Archive of Our Own

The headlines announcing the divorce hit the front pages in the first week of November 2014, but the shock didn't truly pump through Cristiano's veins until January 2015—when he realized Kaká had blocked him.

"Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite and Caroline Celico Formally Announce Divorce"

Cristiano was sitting in a high-end Madrid restaurant when the official statement broke the internet, the fluorescent glow of his phone screen reflecting in his dark eyes. His initial reaction wasn't shock, just a sense that it had all happened too fast—after all, only a month ago, the two of them had claimed their relationship was back on solid ground.

Slamming down a full glass of water, Cristiano finally managed to choke down the unprovoked surge of panic in his chest. His hands were still trembling, but this time it wasn't from dread. It was a secret, volatile thrill.

Free. Kaká was finally fucking free.

For all these years, Cristiano had played the silent, aching, impeccably supportive "best friend," watching with wide-open eyes as Kaká retreated into the sacred, inviolable fortress of his pious marriage. He had kept his mouth shut, restrained his hands, and hidden behind the label of friend just to steal every hug and every drop of intimacy. Now, that fortress had crumbled into dust.

Except Kaká didn't run to him. If anything, Kaká pulled even further away than before.

Before that secret expectation could ever begin to pay off, it was cut down cold. Drowning in pain, Kaká chose to pray for everything to go back to the way it was. He launched into a "The 40-Day Love Dare," and to Cristiano's absolute shock, somewhere in the middle of that process, he got blocked.

He was locked completely outside the city gates. Contact deleted, number blocked. Stranded half a world away, completely at a loss.

January 12, 2015. Zurich, FIFA Ballon d'Or Gala.

On stage, Cristiano lifted the third Ballon d'Or of his career, letting out that world-shattering roar into the microphone: "Siuuuuu!" That night, behind the scenes, he scoured his phone like a man possessed, praying to catch even a single "Congratulations" sent from a number in Brazil or Orlando.

Nothing. Not a single word.

Then came January 20th, when entertainment headlines blew up with the global announcement: Cristiano Ronaldo and Irina Shayk had ended their five-year relationship. The media speculated endlessly about "his mother's birthday party" or "tension with his family," but the reality was simple: Cristiano was going insane inside empty rooms, and he couldn't hide it anymore. He couldn't play the perfect boyfriend for the cameras; he couldn't even fake being normal.

The spiral tore through his form on the pitch with brutal speed.

January 24. Real Madrid away against Córdoba. In the 82nd minute, during an utterly pointless scuffle inside the opposition box, Cristiano's sanity snapped. Two months of suffocating rage, anxiety, and abandonment consumed him in a single instant—and he swung a fist straight at Edimar.

Red card. The referee sent him off without a second thought. As he walked off, he arrogantly stroked the Club World Cup champion badge on his kit, his expression mockingly untouchable. But the moment he stepped inside the dressing room, he slammed a fist full-force into the locker in front of him.

A two-match suspension hung over his head while the media tore him apart in print. But the suspension didn't calm him down. Instead, it dumped him into a long, agonizing, untethered stretch of free time.

Until that day in the training ground lounge, when Coentrão sat rubbing his neck, angrily tapping at his phone and complaining to a teammate nearby:

"—It's fucking crazy. My girlfriend heard about this thing called a 'One Wish Willow' somewhere, and now she's obsessed. She says you can't buy it anywhere, but supposed to be magic for making wishes... I've searched every boutique in Madrid and haven't seen a single trace of it."

"One Wish Willow?" Marcelo paused what he was doing, turning around with a chuckle. "You mean that little toy that comes in a red cardboard box?"

Coentrão's eyes lit up. "Yes! Exactly! Do you still have one? Sell it to me, man, she's nagging me so hard my head's about to explode."

"Out of stock," Marcelo shrugged casually. "Before Christmas, right before Ricky went back to Brazil, I gave it to him along with his gift. Heard he used it on Christmas Eve."

Kaká.

Sitting nearby, Cristiano's jaw snapped tight.

The name hit his raw, frayed nerves like a needle out of nowhere. A violent wave of nausea and restless agitation surged up from his stomach. Biting his lip until it nearly bled, he stood up abruptly and walked out the door without looking back before he could lose control in front of everyone.

That night, after filling out a psychological stress assessment on his computer, Cristiano opened his browser. His chaotic thoughts coalesced into a few words in the search bar: One Wish Willow.

Most of the links that popped up had nothing to do with what Coentrão was talking about—just random local customs involving willow twigs. Cristiano was about to close the tab, but a forum link beneath his cursor caught his eye.

It was an occult forum where users with bizarre handles were fiercely debating their experiences with the "One Wish Willow." In a top-voted thread, he finally saw a photo of the actual object: a hollow, dried twig packaged so cheaply it looked almost pathetic.

Cristiano hovered his cursor down, frowning.

The eerie blue light of the screen washed over Cristiano's pale face.

He stared dead at the words—completely vanish, completely out of control, driving them to extremes—feeling a bone-deep chill creep up his spine.

In his spiraling, paranoid mind, an absurd yet terrifyingly clear chain of logic assembled itself.

—Kaká opened that box on Christmas Eve.

—Kaká snapped the branch.

—Kaká made a cruel wish: he wished for Cristiano to completely leave his world.

And this goddamn, cursed power was forcing him out of Kaká's life by driving him mad, forcing him into self-destruction, and making him ruin himself step by step!

The realization obliterated whatever sanity Cristiano had left.

Was this why he couldn't control himself?

During an exclusive interview with the Brazilian magazine IstoÉ, when hit with the routine question about his future, Cristiano locked eyes with the camera and said something that sent a chill through the entire Madrid hierarchy: "Corinthians and Flamengo? Why not? They are two great Brazilian clubs, and I would be completely open to wearing their shirts. Brazil is a beautiful place..."

The news sparked an uproar across world football. Sports media frantically dissected whether "Cristiano is preparing to leave Europe early for South America." But only he knew the truth: it was nothing more than an absurd, public shout into the void. He was going to make sure that Brazilian, who didn't want to see him, saw him everywhere he looked. He wanted everyone around Kaká talking about him, making him impossible to avoid.

Yet Kaká remained silent. He was like a pristine marble statue, hidden away inside a retreat, using coldness and piety to shut out Cristiano's madness.

So Cristiano pushed himself toward an even more self-destructive extreme.

He began flying to Marrakech constantly, appearing everywhere side-by-side with Moroccan kickboxer Badr Hari.

Paparazzi and tabloids around the globe went wild. The Sun, L'Équipe, and major television networks began aggressively questioning his sexuality. Inside his mansion, Cristiano watched the broadcasts with a bitter sneer, deliberately instructing his PR team not to issue a single clarification. He wanted his reputation dragged through the mud. He wanted the entire world discussing his body, his sexuality, his private life. If it took going further off the deep end to flush that man out of his shell, he didn't care.

February 7. Real Madrid suffered a humiliating 0–4 defeat to Atletico in the Madrid derby. Yet that very night, defying the fury of the entire city, Cristiano stubbornly went ahead with a lavish 30th birthday party. Under the blinding spotlights, he drank, sang, and threw himself into reckless celebration, even bringing in a live performer to set the mood.

When footage of the party leaked, enraged Real Madrid fans gathered outside the training complex overnight to protest. The press slammed him mercilessly, branding him "completely unprofessional" and "the biggest disgrace in Madrid history."

Amid the deafening wall of hatred, Cristiano used a freshly registered throwaway email to send one last message to the private, encrypted Brazilian inbox Kaká had always used.

It wasn't a love letter. It was a threat written in blood and dirt.

23 hours later, outside a discreet private apartment on the outskirts of Madrid, a soft click echoed from the door lock.

Kaká stood in the doorway. He looked utterly exhausted. His hollowed cheeks made his brown eyes look deeper, brimming with sorrow. The toll of navigating a shattered marriage and answering public scrutiny had drained the life out of him, leaving him looking fragile and frail.

Cristiano didn't give him a chance to speak. The moment the door clicked shut, he lunged forward, slamming Kaká hard against the hallway wall.

"You came," Cristiano rasped, his fingers digging fiercely into the fabric of Kaká's trench coat. "Happy with the plot so far?"

"Cris, don't..." Kaká's voice was barely a whisper, his warm breath trembling against Cristiano's cheek. "Please. What are you doing to yourself?"

"What am I doing?!" Cristiano let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He grabbed Kaká by the collar and dragged him close, stopping just inches before their noses collided. "I'm making your wish come true!"

Cristiano buried his forehead into the crook of Kaká's neck. Kaká couldn't see his face now; he could only feel the scalding heat of Cristiano's breath searing against his skin.

"Once I become a total piece of trash—once I ruin my career, my name, my everything—then I'll finally be out of your life for good, right?" Kaká felt a wet, warm dampness against his neck as Cristiano's voice coiled around him, delivering a slow sentence. "You'll never have to see me on TV, on billboards, anywhere ever again. You'll never hear my name. I'll rot in the dirt, and you can go right back to your normal life."

Kaká let out a sharp, painful gasp. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before lifting his hands, trembling as he gently cupped the back of Cristiano's neck, his fingers sinking deep into his dark hair.

"Over these past few days, I completed all forty Love Dare challenges, but none of it worked," Kaká murmured. The tenderness and grief in his tone devastated Cristiano, breaking him down far more than any anger ever could. "I was going to start a second round... but I failed on the very first challenge. So I came to find you."

"Am I just your desperate backup plan after failing?" Cristiano sneered. "So what was too hard for you?"

"'Love is patient.'" Kaká finally lifted his eyes to meet his gaze. "But I couldn't endure a life without you. I failed."

Too many thoughts hit Cristiano's brain at once, leaving him paralyzed on how to react. But one thing he knew for certain: turning his head, he slammed his mouth onto Kaká's lips.

It was anything but a gentle kiss. It was an assault forged from years of suppressed desire, desperate fury, and terrifying grief. Cristiano bit and tore at Kaká's lips and tongue like a dying man clawing for air.

Kaká didn't pull away. He indulged Cristiano's violence, letting the metallic taste of blood spread between their mouths.

Yet he didn't yield to the self-destructive force of it either. Catching a breath in the briefest pause, Kaká turned his face slightly and used a firm grip to press down on Cristiano's trembling shoulders. "Cris, calm down... We need to talk."

"Talk? There's nothing to talk about!" Cristiano's eyes were bloodshot. He sneered through gritted teeth, pressing closer until his scalding breath washed over Kaká's ear. "What do you want to talk about? Want to tell me to give up so we never see each other again?"

Cristiano's wild resistance made Kaká's gaze darken.

Kaká stopped trying to reason with him. His eyes still held that deep pity, but a sudden, suffocating wave of dominance made Cristiano freeze. In one swift movement, Kaká grabbed both of Cristiano's wrists and spun him around, using his size to pin Cristiano hard against the floor.

With his hands locked tightly above his head, Cristiano was completely overwhelmed by Kaká's broad frame. He reflexively brought up a knee to fight back, but Kaká caught the opening effortlessly—driving his own hard knee between Cristiano's legs, forcing them apart, and looking down at the trapped man beneath him.

"I didn't want to force you at all," Kaká said, his voice dropping low. "But it seems this is the only way to get your crazy head to cool off."

Cristiano went rigid.

He stared wide-eyed at the man above him—the same man who, moments ago, had looked frail and exhausted. Now, standing over him with absolute control and a deadly serious expression, Kaká looked terrifyingly like the leader who used to dictate every inch of the pitch at the San Siro. That long-lost, unreserved aggression hit Cristiano's overloaded nervous system like a high-voltage current.

Realizing those familiar brown eyes were locked onto him, taking in every shred of his undoing, Cristiano's body shivered with a humiliating, uncontrollable pulse of arousal beneath the crushing weight.

In the face of Kaká's near-punitive dominance, all his violence and despair melted into a liquid heat racing up his spine.

Cristiano's throat hitched hard. He stopped fighting. Instead, his lips curled into a raspy, dangerous smile—a dark mix of provocation and surrender.

Under Kaká's commanding stare, Cristiano slowly lifted his legs. Flexible, powerful thighs hooked upward, wrapping tightly around Kaká's waist like an inescapable lock, dragging the tall Brazilian down even harder against him.

"Then stop talking..." Cristiano taunted, his voice hoarse. "Try and see if you can make me cool down, Ricardo."

Kaká's eyes turned pitch-black in an instant as his last thread of restraint snapped.

Silently pressing down, his long fingers roughly flipped open Cristiano's belt and waistband. Just as Cristiano braced his exposed skin for the cold air, Kaká stopped abruptly.

Through the final layer of fabric, with deliberate, punishing force, he gripped Cristiano's hard, throbbing heat.

"Ah...!" Cristiano's whole body jerked violently, his spine arching in a sudden, dramatic curve.

Kaká began to stroke him with a brutal, unyielding rhythm. Every squeeze and pull was laced with a dark, venting fury, targeting Cristiano's most sensitive nerves with merciless precision. This wasn't gentle foreplay; it was an act of possessive discipline.

Driven wild by the punishing pleasure, Cristiano threw his head back, his throat working frantically as his thighs gripped Kaká's waist in a vise lock. Looking up at Kaká, who was still fully clothed, Cristiano knew he must look like an absolute mess—and it was blatantly clear the man above him was entranced by it.

Look at him licking his bottom lip. Look at his lashes trembling.

Cristiano panted, a wave of dark thrill surging through him. "Kaká, look at me."

And so he finally saw the expression on the devout saint's face: beneath dark, lowered brows, his gaze was that of a king looking down at a territory he was about to claim. Pure, overwhelming hunger and ruthless intent enveloped Cristiano completely.

Cristiano's breath hitched. Under the razor-sharp intensity of that stare, his mind went entirely blank, spilling out uncontrollably into Kaká's burning palm.

Thick fluid soaked into the fabric, coating Cristiano's skin. The warm mess clouded his brain. Panting heavily, the post-orgasmic release washed over him like a tide, finally stripping away every spike and weapon he possessed.

"Are you calm now?" Kaká murmured near his ear, his heavy breathing still laced with unextinguished heat.

The legs wrapped around his waist had finally loosened. The wild panther was now flushed, eyes gleaming wet as he gasped for air, completely oblivious to how devastatingly undone he looked.

Kaká tore open his own clothes, glancing around the room. "The nearest bedroom is on the right."

Cristiano lay on the floor looking up at him, a brow twitching slightly. Kaká offered a faint smile, bending down to scoop him up into his arms.

The moment their bodies met, their lips collided in a desperate, famished kiss.

"Never thought we'd actually live to use this," Cristiano muttered, having stripped away the last annoying layer of clothing. He proudly displayed his sculpted body while watching Kaká meticulously squeeze out the lube.

Hearing the shaky, sarcastic lilt in Cristiano's voice, Kaká remained focused on what he was doing. He lifted Cristiano's right leg over his shoulder, turned his head to drop a reverent, burning kiss on the inside of his thigh, and then reached a finger toward Cristiano's most private, untouched space.

Even with the lube, this was their first real time. The moment Kaká tried to push past the entrance, he was met with stubborn, unyielding resistance. Cristiano let out a tight groan, his thigh muscles locking up as his entire body went rigid as steel.

"It hurts..." Cristiano gritted his teeth, cold sweat immediately breaking out on his forehead.

Kaká's expression turned equally stiff and flustered. As a devout believer who had strictly followed his faith, he lacked experience in this territory and had no real idea how to make anal prep seamless.

Feeling the alarming tightness and friction under his fingertips, Kaká stopped cold. Realizing the initial lubricant wasn't nearly enough, he reached over to grab the bottle again, squeezing out a generous, cool pool of it without holding back.

Coated in plenty of slick, he tried again, using a cautious, disciplined patience to slowly stretch open a domain no one had ever touched before.

Every tiny press of his fingers brought a rough drag of pain mixed with an unfamiliar, intense itch that sent shivers through Cristiano. Kaká worked a second finger inside, pressing and stretching in the narrow space, trying to clear a path.

"Bear with it, Cris..." Kaká's breathing was a total wreck. He rested his burning forehead against Cristiano's sweaty neck, his voice raspy beyond belief. "I... don't really know what I'm doing either."

That clumsy, vulnerable confession unexpectedly dismantled the last bit of Cristiano's defense. Enduring the full, stretching ache, he reached out with trembling arms to wrap around Kaká's back, forcing a low curse through his teeth: "Then just get inside... Stop talking..."

Kaká couldn't take the long, agonizing setup a second longer. Pulling his fingers free, he pressed his throbbing length against the entrance he had just painstakingly opened.

Without enough preparation, having his size pushed inside inch by inch brought an intense, tearing pain. Cristiano threw his head back, his fingers clutching the pillow in a vise grip as an agonizingly raspy cry escaped his throat. Kaká gasped at the sheer tightness engulfing him, his muscles locking up, not daring to move an inch further.

Yet that raw, painful friction carved reality into their blood and bone in a way that was impossible to escape.

Kaká leaned down, pausing his movement. He kissed Cristiano right between his brows, silently handing control back to him.

Cristiano panted heavily, his chest heaving up and down. Once the worst of the pain subsided, a darker, wilder heat ignited in his eyes. "Get in..."

His fingers opened instinctively, wanting to dig into Kaká's back muscles, but the moment he touched him, he let all his strength drain away. His hands rested gently on Kaká's shoulders instead, trembling slightly.

He loved Kaká too much. He couldn't bear to leave a single scratch on him. Kaká had already endured so much pain; if he could lessen it by even a fraction, he would. He couldn't bring himself to add to it.

Just as he was lost in his whirling thoughts, that overwhelming presence dragged ruthlessly across a delicate, hyper-sensitive spot inside—

"Ah—!"

Cristiano's entire body shuddered as his muscles spasmed out of control. A sharp, electric wave of pleasure shot straight up his spine into his brain, instantly erasing all the discomfort. A high, desperate cry spilled from his throat, resolving into broken, breathless whimpers.

Kaká kissed the shell of Cristiano's ear, hands moving down to stroke Cristiano's front, which was already stiff again from the intense stimulation. At the same time, he adjusted the angle of his hips, thrusting hard and precise right back into that insane spot!

"No... Kaká... wait... ah!" Cristiano's gasp shattered into wrecked, hoarse groans. Hit from both sides at once, Cristiano realized all over again just how terrifyingly smart his crush was. Didn't he just say he didn't know what he was doing?!

The constant crushing against his prostate was a sensation so intense it frightened him. It felt like he was hanging off the edge of a cliff, every heavy thrust pushing him deeper into total undoing. Was this angelic man actually a demon in disguise?

Noticing his dazed state, Kaká ran his warm tongue along the inside of Cristiano's ear, his hot panting matching the rhythm of the trembling body beneath him.

"Right here, isn't it?" Kaká's heavy breath hit Cristiano’s ear, his voice soft and sweet as honey, luring the panther in. "You're shaking so hard, Cris... Do you like it?"

Before the words fully settled, Kaká held nothing back. Snapping his hips, he began driving into that exact angle with a heavy, punishing speed!

"Ka... ka... nh..."

The overwhelming pleasure forced tears from the corners of Cristiano's eyes. It felt as if his soul was being driven out of his chest by Kaká's relentless depth. All his paranoia, his madness, his fear of being cursed—every bit of it was smashed to pieces under that ruthless, deep friction.

He could only cling to Kaká like a drowning man, wrapping his thighs tightly around Kaká's waist, letting himself drown completely in the high of the climax.

Kaká stared down at the tears glistening at the corners of Cristiano's eyes and his dazed, unfocused gaze. A sharp, aching wave of tenderness filled his chest. Cupping Cristiano's sweaty face, he leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing every broken groan.

It was a deep, messy, desperate kiss. Kaká used his tongue to claim every drop of air inside Cristiano’s mouth, drinking down every breathless whimpering sound.

When it was all over, the silence in the room was heavy and suffocating, thick with the scent of sex and lingering warmth.

Cristiano wrapped himself tightly in the messy bedsheets, his chest still rising and falling from the exertion. He rested his head weakly against Kaká's bare, warm chest.

"What did you wish for?" he asked softly, his voice muffled. "With that One Wish Willow?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted it. He wanted to pull away, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the warmth of Kaká's chest. In the end, he just rolled over, turning his back to him.

Kaká softly stroked Cristiano's damp hair, his thumb tracing the curve of his ear.

"By 'One Wish Willow,' do you mean that toy branch Marcelo gave me?" Kaká looked at Cristiano's rigid back, finding the sight impossibly endearing.

Cristiano let out a quiet, muffled, "Mhm."

Kaká reached out and pulled him firmly back into his arms. "I did make a wish on it, Cris. But how could I ever wish for you to leave me?"

"Then what did you wish for?" Cristiano's voice was barely a whisper. He turned back around, staring at Kaká. The soft, tender way the man looked at him melted the armor he had worked so hard to build back up.

Kaká's fingers traced the small of his back. Seeing how tense and dead-serious Cristiano looked, he let out a soft laugh. "Why are you suddenly bringing up a toy?"

He leaned down and kissed the tip of Cristiano's nose before speaking softly, "I don't even know if it came true."

As he spoke, the subtle vibrations of his chest traveled clearly through their skin. It carried a quiet, grounding peace that gradually stilled Cristiano's racing heart.

"I wished that when you opened your front door the next morning, you would step out into a clear sky and beautiful weather. I just wanted you to have a wonderful start to the New Year. Even if I couldn't be by your side."

Cristiano stared at him, his mind going completely blank.

A clear sky.

Memories rushed back like a tidal wave, slamming against his ribs in sync with his racing pulse.

Boxing Day morning. December 26th.

He remembered waking up in Madrid that morning feeling heavy and drained. He had pulled open the thick blackout curtains in his bedroom, expecting to see the dreary, gray winter fog typical of late December in Madrid.

Instead, the Madrid sky had been ablaze with a breathtaking, once-in-a-lifetime sunrise—a grand sweep of golden light, soft pink, and deep violet. The air had been crisp, cold, and utterly still. It was a morning so unrealistically beautiful that Cristiano, who usually rushed straight into his training routine, had stood frozen by the window for ten whole minutes, staring at the horizon before he could bring himself to start his workout.

That was the gift Kaká had left him. And tragically, that gift had twisted into a heavy chain that tormented them both for two long months.

Cristiano remained silent as Kaká's cool lips gently kissed away the tear that slid down his cheek. The violent, reckless fire that had raged inside his chest for months finally died down, turning into warm, silent embers.

The next morning, Cristiano woke up to the sound of Kaká's steady breathing.

Moving quietly so as not to wake him, he slipped out of bed, pulled back the curtains, and opened the window.

The crisp March air of Madrid rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and earth. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky; sunlight washed across the entire horizon.

It was an impossibly clear sky.

Cristiano took a deep breath of the cold, clean air. Then he turned, walked back to the bed, and slid right back into that warm, waiting embrace.