What Should I Tip For Brazilian Wax

Fic: Be Careful How The Small Things Grow

Title: Be Careful How The Small Things Grow
Author: lisachanoando ( Lizon )
Beta: el_defe
Chapter: 1 / 1.
Summary: " This I can not promise. "
Fandom: RP: Football
Characters / Pairing: José Mourinho / Zlatan Ibrahimovic. Jobra.
Genres: Introspective, Romance.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Slash, Angst.
Wordcount: 1017
Notes: First of all, this short shot was written on February 25. I want to say because my computer these days has been a disaster and did not allow me to post almost anything, but this story should have been posted to that date, to "celebrate" the two years of composting God, And After God, Me . Not to celebrate in the fic itself, of course, but because so of the blue gave way to a great thing that continues to grow and moves me every time I think.
the remainder of the fic is inspired by the recent interview that Zlatan was released especially for speaking ill of his former coach at Barcelona and launch random declarations of love to the man who, however, the coach of Inter. Over the past two years Zlatan has changed teams, and even Jose is gone, and Inter in 2008 that, in many ways, was the interaction more "my" of all, he was never much, but one thing has not never changed: the shipping Jobra = P

Be Careful HOW THE SMALL THINGS GROW
Lying on the bed beside him, raised elbows, Zlatan looks like a precious object. Do not you dare touch it, but Jose feels - he feels the way it's burning me to the dark eyes and small - he would.
- not disappear, you know? - Thrown there with a half smile - I'm not a dream. Zlatan
nods, but it seems I need a little 'time to take effect into account.
- This thing ... - and then says, vaguely, - ... it was amazing. José
raises an eyebrow, the smile turns into a smug grin.
- Be '... - starts, but Zlatan interrupts him immediately with a puff annoyed.
- I speak not only of sex. - He says, - in general - explains, the facial features that are stretched in an expression thoughtful and a bit 'angry, terribly funny - I feel a sense of power ... - murmured, looking at his hands, - is extraordinary.
- Power? - José asks, doubtfully, - You have no power over me, gypsy.
Zlatan, and turns to look in his eyes there is no hint of offense. Only such awareness.
- I'm talking about what I could do myself. - Responds. Is watching him, but in a way his eyes seem to lose much more than him, far beyond them, towards goals that until then had not even ever thought you can call by their names, they seemed so distant and unapproachable. - I'm talking about what you could do me in one word. - Continued in a hoarse whisper, coming soon. Still not touch it, but this time, when his eyes stare into those of José José knows that he is looking right at him. - I would kill for you. José
raises a hand, letting it slide along the lines on her face. Viewed up close, Zlatan is even more awkward than it sounds at a normal distance. There is such a disproportion between the general rudeness expressed by her eyes are too close, his face too long, too high cheekbones and her nose, for God, that nose so exaggerated, so blatantly obvious and the perfection of every single muscle in his body from the chest to the thighs or arms in the back, the only think that Jose feels like to burn under the skin. Zlatan is the most imperfect creature I've ever seen, and this makes it even more perfect than ever. For him. To be his.
- I ask you only to win the Champions League. - Says softly, reaching to just kiss on the lips. Zlatan
falters, however, the light in his eyes, trembling violently, like a flame against the wind, and this should be an early sign, something that suggests to be wary. But Jose is not formal. If the light dance in the eyes of Zlatan, I think, just because the penumbra, the pleasure is still waning, and obscures the meaning. Anything, but not fear.
- This I can not promise. - Responds with a half smile. José smiles in turn, suddenly looks like a child's Zlatan, much, much smaller than it is and much, much smaller than the've ever seen. At the time, it is tender. I can not think that should fear it.
* Almost a year later, they find themselves on the same bed in the room José Pinetina. The Champions League has never arrived, but Jose is not angry, frustrated and is not intimidated. Topics victories rather than defeats. Losses inflamed hearts, fill them with desire for revenge, make your eyes sparkle. The victories, especially when they are numerous, sap your body and spirit, satiate the desire that burns. Jose has always run away from winning teams. Would not have to do with Inter Milan. Zlatan
not look at it. It is close to his side, his face hidden in the crook of his neck. Her body is so great that covers more than half of José. Their legs are intertwined so closely as to make almost hurt, but it is a pain for which José feel discomfort. No, the pain does not scare José. Not that the physical evidence of the presence of Zlatan, and if this could serve to restrain the his side forever, would be willing to endure until death. Zlatan
still panting, her body shaken by tremors of orgasm. Subsides slowly, and as it tightens the calming force with more and more, as he was concerned the possible to be able to let go. José smiles a tiny smile, thinking that only a year before did not dare to touch it for fear of losing it. Now, however, is that same fear to force him to touch it as much as possible.
suddenly heard him sobbing, and raises a hand lazily stroking her hair.
- Do not tell me you're crying. - Teases him.
- No. - Zlatan answers, and his voice in fact not be shaken, - It only does harm. José
looks down to try to catch her, but her face is still hidden by Zlatan against his skin.
- Are you stupid. - Mumbles - You're doing everything himself. Zlatan
granting a bitter laugh, inhaling and exhaling deeply.
- Yeah. - Grants, first to rise enough to be able to look in the face. José lets you make, as well as office accepts the caress of devotion that shortly after he let slip along the temple, cheek, chin, neck up, only to die on his chest. Zlatan is watching him, but is also looking beyond. Just like a year ago. - I would kill for you. - The repeated, dreamy. José knows that it is lying to him, but he also knows how little it's worth a whole truth of feelings in a situation like this, with feelings that have to do very little.
It strives to smile, kissing him slowly.
- I ask only to stay. - He says. But there is no expectation in his voice. And perhaps it is this awareness that brings all the features of the face of Zlatan to contract in a spasm of pain, when one notices.
This time when Zlatan replied that this can not promise, José smiling, hugging him, and knows what this phrase means.