bed_shapped

Series: Professionalism
Title: Cornetti and Brioches in the morning
Pairing(s): David Beckham/Fredrik Ljungberg, David Beckham/others, Fredrik Ljungberg/Markus Rosenberg
Genre: RPS AU
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Fredrik is a Cinderella in love with the wrong prince.

Author’s Notes: Professionalism is an AU series. It’s my take of what things would be like if these guys aren’t playing football. Have you ever thought what David Beckham and Freddie Ljungberg would be if they had zero football skills? Well I did. Hence I cooked up this warp little fic. I hope you will enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction, spurn by my imagination.


Four years back, I was taking orders and cleaning greasy tables at one of those British Authentic Fish and Chips diners which were invading the whole town. It wasn’t a very satisfying job but I just needed the money to buy records. I was in my last year of upper-secondary school, playing football, ice hockey and handball, going to the movies with friends, getting love letters from girls just like any other boy of 18.

It happened one day when I met the fussiest man ever in my life. He was dressed conspicuously in a sharp suit with a signet ring on his pinkie. He wanted his fish drained of oil from the fry, and he wanted his chips with ‘a slight pinch’ of salt, crispy and when I asked him what drink he would like, cola or iced water, he replied no, and took out a silver flask from his jacket pocket. I wrote down his order and brought it to the kitchen, confused as to why would such a man eat at a place like this that was absolutely ‘downgrading’.

Needless to say his order took quite some time than the average ones as he was so particular about the oil. We paper-toweled his fish, changing the paper twice when the oil seep through it thin. When I brought to him his plate of fish and chips, he was tapping his sharp leather oxfords at me, a sign of his impatience.

Without a word of gratitude he begun slicing his fish into tiny pieces quickly and squeezed the lemon onto the golden brown crumbed skin of the fish before tucking in. The other waiters were sniggering at his manners, which were a girl’s.

He was a fast eater, chewing silently. And when it came for the bill, he asked me a question that would change my life.

“Excuse me, but would you like to be a model?”

At this point, I turned my suspicions on him fully. Perhaps he is a Soviet spy? A serial kidnapper? Whatever he was, he wasn’t up to any good.

“Why don’t you think about it? Here’s my name card,” he said as he dropped a crisp piece of 50 Kronas and left immediately.

I looked at his card and read the words:

Models 1 Agency.

Just then, the nosey waitress Martina snatched the contact card from my hands and squinted at the words.

“Well, what’s this, another gay admirer?” she said snidely, Sweden is known for our very open policy on sexuality. Frankly speaking, there were a couple of guys who come into the shop to hook me up. I don’t know whether it’s supposed to be flattering, but I find it dead embarrassing. I have a homo’s face. As Jules, the dish washer puts it.

I watch Martina as she squinted at the words printed, “Model’s 1”? She shrieked, her palms came into contact with my back, hard, and I choked. Again and again, she dealt me with slaps that were tagged with different swear words.

“The lucky bastard has just been scouted and may make it big!”

“Jagger’s wife!”

“Jerry Hall is from Model 1!”

Martina kept on blubbering as I drifted off into dream land.

Mick Jagger!

Well almost, his wife…

Now if I could get in touch with her, it’s as good as knowing Jagger!

Then I could meet the rest of The Stones! Think about it!

Of course, that’s a silly little fantasy of mine.

Because two months later, I packed my bags to Madrid, one of the fashion capitals of the world.

My mother was very proud. Rather of herself than me. Her boy was going to be dressed in the finest! She sent a letter to her sisters and her friends, telling them that I am going to be a model. But I had better known her intention, which was to show off to everyone that she passed her ‘ beauty genes’ to me.

My father… He wasn’t at all glad.

Picking up his cigarettes and his morning papers, he gruffly said, “One woman in the family is enough!”

Filip, my younger brother, was more interested in getting Spanish football kits.

“Get me Maradona’s please! Cruijff too!” he begged.

He must be crazy! There is no place in Madrid for Barca’s jerseys.



I made my debut on Giorgio Armani alongside another Swede, Markus Rosenberg, or rather Mark. None of the other boys believed we were Swedes because they thought ‘all Swedish people are blonde’. And then, I concluded that most models are dumb. So Swedish people are blonde but they can’t do something about their hair colour? I hate being stereotyped, like all Americans love hotdogs and all Brits drink tea and the Chinese eat anything and everything? That’s rubbish!

On that very same show, I met an acquaintance, Kaká who is Brazilian and the muse of Armani. He wasn’t like the others despite being on good terms with the designer. He wasn’t arrogant and pretentious, but rather timid and soft-spoken.

DON’T YOU KNOW? HE’S ARMANI’S NEW TOY BOY! The boy sitting next to me getting his hair done snapped.

Shrugging, I decided I had enough of his continuous bitching and slipped the earphones of my walkman in.

Many people wondered what we do before the show, and I’ll fill you in. Well, we basically arrive at the venue pretty early, maybe 5 hours? The make-up artist and the hair stylist pass us around each other, and- okay you can gasp, but we actually mess around, it depends on whose show you were doing. Giorgio was pretty relaxing and we got to dribble the ball around while waiting for our turn with the fitting of the clothes before getting a quick Polaroid shot of each individual then, the show starts.

Some of the other older models were smirking at us, giving their friends snide glances under their half-lidded eyes as the artist does their brows and lashes.

I heard a lot of stories about the fashion industry before I left home, and most of it weren’t very nice. Basically, they all say the industry is nasty and if you want things served to you in a silver platter, you got to claw and fight your way for it.

It’s not me, I don’t do such things just to get my way. I don’t have to get things my way.

I can be myself.

I can’t change just because the environment around me demands.

I won’t, lose myself.

The words are in my head, in the morning when I wake up, before I start a show, at night before I sleep and times when I wanted to scream so badly. It really works.

Perhaps once there was a time where the mantra broke.

If there was a vision of the perfect man, maybe David Beckham is the answer.

Apparently, according to Kaká, David has been the ‘It’ boy for the last two years. He had scores of contracts and was the face of many campaigns, Burberry, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Versace… You name it, he has graced their catwalks and was shot in their clothes in ads. Between whispers, others say he was even offered a million to escort some American Actress to an award show.

… DAVID IS A GIGOLO! Someone hissed under his breath.

Ah...Jealousy. It’s always common when you’re on the top. Many people would think of a million ways to bring you down.

YOU KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF HIM! A model called Michael snapped at me, when I was caught looking at David.

Yes, I remembered, it was Kaká who introduced us. But we didn’t exactly hit of particularly well or so because it was so brief. David was the kind of person at the party, whom you would say ‘hi’ he would shake your hand limply, his eyes would rover about as he was not interested and the next moment you’d know, he would flit to the next person he has his eyes on.

I was not very captivating, and I didn’t have enough charm to mingle long with him. So he took his champagne glass and left.



It wasn’t till a month later when I met David again. By that time I was a regular for Calvin Klein and Dolce & Gabanna, flying back and forth from Milan and New York. Markus my fellow Swede and I room together now; he too was a regular walker for CK and D&G.

CK has just launched a new fragrance and being their ‘employees’, we were invited to the cocktail party, at a new museum celebrating minimalism- you know how Calvin Klein is… Markus was taken ill that day and decide to spend the night in his bunk sleeping. I arrived alone at the venue, in my casuals. Jeans and another one of my many concert tees.

I sure stood up (like a sore thumb) among the sea of ladies dressed to kill and men in their smooth suits. Gosh, even the waiters looks tons better than me. Feeling out of place and with no one to talk to, I slid into the corner near the exit trying to make my wine last as long as it could. I didn’t want to go back to the table and get stares.

Then, the exit door open from behind, and I jumped a little in my Pumas, the smell of cigarettes drifted in with the cool evening breeze and someone tapped my shoulders.

“Got a light?” the stranger asked. The overpowering smell of his cologne hit me. Spicy and minty.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” I shook my head and apologies. The dim light of the museum affected my sight of the stranger, but I could catch a glimpse of his smile.

“It’s alright, just thought you might have it on you.” I smile a bit. It’s my hair. I got it dyed a dark brown and then highlighted a red fin across it. I loved it. It was a reminiscent of Sid Vicious. Flip side of the style was that many people assumed I was a skinhead and thus the whole smoking, swearing, shooting up persona comes in. What did I say about being generalized?

“May I have a swig of that?” his finger pointed at my glass.

“Mighty cold out there,” he commented as I passed him my drink.

What was I doing? I usually didn’t share my drinks with others. I have a certain thing about saliva consciousness.

Maybe I was lonely...

Maybe I just needed someone…

Or maybe it was the scent he wore, that drugged, whatever the lure was, it was obvious he has quite a way with women and men.

“I know this isn’t Rome, but have you been biking around the city at night?’ he asked, swiping away the moistness of his lips.

“No, I uh- I take the bus, then I walk…” I replied lamely, and wanted to slap myself silly for putting myself in a way dorks do.

The stranger let out a little laugh and pulled out something from his pocket; it was jingling in his hands, like spare change.

“Come on then,” he cajoled me, taking my arm in his leather clad one.

We got out of the stuffy place as he held me by my wrist, leading us to a screaming red Vespa.

“A friend loaned it to me when I got to the city,” he explained, handing me a helmet. He crossed his long leg over to the other side and started the scooter.

“You ready, mate?” he turned around and through the lens of his goggles; I could see the same startling Hazel eyes that jolted every woman in magazine pages. I gasp, wondering if it was part to my drunkenness that I see him, David Beckham- the supermodel!

“Hold on tight,” he warned as he kick start the accelerator, My hands were firmly planted on the metal that handle that supports the spare wheel at the back of me.

“Your first time in Milan?” he asked over the roar of the traffic.

“No.”

“By the way, I haven’t got your name yet!”

“Fredrik!” I shouted over the gust of wind that blew against us when we rode.

“Freddie? May I?” He couldn’t recognize me. He couldn’t remember that I was the rookie boy in Mr.Armani’s show that Kaká introduced. Then again, why should he? I was nobody and he had many other names in his mind.

He turned to face me just as I was to nod my head to his question and our helmets clashed, the sound, an endless ringing in my head, throbbing badly along with the alcohol’s effect.

“I’m sorry!” my voice was barely recognizable as I let out a tiny squeak.

“I’m David,” he laughed again, “is your head fine?”

“Yes it is!”

Eleven, and the roads were not as busy, we were speeding down the asphalt, zipping in and out of the lanes, passing by the many grand boulevards and magnificent cathedrals, screaming out heads off into the cold night air. We forgot time, we forgot where we were and I forgot where I lived- the model agency’s apartment.

“You don’t have a curfew do you?” David asked as he pulled up in front of a low, stoic grey building. I bit my lip trying to register his words. But I gave up, my brain clearly wasn’t thinking after being sloshed, I am one who doesn’t hold drinks too well and that has become a joke among friends.

“Let’s get you inside shall we?’ his eyes glint with cheekiness as he winked. The blood rush to my head just got faster and faster, my heart in sync, the rhythm in speed of a death metal band. We walked up two floors, but it felt like ten, because my feet were heavy with weariness and my head was woozy from the slight concussion earlier. David was going on about the house, I could make out the words ‘friend’s’, ‘duplex’ and ‘nobody’ weaving them into an interpretation on my own.

By now, my legs were jelly and I leaned onto his sturdy frame as he went through his leather jacket for his keys. I was making all sorts of weird noises, and I wasn’t aware of it myself till the next morning. But David told me I sounded ‘just like a cat who wants some milk’.

Well, maybe I did sound like desperate kitty because ten minutes later after a lot of groping and tender little kisses on certain erogenous zones, triggering a full-blown lust, the crave for the sense of touch. Soon, the next thing I knew we were on the leather couch, hips thrusting, bodies breeching, grinding our freed erections against one another. My headache just got worse, the pain was swelling beyond control and it was starting to get numb when David got his lips around the head of my cock, the pressure of his tongue running and licking the slit was enough to start a brain hemorrhage.

“Stop it!” I pleaded. I was going up in flames in any minute from now.

Looking insulted, his eyes turn up at me. “Why?” He got it wrong. I didn’t mean that.

“Please, do me.” I begged, wishing for him to be on the same track as I was.

I never did talk much especially when breath was drawn away from my lungs.

“I- I want you to feel…” The euphoria was better than the first and only time I did coke in a club back home.

“Now!”

We are demanding, young and impatient.

Never keep someone waiting. It’s rude.

Seems like David knows his manners! Because he didn’t beat around the bush, but was always got to the point, was never selfish but instead put other’s pleasure before his, like the boy all mothers wanted as a son, David certainly didn’t waste natural resources and was a great help at cleaning up.

I woke up to the smell of vanilla, strong, sweet and warm, Cornetti and Brioches! Markus and I always eat them because they are always available from the bakery when we sleep in.

“A cuppa for you?”

Delighted, I was. Nobody has ever served me breakfast in bed before. Not even my mother when I was sick in bed. For someone to do such a thing for me, he has to be the one.

“The one, Ljungberg, is the one who will hold your hand through rain or shine, okay, maybe not so, because he will be holding the umbrella when the rain comes pouring. ” Martina stated, squeezing the dish rag dry.

“That’s all?” Jules snorted.

“The one also loves you unconditionally-“

“Whoa! Big word huh!”

“Shut up will you!” She sprinkled some water at him. “I’m trying to tell the boy here who is THE ONE!”

“So, the one also loves you unconditionally even when you’re old, white and wrinkly. He will go to the ends of the earth… just for- you.” She paused, trying to be dramatic, batting her eyes as if she was on camera.

Jules sniggered and the other boys laughed out loud.

“What a pretty picture you paint, Martina!” they whistled.

“Straight out of a romance novel! You certainly have been reading!” Simone ducked just in time when the sponge came flying in his direction.

Funny how easily contented I could get. My friends say I’m a fool. What is a fool? Someone who got a nibble of the cake and declared it the best he ever had and then, doesn’t fight for the whole slice.

We went out for a couple of months. I’m mainly based in Milan and David is everywhere. We talk on the phone but it was expensive. Time is expensive. Then, we rarely got to see each other. Soon, he was hounded by the Americans. They are absolutely crazy about him. He gets tons of letters from girls contemplating suicide if he wouldn’t see them.

He was on NBC’s morning show, performing a skit on Saturday Night Live and hosted MTV. It was inevitable that he would soon settle down in Tinseltown. The ladies of the silver screen adored him; their husbands traded style tips with him. He was everyone’s best friend.

Then, I saw it coming.

“We can’t go on anymore,” he said. Just like the lead in the any Box Office film would to his girlfriend before he left her to ‘save the world’.

Could I say ‘no’?

I must be insane because I did.

“If you love him, let him go…”

It’s a soap opera, my life. And I hate soaps because all the channels are just full of never-ending sagas that reduce me to tears- of boredom whenever I’m alone in our Milan apartment.

That happened two months ago. Everything around me is silence. The phone doesn’t ring now. People talk to me, but I can’t seem to hear what they are talking about. I get letters, but they weren’t from him.

I miss him.

So much, every time I closed my eyes, I saw the two of us on the scooter, riding down the streets of Milan.


We went our own separate ways. David spent most of his time being filmed and I was working my butt off to become a regular in Boss, Gucci, Gaultier and Calvin Klein. I was climbing up the rankings with Markus and the numbers on our paycheck extended.

A stroke of luck!

New product launches, advertising campaigns, the new season’s collection gala premier, these are all opportunity points in a model’s career. You know how every designer has a muse or maybe what you call an inspiration? Calvin Klein spotted me after his runway in New York Fashion week.

“I’ve never seen you before,” he commented.

“Are you new?”

“Yes and no Mr. Klein, I’ve been here for more than year now.”

“What’s your name,” my mouth runs dry, I’ve never been able to hold someone’s attention, and now one of America’s biggest names is interested.

“Fredrik.”

”European…”

“Swedish,” I declared proudly; British models are monopolizing the trade. Elizabeth Hurley. Kate Moss. Jodie Kidd. Naomi Campbell.

He let out a chuckle and I felt like I had played myself like the fool I was.

I can never seem to choose the right words to say what I mean.

“I like you Swedes! There’s an air of freedom about your country!” he exclaimed.

“Sexual freedom,” OH! My mouth couldn’t help it. He laughed at me.

“Free,” Mr. Klein went on, “from all inhibitions.” A waiter offered us a platter of Carr’s with pâté, a very popular finger food served during receptions at all shows.

“And that’s what CK is about, can I say an attitude that says ‘I don’t give a shit’, pardon me.”

“It’s alright, Sir.”

“Ah… you Europeans and your manners. Just call me Calvin.” He crunched on the olive of his martini.

“So where was I? Yes, Fredrik, we would like you to come aboard and be the next face. You’re going to be Helen of Troy, Fredrik, your face will launch a thousand sales!"

“What do you think?”

“I do like it,” Truth is, I just didn’t care anymore, actually. Lately, walking down the shows is like taking a trip to the doctors- a heart of dread and uncertainty.


You know how happiness is short-lived? I had the papers delivered to my front steps the next day with David hogging the headlines again.

So he’s engaged to the pop-princess Victoria Adams.

It was barely one month since our split and he is engaged.

I can’t put a finger to what this means. I don’t want to think about it.

The papers never reached Markus that day because I tossed it out of our apartment.


A week later I was in their studio doing a shot for their famed tight whities. Then, the negatives were developed and sent for printing. They called me to go down and view the pictures. But I didn’t want to go out, so I declined politely and hung up the call. Is there a point in seeing the finishing when you were involved in the process?

“Freddie,” someone called me from behind. It could only be Markus. Since we were the only two in the house.

“What’s wrong with you?” he queried, his eyes shone with concern. His arms were by the side of his pajamas- consisting of an old worn out K-Swiss shirt.

“Nothing’s wrong.” The call woke me up from a rare Saturday where I could sleep in and that irked me. And now, Markus is looking at me with his big eyes, imploring.

“You haven’t been much of yourself lately, I’m just worried. That’s all.”

“Well, you can stop worrying now. I’m the new face of Calvin Klein.” I gritted my teeth. Why can’t he just go back to sleep, or eat his Cornetti and Brioches? Why can’t he just go be himself? I’m sick of it.

Can’t anyone see that I’m not? Yet they still ask when they know the answer in their heads. They are on tip-toes around me, fussing and treating me with extreme caution. I hate it. I just want to be treated just like I was before I left home.

I walked towards my room without a word and he calls my name again.

“Freddie! Please!” his hand is on my arm, pulling me, then, the unfamiliar but warmth feeling started to spread when his arms circle my waist. I can feel his head between my shoulder blades, resting.

I don’t know if anger dissipates by melting, because it’s a fire.

This whole while, these few months, the black hole within me, the void that David left was replaced with negativity that was slowly eating me away. I hardly recognize myself.

Where was the teenager who worked at that damned Fish & Chips diner? The waiter who had gay customers stalking him? The punk with the dyed black hair and the red fin whom everyone knows as ‘Sid’? The boy who had an objecting father, a doting mother and a pesky little brother- the boy who had a family?

He’s faint.

I went out less frequently, I spend my time coop up with the feeling that David gave me, I thought he made me the most special person on earth. I’m the one whom he serves, whom he feeds Cornetti and Brioches to by hand, the one who wakes up with aromatic coffee brewed with his love and time.

“I always love you, since the moment we crossed paths at the agency,” Markus whispered.

“I wanted to be roomed with you, I kept my fingers crossed and you were my roomie!”

“Everything was going my way, and then David came.” He continued confessing, his eyes drooping in spirit.

“I thought God must be screwing me up, first he gives you to me and then he snatches you away from me.”

“That morning when I woke up I went to the living room and I see David, and I know what had happened. It broke my heart.” ‘my heart’, the way he said it sounds like it was made of paper, flimsy, light, easily crushed and blown away by the wind.

Was I capable of wrenching anyone’s heart?

Did I hurt him that bad?

My head goes through the moments I had with David. The morning we first woke up together. Coffee. Cornetti and Brioches! It hit my head.

“Markus,” I pried his fingers off my waist and held them in my hands, firmly.

“The Cornetti and Brioches, did you buy them or did David get them himself?”

I want to know. The truth.

Markus kept his silence, and I waited patiently.

“You don’t have to speak for him,” the truth came to light. “I know.”

David can’t even pronounce Cotoletta alla Milanese when he takes me out for a date, let alone Cornetti and Brioche.

What was I thinking?

How could I be fooled?

David hated sugars; he hated eating them because they ruin his physique. He doesn’t even take coffee because the caffeine slows down his metabolism and turns his teeth yellow. He’s a total health freak.

End of debate- he IS a FREAK. And I am a freak for loving one.

“I’ve been so stupid,” I told Markus, “are you sure you love me?”

He nods his blonde head sincerely. “I really do.” He hugs me again, clinging on, afraid that I would leave him.

I may not love him as much as he loves me in return now but I know I will love him more as the days pass.

It takes two hands to clap.

Watching Björn Borg on television, I found out that love has to be exchanged to be experienced; it’s a give and take thing. Like a tennis match- we serve to start a game and return the serve to continue play.

“What you waiting for? The Cornetti and Brioches are going to run out fast!” I take his hand in mine and we walked to the nearest deli, never letting each other go.

Title: Buying Stolen Time (2/?)
Author: Closet Child
Pairing: Ryan Giggs/Ole Gunnar Solskjaer
Summary: Ryan thinks during his free time, about things that have gone to pass.
Rating: NC-17 (for sexual situations)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction, spurn by my imagination.

Author’s Notes: I tried to separate reality from fiction. Looking at some more pictures I got of Giggs and Solskjaer, it’s impossible! It’s inevitable to think that they are more than simple friends on and off pitch!


For a second, it looks as though he didn’t understand English.

Slowly, he blinks his eyes at me, nodding his head perhaps to convince me he understood. But I wasn’t sure.

I waited for him to say something, even if it’s one word. Just something I can cling on to.

He opens his mouth and I strained my ears to pick up his wee voice.

“I… love Noah and Karna...” His face full of uncertainty.

“I love my children as well,” I added solemnly. Does he think me of a player? Someone who would run off with the one he desires, leaving his responsibilities behind? Some kids are rascals, but you still love them anyway. Maybe not those on Super Nanny. God awful kids who kick and scream so much even a spanking didn’t help.

“I love you as if you were my own, as if you are mine.”

Ollie has his gaze settled on the television, three feet away from us.

Oh God, is he avoiding me?

I cannot stomach anymore rejections.

After the pregnant pause, he turns his pretty head and looks at me, “I was yours,” he said quietly. He puts it as though I have stopped loving him. Truthfully speaking, I never did. I always thought of him every single time I had.

“I’m now someone’s Ryan, and so are you,” reminding me that I have a wife, sadly. I do like her, however, if I wasn’t a footballer making tens of thousands of pounds a week, I wonder if she would like me. I wonder if any girl would like me for that matter.

“I know.” Ollie leans the back of his calves against the foot of the bed, his body swaying gently. The whole room was in still and I see him, illuminated, basking in the brightest light that I have ever seen, bursting, burning my sight.

His knees buckled and he lands on the bed bouncing slightly, his golden locks too. From where I stood, he looked like a young boy, lost, as if he cannot find his seat number in the Theatre of Dreams.

Now, the distance between us has gotten wider. I couldn’t stand for it.

“Ollie,” I breathed, taking a step closer. “I’m may be with her in name, but you’re in my heart for always.”

“Am I in yours?”

Again, I ask a question and he hesitated.

Be damned, why do I put him in a position where he is in a dilemma and I am facing the threat of an obvious disappointment?



This time, he took long, his brows knitted in thought.

Maybe it was wise for him not to answer.

“You don’t have to say yes, you know?”

“You don’t have to please me,” there was a crack in my voice, I heard.

Why am I so afraid to know his answer?

Why am I so desperate for love?

Why am I so desperate for his love?

There is a little part in you and me, in everyone, that wants to be cuddled, hugged and stroked, in safety, in assurance in love.

We all want to be loved.

We crave for tender kisses and gentle caresses.

People want to be valued, a treasure that everyone wants to have and keep forever, locked in a very special place.

My heart. It’s racing in my ribcage. My hands, they are itching to meet his skin. My mouth, so dry, I need something to calm my nerves!

“Do you know Ryan, any word I give you, is going to hurt someone?” he sighs deeply, his blue eyes that light up when he smiles are now, troubled.

“It’s going to hurt our families or either one of us.” Lashes fluttering up and down as he continued to avoid my eyes.

I changed my mind; I didn’t want to know who had the greater share in his heart. “Then, may the casualty be me, for I only ask of you to be happy,” saying this I felt like I had put myself in a trap.

I wanted a happy ending. A happy ending doesn’t involve pain or loss; it’s all about everyone living happily ever after. You, me, our wives and kids, which is crap because even an idiot knows that doesn’t exist.




Selfish.

That’s what he said.

“I’m selfish,” he replied in a very Zen-like way. His fingers twisting with the bed covers underneath him, legs crossed never touching the carpet.

“I’ve lived for my parents, Silje, the kids… I have to live for myself.”

“Ryan, how I would love to say yes,” Ollie went on, “it’s just so difficult to say no, just as it is to say yes…”

He’s talking to the floor. Well, he is facing the ground. I want to scream at him, “LOOK AT ME!” Why is he so afraid to do so?

Instead, I call his name, “Ollie”, two syllabus, slowly, my hands are attracted to his face, like poles of an opposite magnet, they reach for him, tilting his chin, so his eyes show clearly and I can see the truth in them.

Do his eyes shine with happiness or are they glazed in pain?

And I see it. The answer has been found.

Bringing my face close to his, I slipped my tongue into his soft pliant lips, crushing them against mine, I brought him down, leaning, pinning him onto the bed.

The bed must be pretty new, the springs of the mattress were strong and resistant, pushing him up against me, pressing our bodies together.

A change in temperatures, hot, when I was taking a shower, cold, when I got out of it, and we’re now building up the heat in the room.

Cupping his pixie face in my hands, I peer closely, absorbing his pleasure-filled face, the way his eyes shut tightly, the way they flicker in denial and resistance, the way they roll up his head in ecstasy, his nostrils, flaring slightly, breathing deeply, lips rosier, parted slightly, moist and raw from the ravishing, his hair, the sun-streaked locks, tangle as his head tossed side to side when his body trashed against me.

I wish I could take a picture, to remember this forever.

Isn’t it fine the way it is? I’d rather this moment be stored in my head, locked away in the few but sacred and treasured memories that we share.

They went automatically to his shirt buttons, my fingers, undoing them, exposing him bit by bit.

My tongue wants to savor him, licking down his throat, smelling his cologne, further down his pale, well defined chest before going sideways for his little pert nipples. What a treat, delectable much more than he was ever, some women say when men age, they get better, somewhat like wine, Ollie was one of them, except, he doesn’t seem to age a single bit.

Circling his hard little nub, tugging gently at them with my teeth, scraping them, I feel Ollie’s hands on the back of my neck, gently massaging them. My heart swells, as I know he was permitting, encouraging me. I’m glad to know he isn’t against his will, but he is of free will. And with his choice, I’ll make right.

“Ryan,” he cooed as I had my hands on the front of his trousers that were tenting under.

Stopping whatever I was doing to him, I looked up at his face to hear him speak.

“I’m the happiest man in Cape Town,” he says.

“You have no idea,” I slid up, next to his body, “I’m the happiest man in the world right now,” then, I press my insistent lips that rarely got a chance to taste him, against his. Our tongues collide, they curl in each other’s warm cavern, lips locked, arms folded around each other.

We’re hungry.

We’re desperate.

We want each other so damn much, no one could ever understand.

The years.

The wait.

The torture.

Of having someone around you and you can’t have him.

So near, yet so far.

Raking nails on my forearms got my attention of his escalating needs, and I turn to him. Rubbing my palm against his crotch, being the helpful, selfless man he was, Ollie returned the favour by undressing me. Now his delicate fingers are roving on my chest, running through the hair on them.

“Carpet grass!” his name for my chest and the giggles over it from years ago sprouted in my head.



“The putting green,” he referred, acknowledging my chest.

“Where’s the hole?” a question bent on naughty action to happen, hopefully.

“Is it here? ” I pointed at my belly button innocently.

“Or is it-”

“You and I both know how to put the ball in the net, ”a hot, sassy reply came back.

“I thought we were talking golf! ”



Here he is, lying under me, his bare, hairless legs splayed before me,

From below, I can see his chest rising and falling, heaving as he inhaled deeply.

I have my hands on his jewels, plump, stored with several days of precious seed that will soon be sowed.

My lips descend again, this time, on his semi-hardness that expands length-wise when I go down. Cock in hand, bringing it to life, feeling it hot like a fever swept through his body.

Mothers used to sponge their children’s skin with wet towels when their temperature rose.

Knowing the only cure for Ollie right now, I pushed the swollen head pass my lips into my mouth, I can feel him ease, his moans were long as I lapped at his heat, taking in as much as I could, that my nose bumped onto his taut stomach, inhaling his scent.

“Oh…”

He jolted, stiffened in my mouth and hands, legs parting wider, moaning in the throes of passion.

Unexpectedly, there was an urgent knock at the door and we both groaned.

What could be a worse timing then now? Ollie grudgingly pulled up his briefs quick, getting them in a knot, he tripped and fell on the carpet. I pull him up and gave him a quick kiss.

“Are you alright?”

The knocks become frantic and they turned into hurrying bangs.

“Giggs! Are you in there?”

“Open up! I got some crocodiles at my heels!” He actually meant the media. That’s why we stay out of the limelight. It’s quite terrifying actually. Gary, Paul and I don’t enjoy getting snapped at these days. I guess it was just a phase when you are young. You want to be known. You want to be famous.

Reluctantly, I let go of Ollie, and pulled my shorts up hastily before answering the door.



That’s Paul.

He always sinks in surprises when and where you least expects him to. Maybe not surprises, but rather shocks, yes that is the right word the opponents would use.

Pulling away the latch, I let him in.

“My God!” he exclaimed, bursting through the door, catching is breath. I assumed he was running for quite a distance.

“I just stepped into a lingerie store and they think I am keeping a mistress or visiting some hooker!” he shakes his head and throws his shopping bags aside.

A Storm in a teacup.

The news loves to cook up new stories and attention-grabbing headlines to increase their sales. But you can never trust what you read, especially when the papers have a gossip column and a page with an ‘innocent’ in her birthday suit on page three.

Paul notices that we weren’t alone.

“Ollie! Say, when did you get here?”

He flushed and looked away from Paul shyly, “was just passing…”

“I should make a move,” he announced softly.

“Well then, take care ‘Sunny’,” Paul kicked his shoes off and they fly to the corner of the room.

“Least you rise early tomorrow at the crack of dawn!”

Ollie makes a face at him; ‘Sunny’ was tagged with him because when he first arrived in the team, none of us could pronounce his name right. So we called him ‘Sunny’, the blondeness of him and all.

“’I’ll walk you back,” aloud, I waved at Paul, “don’t you sleep yet! I’m not taking the key with me and I don’t want to be locked out!”

The ginger head threw his crumpled sock at me. What manners, really! Sometimes I forget he’s 31. Being a year older than him, doesn’t make much of a difference. We’re the same boys who worked hard and played alongside through the 90s towards the Treble, a milestone in our careers.



“You don’t have to,” Ollie whispered, place a hand over mine as I closed the door behind me.

“Sorry about Paul,” I admit I was a little annoyed with my mate for killing the moment. To think that I had crossed all obstacles! But there is still a final hurdle.

I scanned the hallway. The club had booked the entire level. And I wouldn’t want to implicate Ollie’s chances as well as mine, in playing professionally. Homosexuals are always stigmatized in the field of sports, even though they are being gradually accepted by the open society.

Ollie took my other hand and held them for a while, looking, in thought.

“Perhaps another time?” he suggested.

“I gladly make time for you,” I stole a quick glance for any living soul, and leaned forward, to seal a light kiss on his baby-smooth cheek.

“Anything, for you.”

We got to his room, three doors down and I waited for him to get inside, “Goodnight,” I bade him, and he gave a wry smile back, he stood there for a few seconds.

“Where do we go?” he asked, “from here.”

Lost.

We’re stuck, he hinted.

I too, have no idea where this is going to take us.

Are we any different from yesterday?

From a few years back?

Will we be the same tomorrow and forever?

“We’re and we’ll be.” What an ambiguous reply that is enough for us now.

He nods slowly, trying to decipher the phrase. But what I really meant was that we were always the same, yesterday today and tomorrow. It’s a constant feeling, hard to believe and rare.

Is there such a thing as ‘unwavering, unconditional love’ that exists?

It seems I’m throwing a boomerang at myself, with all these thinking.

“Sleep tight.” One last kiss, I can’t bear to part, a creeping feeling in my heart that tomorrow will be different.

He threw his arms around me for a hug, close, “I love you,” only for my ears to hear.

The side of the door, closing, he’s disappearing inch by inch from my eyes. The last thing I saw that night was his beautiful smile and the twinkle in his eyes, entrapping, arresting my soul.

YES!

ABSOLUTELY STUNNING!

I THOUGHT THE GAME WAS GOING TO WASTE! With all that saves Van der Saar was doing and very little action happening near Dudek's goal post. O'SHEA SAVED AND MADE MY DAY, ALONG WITH OTHER UNITED FANS WORLD WIDE!

1-0

POOR SCHOLES WHO GOT SENT OFF... BUT HE MUST BE GRINNING! Knowing the famed behaviour of Pool fans, the reception at Anfield must be rather nasty!

IN CELEBRATION OF THE VICTORY, AND OF GIGGSY'S 700th GAME (Wow! 700th! He sounds old huh? And a win over our northern rivals... A wonderful gift indeed!) I Have yanked out a couple of shots between Ryan and Ole! In lieu of my chapter which I'll try to finish by today before I start work!





They are inseperable, EVEN during training! Aw... I think the boys looks cute in their little shorts! >___<





C'MON! LET'S CELEBRATE BUD!



Is it me, or does Ollie have legs of a pre-teen boy? THEY ARE HAIRLESS! Maybe it's b'cos he's blonde...



On the other hand, Ryan is quite a hairy- bear. Ha! Look at Ollie gaping!



Ollie seems to be around Ronnie a lot....







Or maybe Ronny was near Ollie all these while just to be close to Ryan! *gasp



So you think everyone wants Cristiano? Solskjaer is HOT property and he seems pretty nonchalant about it...





There is always a trail after him.



He looks older and sad here in G.Best's Memorial Service last year... They all looks so suave in their jackets! Edwin looks bored though. Giggsy is trying to concentrate but Edwin keeps folding his paper, making wierd noises. Scholes is crossed and glares at Edwin before looking back in front.











But Ryan is here, with his arms wide open for Ollie anytime, whether he feels down or not.





Okay, and maybe others, besides Ryan.



Neville is shocked! He has no idea Ryan and Ollie were going on!



And they still are...

Title: Buying Stolen Time (1/?)
Author: Closet Child
Pairing: Ryan Giggs/Ole Gunnar Solskjaer
Summary: Ryan thinks during his free time, about things that have gone to pass.
Rating: PG-13 (for now)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the mentioned. This is purely a work of fiction, spurn by my imagination.

Author’s Notes: The time frame is real. Wales never made it to Germany last year. I got some picture off the web of Utd touring visiting the UNICEF hospital in Capetown, South Africa. Ole was sitting next to Giggsy and I scoured through some other pictures during their visit to S.Africa and I found training shots of them stretching together! Little details weave to form a story (:. Hope you enjoy it!



The rest of the mates were in Germany, probably stressing their head and body out. The Gaffer had us flown to South Africa. We were going to do some community work as well as play a little tournament with the local clubs. Quite a way to past time, I would say. Sometimes I would feel a tinge of regret; was I stupid to not play for England.

Why did I choose to represent Wales?

I could have more chances in the international stage with the Three Lions…

But I was born in Wales… Never ever felt English despite moving there since 7. The kids would always put a stick on me because of my ‘funny’ accent. So I lost it real fast… Then the football part came in, soon, every boy wanted to be my friend and every girl wanted to be with me. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t play ball well?

I guess that there would always be another option.

Life is much simpler if you thought less about things and much happier if you didn’t think ‘what if?’.

Right now, I am in an orphanage for kids with HIV/AIDS. Most of them thin with the illness that is eating up their body’s immune system. Yet they still have smiles on their faces. The kind of smiles that break your heart. I had a talk with one of the volunteers, and I know some of them won’t live to see the coming August.

Seated on a little stool, I am playing with a boy of seven years, Chioke, and a nine year old girl, Jendayi, whose name meant ‘Give Thanks’. It was a beautiful name, I told her, but secretly to myself, I thought it was very ironic. Many times, we ask God if he was playing a cruel joke on us when we hit a rough patch. These kids, I don’t think they did anything to wrong anyone; they didn’t deserve this kind of fate.

Jendayi has quite a hand in drawing, I’m dividing my attention equally among the two of them, it’s not that hard to handle, because the two loved colouring. I racked my brains for some kind of colouring technique that the art teacher back in my schooldays taught.

“That’s a nice lion Chioke! You’ve done better than me!” Being a father of two kids now makes me more patient and understanding to a child’s needs. Chioke smiled back, all but the little gap where his milk tooth was a day ago shone. He went back on his next picture.

Across the table, Ollie was playing superheroes with a wee lad, couldn’t have been more than four. The kid was laughing joyously, as Ollie made imaginary whizzing sounds like that of a helicopter, holding up a figurine in the air animatedly.

“And the good wizard takes on the bad assassin!”

Welsh wizard… that’s what the supporters call me, baby-faced assassin, Ollie hates being called that. Scholesy calls him that during training when he wants Ollie to pass the ball to him. Long name, hard to call out when you are breathless from running around the greens at Carrington.

“KAZAM!” The boy squealed and tried reaching for the plastic figurine that Ollie held; he notices this and hands the toy to the kid.

He caught my glance and looked away shyly, his blue eyes adverting to his charge.

We haven’t really talked in a long time. I mean, we do the occasional congratulatory celebration on the pitch, but when we are in the dressing room with the other lads, we rarely exchange words that go beyond ‘good game’, ‘see you soon’ and the most common of all ‘bye’.

Awful.

When the bus arrived, the team, Gaffer and staff stood outside the whitewashed house. The volunteers brought the kids out for a last goodbye. I see Fletch getting all mopey like a bird as he picked up a scrawny boy whom he was reading to earlier. I look around and practically everyone was almost reduced to the state of tears.

I’m not heartless.

I love these kids, I really do, but I don’t want to give them the impression that perhaps this could be our last meeting forever. I want to let them know that there is always tomorrow. Keep looking forward!

Ollie was the last one to get on the bus. He looks around for a seat, and he sits next to me. I guess the bus was full. All the other lads had partners, except me. Most of them here are pretty young, just Scholesy, Ollie and myself. Scholesy once told me that many of the young ones in the squad are afraid of me.

Perhaps Tracy was right after all. I wish I could smile more often. She says I have a moody face. Yeah, but what can I do if my features are like that?

Plastic surgery isn’t an option.

I even cut my hair frat-boy short so that others could see my face now. It is suppose to look friendly. Last time, they were in curls, ‘macaroni’ hair, Ollie calls. Him and his pasta addiction.

Big Sam, the bus driver is pulling out of the gate of the orphanage, the kids and the volunteers waving cheerfully, bidding us farewell.

“I’m sorry I used your name earlier… it was the only one I could think of that moment, besides, you know I know nuts about science-fi or fantasy..” he rambled in his crisp English. It is rather American despite his Norwegian roots.

Name? Oh he meant that…

“It’s okay. Besides, I’m Ryan, not the welsh wizard!” I joked, laughing. He laughs too, his light, breezy tone.

“Or are you the baby-faced assassin?” I teased. His face screws up and a tongue sticks out. He’s still the same, hates that name. Unfortunately, it sticks with him.

I was quite taken back. Just that things have been a bit tense between us…

Yet, I wanted to touch his face, the little corner where his ears begin, where he tucked his own tumble of golden curls.

This made me believe he was not born Scandinavian. He likes to eat pasta and pizza, loves to watch The Godfather and was trained as a Grecian-Roman wrestler. I daresay he should be Italian. But his looks are otherwise…

Everyone who saw him in the dressing room thinks he looks like the Roman statues we see when we are in Italy for a game. Maybe it’s because he was trained to be a Grecian-Roman wrestler as a kid that’s why.

His father was a champion. Our fathers are almost similar. Both of them used their fists a lot. My own old man was a rugger in the national Wales team. It doesn’t involve the use of fist, you might say, but he does use it pretty often at home. Scaring the shit out of my mother, Rhodi and me.

“Ryan?” he tugs at my sleeve.

And I turn to face him, his fairness, glowing in the sunlight that streamed through the giant glass window of the coach, his hair shining brighter than a halo, eyes as if carved out of sapphiers.

“Big Sam is stopping the bus for a while so we can get a taste of the wonderful French café he has been talking about,” he says.

“Sir Alex allows? He must be in a good mood!”

“Well, the gaffer needs his dosage of tea every now and then… Besides we have no game scheduled tomorrow.”

Everyone is filing out of the bus now.

He blinks.

“Well, let’s get you some honey toast then…” I suggested, remembering his favourite pre-match snack.

“You remembered? I haven’t been playing for ages, talk about a pre-match snack,” he laughs again. It wasn’t a bitter laugh. And I wonder how he can do that, being benched doing injury time and laugh after it’s fine.

Turns out, they didn’t have any honey toast, but the eatery opposite does.

We were waiting for the roads to be cleared so that we could dash across. There are lots of bikes here in South Africa, back home, it would be cabs.

All’s clear and I grabbed Ollie’s hand and took off in a sprint to the shop.

His fingers were slim and his palm was a tad smaller than mine, boyish hands he had.

“Could I have a set of toast please, and honey.” A large woman took down my order.

We waited patiently, silently, for the bread to arrive.

“Do you want one?” he dips a piece into the honey generously, offering me.

“No thanks, laying off the sugar.” I lied.

Actually, I love watching him eat. He had a smile on his face. Quite odd, to eat and smile at the same time. The way he bites into the crispy toast daintily, and contrary to that, how the crumbs fall onto his shirt front. How oblivious he was. After finishing his snack, he would lick his fingers free from the sticky sweet honey that oozed out of the toast when he tucked in.

I handed the payment of the meal to the waiter, we stood up and some of the crumbs on Ollie’s shirt fell to the ground. There were still remaining, stubbornly clinging on to the fabric.

“You’ve got crumbs,” with a flick of my wrist, I dusted the bits off him, my hands smoothing his shirt. Then it lay on his chest for about a millisecond, or perhaps longer.

“Oh,” Ollie’s voice was small, and I could feel the heat rushing out of him. I looked at his face, there was a pink tint. He caught my gaze and swats my hand off his chest.

“The bus!” he broke out anxiously.



Riding back to the hotel, was awkward. Neither one of us could sleep. Behind us, were two lads, probably from the reserve team… they kept on yapping away eagerly, can’t blame them, this was probably their first time out of the British Isle.

I was back in the room with Scholesy. He was taking a bath. We all stink. The heat outside, made us perspire unusually more often than we did in Manchester.

“I’m going out to do some shopping; the missus wants a new leather purse…” Paul rolls his eyes as he pulled his shirt over his head.

“Went crazy when I mentioned South Africa. Diamonds! Leather!” his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Condoms I say! Probably get her that as well.”

Opened the door for Scholesy, who has got his hands pretty full- wallet, map, bottle… Sent him off, seeing him disappear at the right into the lift lobby. I was going to go back in when I heard lone footsteps. I thought it could be some company, which I needed badly since Scholesy was away.

Surprises, don’t you love them? They always come knocking at your door when you least expect them.

Coincidences, do you believe in them? They happen every now and then for a man with an easy life.

It’s him.

“Dinner?” I asked.

He nods, stuffing his hands down his denim pockets nervously.

“Why don’t you come in? I’m going to take a quick shower…”

He steps into the room cautiously, making a beeline for the armchair.

“Turn on the television… hope the wait doesn’t bore you,” I apologised and tossed him the remote control.

The television pumped some noise into the room other than the air conditioner.

I can hear the muffled sounds beyond the bathroom door, where I was lathering my hair. I cannot help thinking what I had gotten myself into. I was lonely… There were only a handful of us from the first team traveling in South Africa. We rarely trained with the Reserves, hence behaving like complete strangers. I did make an effort to know some of them though.

“Ryan!” the door flung open.

The cold air outside hitting my soapy skin and the suddenness made me jump.

“Oh! M’ sorry, I thought you were done! I didn’t hear the tap running…” Ollie apologised profusely. I hear his feet shuffle against the marble tiles.

Through the blurry shower curtain, I could see his outline, shrinking towards the door frame.

“It’s alright… What’s it?”

“The television! I sat on the remote control and the picture now is funny!” he sounded scared.

“I think I spoilt it!”

The seriousness of his voice, how earnest he was made me laugh.

“Calm down… I wash myself clean and I’ll be out fixing the telly for you,” I managed between gaps of laughter.



“So there you go. What were you watching anyway?”

“Nothing in particular,” he shrugs.

“I was just waiting…”

Waiting.

From day one.

“Sorry.”

“Why do you apologise?” He turns his eyes at me. How beautiful. They are like precious stones encased in his sockets. In it, I saw the deepest oceans, the vast skies and the world. How breathtaking.

How was it possible that I didn’t conquer them?

How was it possible I let him slip away?

‘Ryan!” he calls my name, his fingers brushing my arm before retracting them swiftly. “For a moment, I thought you got an electric shock, handling the TV,” a feeble attempt at a joke.

I tried to laugh. But I could not.

Could you smile at missed chances? Could you smile at a love lost?

My mind drifts back to when we were young, when we didn’t give a hoot what the world thinks. Then, everyone started getting onto our case, ‘grow up’, they said. It seems that society expects all men have to fulfill the duties of a husband. Responsibility slowly creeps into our heads sub-consciously and it stole us from each other.

“All these years, there has been someone nagging at the back of my head,” I started. He gave me a strange look.

“It isn’t my mother.” Trying to lighten up the mood in the room.

“It’s the feeling of knowing you left your house open,” bewilderment fills in his face, “for the thieves to take off with something extremely valuable.”

There it was, the weight that held my heart down has been lifted. I look at him square in his eyes and cleared my throat.

“Do you- Do you get me?”

Title: You don’t have to be Posh to taste Becks
Author: Closet Child
Pairing: Gary Neville/ David Beckham, David Beckham/ others (implied)
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Summary: The wishful thinking, reminiscing memories, drunken ramblings of Gary Neville.
Author’s Notes: Gary Neville is not a fantastic player. I know that, but the effort he puts into the game makes me admire him. I would call him ‘underated’. Now I always wanted to write a Gaz/Becks fic. But I never really got to it after reading stories about them, love triangles between Gary, David and his many admirers. It made me really depressed and annoyed sometimes. I don’t know why I’m that easily affected. But there isn’t always a happy ending.
Disclaimer: Everything mentioned here is not real. I do not own anyone or know them personally. This is just fiction.

Vic-to-ria…

Mi-cha-el…

I-ker…

G-ary?

That doesn’t sound the same.

I have been saying their names over and over again, and they roll of my tongue perfectly like they are connected, linked or something.

It feels out of place.

I feel out of place.

Like I don’t belong to you in the first place, like I don’t belong to you at all.

Obsessing over the perfect match, because that’s the way I believe people get together and stay together, for eternity.

Just look at them all, Victoria, Michael and Iker. They were all stylish, beautiful people, all like you very much. And I?

I’m the average boy next door, I’ve boring, brown hair that likes flat on top of my head, framing my pasty face. At the same time, all three of them change their hairstyles pretty often don’t they? And they look so damn good every time. I tried changing my hair once, no one noticed at all.

My facial skin isn’t very soft, I don’t believe in taking extra care of it, a no-frills sort of man. Maybe a retrosexual whilst you are the metrosexual. Your excessive toiletries you bring on tour- moisturizers, toners, scrubs… you take an hour or more in the bathroom when I bunk with you. I had to wake up early to shower first.

When I bunked with you….

Now we don’t anymore.

We’re not in the same club. You left. I’m still here.

We’re not in the same country, You’re in Spain. I’m in England.

We both have wives. You have kids. I don’t.

I can’t beat to think I had kids with someone I didn’t love. Children are supposedly meant to be a labour of love right?

Emma and Gary. Emma and Gary.

The papers said she cheated on me when I was away, playing in Portugal. It’s not like I give a shit. So she went to sue them and collected the damages against ‘us’, she claimed.

There is no such thing as ‘us’! I wanted to tell her.

Does she know?

She’s sort of like me, Phil says. Everyone says. It’s nice isn’t it, sticking to my beliefs. I just smile back because even though we look like a perfect couple, I treat her like a sister. I never once questioned her about the rumor in The Sun. Because I was afraid that if I knew the truth, I would have asked her to leave and there would be no one by my side anymore.

Phil’s married and he has kids too. Fuck, he’s my little brother and I’m behind him very much. I can’t possibly go to Tracy or mom and dad. I’m 31 for Christ’s sake!

I should be married by now! I should have at least changed a baby’s nappy, teach my kid how to walk or even kick a ball around, I should be sending them off to school every morning.

There are many things I should have done but I didn’t. I don’t know what’s stalling me.

But when I look back, it’s always you!

“Let go,” Ryan tells me. Paul persuades me. Nicky is so soft, sometimes I can’t hear him and I’m afraid one day he may go down the earth and no one will know.

“No one is killing you. You’re doing it yourself.”

Suicide?

Since when did longing for you become suicide? What a load of rubbish everyone talks. You’re my savior. My sunshine. Often I’d think of you as my Prozac. My little green and white pill that subsides the raging storms in me and feeds me joy that none on earth has given me before.

People foolishly get addicted to their anti-depressants, while I hooked on you.

It made me slightly delusional at night when I’m alone. We sleep in separate rooms, Emma and I. Told her I’m not the sort who would marry out of wedlock. The pope disapproves. Some lie, I don’t usually tell them, always saying things to other people’s faces straight.

Okay, she says. Never kicking up a fuss. Somehow, I know she really did cheat on me. You know women are as randy as men. I’m not giving her anything; she must be getting it behind my back because she isn’t complaining that I didn’t satisfy her.

It doesn’t matter; perhaps I didn’t really need her as much as I thought I did.

2 am.

Again, I can’t get to sleep.

Lately, I keep seeing your face in my dreams. I can’t identify whether that should be comforting or haunting. The dreams were almost real; I could feel you, touching me. Then when I wake up, I find myself in a mess. Drenched in perspiration and crusted in spunk. I always had to search for my shorts before getting out of bed.

I slap myself stupid and splash my face in cold water at the bathroom sink. Talk about a rude awakening.

And I know what’s good during times like these.

Down the flight of stairs softly, I crept to the kitchen, the answer in the refrigerator.

I opened the door of the cold storage, the soft yellow light glowing inside. It was stalk with many healthy vegetables and fruits. There were some sinful boxes of chocolates and candies. But they do not tempt me. I search for it, the bottle green can. It fucking looks like Christmas.

Hooking my finger under the tab, I pulled open it, the freshness of content springing into my face. This seems more real, the effervescent hitting my face, so much rather than seeing yours.

It went down my throat, slowly, yes, it’s bitter like you. It’s scorching my taste buds, as they drowned in it. Soon, it was over, I shook the can out of every little drop that’s inside. I didn’t want to waste it, I didn’t want it to end just yet, I grab another.

My mind loses itself to the memories again. This time, we were stuck in Turkey with the national team. There was some bloody riot outside and we were stranded in the hotel.

I never did like playing with the national team. It meant that I got to see you. But it also meant that I had to share you again with number 10.

Fucking right I got to see you.

You and that wimpy boy.

Yes he is pretty and he does what he is told like the obedient little puppy he is.

I tell you damn right how patient I am.

It has been going on for years and this is the last straw!

When I hint on what’s going on between you and him in the sheets, you’d always waved it off as if it was nothing. You’d smother me with your lovely kisses and spoon behind me, cuddling me, wrapping me in your arms that are covered in his scent that I hate so much.

At least you could wash away all the traces of evidence that you had been with him. I didn’t need to know.

I would scrub myself hard in the shower, in the morning, so much that my skin turns pink; I needed to wash him off me. I didn’t want to turn into him. I am Gary, not Michael.

Do you know that?

What’s it? There is a phrase going… “Ask and it shall be given.” So it is.

Love me for who I am please.

Silly me, who’s going to hear this request of mine?

Half the pack is probably gone; I look at the bloody can and tossed it into the bin.

Three left in the refrigerator. I’ll get some more at the supermarket tomorrow.

The metallic green shimmered in the dark on the heap of rubbish, the white words emblazoned on it spelling letters that I hold close to my heart.

I had found your substitute.

“Well, it tastes better than you, you bastard!”

“At least it was with me whenever you weren’t!”

There are so many girls and boys who want to be like you and with you. You know it. You’re damn proud of it.

And I wished I could tell them that they need not be Posh to taste you.

Just bloody walk to the nearest 7-11.

Get yourself a bloody can of BECKS, beats having the real one any day.

DECEMBER! Whoever doesn't love December has to be a grinch!

The Three Kings bring gold, myrrh and frankincense. I bring forth FANMIXES! Well I did 3 but I'm posting these 2 first because I have yet to do the last cover. There are a lot of very nice people who did fanmixes, I'm sorry I can't recall who, but they are in my iPod and I'd like to thank those who did them very much! Hence I decided on returning what they gave - a truckload of inspiration for me. The songs aren't about the pairing, they are about life, feelings and they get me through days. I hope mine evokes the same emotions in you and it'll inspire you to do many things! 

Because they are so big (too many songs!), I had to split them up each album up into 2 parts. 

Here are the links :

A Beautiful Lie Part 1
http://www.sendspace.com/file/fuslyd
A Beautiful Lie Part 2
http://www.sendspace.com/file/twna4a 
Ransom Letter Part 1
http://www.sendspace.com/file/zy8zez
Ransom Letter Part 2
http://www.sendspace.com/file/2ou1qu






















 




A Beautiful Lie
Gary Neville/David Beckham

1. The Kill – 30 Seconds To Mars
I tried to be someone else
But nothing seemed to change
I know now, this is who I really am inside
Finally found myself
Fighting for a chance
I know now, this is who I really am

2. With Or Without You – Dope
I'll do my time and I won't argue
A broken glass a portrait of you
I play on keys of barely in tune
Foget th reasons I won't resume
It's not me who wanted fame
I just needed to

3. Without You, I’m Nothing – Placebo ft. David Bowie
I'm unclean, a libertine
And every time you vent your spleen,
I seem to lose the power of speech,
Your slipping slowly from my reach.
You grow me like an evergreen,
You never see the lonely me at all

4. Perfect Drug – Nine Inch Nails
I got my head but my head is unraveling
cant keep control can't keep track of where it's traveling
I got my heart but my heart's no good
you're the only one that's understood

5. Little Black Backpack – Stroke 9
I feel you
Yes I can
What about that don't you understand?
I sense you
It's something sensual
But it's less than I planned

6. Creep – Radiohead
When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so very special

7. Perfect – Smashing Pumpkins
And I've known
We're just like old friends
We just can't pretend
That lovers make amends
We are reasons so unreal
We can't help but feel
That something has been lost

8. Free As A Bird – The Beatles
Whatever happened to
The life that we once knew?
Can we really live without each other?

9. Fill My Little World – The Feeling
I had a dream we went away
Left this city for a day
You took me southwards on a plane
And showed me Spain or somewhere
But in reality you're not so keen to show me anything
And I thought you liked me

10. Tonight, Tonight – Smashing Pumpkins
Time is never time at all
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth
And our lives are forever changed
We will never be the same
The more you change the less you feel

11. This Never Happened Before- Paul McCartney
I'm very sure
This never happened to me before
I met you and now I'm sure
This never happened before

12. Ghost of You and Me – BB Mak
I didn’t mean to fall in love with you
And baby there’s a name for what you put me through
It isn’t love, it’s robbery
I’m sleeping with the ghost of you and me

13. Ever Fallen In Love – The Buzzcocks
You spurn my natural emotions
You make me feel like dirt
And I'm hurt
And if I start a commotion
I run the risk of losing you
And that's worse

14. You Blew Me Off – Bare Jr.
When I said
I love you
You blew me off
It turned me on

15. Slept So Long – Jay Gordon
I see hell in your eyes
Taken in by surprise
Touching you makes me feel alive
Touching you makes me die inside

16. Beautiful Lie – 30 Seconds To Mars
It's time to forget about the past
To wash away what happened last
Hide behind an empty face
Don't have too much to say
'Cause this is just a game 

Ransom Letter
Cristiano Ronaldo/ Wayne Rooney 
Home Version

1. Strange Face Of Love – Tito and Tarantula
Let go of your love
Ride his pulse and you forget
Slow down your time will come
If not tonight surely by the dawn
Take it like a man...
The strange face of love

2. Ransom Letter – Pug Jelly
So you stole my heart
And left me a ransom letter
Demanding I treat you better
Should I ever want it back and
Now I'm all alone
Dreams are all forgotten
Memories all turned rotten
It's not the same on the phone

3. Hot Pursuit – The Bravery
You might think that I
Come on a little strong
But the real thing is
I can't wait too long
So give your distance now
Cause time is running out
Until you finally see
You belong to me

4. Too Bad About Your Girl - The Donnas
She left but now she's back, stickin' out her rack
She's got you runnin' down the wrong track
Can't wait to see her face when I'm in her place
And I'm tryin' get you in the sack

5. Head Over Heels – Tears For Fears
I wanted to be with you alone
And talk about the weather
But traditions I can trace against the child in your face
Won't escape my attention

6. Slow Hands – Interpol
Yeah but nobody searches
Nobody cares somehow
When the loving that you’ve wasted
Comes raining from a hapless cloud
And I might stop and look upon your face
Disappear in the sweet, sweet gaze
See the living that surrounds me
Dissipate in a floral blaze

7. Mondo Bongo – Joe Strummer And The Mescaleros
Checkmate, baby
God bless us and our home
Where ever we roam
Now take us home, flaquito

8. Black Coffee- All Saints
Brush your teeth
And pour a cup of black coffee out
I love to watch you do that every day
The little things that you do

9. Obsessions- Suede
Obsessions is like sex
It's simple and complex
It's called obsession
Can you handle it

10. Fresh Feeling – The Eels
Words can't be that strong
My heart is reeling
This is that fresh
That fresh feeling

11. Sunshine – Gabrielle
Reaching out, for the highs
You inspired me to try
I felt the magic inside
And I felt that I could fly
I'm looking at the world in an optimistic light
You made me appreciate my life

12. Never Felt Like This Before – Shaznay Lewis
Empty standing where you’ve left me
Cold boy now I’m frozen
By a kiss from your lips
Your heart tells me that your open
Melted by the answer
I’ve been waiting to hear

13. Doesn’t Really Matter – Janet Jackson
Doesn’t matter what your friends are telling you
Doesn’t matter what my family’s saying too
It just matters that I’m in love with you
It only matters that you love me too

14. You and Me Song – The Wannadies
Always when we fight
I kiss you once or twice
And everything's forgotten
I know you hate that

15. Sway – The Perishers
I don't wanna hurt you
I don't wanna make you sway
Like I know I've done before
I will not do it anymore
I've always been a dreamer
I've had my head among the clouds
Now that I'm coming down
Won't you be my solid ground?

16. The Flowers – Regina Spektor
The flowers you gave me are rotting and still I refuse to throw them away.
Some of the bulbs never opened quite fully
They might so I'm waiting and staying awake.
Things I have loved I'm allowed to keep

17. Portuguese Love Theme – Craig Armstrong
This is an instrumental from the Love Actually Soundtrack. It’s a brilliant film. How everyone is connected, how they weave into each other’s lives is amazing. 





























HAVE A WONDERFUL TIME! (:

Title: Violent Tendencies

Author: Closet Child

Rating: NC-17 (for graphic/sexual content and coarse language)

Warnings: Um does something involving an object count?

Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Wayne Rooney

Summary: Never mess with a devil.

Author’s Notes: I’ve been a fan of the Devils for 12 years now. This is my second fic written on them! IT IS UN-BETAED. Sorry. Came up with this after watching two videos on youtube. The first being the Wayne interview http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlNQkdJavb8&search=wayne+rooney and the other being the inFAMOUS Arsenal Utd match in the FA Cup in which 6 arsenal players were fined. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0K2R5QLfIs POOR RUUD!

This is done in Darren Fletcher's POV.

Disclaimer: Everything mentioned here is not real. I do not own anyone or know them personally. This is just fiction.


Like Manager, like players.

Sir Alex kicks a boot at Becks, cutting the area slightly above the brow.

You’d find it hard to believe but even the captain, Gaz was booked for pulling a Zidane (headbutt) on Steve McManaman.

That very same season, Scoles had been banned for three matches after pushing Boro’s Doriva.

Let’s not forget the goalless draw against Arsenal in 2003, or should I say, the day Arsenal decided that they were boxers. Giggs and Ronaldo were charged but was cleared later by the FA.

Foul words, defiance, anger all traded in the field for yellow or worse, red cards.

Wonderful players but they do have moments when they slip up.



After the World Cup incident, both Ronny and Rooney had engaged in several physical activities of misconduct. Besides destroying television sets and punching a sandbag to cope with his frustrations of being England’s hatred man and getting into pub brawls (again!), the two have been into something else.

It all started that day in the shower, you know, after training. Louis ‘forgot’ his shampoo again, and asked me to pass him mine. He has been forgetting an awful lot lately, but I’m very sure he just wanted to use my shampoo because I mixed it with the water back from home. BBC after all has stated that the water up north contains less calcium therefore making your hair soft and shiny- like mine! I can’t do without my shampoo so I sat at the wooden benches by the sink, waiting for Louis to be done.

Everyone knows he takes the longest in the shower, so I decided to go around the stalls to see who’s left, I’ve the sudden urge to get back at Rio for emptying my bottle on the pitch after our 100m laps so I wouldn’t have any to drink. The jerk said he liked my face red. Fucking twat! He does it to Smudger too. Apparently, since Smudger deflected the ball from Riise and broke his leg, and is ‘on the bench’, Rio put him ‘on the bench’ too, on his pranking list. He loves to pick on us ‘young uns’. He doesn’t do it to Gaz, Scholesy, Ole, and Ryan because they are older. I personally would love to see Paul going red in the face it matches his ginger hair.

Wes steps out, dripping in a rather small towel, that clinched around his tanned waist.

“Nice mini you got there,” I snickered.

He looks down at his feet embarrassed and shuffles along like a crab to his bag.

“It’s my face towel! Forgot to bring the other one.” He stuttered.

Why is everyone getting forgetful?

I could only think of a possibility that headers kill your brain cells. Wes is a defender, clearing balls from the air, while Louis is a striker, and he heads them in. I’m not exactly forgetful, I play in midfield, but I do remember Wazza labeling me as the least intelligent in the squad. Told you it was the headers.

That reminds me, I have yet to get back at wonder boy for that statement yet… but it has to be grand, because after all he IS wonder boy.

Nice.

Just nice, I hear him, over the hard-hitting water from the shower heads, and his incomprehensive Liverpuldian accent, and you thought we Scotts are bad!

My heart raced, as I thought of all the possible ways to teach him a lesson. I could go give him a scare. I’m armed with one of the world’s most dangerous weapon- a mobile phone.

Wayne’s familiar flat but sing-songy lilt floated above the steam of the room.

Water is splashing, running. The pressure of the water in the shower is as good as the Jacuzzi jets. It always feels great after a strenuous training session and your muscles ache, you head to the Jacuzzi but if it’s full, you go to the showers, they are about the same.

And it seems to be sounding louder and faster by the second, slapping against a surface, the timing almost rhythmic. Odd?

Am I thinking what you’re thinking?

This is the moment! A god-given chance!

Wayne Rooney jerking off in the shower!

Do you wonder how big his tool is?

Everyone’s curious!

The papers printed a picture of him shorts tugged by a fallen defender probably after a failed attempt in pressuring Wayne. Everyone wants to thank that defender, he had just revealed Wayne’s very sizeable package.

No one’s in the next stall, great! Can get a lift up from the soap dish on the wall and check out what’s going on in there.

Oh god, the ledge of the stall is friggin dirty, fuck, there goes my trousers. Crap, I’m going to make Roo pay for this, my trousers and that remark!

Doesn’t anyone clean it?

Guess not, they probably forgotten about it. Think it isn’t important.

Oof! Maybe Sir Alex should include climbing toilet stall walls as part of training.

I look down and BLOODYHELLARSEBANDIT!

Roonie! Shite! Ronnie and Rooney!

WHAT IN THE NAME OF BLEATING SHEEPS!

Okay, so maybe I didn’t think that what Rio said was true (I mean, who believes that joker?) - about Wayne ‘knocking’ Ronnie up for the sending off in Germany in June. I thought Wayne would be whacking him inside out, but looks like he is banging him upside down!

Below me, was Cris, supporting himself on his right arm, jerking his soap-slick dick that is glistening under the white fluorescent light, moaning like a bitch in heat. He’s rubbing his arse into Wayne’s crotch, and GOD- Wayne was sticking Ronnie’s favourite hairbrush down his shit hole!

Ugh! Wanna puke! This is worse than drinking Keystone Ice (American piss! Really! Drank it when we went to tour in 2003. DON’T DRINK IT! I REPEAT!). And Cris uses it to brush his crop! I can’t believe it!

Wazza hooked up Ronnie’s long golden legs on his forearm, his free hand holding on to the bristle-end of the brush, pushing the large red handle in and out, ouchies! How is that possible? This isn’t the ordinary brush, the handles have little metal domes popping out like zits, for grip. I once told Cris before that he could put it to someone’s head and kill him.

I want to get down, really! This must be some sort of sick joke again. How did I get up here again? It looks like a long way down… Hell I’m not going to risk me spraining or breaking a leg. Got to wait till Louis gets out, figure when Ron and Roo are done shagging like rabbits and leave he will still be in the showers.

So I am stuck up here, trying not to look at what’s going on below. I’m trying, but every time Cris makes those crazy little noises, my curious eyes would stray…

This time, I saw that the brush got cast onto the floor, next to Ronnie’s head. His eyes were screwed shut and he was grimacing in pain, then they flutter open, and I saw his brown irises, diluted, shallow, clouded, glazed over with some unidentifiable emotion I can’t read, his lips were getting redder and fuller, as Wayne pounded him hard and fast. Cris was pushing his arse back into Wazza’s thrusting pelvis.

Wonder boy still got his forearms hooked under the back of Cris’s knees, his hands this time, were cupping the round, plush rump of Cris’s, squeezing and slapping them, few times he would prop Cris’s ankle behind his shoulders and reached forward to pinch those little brown nipples, eliciting soft whines from the Portuguese.

Uh, hell, I’m getting hard seeing all these. How can it be? I’m no fag! And how could Cris own such an arse? He’s a guy for Christ’s sake! I divert my attention to something gross to put out the fire in my loins, like Sir Alex spitting his gum on to the table before lunch and putting it back into his mouth after, or the time a crazy girl sent her used knickers to me- not sexy.

“Fasta, Way-anne, fasta!” groaned Ronnie in his funny accent, he kept on pushing back against Wayne’s dick, encouraging him to plough deeper. Grunting, Wayne drilled into the tight hole, his head tilting towards the ceiling, SHITE! I pray that he doesn’t see me, and he doesn’t, he was so absorb in spending himself inside Cris.

Their breaths become shorter and I knew they were coming close. Wayne once again, propped up Cris’s ankle on his shoulders, his free hand, jerking off Cris, letting out a final grunt and erupted his load into Cris’s arse.

Wayne laid Cris down gently, his creamy jizz seeping out of the used hole. So now I know, not only does he have a big tool, he also knows how to wield it and shoot it.

They were silent for a few minutes under the running water, trying to get their breaths back. Roo picks up Cris, into his arms and swap some spit, I turned away, it’s odd seeing a guy frenching another. He then washes Cris’s hair, running his fingers through the curls, backing him into a corner and fondle him a bit.

It’s odd to see things you do with a bird on another man.

After they cleaned themselves up (and the hairbrush), Wayne plants another wet kiss on Cris and unlocks the door of the stall, he peeks outside for a bit and walks out. Cris stays for a moment before walking out in the opposite direction.

Gone.

Waiting for Louis now.

Hm, could play a game of golf on my mobile… CRAP! I DIDN’T RECORD IT!

Oh hell, if I did, would be afraid that I won’t live till tomorrow.

“Dar-ron what you doing up there?!” Louis is out, staring at me queerly.

“Oo-er, threw my socks up the lights.” That was a lame excuse. But the bought it.

“Help me get down Louis. Don’t want to break a bone do we?”



We were all in the canteen, eating the yucky lunch that the nutritionists came up with. More carbohydrates for the people starting the game next week. More proteins for the injured.

I see Sir Alex, spitting his gum on the table as I put my tray down.

Anther tray plopped beside mine. It’s wonder boy and I can’t see him straight anymore so I look at my lunch.

Cris follows with Gabby and they sat facing me, so I begun eating. The three of them were talking about training today and I had my trapper shut. Because if I were to open it, god knows what is going to come out. Roo is a big guy, I know now, and I sure don’t need him to lynch me with his cutlery.

Gabby eats fast and Cris doesn’t take much. They cleared their trays in the front, leaving me and Roo alone. But I couldn’t control my gob, you know, sometimes it just happens?

“Roo?”

“Yeah Fletch?”

“Are you still mad at Ronnie?”

“No,” he polished off his plate.

“Then why do I hear you knocking into him?’ I asked, almost innocently, but the image of him rutting between Cris’s arse is really unforgettable.

And so was the look on Wayne’s face- HA! CLASSIC! He has gotten paler than he already is- White Wayne the Wonder boy. You should have seen that! GOT YOU WAYNE! I GOT YER!

“N-no nothing of that sort,” he gulp down his lemonade a little to fast, the liquid went down the windpipe and he choked, sputtering a bit.

“There, there, Wazza, you fine?” playing along, I pat his back to ease his cough.

“Yeah I’m fine Fletch, ‘scuse me, Colleen is waiting for me outside,” he got out of his seat and picked up his tray.

As he scurried out of the canteen, I had a laugh to myself.

Colleen? Wayne, Wayne… I wonder does she know.

Does anybody know?

Now that teaches you not to mess with the Devils!

Author’s Notes: You have to excuse me if you are an Arsenal or a Liverpool fan, I realised I picked on them in this fic. It’s funny how you can support United and like a couple of Gunners (Rosicky! Lehmann! Ljungberg!) Scousers (Alonso! Kewell! Fowler! Garcia! And my new fav -> Kuyt) doesn’t kill to like any of these guys right? ;)

I AM SO HAPPY! United is going to tour next year and I heard that they are going to play in my country! So is Barca!!! YAY! DECO! PUYOL! :D The last time the Devils visited, MY DAD DIDNT WANT TO GET TICKETS! Waste of money he says- me thinks he is still scarred by splurging on watching Juventus live in his youth (1970s) he told me they were lousy and there is no way he is going to waste his tickets again. :( So i had to watch it on TV in the end. Barthez was real sporting! He came out of his post to play!!! They trashed my national team.

I doubt I'd be updating anything personal on this journal ever again. So, I'm on the last week of figure drawing before my PATHETIC two weeks break. Yes, I'm still ranting about it. It isn't fair that the 5 of us in fig drawing lesson now have only a two weeks break while the rest of them have a LENGHTY SIX WEEKS BREAK!!!

Anyway, let's not harp on that. THAT, is the result of BAD TIMETABLE planning. I've finally written finish a piece. It's been long since I wrote anything... Meanwhile, the EPL kicked off well, with my favourite team, united! winning their 4th consecutive game against Tottenham, another of my fav teams. Though there's nothing much to boast about that game, but I'm proud of the devils! They didn't get much before the transfer window closed and with Rudd gone, but, look at them!

By the way, I tried using the LJ cut like a GAZILLION times.... they wont work! will someone please help me with it?

Here it is...

Title: The Last You’d Hear From Me

 

Author: Closet Child

 

Pairing: Paulo Ferreira/ Jose Mourinho , John Terry/ Jose Mourinho

 

Summary: This is the last you’d hear from me. Because I know…

 

Disclaimer: I don’t know them, don’t own them. Nothing mentioned here is real. Just a sick concoction by my head. 

 

Author’s Notes: I’m no Blues fan. But I love the Portuguese there! Still in self-denial that Micha is at the Bridge. Please bear with me.

 

This will be the last you'd hear from me.

 

And since it is, I just want you to know that you are a bossyconcietedselfishbastard!

 

THERE. I said it.

 

But I love you for it. I love you for your pride, your possessiveness and your obsession with perfection. I love all your flaws.

 

The world's biggest fool.

 

I am not that stupid little boy from Porto that trailed behind you everywhere.

 

I KNOW ABOUT JOHN.

 

YES.

 

All those late night calls to Abramovich, Brito, Clarke and Kenyon ... Lies. They are all lies! Just like you.

 

My friends and family often asked me if you were human. Too perfect they say, almost unreal. Yes, I’d reply. That’s because I have experienced times you being the most gentlest and loving man.

 

Am I going to regret this? Maybe for the moment… just for this moment. Ten years down the road and the rest of my life, I’m going to look back at this decision and feel proud for the choice I have made.

 

Well, I guess this is goodbye then.

 

I LOVE YOU.

 

The nib of the pen scratched against the paper as he penned his last thoughts. Then he paused, frowned a bit, realizing that he had no words left.

 

Paulo sighed and folded the letter into thirds, the way it’s done professionally when you mail your resume. It’s business-like. No laughs or smiles to spare. Brisk and steely.

 

Just like how you had been to me…

 

Snapping out of his thoughts, he slid the paper into the expensive looking envelope and sealed it- with a light kiss. The cool surface of the paper brush against his warm lips for a brief moment, before being kept into the inner pocket of his blazer.

 

Isn’t it sad? I even have to go through paper to get to you now…What have we become?  He thought miserably, as he locked his door of his home.

 

 

He stared at the little button for a long time, wondering if he should give it a ring. The door was magnificent, intimidating, just like the rest of the house inside, furnished by the riches earned. He felt unease at the glorious exterior… it suddenly seemed so unfamiliar to him like he was a stranger. And he was back to day one, the young defender from Porto, trudging behind the boss.

 

Leave it on his doormat… Put it under his door. There were so many possible ways but he couldn’t execute any one of them.

 

Maybe he shouldn’t give it at all! His hands were shaky and palms slightly damp. He berated himself for coming up with this idea. 

 

It is harder than expected.

 

He needed more time.

 

Heaving a sigh, he turned on his heels and walked away, when his feet touched the last step, the door swung open, startling him.

 

“I’ve seen you standing for a long time…” he said smugly. “What brings you here?”

 

Paulo gazed into the face that he once adored and loved so much after God.

 

He slowly made his way up the front door again, wondering if he should even step into the house. He hadn’t been there for a long time. It would all be too weird.

 

Jose’s eyes drop and focused on the white envelope in Paulo’s hands.

 

“Something for me?” he motioned towards it, smiling. The young man’s hands passed the paper back and forth between his nervous hands.

 

He has asked for it. Isn’t it much easier? He wants it. Just give it to him.

 

“I-I, this-”

 

“Stop your stuttering and come on in,” he got hold of Paulo’s slim wrists and pulled him into the house, the door closing after them. “Meanwhile, let me take a look at that…” Jose took the envelope off Paulo’s hands without hesitance, like the no-nonsense, straight-to-the-face man he is.

 

Fingers curl and rip open the flap of the letter, and pulled out the expensive paper. Paulo’s heart was beating faster and louder by the seconds as the clock ticked, he studied Jose’s face in fear, waiting for the contorted expression of rage and perhaps a dash of what he hope for- sadness and regret. But none of it was displayed on the tanned, sharp face.

 

Leave, his head tells him. Right now, because when the eye of the storm passes, the temporary calmness switches to a long period of violence.

 

His legs wouldn’t budge. They seem to have been cemented to the floor.

 

“So you want to leave, hm?”

 

Jose folded back the letter neatly, shuffling back to the envelope. Paulo lowered his eyes to his feet, his hands fumbling in his own trousers pockets. Jose’s eyes followed the rustling of the cloth and chuckled at the movement at the side of the trousers where the pockets were.

 

Why… he could not believe it. Jose had felt nothing at all! The bastard has the heart, icier than the Snow Queen! All these while, the turmoil he had been though knowing that his boyfriend was seeing someone else… And here is the man himself, so calm and relaxed as if this was no big a deal.

 

“Don’t you feel anything?” he suddenly burst out. His hand flew to his pretty mouth; he didn’t expect to yell that out. His feet brought him a few steps back, till he leaned against the elegantly papered wall.

 

“Paulo,” just one word. His name.

 

“You’re right…”

 

“A few years ago, I fell for a sweet, shy, lovely young boy… How innocent he was then, like all children are… He is beautiful. He still is… We were so happy together… I broke so many rules for him. And I would still do it for him. We carried on seeing each other, behind so many people’s backs…” the older man paused for a moment, looking steadily into Paulo’s sad brown eyes. They were shining, with tears.

 

“But I’m never happy with what I have.”

 

“John has passed. He was just a fling. Just a foolish fling…”

 

“Paulo…”

 

He took a few steps closer to the slim young man, his arms extending, his hands reaching, fingers curling to grasp the sharp chin gently for a kiss.

 

His tongue pushed passed, against Paulo’s red swollen, trembling lips, that occurred whenever he was about to cry. And true enough, a small sob escaped his delicate throat. Jose couldn’t bear to hear it, he silenced it with the masterful skill of this tongue as it wrestled and coiled around Paulo’s. 

 

Silky chestnut hair, his fingers ran through them over and over again, as Jose pushed his head back for a better access of the warm cavern of Paulo’s sweet mouth.  

 

It was a long and sensual kiss, a goodbye kiss, with the elements of lust, love, guilt and regret., drawing so much from Jose that he broke it, and gasped for air. His thumb grazes the moist lashes, taking away the dew drops of tears. With the back of his hand, he caresses the smooth face, and a longing-look filled his most-of-the-time harsh eyes.

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“It’s mine,” he whispered.

 

Paulo made a soft noise sounding like a whimper, he got what he wanted. He’s free. Now they are apart. Never together. But he wanted so badly, to go back… he leapt into Jose’s arms, and hugged him good and tight.

 

“I’ll see you at the Bridge on Wednesday…”

 

That wasn’t the last he would hear from Jose.

 

Because he turned up for training three days later.

 

There were barking orders, strict instructions all from the mouth of the man. Nothing new.

 

But it was a new beginning.

 

Paulo smiled back at Jose shyly as he jogged his rounds

 

 

 

long time huh? i really couldn't find myself time to update cos of my new subject. we have work everyday and i finished my first project- a written portfolio on your self-portrait and a presentation on wednesday and i've finished my share of my colours-symbolism and psychology presentation on tuesday.

so yesterday i went out with sheryl and watched M. Night Shyamalan's The Lady in the Water.

i expected it to be as dumb as The Village, but it IS not!

fantasy-like, tragic, witty, horrifying, it has all genres rolled into ONE film. the multi-racial, low-profile cast was a PUNCH! really good!

WONDERFUL. what can i say about that?

except the starting was a little SILLY! stick men and cliche opening words... i mean it made me think for a moment that perhaps it is gonna be WORSE than the Village.

sheryl and i bought Tori Q takeaways and green tea into the cinemas. it's ILLEGAL, don't do that! when we opened our bentos, the smell of sea weed and teriyaki sauce permeated the hall!

we had a laugh!

bet the people in the front got annoyed.

anyway, after the show was done, we met sabrina at level one!

oh my... this is the 2nd time of the week i met her. 1st time was at ikea with sarah b.

celine teo, my sister's history teacher and my cca teacher-in-charge took the same bus as me to town! she spotted me first, i was furiously messaging sheryl about the annoying lady next to me who was invading my space.

and i saw michelle, a senior by 2-3 years when i was queueing up for tickets!

keep bumping into all of them old girls.

BECAUSE I AM STUPID. 
My apologies for flooding your pages. I tried using this LJ cut thingy... on Rich Text Format, after reading the FAQ... But it didn't work cos I still haven't got it right. -___- I don't understand. Perhaps if someone were to read this, it would be nice if you could tell me nicely... the FAQ page doesn't have a detailed example. I think I annoyed a lot of users there. I'm sorry if I did! It feels like I am on a land mine and ONE wrong move will blow up my foot! That's how it feels like whenenver I'm in a forum or a community of sorts. I recall being on the Deth community (Megadeth) I used to post there... but now I don't. There are PLENTY of harsh really harsh people. So I stay out of their way. Of course there are friendly fans as well. (: Anyway, I never found a courage to posts stuff on those boards and communities anymore... Cos sometimes, the way the fans treat each other makes me cringe. They had no respect for each other.  

My momma used to tell me, if you haven't got anything nice to say, keep your mouth shut. I think it's applicable to my situation. 

Cept she would say "if you do not know how to use it, dont' post it." But I never listened to her. I speak what I want to, but take to the concern of people in mind, the last thing I want to do is to hurt people intentionally. 

I love sharing. (the love of football!)

So here it is anyway: 

Filipo Inzaghi. The AC Milan Striker.
I always love this guy! Although many people don't really love him, he remains one of the most adorable strikers I've ever seen. He didn't have much play time on the field this WC. But he had LOTS of time with Alessandro Del Piero (his national squad and ex. Juve team mate) and Christian Vieri (Bobo). So I decided to do a little pic spam! Cos most of my favourite pairings are already done! And there is little stuff about the Italians there (refer to football slash community)...



This is Pippo. Can you spot his dorkiness?



Del Piero! WHAT A MAN! Don't you think so?



Pippo and Del Piero. Pippo looks old here, in fact he is a year older than Alex.



Del Piero and Pippo at a press conference.





Pippo's shorts are so high up his waist! He looks like a schoolboy! Zambrotta in the back. His face clearly didn't change in the years... 



Del Piero and Pippo this time, without Zambrotta. 









This picture made me realised Del Piero is so much smaller than Pippo. 





 Poor Pippo, his nose got screwed, so Del Piero hugs him better. ^_^ 



They must have lost a match there... Pippo looks so dejected! Alex tries to make him smile...



Pippo leaves Alex for another round the field, Alex looks miserable.... :(



Everyone wants a piece of Pippo...



Materazzi...



See what I mean?





Yep, even Zizou too.







But Pippo only has eyes for his Alex! (:





He loves touching Pippo's cheeks! 



Pirlo loves touching Pippo's cheeks too! ^_^ Canna waits for his turn.



Now, we turn to Pippo and Bobo. This is quite famous, really!








Friends...?





Friends hold hands.





Do friends do this? NO! So you get the answer... XD They are MORE than friends.





I laughed when I saw this picture! LOOK WHERE VIERI'S HANDS ARE! ^o^





Vieri: "Pippo, look! Buffon is in his underpants!"





Zambrotta AGAIN. This time, flirting with Christian. This guy loves to come between Pippo... maybe he wants a piece of him as well! Pippo looks annoyed.




So he turns to Totti.





Is it me or does Totti has hairless pits? O_O Pippo's legs are so skinny!







OMG. His legs are skinnier than mine! !#$% This makes me GREEN with envy! 






Bobo decides that he must not flirt with Zambrotta anymore to get Pippo back from Totti.





Totti: "Pippo!"

Pippo tries to reach Francesco but....





... Vieri wisks his Pippo away. He doesn't want Francesco to hold him!





Same thing he did when Del Piero and Perrotta appeared.





After the game... Vieri decides to bring Pippo on a holiday...




HOWEVER, THE PAPARAZZI CAUGHT THEM ON THEIR SECRET RENDEZVOUS !!!

Yellow trunks! <3  

But we all know...



What is truth?




Some random pictures I did up on Photoshop cos I was bored...Congratulations Italy. 

And to the Captain. CANNA! ^_^ So I dedicate this portion for him!





Although this is nothing slashy in nature like what the rules of this community says... I can't resists this : CANNA IN HIS DAISY PRINTED BOXERS! 

Can you?






Canna looking like a kid here. Really... the eyebrows... I thought Lahm was bad enough... But these two don't bother me with their thick brows... I have something against thick brows but they look good in it. I guess you have to have something to pull it off. Like the CUTENESS factor Lahmi and Canna have...





Canna and Gigi Buffon. -___- I guess we all hate watermarks don't we?

Horrid day? Try me.

I woke up in time, for school at 1000.

But just as I was about to leave my house, SHIT! My keys- misplaced them, got to search. It took me 30 minutes. and it is 930. I take an hour to get to school. Messaged Si Si, told her to tell the lecturer, Paige. Who said to be fair, if I'm not there by 1030. She's gonna fail my test.

DOUBLE SHIT!

Now what? I had to take a bus to the interchange to buy my train concession, only to find that the ticketing booth has yet to be opened, it's 1000. Heck, I took the train anyway.

Before my train stop, I groped my bag, the front compartment and found that only my phone was there. O_O

WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CANDY AND MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL, MY FAV. LIP BALM! The david and goliath cotton candy flavoured one that my sister got me. I ABSOLUTELY <3 it! It glides on my chapped lips so easily...

IT WAS UTTERLY DEPRESSING. MY mood which was about 50 out of a 100 when I stepped out of my house, dropped to ZERO! ):

Later, I found out that the lining of my front compartment broke a little hole, allowing my lip balm and my candy to sink inside.

AH! I got so upset for no reason! >_<

I reached school five minutes before 11. The test was over.

I explained my BAD day to Paige, who said I could take my test, but she had to deduct 3 marks in order to be fair, cos I took it later, and she wouldn't know if someone leaked the questions to me or something.

I'm cool with it.

I think I failed though...

(I was reading last minute on the train)

Seriously, I narrowed down my answers but hell, I can't decide which was best, so I just put whatever my gut tells me to.

HA. HA.

Some way to go through your tests...

Anyway, I went with Si Si to Spotlight in hope to get the ladies over there to help us identify the fabrics we weren't sure of.

GUESS WHAT?

The people who worked there have no clue about their work at all!

WHAT ROTTEN LUCK.

I have to finish this darn fabric book by thursday if I want to party on friday. AND HELL AM I GOING TO FINISH IT BY THURSDAY! Even if it means no sleep and eyebags!

>_

I had this inspiration- *POOF. I always wanted to do a Ruud/C.Ronaldo fic. Even though they aren't at the best of terms now (sad case isn't it?) They are in the pits now - Ruud being his disappointing show in WC 06, despite the fact that he DID score, and C.Ronaldo, the target of hate and the reason why England got out, from the PRO-ENGLISH fan point of view. Being a United fan, for the sake of the club, I hope they pull through this together! Perhaps a miracle will happen and who knows? We'll be the champions next season. ;) My wish- secretly we all know Chelsea will be taking the cup home for this while...

Anyhoo... here it is...

This Boots are made for…

Author: Closet Child

Disclaimer: I do not know them personally, neither do I own them. Nothing mentioned here is real. It’s just someone with time on her hands and has nothing better to do.

Summary: Ruud hates boots.

Pairing: Ruud van Nistelrooy / Cristiano Ronaldo

Rating: R ( for the language and sexual situations)

Warnings: None.

Author’s Notes: I just SEE it. I can SEE what I wanted to write and it made me laugh when the picture got into my head. I hope it brings you (the readers) laughs too!


Cristiano always got new boots. Be it Nike, Adidas, Lotto, Mitre, Umbro, Reebok, Joma…

Sometimes, too many that he gave some of them to his cousins back home. Off course, the sizes didn’t fit all the time… so he auctions them. The profit going to a charity he supported.

Ruud always throws a fit when a new box arrives at their doorstep.

“It’s another of them!” he yelled. “Do something about it!” the Dutchman picked up the new box, putting it on the last unopened box, a rising stack at the corner of their door.

“Cris?”

“CRIS!”

He wasn’t getting an answer. And it annoyed the hell out of him. Why is he doing this, cleaning the house alone when it supposed to be both their jobs?

“Cris? Are you on the phone again?”

Ruud noticed the increasing time his boyfriend kept spending on their phone and it worried him. Is Ronnie cheating on him?

But with whom?

With his beautiful golden tan, toothy smile, well-sculptured body, and on top of that, his brilliant football talent, everyone wants a piece of him.

Could it be Smudger? Cris and Alan always shared inside jokes, laughing by themselves during training every now and then that Ruud could never understand, perhaps he was too old.

Maybe it was Rio? The stylish defender and Cris often traded style tips and went on shopping sprees together. Sort of like teenage girls, Ruud didn’t enjoy shopping. He had a style of his own, not quite like Cris’s flamboyancy. He professed to his lover sometimes that he didn’t like the way he was dress- too loud, attention seeking!

No, it is Arjen! The two hit of really well after meeting each other outside the field, during Netherlands’s training when Cris came along with him.

Or was it Pauleta… No… Maniche… or was it Paulo Ferreira ? HELL! It could be Mourinho for all he knew!

“Mm… 6? No, that’s too small!”

“Tight? Yes…”

“Make it an 8.”

“Big? Oh no…”

Ruud could hear the soft whispers in distinct heavy Portuguese-accented English. Then a giggle or two as Cris rolled on their bed, clutching his stomach. Then just as Ruud was about to step into the room, Ronnie muttered a quick “bye bye,” and hung up the call.

“Who were you talking to?”

Cris got up the bed fast, “no one,” he said it quickly, shaking off Ruud’s suspicious tone.

He couldn’t find out…

“I heard you…”

“You don’t believe me?” the young man grimaced at his lover’s lack of trust.

Ruud was baffled. First, Cris was having an obscene conversation on the phone and now he is denying it, and changing the topic! Ronaldo’s cupid bow lips took a curve down, into a sulky pout.

“Ah, forget it,” the older man decided not to make a mountain out of a molehill.

“Oh yeah, please do something about the growing amount of boots, I don’t exactly like the idea that our house is turning into a shoe store…”

“Okay,” Cris nodded agreeably.

“Get ready will you? I’m taking us out for dinner.”

“Okay.” The pretty head simply nodded again and Ruud shook his head. Sometimes having a young lover is like having to take care of an extra kid.



Ruud unlock the door, to bring in the morning papers that are always delivered at their doorstep without fail.

And then, there it was. ANOTHER package on the mat.

It was rectangular-shaped. There is no doubt that it is a shoe.

Ruud let out an irritated noise and threw the papers on the table. Bringing up the brown paper-wrapped package to his room.

“I HAD ENOUGH!” he dumped the box on his sleeping lover, waking Cris up in the rudest manner possible.

“I told you to clear them yesterday! You didn’t! Now, there is a mountain of boxes, collecting dusts at the shoe cabinet!”

Poor Cris looked at the enraged Dutchman with bleary eyed, not knowing what was happening. Why is he getting a scolding?

Fed up with the passiveness, Ruud tore the package up and shook the lid of the box open.

He watched as Cristiano’s eyes widened with horror as two red patent leather boots fell onto the bed, their spiked heels making a slight dent onto the mattress. Ruud was shocked.

“What is this? Huh? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!” the striker dangled a half of the pair of boots in front of Ronaldo’s face. The young right winger scrambled out of the blankets in his nakedness, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Please, Ruud-”

“A WOMAN?” he breathed hard, his nostrils flaring, “YOU’RE SEEING A WOMAN? WHO’S THE BITCH?!”

He reached for the golden boy by his arm, jerking him roughly towards him. Cristiano winced at the harshness of the contact, struggling, he made a beeline for the boots. He wasn’t going to waste time, using his horrible English to explain to Ruud, because Ruud isn’t going to listen right now.

“Ruud!” he cried out, as he shook himself off the Dutchman’s vice grip.

“Wait!”

In a jiffy, Cristiano slipped his long legs into the shiny red boots, shaking his small waist and wriggling his hips, easing his smooth legs in, and stood up, in front of a seething Ruud.

“I just wanted to give you surprise…” he said softly, his brown eyes tearing a bit, “no seeing woman.” He gently pushed Ruud down the messy bed, slowly; he straddled onto those boxer clad thighs.

“Want to make you love boots,” Ronaldo bit his lips nervously. Ruud’s face softened as the young man stroked his singlet-clad chest.

“You hate boots…” little whimpers arose from his choked throat.

This is it? Ronnie had bought boots to make him shut up about the growing mountain of sponsored boots at home? And he yelled at his lover…

“Mm… 6? No, that’s too small!”

“Tight? Yes…”

“Make it an 8.”

“Big? Oh no…”

Crap! And he thought otherwise… Ronnie’s shoe size was 8! How could he forget?

“Oh shit, Ronnie…” he paused, running his fingers through the rarely product-free curls. “I’m so sorry, baby…” he brought the tear-streaked face close to his, and kissed the moist salty skin. His hands were moving all over the tight, taut body, scaling the sensuously curved back, to the smooth globes of ass cheeks that sandwiched his rising rod.

“Cris…” he broke apart from their intense kiss. “How do you want it?” he asked for his lover’s opinion, in attempt to make up for the ruckus he kicked up earlier.

“Back, please. I want to see your face…” he smiled, stroking Ruud’s face tenderly, brushing away the un-swept fringe.

He scooped up the lithe midfielder, switching positions, so it was Cris who lay on his back, and it was him, between the slightly spread legs.

“For you, I’ll do anything; you don’t have to say please.” He murmured into the perfect shell of Cristiano’s ear. Making the latter shiver with anticipation…

His fingers touch the bare skin where the boots end, at the upper thigh. They skim across lightly, earning little moans and mewls as Cris shifted, his hips buckling in the air as the fingers got closer and closer to his growing hardness.

Ruud lowered his face, and his mouth made contact with two smooth round nuts, he opened his lips to take one in. His fingers never stopped for a break as he trailed his way to the tiny hole. Probing the area for a while, feeling the heat spreading… A flush was blooming on Ronaldo’s chest, and his nipples darkened, hardened with his stiffness.

“Ru-ud…” he moaned continuously over and over again, getting louder each time the older man tried to push his thick fingers into his tightness. Then, the wet-warmness of Ruud’s mouth wasn’t there at his sacs anymore, but they appeared again, at the tip of his length, where clear fluid started to seep out of his piss hole.

“Ssh...” silencing Cris as he pressed a loving kiss on the tip of the brown nose. Stretching towards the bed-side table where the jar of salve for aching muscles stood firmly.

He uncapped the jar, and the smell of aloe permeated the room. Dipping his fingers into the cool clear substance, he inserted his coated, long fingers into the tense channel, pushing his way through to the end of the tunnel, brushing at a random spot, which sent sparks to Ronaldo’s head. The havoc that Ruud was creating inside him was so violent; it triggered spasms in his body.

Then, the fingers started to move, picking up speed with time.

Cristiano became putty in his hands, rambling in a mixture of Portuguese and English.

“Sim, Ruud. Oh, dues!”

“Harder, meu amante! Faster!”

Ruud noticed his little friend down there was creating such a tent in his boxers, so he stopped the ministrations on Cristiano and slid off his cotton shorts, his straining erection sprung onto his wash-board abs. The younger man stretches his shiny-screaming-fire-engine-red-boot-clad legs that do even more justice to his long tanned legs. He looked absolutely wanton, and inviting. Almost edible.

“Oh Ronnie,” the Dutchman grunt as he crawled in between the wide-spread legs.

“Need you,” the young man looked so desperate, distressed. Ruud just wanted to fulfill his every wish.

And he did, invading the slick hole with his long tool, hearing Ronnie blubber some incoherent sentences like a toddler. Tossing the boot-clad legs over his shoulders, keeping a hold on those slim hips, pushing his way till the hilt, his balls slapping Cristiano’s ripe, plump butt cheeks. He let out a grunt, feeling the incredible wholeness, warmness, tightness enveloping his manhood, clinging on like a second skin, fitting like a key in a lock. It didn’t matter if the Portuguese’s spiked heels were digging into his back, causing a little discomfort.

He continued, building up the rhythm, long, languorous, making every second last for an eternity. Who said he didn’t romance?

There were no animalistic pounding, clawing. Just running on passion and passion only. Leaving Cris reduced to tears, tears of happiness and pleasure.

It wasn’t before long before Cristiano came, spurting milky white all over their bodies, the sudden tightness in his body, sending them both to heaven yet again, triggered Ruud’s own ejaculation, an endless string of ribbons.

Slumped over Cristiano’s hard body, with the boots circling his waist, the friction between the patent leather and his sweat-sheen skin making squeaky little noises, Ruud cracked a smile. Everything about Ronnie was so positive, even the sex! The media always claimed that the Dutchman was such a moody fellar, but they don’t know what could bring a smile to his lips.

“Eu te amo, Ruud.” The sweet boyish voice spoke.

“I love you too Cris…” he smiled, petting the lovely head of curls.

Then it surprised him when Cristiano shrug out of his embrace, getting onto the floor, teetering on his boots.

“Where’re you going?”

“I’m going to clear the mountain of shoes.” He replied simply.

Ruud got out of the bed, pulling his lover down again, “that can wait,” he said slyly.

“This mountain of Ruud, can’t.”

“Make that volcano Ruud.” Teased Cristiano.

Confused, Ruud asked, “What?”

“You blow up like one.”

Instantly, the striker felt guilty, his face, crestfallen.

“It’s a joke Ruud…”

“I’m sorry Cris, I promised not to hurt you and I did. I wish I could trust you more…”

“It’s okay Ruud, I understand,” he managed.

That’s Ronnie for you, always understanding, ‘okay’ with about everything and anything Ruud is. How thankful he was, for such a wonderful gift from God.

I didn't go to school yesterday. Well, I was going to school, but when i got on the train, I just didn't feel like it.

It had to do with yet another warp dream. I keep getting them as if I'm Joseph- you know, the guy with the technicolour coat in the Bible? Yeah.

Yesterday's one, thankfully, has nothing to do with football. But it involved my cousin- dying. Apparently, she fractured her neck (Like Scary Movie 4). And died. The hospital called to inform her immediate family. However, my uncle, aunt and my cousin- her younger sister didn't shed a tear. The only person bawling was her husband.

That's it. It made me feel a bit edgy and I just didn't want to go to school AT ALL.

So I told Nat, he told me to join him in town with his friend. I forgot his friend's name.

Both of them are so stylish it made me feel like my presence was absence. I mean. I fade into the background with them. I was wearing shorts and ironically a shirt which says "Too Cool for School". The two of them and another friend who joined us later, a girl, are heading to the television studios to catch the live result show of Singapore Idol. Nat's friend is a TOTAL walking fashion encyclopedia, I swear. We were watching Chanel's Fall-Winter 2005 collection. And he could pick out all of the models, the dresses style and sounds like a really experienced critic it made me SHIVER. Well, mainly cos I've started school and they have yet to even step into theirs- term starts at the end of July.

Anyway, time passed really fast- they left and I had to visit my cousin- the other one, not the one in my dream, who had given birth to a baby boy!!! JOY!

No, that's not his name. He has yet to be named.

:) While waiting for my parents at the lobby of ward, there was this young boy, who was running about with this cousins. His mom wasn't too happy and told him to settle down, he didn't and she pinched him! Of course what do you expect- HE CRIED. REALL LOUDDDD!!! Then his cousin and his aunts went down, leaving him and his mom behind- at that time, he was STILL crying. And was being pretty stubborn. His mother wanted to go into the wards and he didn't want to. He wanted to go with his cousins. But they left already. So his mom gave up and left him there- still crying.

I was reading my textbook and offered him candy- mentos. He stopped crying for a moment and stared at me. Then I told him " You want drinks?" There was a vending machine.

He just stopped crying *whew. That's good. And then, his cousins came back up again. And he left with them.

Gosh, I hate it when little kids cry.

I just want them to stop crying. I'll do ANYTHING- that is reasonable and within my means to make them stop crying.

I had a weird dream.

Again, I set my alarm at 8, but I switched it off once it rang and went back to sleep. I needed to be in school at 1, I promised my friends. we are going to class early to get a feel and flip through the fabric books to identify our swatches.

Back to the dream... it was real...WEIRD.

Anyway it was set by the pool. I, was running up and down the side, god knows why. I must be a pool boy or something... and under an umbrella. Zizou was talking with Riquelme. I HAVE NO IDEA WHY THESE TWO. but riquelme has his back to me, so I only see Zidane. and they were looking real serious... I don't have a clue about their conversation. cos I was running up and down the pool... and I kept looking at Zidane's eyes... the next thing I knew was, I woke up, it was 850.

OH MY GOD. What kind of dumb dream is that?

I swear I'm hooked so much on WC 2006 that I'm having a 'hangover' the fever indeed hasn't died down yet...

I skipped lunch again. I got to school and it was lunchtime- the canteen was packed to the brim!

To make things worse, I ate a lot of maltesers!!! Think about all the calories!!!

We had an impromtu group presentation today... about dyeing. Our group got appointed to do garment dyeing and the problems faced. and... I was doing the process... which only involved me in saying 2 lines.

And then, after school I bought two curry puffs ( MY LATEST CRAVING!) and ate them on the train. Yes I know I'm not suppose to, but I did it anyway.

I HADN'T EATEN THE WHOLE DAY!!! >_<

A lady seating next to me warned that her friend got fined before.

But I have gastric, I told her.

And I continued eating.

Seriously. My friend's sister's friend got fined before. The sign on the train said a fine of $500 is to be made when caught. But she was only told to pay $ 10 for first time offender.

Totally dumb.

I don't see why people can bring their food (take-away or groceries) on the train. It is equivalent to eating on the train, to me. Because it still has smell, it makes more of a mess (especially wet-market goods like FISH!) than eating on the train.

Sometimes i think the government should review their laws... they make no sense to me.

I tell my mom that and she says why don't I try to be the government then! She says I talk to much for my own good.

Honestly, I get people telling me how cynical I am... but my mom, I got that from her.

She scoffs when I speak of human rights.

She argues with me when I speak of equality and the cons of the government's new actions, etc.

Yes, I'm idealistic. SO? At least I live for a better world even if no one believes in it!

I speak out for what I stand for.

IT'S OVER.

1. Italy
2. France
3. Germany
4. Portugal

i slept at half-time and woke up at the 2nd half of extra time, JUST in time to see zidane head butting materazzi and getting sent off. it was really a boring match for me to sleep. or maybe i'm just exhausted.

POOR ZIZOU. I LOVE YOU. MY SISTER LOVES YOU. WE ALL LOVE YOU!

despite not knowing you well, from what we (the fans) can see on pitch, you are someone who rarely loses his cool. i'm upset that the press have started this silly thing like ZZ GOING OUT IN SHAME- WITH A BANG thing.

i guess sometimes, there are limitations on being nice. even the nicest guy can break.

all i can say is it's over. like it or not. whoever wins it's done. written down in history, and we are preparing for the next.

GERMANY ARE MY HEROS! despite not getting into the finals this time, i'm proud that you have proven to EUROPE and to the rest of the WORLD, that you all are YOUNG, TALENTED team, with a wonderful coach like klinsmann. it's truly a revolution in German football.

I SALUTE YOU!

and that goes to italy, france and portugal.

To those who have not won anything.

Everyone, country who got to Germany is a WINNER!

This was a month filled with all emotions one can ever go through, joy, sorrow, anger... I have never realised how emo I was!

And until South Africa 2010... I'll go through the same feelings over and over again.

today i woke up, BORED. it was pretty early, i set my alarm at 8 and i woke up, cos i'm a light sleeper.

so i ate my brekkie- mac's egg mcmuffin. with hashbrown and iced milk tea. my dad was a kind soul, i told him i wanted to eat it for breakfast today and he bought it. unfortunately, he has some business to attend to, so he left and i couldn't thank him.

the hashbrown had gone soggy so i decided to toast it... i ONLY eat crispy hashbrowns. yes, i know, i'm such a fussy person...

BUT, it tasted so gross after i toasted it. >_< i guess i have very poor toasting skills.

after that, i reached out for the morning papers.

WHAT?

everyone listed Italy as favourites.

PLEASE, let ZZ go out in STYLE. i'm for France, despite the fact i like and admire a couple of Italian players... totti, inzahi, del piero, buffon... and lately cannavaro ( i ONLY noticed this guy recently...), gilardino, etc. etc. ... and as much as i hate to admit it, pirlo <--- this guy is the talk of the town.

out of the 11 goals the azzuris scored in the tournament, 10 were by DIFFERENT people. so i guess it's a TEAM effort. but wasn't italy very much about egos the last time i checked? i mean, everyone is so good, but they couldn't play as a team because they clash so much with each other!

the french have proven to be solid at the back as well! just like italy's 4. so i think it's going to be a tussle...

well... i'm not interested in the finals, since GERMANY didn't make it. i'm only interested in THEM!

they are playing tomorrow morning, against Portugal in Stuggart. a match i think is as good as the finals, just like the Argentinian one, pity it had to end on a sour note, that one...

so i went to do my homework, checking up the yarn/thread count of the unknown fabrics that my textile teacher gave us... we're suppose to identify it... last night i sorted out the woven and the knitted... cos i was so hyped up i couldn't sleep...

i finished pretty quick. wonder how i managed to...

and again, i was BORED. so i read the papers AGAIN.

i came to a conclusion that the sports columnist Rob Hughes got too many complains from the Italian community here from making remarks about the Serie A scandal, that he is forced to write, at knife-point that the Italians will win the Cup...

POOR GUY...

i scoffed at the silly letters that some dumb fans wrote in, obviously without much thought and was shocked that the MAJORITY of my country men voted for Germany to win the 3rd position.

UM. HELLO? REMEMBER WHAT YOU SAID ABOUT GERMANS? B-O-R-I-N-G?

...

oh yeah, i forgot. POOR C.Ronaldo is a VERY hated figure now, hence the huge support for Germany... personally i think he is a much better player than Rooney... and if there is anyone to blame, it would be NO ONE. people make mistakes.

oh well... the game will tell...

i'll be google-eyed tomorrow. O_O <--- not wanting to miss a second of the match. my eyes will NOT blink. one blink could mean a miss of a glimpse of Metzelder! haha.

Germany vs. Portugal

3rd/4th place play-offs. This Sunday, 3am.

France vs. Italy.

Finals. This Monday 2am.

France beat Portugal by a penalty to meet the Azzuris in Berlin.

The two old, experience teams meet once again.

Will France beat the Italians? Let's not forget World Cup '82 and Euro 00 where they met. At the WC '82, Italy won. The order of win was, Italy, Germany, France and Poland.

Funny cos this time WC06, we have Italy, France, Germany AND Portugal in the top 4. Notice everyone is present except Poland, but Portugal replaces them. They start with P too.

AH. WHO CARES. anything can happen! like a goal in the 119th minute? *cue, Pirlo. >_<

LET'S HAVE SOME LOVVEEEE HERE! the modern day football legends...



ZZ AND FIGO!



GET OUT OF THE REAL MADRID OTP WAY!



now, that's better....



this is Luis Figo... captain of the Portugese team.



>_< EW. HAIR. it's either you like it, or you don't.



this is a better shot? ;)



this, is Zinedine zidane.. captain of the French team.
let me show you why they SHOULD be together...











DO FRIENDS WEAR EACH OTHER'S SWEATY JERSEYS?

HELL NO! it's gross! even if it's a VERY close friend's...



franck: "I GIVE UP. YOU TWO DESERVE TO BE TOGETHER..."

yes franck, i agree too... ^^




figo: "take care of my zizou will you henry? i want to see him back in one piece, don't want the italians to tear him up..."





henry: "yeah, i'll luis, don't *sweat on that!"
*SWEAT on that... how appropriate...







ONE MORE, JUST ONE MORE of zz and figo...


nah, let me give you TWO MORE. doodles i did on the train ride home. since my rides home from school are super long. an hour to be exact. so i decided to make use of the paper. it has VERY promising pictures of the match. that's why i buy it... click on the links to see my train doodles. haha.


http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a90/greentinted_60s/zzfigo001.jpg

http://i9.photobucket.com/albums/a90/greentinted_60s/zzandfigo2.jpg

thanks for all the text messages! i think my bill is gonna soar by replying all of you!

it really made my day!

Jo: happy birthday van! even though we've hardly been seeing each other, i really treasure the online convos we have eh heh, you have really been a wonderful friend and a blessing to me! happy 17th dear!

wow, i'm a blessing? you're mine!

Qi Yi: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! enjoy your special day! God bless! hope to catch up with you soon! (:

god just made germany loose- a blessing in disguise? i hope so. cos now he owes me two presents one for this years world cup and the 02 one in asia and the 04 euros!

Kai Bin: Hey, happy birthday!

you've no idea how much i miss you all.

Nic Tan: Oh i almost forgot, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

thanks.

Adelle: hey van! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! thanks for being such a great friend it's been really fun at church and of course, shopping trips! haha love ya loads babe!

i want to go shopping soon! ;)

Ashely: heylo VANESSA!!HAPPY HAPPIER HAPPIEST 17th BIRTHDAY!!! ((: love ya girl! <3

and i want to grab some kleenex AGAIN.

Debs: Happy birthday van! I hope you have a great one :>

thank you thank you thank you. (:

Hao Wen: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE SWEETEST FIESTY GIRL I KNOW AND LOVE! thanks for always sticking up for me. happy 17th!

i am a trouble maker when i stick out for people sometimes, haha.

Amos: hey van, happy 17th birthday! i hope you enjoy your precious 24 hours today!

i still had to go to school. watch italy demolish germany... but... with friends like you. IT MADE MY REMAINING HOURS AS BEAUTIFUL AS CHRISTOPH METZELDER!!!

Shawna: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Rachel Tan: Hi! Happy birthday. Sorry, having my mid year exams, unabl to meet you. Hope you enjoyed your birthday! Take care loves!

((((((((((((((((((((((((((:

*BOUNCES!

Debbie.O: Happy birthday van!

WOAH even you remember, i dont' even have yours! >_< makes me feel BADDDDD!!!

Rachelle: Hey! Hope I'm not too late! Well happy 17th! i still rmember your birthday! <|:o) may all your wishes come true and ejoy your youth while you can! kay! have a great day!

I AM SO OLD. but i'm only 7 inside!

THANKS Y'ALL!. made me smile, cry and laugh when i was sewing. i'm such a twit!

Interpol sang,

"It's way too late to be this locked inside ourselves..."

The fever rages on even as my favorite team, Germany got booted out of being contenders of the cup this morning.

Some birthday this is huh?

This morning as my dad lit up the candles for me, I refuse the blue and the green ones, saying they are Italia's colours.

Despite being 17, I still feel that I'm 7 inside sometimes...

"Set the day, you know exactly how I feel
I had my doubts little girl..."

It was sad, but I had predicted they will fall to the Italians. I have respect for the Azzuris... with players like Alessandro Del Piero, Francesco Totti, Gianluigi Buffon, Alessandro Nesta, Fillippo Ingzahi, Luca Toni...Pirlo... so on and on... They are an experienced team with world-class players...

But Germany played well. It's not the end of the world. We're going to fight for third place as if it were first.

This new team is playing a new style, the coach was under heavy criticism before the cup, the players are young and raw talent has yet to be cultivated...

I'm proud of the team.