiculous thing one Gianluigi Buffon has asked of him, it does make the Top Ten.
“What? Listen to the music, Mauro... doesn’t it make you want to dance? A little? For me?”
And here is something far more devastating than Gigi’s smile: his pout.
“Alright,” concedes Mauro, running a hand through his hair and wondering if he can get a drink before he has to do this.
But Gigi is already sitting up in bed, smiling and eager, like always when he ends up getting his way, and Mauro doesn’t want to admit it, but he is a little bit flattered to have all of his attention, to have this gorgeous man looking at him like *that*.
So he sighs and stands up and fiddles with the computer to turn up the volume of the music a little (and to try to conceal his blush from Gigi’s eyes); he doesn’t know the name of the song (Martín had been messing around in his computer, trying to ‘put him up to date’), but he figures it will have to do. It’s fast enough that he can swing his hips to it without looking (too much) like a fool, but slow enough that he can dawdle before starting to remove the old t-shirt he’s wearing.
And as soon as his hand lifts the cotton fabric just a little, to reveal a small strip of tanned skin stretched over his abs, Gigi’s eyes catch fire and Mauro can see him swallow, *hard*.
Suddenly, the striptease is not such a bad idea.
Mauro has forgotten his embarrassment. He doesn’t see himself, dancing his way out of his stay-at-home clothes in his own bedroom; he only sees Gigi’s eyes glued on him and the way his breath has sped up and deepened, so that Mauro can hear it over the music. He feels the beat of the song like a distant thing that keeps his hips swaying, but it’s nothing compared to the smouldering heat that Gigi’s gaze leaves on his skin as it gets revealed, little by little, at a teasingly slow rhythm.
His t-shirt has flown over the bed, his sweatpants are crumpled somewhere by the desk, his hair is mussed and Mauro is smiling, smiling at a Gigi who, far from smiling back, stares at him predatorily from the bed. Mauro hooks a thumb on the elastic of his boxers and grins at Gigi, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Mauro,” says Gigi, and his voice is hoarser than after a match against Inter; he swallows and tries again. “Presto, Mauro...”
It’s the moment to tease, to prolong the tension, to make Gigi pay for getting Mauro to do something so ridiculous... but Mauro doesn’t want to take it slow. Not with Gigi on the bed, watching him, waiting for him, lips parted and eyes bright, hands knotted on the covers of the bed and pants uncomfortably tight.
So Mauro just drops his boxers, music long forgotten, and steps towards the bed, where Gigi’s arms are open for him.
They don’t leave the bed that night.
Summary: Mauro says something he shouldn't, Gigi asks him to make it up to him.
Pairing: Gianluigi Buffon/Mauro Camoranesi
Warnings: Slash.
Rating: NC-15, let's say.
Wordcount: just over 1,000 words.
Disclaimers: this isn’t real, because I made it all up in my head, and I’m not getting any money out of it (more’s the pity!).
A/N: for
miss_black91, who came up with the whole idea and asked me to write it; the pics Mauro is looking at? This and that, for example.
“I hate it.”
Gigi lifts his gaze. He’s been lounging on the bed while Mauro checks his e-mail, reads the newspapers, looks for new hairstyling products, or whatever it is he does on his laptop.
“What?” he asks, mildly concerned, because Mauro is usually the calm one of the two (this, he doesn’t like to dwell on, because it doesn’t speak kindly of Gigi’s own temper) and he reserves that tone of voice for serious matters.
“This…”
The Italian goalkeeper sits up in bed to be able to see the screen. And finds his own face staring right back, from the front row of one of the fashion shows he has attended lately.
“You hate pictures of me?” he asks, just to make sure he understands.
“No!” answers Mauro, frustrated, closing the browser and leaving just the media player that wafts something jazzy and slow through the room. “It’s just... I...” The anger leaves his voice, and he almost mutters the next words to himself, “I hate to think that so many people will be looking at you like that...”
Gigi opens his mouth twice before he can speak. He knows Mauro won’t take his laughter kindly, but, really, it’s all he can do not to laugh. He’s not too modest (Alessa would tell him he’s way too conceited, and then go on to list a moments that proved it), but he finds Mauro’s complaint really amusing.
“Ah, bambino,” he says, just to see Mauro glare at him and mutter, ‘dos años mayor, Gianluigi, soy dos años mayor que tú’ [two years older, Gianluigi, I'm two years older than you]. “Yes, all those people can see me like that, with my hair all gelled and my favourite scarf... but how many people can see me like this, Mauro?”
And Mauro has no option but to look at Gigi, with his hair a mess, old pyjama pants and a t-shirt of Mauro’s that, obviously, it’s just a bit too tight and too short on the goalie’s long body, spread out on his bed.
“Right,” he says, feeling a bit foolish and yet at the same time enjoying how Gigi *always* ends up winning their arguments.
“Yeah...” Gigi smiles, a smile that is even more dangerous and tempting than the one he was sporting in the damn pictures. “Still, I think I’m kind of offended that you don’t like my photos...”
“What?!”
“Yes,” says Gigi, nodding decisively. “I am deeply offended and want you to make it up to me.”
Mauro laughs, but Gigi is not laughing.
“Gianluigi...” says the midfielder threateningly.
“You said you hated seeing pictures of me on the internet!”
“I...”
“Offended is the least I can be!”
“Alright, alright,” says Mauro, before Gigi gets carried away in his own dramatics and ends up *really* offended; it wouldn’t be the first time. “I’ll make it up to you... what do you want? Shall I bring you breakfast in bed tomorrow? Prank Iaquinta next time we’re training?”
Gigi shakes his head and looks at Mauro with a smile that makes a shiver run up his spine.
“I want a striptease.”
Mauro gapes. Then, he closes his mouth, because Gigi is giggling.
“What?! You want... you want me to bring you a stripper, or...?”
“No, tonto,” says Gigi, laughing openly. “I want *you* to do a striptease for me. Here. Now.”
“Gigi...” whines Mauro, because while it’s hardly the most ridiculous thing one Gianluigi Buffon has asked of him, it does make the Top Ten.
“What? Listen to the music, Mauro... doesn’t it make you want to dance? A little? For me?”
And here is something far more devastating than Gigi’s smile: his pout.
“Alright,” concedes Mauro, running a hand through his hair and wondering if he can get a drink before he has to do this.
But Gigi is already sitting up in bed, smiling and eager, like always when he ends up getting his way, and Mauro doesn’t want to admit it, but he is a little bit flattered to have all of his attention, to have this gorgeous man looking at him like *that*.
So he sighs and stands up and fiddles with the computer to turn up the volume of the music a little (and to try to conceal his blush from Gigi’s eyes); he doesn’t know the name of the song (Martín had been messing around in his computer, trying to ‘put him up to date’), but he figures it will have to do. It’s fast enough that he can swing his hips to it without looking (too much) like a fool, but slow enough that he can dawdle before starting to remove the old t-shirt he’s wearing.
And as soon as his hand lifts the cotton fabric just a little, to reveal a small strip of tanned skin stretched over his abs, Gigi’s eyes catch fire and Mauro can see him swallow, *hard*.
Suddenly, the striptease is not such a bad idea.
Mauro has forgotten his embarrassment. He doesn’t see himself, dancing his way out of his stay-at-home clothes in his own bedroom; he only sees Gigi’s eyes glued on him and the way his breath has sped up and deepened, so that Mauro can hear it over the music. He feels the beat of the song like a distant thing that keeps his hips swaying, but it’s nothing compared to the smouldering heat that Gigi’s gaze leaves on his skin as it gets revealed, little by little, at a teasingly slow rhythm.
His t-shirt has flown over the bed, his sweatpants are crumpled somewhere by the desk, his hair is mussed and Mauro is smiling, smiling at a Gigi who, far from smiling back, stares at him predatorily from the bed. Mauro hooks a thumb on the elastic of his boxers and grins at Gigi, raising a curious eyebrow.
“Mauro,” says Gigi, and his voice is hoarser than after a match against Inter; he swallows and tries again. “Presto, Mauro...”
It’s the moment to tease, to prolong the tension, to make Gigi pay for getting Mauro to do something so ridiculous... but Mauro doesn’t want to take it slow. Not with Gigi on the bed, watching him, waiting for him, lips parted and eyes bright, hands knotted on the covers of the bed and pants uncomfortably tight.
So Mauro just drops his boxers, music long forgotten, and steps towards the bed, where Gigi’s arms are open for him.
They don’t leave the bed that night.
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“You hate pictures of me?” he asks, just to make sure he understands.
“No!” answers Mauro, frustrated, closing the browser and leaving just the media player that wafts something jazzy and slow through the room. --> Aw, okay? A-w.
Gigi opens his mouth twice before he can speak. He knows Mauro won’t take his laughter kindly, but, really, it’s all he can do not to laugh. He’s not too modest (Alessa would tell him he’s way too conceited, and then go on to list a moments that proved it), but he finds Mauro’s complaint really amusing. --> Yeah, Gigi is not too modest. Maybe I could write a ficlet about it. :D XD
Okay, I would be quoting all day... I love you, sweetie. Thanks. ♥
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