Dirty Little Secret
Title: Dirty Little Secret
Finished: 06/18/2007
Pairing(s): Cris/Wayne (and hints at Rio/Vida)
Rating: NC-17 (which, technically, forbids me to read my own fic. huh.)
Warnings: Um, yeah, there's sex. Yes. Hehe. Plus this was only beta-read by a tired individual wanting to go to bed already (me), so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: Wayne and Cris are making out on my couch while I write this. They are very happy together and plan to marry in Las Vegas this fall.Plus, they are MINE. Just kidding, everything is fictional and I own nothing. Except typos and stuff, that is. *sniffles*
Summary: It's your dirty little secret. Which sounds completely sappy and old-fashioned, but that's what it is. It's a secret, plus it's dirty. And it's nothing like big love.
Author's Notes: Premiere, premiere, first NC-17 (hope I got that right) ever for me - took me ages to write, and whether it's good or not - well, let's just say, I'm not too sure about that XD'... so comments and all kinds of feedback are highly appreciated :) *is nervous*
"Oi, Wazza!" Rio shouts when a precisely-kicked ball hits the board with a loud 'thud'. "Board's not 'sponsible for that yellow card, y'know?"
"Twat", you grumble in response when the two of you are walking off the training ground; or rather, you are walking, and Rio is more or less limping 'cause of his groin injury. Actually, everyone was surprised when he had turned up this afternoon, since he isn't able to train anyway. But he just grinned widely, said something about 'supporting Vida' and then limped off to Nemanja, who collapsed with a surprised gasp when suddenly, something heavy jumped onto his back.
You are shaken - slapped? - out of your thoughts when Rio mistakes your silence for some kind of brooding. "Aw, stop doin' the Ronnie, it'll just give you the crinkles, mate!" You have just opened your mouth to remind him that he, Rio Ferdinand (28) is in no position to tell you, Wayne Rooney (21), about wrinkles, when he starts waving frantically. "Oi, Vida! Ronnie! Hurry up, yo!"
You wince when Rio hollers right into your left ear; holy shit, does he have to torture your drumhead like that? After you have made sure that your ear is still in its place and the echoes inside your head have subsided a little, you turn just in time to watch the mentioned footballers perform a very...well, un-motivated jog. Vida is talking to Ronnie, probably in his very own Serbglish that is kinda hard to understand for any brit, but Ronnie looks truly puzzled, like a baby in a topless bar, so to think.
The Portuguese seems relieved when Vidic finally leaves his side and joins Rio, who puts an arm around the Serb's shoulders, gesturing with his free hand while he walks him to the changing room.
Ronnie's eyes follow the couple; he shakes his head, causing the black curls to fall into his face. Quickly, he combs them back with his hand, wrinkling his nose in annoyance. You have never understood the necessity of having one's hair glued to the head, especially if Cristiano is concerned (but then again, you can't really say anything regarding that topic 'cos your hair is too short to cause any problems, as Cris likes to point out) - but it is too damn funny to wind him up by ruffling his hair when he has just styled it.
"Was as difficult understand me?"
You nod with a mock grin in his direction, and he nudges you with his elbow, sticking out his tongue in your direction. "Asshole."
Blinking a few times, you stare at his tongue, and without any invitation, your mind starts showing those flicks that are usually hidden in the darkest corner of a boy's drawer, behind socks and boxers, next to magazines of the same topic. You seem to have a certain expression on your face, though, whenever your mind digs out one of them - something like the 'Permitted for 18 and older ONLY' signs on the respective door in the video rental store - 'cos all of a sudden, Ronnie looks to the side and starts scratching his forehead, as if a giant monster mosquito has just stung him.
There's an awkward pause in which you pretend to develop a sudden, but fierce interest in the color of your shoes - and curse your mind for adding perv subtext to every single action when you are alone with Cris. Really alone, well, then, it's a different pint of beer altogether, but just last-ones-on-the-pitch is...dangerous. And, you're not afraid to admit it, you have had nightmares about Gaz suddenly turning up at your house and telling Colleen about what is going on between the two of you over a cup of tea.
Not that he knows.
At least, you hope he doesn't.
****
When you pull into the driveway of Ronnie's house later that day, that row with Colleen has sort of ditched your mood.
But why on earth isn't a man allowed to hum 'Champagne Supernova' as performed by Oasis without a particular reason? Okay, so it was a bit out of tune, and you were smiling absently, but that's not the point here, not at all. The point is that she sees a bloody affair behind every single form of communication between you and any bird on this planet. It's royally pissing you off - and besides, if you were brutally honest and told her of that one time back in Liverpool, she'd go all hysterical and would most likely stomp off like a herd of elephants.
Women. Beg you to be honest, but hell breaks loose if you dare to be.
In the end, you have settled on some safe half-truth as an answer to her teary-eyedly asked question if you had an affair with another woman. No, you have replied then; and it wasn't even a real lie, because Ronnie - though he behaves like a schoolgirl sometimes - certainly isn't a woman.
Before further evaluations of how big the pile of shit you're in really is and how you got into it can ruin the evening completely, you stop the engine and get out of your car. You're still a little ahead of time 'cause the streets were empty when you left your house, and all the way up to Ronnie's house, you've felt strange, being used to be on the screen instead of in front of it.
Not today, though, to hell with that damned yellow card.
Everyone and their cats have told you to act more sensible on the pitch; but then, you go out and you're playing football, not chess or golf. Football isn't about mind games or being so fucking polite that you almost slip on your slime; football is tackling and running and passing and scoring, it's muddy and dirty at times, wet and rough...and you love it, every single situation, every single time. It's what you can do best - and sometimes, the rush of adrenaline just carries you away, makes you say (or do) things you'll regret later, but on the pitch, there's no time for such things. That's football.
And there's no use of pondering that issue again and again, you tell yourself while you walk to the front door of the giant - yeah, you could almost call it a mansion and kick away a stone that is lying in your way. You're not playing. Full-stop, end of discussion.
Instead, you ring the bell, and Cris opens the door almost immediately, as if he's been waiting behind it. (And maybe he has, your Ronnie-is-not-a-woman excuse really doesn't work for all of his actions.) Anyway, he flashes that 100.000 volt grin of his and steps back to let you in, an invitation you don't even consider to decline, since it's getting pretty chilly outside in just jeans and a tee.
The front door closes soundly while you kick off your shoes.
Suddenly, he comes up behind you, his warm body pressing against yours; you can smell that unmistakable scent of his, shampoo and aftershave and something else, while his soft fingers slide down your arm, caressing the flesh, almost white against his tanned skin. He takes your hand, and, at the same time, his forehead touches your temple just lightly, the most careful head butt you have ever received. For a moment, you are overwhelmed by the realization of how warm he is, his body, his hand on yours, even his breath when he whispers a quiet "follow me" into your ear - and then, it's gone as he backs away, walking towards the living room.
You are left to follow him, a little dazed still, but acutely aware of the way he moves: ever so elegant, ever so gracious with well-defined muscles playing under his clothes. And damnit, guessing from the way he he's swaying his hips, he knows all too well that you're watching him as he enters the living room and plops down in one corner of the couch facing the huge wall-mounted flat screen.
The voice of someone talking rapidly in Portuguese brings you back to a semi-reality where you came over to watch a game of football instead of checking out your teammate's ass. By the time you slouch yourself into the opposite corner of the couch and fling an arm over the armrest, the mood has changed into something that suits the scenery of watching a football match better than the one you have felt in the hall and all your way to the living room. It's much less seductive (and tense at the same time) now, after all, you're by all means not an old married couple or something - Ronnie and you, you're teammates, and, if the opportunity gives it away, you're a little more than that, and yeah, that's about it.
The black-haired winger on the opposite end of the couch apparently remembers his duties as tonight's host now and looks at you questioningly. "Want beer?" he asks, and when you give a nod, he gets up and marches off to the kitchen. Meanwhile, you pick up the remote control and flick through the channels in search for Sky One. You have just found it between the music channel and some Portuguese gaming show, when Ronnie returns with two cans of beer. He sits down in his corner of the couch again, and both of you follow the discussion of the line-ups interestedly.
****
Watching football with Cris is always different from watching a football match with Colleen. Well, you can't really tell what it would be like to watch 90+ minutes of football with her, because either you're on the pitch, or she'll be busy, or she'll be sitting next to you, ranting on about how boring the game is and how many other important things she could do in that time, and she will always get all pain-in-the-ass-ish until you'll tell her to do her fucking important stuff already, which she'll do then, leaving the room without a single word.
You and Ronnie, on the other hand, just sit on the couch, each one in his own corner, but together still, watching as the game takes its course. In silence. Not because you don't need any words, like those couples in teenie flicks that make you want to throw up, hell no.
It's just that both of you are interested in what's happening on the pitch (at least, you are now - it's a matter of occasion and motivation, like in those Miss Marple books your mother loves so much. Once you get distracted, you are distracted. But - that's the meaning of those kinds of relationships - distraction. Right? Right.)
It's a mixture you're very comfortable with - there's the chance to watch football with someone whom you can discuss a free kick with, 'cause he at least knows what a free kick is - and then, there's the prospect of hot monkey sex without sentences like [quote] "I have a headache!" or "Not today, Manchester's wearing their red kit!" [end quote].
When the game just drags on for a few minutes, Ronnie notices that your bottle is empty and leaves for the kitchen to get you a new one, while you continue making angry comments about that Beckham idiot missing that fat chance, or someone else tripping over his own feet; but you stop when Ronnie returns and hands you the new, cool beer bottle. He then sits down again, closer to you this time, much closer.
Which is the point where you just know that both of you will most likely be too distracted to see the second half fully.
And then, Joe scores just minutes before half-time, and you're cheering and pointing and did-you-see-that-we-scored, and though Ronnie can't possibly understand the full extent of properly supporting England, he is cheering, too, and laughing - and at some point, when you have calmed down a little, he grins that goofy grin of his and looks at you sideways, nudges you with his elbow, says, "Took them long enough" and sticks out his tongue again.
All of a sudden, you are back on the pitch earlier today, except for the undeniable improvement that there's no Smudge around to spoil the mood, no coach to rip you away from each other and then lecture you for inappropriate behaviour. And, most importantly, no one to discover your dirty little secret. Which sounds completely sappy and old-fashioned, but that's what it is. It's a secret, plus it's dirty. And it's nothing like big love, either.
Anyway. You don't want to waste the time given searching for a definition of your relationship - and Ronnie doesn't seem to, either, because you barely have the time to set down your bottle before he's all over you, his arms sliding around your neck while he climbs onto your lap.
It catches you off guard, that new, almost aggressive passion he's showing when he starts moving his hips, grinding his cock against yours through the fabric of his track pants and your jeans, and hell yeah, maybe you should let him top more often, 'cos your pants suddenly feel three sizes too small. Briefly, you wonder what drives him into taking the lead of all sudden; but your blood seems to rush southwards with incredible speed, leaving your brain empty and buzzing.
A moan escapes your lips, intelligent conversations or even a full sentence unthinkable right now, the somewhat poor attempt to notify Ronnie of the growing bulge; but the glint in his eyes and the smile playing around his lips tells you that he fucking knows, that sadistic Portuguese bastard. It is almost humiliating, the way he intently watches your face, never ceases to roll his hips there on top of you, and within seconds, you’re so fuckin’ randy that you want to try to shove him off you, no matter what, just to get your dick out and then off already. But Ronnie stops the attempt, grabbing you by the wrists, pinning your hands down on either side of you, leaving you in an annoying state of immobility.
The annoyance is gone and the pressure momentarily forgotten when he crashes his lips against yours, kisses you fiercely, nibbles on your lower lip while his hands are on your shoulders; pressing you into the backrest while you kiss him back, hard, struggling for the upper hand - and finally succeeding when Ronnie parts his lips, enough for you to slide your tongue into his mouth.
Your lungs are screaming for air when he pulls his head back seconds (minutes?) later; your faces just inches apart, you stare at each other, panting, lightly sweating already - and there’s something in his eyes that hasn’t been there when you were snogging all those times before; but the eye contact is cut off when Ronnie slides his hands under your shirt, having you shivering ‘cos of their warmth, and pulls it over your head, then tosses it somewhere into the semi-darkness of the living room.
He’s the one with too much clothes on now; and you’re not intending to let him get away with that, you decide, grabbing his collar and tugging at his shirt, crudely, actually - there’s a tearing sound and you hear Ronnie mumble something, not that you really care, and then, it’s finally off him, and, burying one hand in the black, curly hair on his head, you pull him close again, into another passionate kiss.
While your tongues are wrestling against each other, you can feel his hands moving over your chest, your stomach and further down south to your groin, where the pressure in your pants has become almost unbearable - will he…
No, that bloody teaser stops just a tiny fracture of an inch away from the button of your jeans, tugging on your waistband, and you swear inwardly that you’re gonna bite his tongue off if he keeps doing that - and for once, you don’t care that he obviously knows what you’re thinking (although you could imagine it’s not that hard right now - to read your face, you mean.) ‘cos he smiles into the kiss, finally opens the button and zipper, thank god.
Short fidgeting; then, your pants are down to your ankles, soon accompanied by your boxers, and that’s a lot more comfortable than the tightness before, thousand times better - with a little catch, though, ‘cause you’re still horny as fuck and Ronnie still has got his pants on.
You solve the problem by simply pulling them down, like he previously did with yours; and you can’t help but smile at the fact that he isn't wearing anything underneath; it figures, though, you state for yourself, and it makes things a lot easier, too.
And before you can take action yourself, he does, fucking goodness grabbing your hard cock, jerking it slowly, pausing in between to lick his hand - and if that's not the hottest way to lube someone up, you want to be damned ‘till eternity. But first of all, you’re up in heaven when Ronnie kneels over you, still wanking you while he positions himself and then - fuck yes, your dick slides all the way up his tight arse when he lowers himself onto you.
You simply grab him by the hips, both for guidance and to have something to hold in to while he slowly gets into some sort of rhythm, hands on your shoulders; when he kisses you again, his lips taste salty, of cum and sweat and of him, and you groan and moan and thrust into him a little, which makes him put his arms around your neck and rest his forehead on your shoulder.
For minutes and minutes, his sweaty skin rubs against yours as he picks up speed - thigh against thigh, chest against chest, his todger brushing over your stomach - and both of you are breathing heavily, and occasionally, one of you groans or moans, but what's missing is the bed talk. Lovers do that all the time; they whisper and scream each other's names and plead and cry and whatnot; but Ronnie and you don’t. There's just the slapping, smacking sound of sex, and breathing and rubbing and moaning and gasping, but no single word is uttered, ‘cos you’re fuck buddies - tops. Not lovers at all.
That’s how it is - no single word, not even when he, after ages, it seems, holds on to you even tighter, his arse suddenly clenching around your dick, and then, there's a sharp pain in your shoulder when his entire body tenses up and hot, wet liquid dribbles onto your stomach; the bastard has bitten you, bitten you into the shoulder when he came, left his mark on you and heaven knows what Colleen will do if she sees.
Your nails dig into the flesh of Ronnie's hips and you thrust into him, hard, angry, not careful at all, your revenge for holding you down, teasing you all that long, leaving a bite mark on your shoulder blade - you’re close, the wave of anger and lust carrying you away, pushing you over the edge, and with a last, deep thrust, you come, flash lights dancing before your eyes.
It's over, and he detaches himself; with a sigh, he collapses on the couch next to you, naked and sweaty and panting heavily, exhaustion in persona when he closes his eyes. Although he’s the one who did all the work tonight, you can’t deny that you are almost equally as spent, and for a second, you lean back and close your eyes. But no rest for the wicked, they say, you still have a journey to make.
Far away in Estonia, the final whistle blows. England has won, the players on the screen leave the pitch. And so do you, picking up your clothes as you head upstairs for a shower.
****
"So what'd ya think, Wazza?"
"About what?"
"'bout the game yesterday, retarded!" Rio says and whacks you over the head with his towel - well, he tries to, but you manage to duck out and throw your own at him. It hits him square in the face with a smacking sound (since it's wet 'cos you've just dried yourself with it), and while laughter erupts from the rest of the squad, he quickly removes the wet piece of cloth and throws it back at you with a disgusted snort.
"'Ya could just answer my question instead of throwing yer dirty things at me, mate." he says, trying to sound pissed-off and thoroughly serious, but he only succeeds partly, 'cos the toothpaste-advertising style trademark grin is already tugging at the corners at his mouth when he starts the sentence.
You shake your head, grinning widely yourself, and throw your kit into your bag. "Good game" you finally reply, glancing over to Ronnie, who is standing in front of the opposite bench, back towards you.
"Bit dirty and rough, but if it works in the end..." you continue, well aware of the fact that while you spoke, Ronnie's ears have turned tomato red at the subtext hidden in your comment.
With a chuckle, you close your bag, throw it over your shoulder and leave the dressing room, your hand brushing the Portuguese's bare arm as you're walking by.
Finished: 06/18/2007
Pairing(s): Cris/Wayne (and hints at Rio/Vida)
Rating: NC-17 (which, technically, forbids me to read my own fic. huh.)
Warnings: Um, yeah, there's sex. Yes. Hehe. Plus this was only beta-read by a tired individual wanting to go to bed already (me), so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: Wayne and Cris are making out on my couch while I write this. They are very happy together and plan to marry in Las Vegas this fall.Plus, they are MINE. Just kidding, everything is fictional and I own nothing. Except typos and stuff, that is. *sniffles*
Summary: It's your dirty little secret. Which sounds completely sappy and old-fashioned, but that's what it is. It's a secret, plus it's dirty. And it's nothing like big love.
Author's Notes: Premiere, premiere, first NC-17 (hope I got that right) ever for me - took me ages to write, and whether it's good or not - well, let's just say, I'm not too sure about that XD'... so comments and all kinds of feedback are highly appreciated :) *is nervous*
"Oi, Wazza!" Rio shouts when a precisely-kicked ball hits the board with a loud 'thud'. "Board's not 'sponsible for that yellow card, y'know?"
"Twat", you grumble in response when the two of you are walking off the training ground; or rather, you are walking, and Rio is more or less limping 'cause of his groin injury. Actually, everyone was surprised when he had turned up this afternoon, since he isn't able to train anyway. But he just grinned widely, said something about 'supporting Vida' and then limped off to Nemanja, who collapsed with a surprised gasp when suddenly, something heavy jumped onto his back.
You are shaken - slapped? - out of your thoughts when Rio mistakes your silence for some kind of brooding. "Aw, stop doin' the Ronnie, it'll just give you the crinkles, mate!" You have just opened your mouth to remind him that he, Rio Ferdinand (28) is in no position to tell you, Wayne Rooney (21), about wrinkles, when he starts waving frantically. "Oi, Vida! Ronnie! Hurry up, yo!"
You wince when Rio hollers right into your left ear; holy shit, does he have to torture your drumhead like that? After you have made sure that your ear is still in its place and the echoes inside your head have subsided a little, you turn just in time to watch the mentioned footballers perform a very...well, un-motivated jog. Vida is talking to Ronnie, probably in his very own Serbglish that is kinda hard to understand for any brit, but Ronnie looks truly puzzled, like a baby in a topless bar, so to think.
The Portuguese seems relieved when Vidic finally leaves his side and joins Rio, who puts an arm around the Serb's shoulders, gesturing with his free hand while he walks him to the changing room.
Ronnie's eyes follow the couple; he shakes his head, causing the black curls to fall into his face. Quickly, he combs them back with his hand, wrinkling his nose in annoyance. You have never understood the necessity of having one's hair glued to the head, especially if Cristiano is concerned (but then again, you can't really say anything regarding that topic 'cos your hair is too short to cause any problems, as Cris likes to point out) - but it is too damn funny to wind him up by ruffling his hair when he has just styled it.
"Was as difficult understand me?"
You nod with a mock grin in his direction, and he nudges you with his elbow, sticking out his tongue in your direction. "Asshole."
Blinking a few times, you stare at his tongue, and without any invitation, your mind starts showing those flicks that are usually hidden in the darkest corner of a boy's drawer, behind socks and boxers, next to magazines of the same topic. You seem to have a certain expression on your face, though, whenever your mind digs out one of them - something like the 'Permitted for 18 and older ONLY' signs on the respective door in the video rental store - 'cos all of a sudden, Ronnie looks to the side and starts scratching his forehead, as if a giant monster mosquito has just stung him.
There's an awkward pause in which you pretend to develop a sudden, but fierce interest in the color of your shoes - and curse your mind for adding perv subtext to every single action when you are alone with Cris. Really alone, well, then, it's a different pint of beer altogether, but just last-ones-on-the-pitch is...dangerous. And, you're not afraid to admit it, you have had nightmares about Gaz suddenly turning up at your house and telling Colleen about what is going on between the two of you over a cup of tea.
Not that he knows.
At least, you hope he doesn't.
****
When you pull into the driveway of Ronnie's house later that day, that row with Colleen has sort of ditched your mood.
But why on earth isn't a man allowed to hum 'Champagne Supernova' as performed by Oasis without a particular reason? Okay, so it was a bit out of tune, and you were smiling absently, but that's not the point here, not at all. The point is that she sees a bloody affair behind every single form of communication between you and any bird on this planet. It's royally pissing you off - and besides, if you were brutally honest and told her of that one time back in Liverpool, she'd go all hysterical and would most likely stomp off like a herd of elephants.
Women. Beg you to be honest, but hell breaks loose if you dare to be.
In the end, you have settled on some safe half-truth as an answer to her teary-eyedly asked question if you had an affair with another woman. No, you have replied then; and it wasn't even a real lie, because Ronnie - though he behaves like a schoolgirl sometimes - certainly isn't a woman.
Before further evaluations of how big the pile of shit you're in really is and how you got into it can ruin the evening completely, you stop the engine and get out of your car. You're still a little ahead of time 'cause the streets were empty when you left your house, and all the way up to Ronnie's house, you've felt strange, being used to be on the screen instead of in front of it.
Not today, though, to hell with that damned yellow card.
Everyone and their cats have told you to act more sensible on the pitch; but then, you go out and you're playing football, not chess or golf. Football isn't about mind games or being so fucking polite that you almost slip on your slime; football is tackling and running and passing and scoring, it's muddy and dirty at times, wet and rough...and you love it, every single situation, every single time. It's what you can do best - and sometimes, the rush of adrenaline just carries you away, makes you say (or do) things you'll regret later, but on the pitch, there's no time for such things. That's football.
And there's no use of pondering that issue again and again, you tell yourself while you walk to the front door of the giant - yeah, you could almost call it a mansion and kick away a stone that is lying in your way. You're not playing. Full-stop, end of discussion.
Instead, you ring the bell, and Cris opens the door almost immediately, as if he's been waiting behind it. (And maybe he has, your Ronnie-is-not-a-woman excuse really doesn't work for all of his actions.) Anyway, he flashes that 100.000 volt grin of his and steps back to let you in, an invitation you don't even consider to decline, since it's getting pretty chilly outside in just jeans and a tee.
The front door closes soundly while you kick off your shoes.
Suddenly, he comes up behind you, his warm body pressing against yours; you can smell that unmistakable scent of his, shampoo and aftershave and something else, while his soft fingers slide down your arm, caressing the flesh, almost white against his tanned skin. He takes your hand, and, at the same time, his forehead touches your temple just lightly, the most careful head butt you have ever received. For a moment, you are overwhelmed by the realization of how warm he is, his body, his hand on yours, even his breath when he whispers a quiet "follow me" into your ear - and then, it's gone as he backs away, walking towards the living room.
You are left to follow him, a little dazed still, but acutely aware of the way he moves: ever so elegant, ever so gracious with well-defined muscles playing under his clothes. And damnit, guessing from the way he he's swaying his hips, he knows all too well that you're watching him as he enters the living room and plops down in one corner of the couch facing the huge wall-mounted flat screen.
The voice of someone talking rapidly in Portuguese brings you back to a semi-reality where you came over to watch a game of football instead of checking out your teammate's ass. By the time you slouch yourself into the opposite corner of the couch and fling an arm over the armrest, the mood has changed into something that suits the scenery of watching a football match better than the one you have felt in the hall and all your way to the living room. It's much less seductive (and tense at the same time) now, after all, you're by all means not an old married couple or something - Ronnie and you, you're teammates, and, if the opportunity gives it away, you're a little more than that, and yeah, that's about it.
The black-haired winger on the opposite end of the couch apparently remembers his duties as tonight's host now and looks at you questioningly. "Want beer?" he asks, and when you give a nod, he gets up and marches off to the kitchen. Meanwhile, you pick up the remote control and flick through the channels in search for Sky One. You have just found it between the music channel and some Portuguese gaming show, when Ronnie returns with two cans of beer. He sits down in his corner of the couch again, and both of you follow the discussion of the line-ups interestedly.
****
Watching football with Cris is always different from watching a football match with Colleen. Well, you can't really tell what it would be like to watch 90+ minutes of football with her, because either you're on the pitch, or she'll be busy, or she'll be sitting next to you, ranting on about how boring the game is and how many other important things she could do in that time, and she will always get all pain-in-the-ass-ish until you'll tell her to do her fucking important stuff already, which she'll do then, leaving the room without a single word.
You and Ronnie, on the other hand, just sit on the couch, each one in his own corner, but together still, watching as the game takes its course. In silence. Not because you don't need any words, like those couples in teenie flicks that make you want to throw up, hell no.
It's just that both of you are interested in what's happening on the pitch (at least, you are now - it's a matter of occasion and motivation, like in those Miss Marple books your mother loves so much. Once you get distracted, you are distracted. But - that's the meaning of those kinds of relationships - distraction. Right? Right.)
It's a mixture you're very comfortable with - there's the chance to watch football with someone whom you can discuss a free kick with, 'cause he at least knows what a free kick is - and then, there's the prospect of hot monkey sex without sentences like [quote] "I have a headache!" or "Not today, Manchester's wearing their red kit!" [end quote].
When the game just drags on for a few minutes, Ronnie notices that your bottle is empty and leaves for the kitchen to get you a new one, while you continue making angry comments about that Beckham idiot missing that fat chance, or someone else tripping over his own feet; but you stop when Ronnie returns and hands you the new, cool beer bottle. He then sits down again, closer to you this time, much closer.
Which is the point where you just know that both of you will most likely be too distracted to see the second half fully.
And then, Joe scores just minutes before half-time, and you're cheering and pointing and did-you-see-that-we-scored, and though Ronnie can't possibly understand the full extent of properly supporting England, he is cheering, too, and laughing - and at some point, when you have calmed down a little, he grins that goofy grin of his and looks at you sideways, nudges you with his elbow, says, "Took them long enough" and sticks out his tongue again.
All of a sudden, you are back on the pitch earlier today, except for the undeniable improvement that there's no Smudge around to spoil the mood, no coach to rip you away from each other and then lecture you for inappropriate behaviour. And, most importantly, no one to discover your dirty little secret. Which sounds completely sappy and old-fashioned, but that's what it is. It's a secret, plus it's dirty. And it's nothing like big love, either.
Anyway. You don't want to waste the time given searching for a definition of your relationship - and Ronnie doesn't seem to, either, because you barely have the time to set down your bottle before he's all over you, his arms sliding around your neck while he climbs onto your lap.
It catches you off guard, that new, almost aggressive passion he's showing when he starts moving his hips, grinding his cock against yours through the fabric of his track pants and your jeans, and hell yeah, maybe you should let him top more often, 'cos your pants suddenly feel three sizes too small. Briefly, you wonder what drives him into taking the lead of all sudden; but your blood seems to rush southwards with incredible speed, leaving your brain empty and buzzing.
A moan escapes your lips, intelligent conversations or even a full sentence unthinkable right now, the somewhat poor attempt to notify Ronnie of the growing bulge; but the glint in his eyes and the smile playing around his lips tells you that he fucking knows, that sadistic Portuguese bastard. It is almost humiliating, the way he intently watches your face, never ceases to roll his hips there on top of you, and within seconds, you’re so fuckin’ randy that you want to try to shove him off you, no matter what, just to get your dick out and then off already. But Ronnie stops the attempt, grabbing you by the wrists, pinning your hands down on either side of you, leaving you in an annoying state of immobility.
The annoyance is gone and the pressure momentarily forgotten when he crashes his lips against yours, kisses you fiercely, nibbles on your lower lip while his hands are on your shoulders; pressing you into the backrest while you kiss him back, hard, struggling for the upper hand - and finally succeeding when Ronnie parts his lips, enough for you to slide your tongue into his mouth.
Your lungs are screaming for air when he pulls his head back seconds (minutes?) later; your faces just inches apart, you stare at each other, panting, lightly sweating already - and there’s something in his eyes that hasn’t been there when you were snogging all those times before; but the eye contact is cut off when Ronnie slides his hands under your shirt, having you shivering ‘cos of their warmth, and pulls it over your head, then tosses it somewhere into the semi-darkness of the living room.
He’s the one with too much clothes on now; and you’re not intending to let him get away with that, you decide, grabbing his collar and tugging at his shirt, crudely, actually - there’s a tearing sound and you hear Ronnie mumble something, not that you really care, and then, it’s finally off him, and, burying one hand in the black, curly hair on his head, you pull him close again, into another passionate kiss.
While your tongues are wrestling against each other, you can feel his hands moving over your chest, your stomach and further down south to your groin, where the pressure in your pants has become almost unbearable - will he…
No, that bloody teaser stops just a tiny fracture of an inch away from the button of your jeans, tugging on your waistband, and you swear inwardly that you’re gonna bite his tongue off if he keeps doing that - and for once, you don’t care that he obviously knows what you’re thinking (although you could imagine it’s not that hard right now - to read your face, you mean.) ‘cos he smiles into the kiss, finally opens the button and zipper, thank god.
Short fidgeting; then, your pants are down to your ankles, soon accompanied by your boxers, and that’s a lot more comfortable than the tightness before, thousand times better - with a little catch, though, ‘cause you’re still horny as fuck and Ronnie still has got his pants on.
You solve the problem by simply pulling them down, like he previously did with yours; and you can’t help but smile at the fact that he isn't wearing anything underneath; it figures, though, you state for yourself, and it makes things a lot easier, too.
And before you can take action yourself, he does, fucking goodness grabbing your hard cock, jerking it slowly, pausing in between to lick his hand - and if that's not the hottest way to lube someone up, you want to be damned ‘till eternity. But first of all, you’re up in heaven when Ronnie kneels over you, still wanking you while he positions himself and then - fuck yes, your dick slides all the way up his tight arse when he lowers himself onto you.
You simply grab him by the hips, both for guidance and to have something to hold in to while he slowly gets into some sort of rhythm, hands on your shoulders; when he kisses you again, his lips taste salty, of cum and sweat and of him, and you groan and moan and thrust into him a little, which makes him put his arms around your neck and rest his forehead on your shoulder.
For minutes and minutes, his sweaty skin rubs against yours as he picks up speed - thigh against thigh, chest against chest, his todger brushing over your stomach - and both of you are breathing heavily, and occasionally, one of you groans or moans, but what's missing is the bed talk. Lovers do that all the time; they whisper and scream each other's names and plead and cry and whatnot; but Ronnie and you don’t. There's just the slapping, smacking sound of sex, and breathing and rubbing and moaning and gasping, but no single word is uttered, ‘cos you’re fuck buddies - tops. Not lovers at all.
That’s how it is - no single word, not even when he, after ages, it seems, holds on to you even tighter, his arse suddenly clenching around your dick, and then, there's a sharp pain in your shoulder when his entire body tenses up and hot, wet liquid dribbles onto your stomach; the bastard has bitten you, bitten you into the shoulder when he came, left his mark on you and heaven knows what Colleen will do if she sees.
Your nails dig into the flesh of Ronnie's hips and you thrust into him, hard, angry, not careful at all, your revenge for holding you down, teasing you all that long, leaving a bite mark on your shoulder blade - you’re close, the wave of anger and lust carrying you away, pushing you over the edge, and with a last, deep thrust, you come, flash lights dancing before your eyes.
It's over, and he detaches himself; with a sigh, he collapses on the couch next to you, naked and sweaty and panting heavily, exhaustion in persona when he closes his eyes. Although he’s the one who did all the work tonight, you can’t deny that you are almost equally as spent, and for a second, you lean back and close your eyes. But no rest for the wicked, they say, you still have a journey to make.
Far away in Estonia, the final whistle blows. England has won, the players on the screen leave the pitch. And so do you, picking up your clothes as you head upstairs for a shower.
****
"So what'd ya think, Wazza?"
"About what?"
"'bout the game yesterday, retarded!" Rio says and whacks you over the head with his towel - well, he tries to, but you manage to duck out and throw your own at him. It hits him square in the face with a smacking sound (since it's wet 'cos you've just dried yourself with it), and while laughter erupts from the rest of the squad, he quickly removes the wet piece of cloth and throws it back at you with a disgusted snort.
"'Ya could just answer my question instead of throwing yer dirty things at me, mate." he says, trying to sound pissed-off and thoroughly serious, but he only succeeds partly, 'cos the toothpaste-advertising style trademark grin is already tugging at the corners at his mouth when he starts the sentence.
You shake your head, grinning widely yourself, and throw your kit into your bag. "Good game" you finally reply, glancing over to Ronnie, who is standing in front of the opposite bench, back towards you.
"Bit dirty and rough, but if it works in the end..." you continue, well aware of the fact that while you spoke, Ronnie's ears have turned tomato red at the subtext hidden in your comment.
With a chuckle, you close your bag, throw it over your shoulder and leave the dressing room, your hand brushing the Portuguese's bare arm as you're walking by.