FIC: "Nemesis" (Rooney/C.Ronaldo)

[lobelia321]

Title: Nemesis
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321
Fandom: Football rps
Pairing: Wayne Rooney/Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro. Also features Coleen McLoughlin.
Rating: 18 (NC-17)
Length: c.4,500 words.
Warning: Violence. Insulting language.
Disclaimer: I do not know any of these people. This is an amateur piece of fiction. I am not making any money. The events recounted herein never happened. No disrespect is intended; in fact, the opposite is true.
Notes: Set in the summer of 2006, after the World Cup quarter-finals England/Portugal.
Thanks to badgermonkey for initially providing me with the trope of 'dirty fucking diver'. Thanks to JKR for giving me Dudley Dursley to help with inhabiting Wayne's body and mind. Thanks to all the excitable men of this world who commented on the 'cheating scum' you.tube video; almost every insult in this fic is copied and pasted straight from them.
This one's for junalele: thanks for all the encouragement! :-)
Pertinent pics at the end.



Nemesis
by Lobelia

So you've had a fight.

A right royal stinker of a row.

Coleen has stomped off, her voice hoarse with screaming and crying at the same time. You can't stand her voice like that, shrill like a screech-owl; hurts your ears, hurts your brain. She even pulled the ring off her finger, her engagement ring, and threatened to hurl it into the sea, just like that time when she chucked it on the street outside your Prestbury house.

But in the end, she stuffed the ring into her multi-thousand pound designer handbag and marched off.

You're left to stew in your own juices on board the Princesa, the forty-foot yacht you've hired for the duration.

These are the worst holidays ever.

Ever.

You're in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and everything has gone even more pear-shaped than it already was. The shops are rubbish, and Coleen's only marched off to them 'cos she's pissed off with you. The food gives you a rash, the coke's lukewarm, the sun's too hot and you only have to stand around in it for five minutes before you turn red as a prawn. The boat makes you want to throw up when it's moving and is stuffy when it's not; and although there's a huge flat-screen telly on the lower deck, it doesn't get cable or satellite and everything's in a language you can't understand. Plus you've got blue-ball syndrome 'cos Coleen won't put out as much as you'd like her to which is a real bloody pain but that's women for you.

The worst thing, though, the very worst by far, the height of worse, is that everywhere you turn and everywhere you go, you can never ever get away from him.

Every magazine at every news stand seems to have a picture of him on the front cover. Every shop at every street corner is selling piles of baseball caps with the words Cristiano Ronaldo embroidered onto them. Every little boy runs around with the purple Nr. 17 shirt on, and when you did turn on the telly, night before last, what did you see? Some news item with some old geezer hanging some sort of medal round the neck of, yup, who else?

When Coleen booked this holiday ages ago, you didn't even listen properly to the name of the place where you were going. Something Quinta, something marina, something exclusive-yachting-resort. You always let her sort out that side of things. She books the hols, she buys the tickets, you just go along.

Who was to know that this particular destination for this particular summer was going to be one big fat disaster zone?

"Madeira!" you said (but the cases were already packed and the cab in the drive). "No way are we going to fuckin' Madeira!"

But you were. You're here.

You're stuck on this island with that cheating Portuguese scum.

That, and your pulsing erection.

***

Sometimes you're so fuckin' randy, your balls turn literally blue. And you're in danger of fuckin' dying 'cos you can't even have a wazz, what with your todger so hard and standing-up it could double as Blackpool Tower.

You need to get your rocks off, and you need to get them off now.

That's what Coleen never understands: how a bloke just gets so piss hard that he needs to shoot his wad now.

A girlfriend's supposed to be good for that sort of thing. But girls are also a problem. They're a fuckin' liability.

"I've got a headache." "I'm tired." "It's too late" "It's too hot." "It's not the right time." "It's not the right place." "I'm on! Liverpool are playing at home." "Ouch, careful, Wayney!"

She's always bloody on. Big fuckin' deal. You know what they say about That Time of the Month: Blowjob time. Fun time. No need to run from the painters and decorators.

And you could always do it up the shiter. No red shirts there.

Not her, but. Goes all prissy. "Who do you take me for, Wayne? Go back to your bloody prostitutes, if that's what you want, you pervert!"

Coleen won't do any of them other things. She'll do a bit of licking around the balls but that's about it. She's not going to do any sucking. Let alone swallowing.

All she wants to do is to go shopping.

That's girlfriends for you.

Yesterday, you stood in front of the loo, stroking your aching dick and thinking, 'Fuck it. Fuck it all. I will go to a hooker. I'll go to a fuckin' massage parlour, the best on the island. 'Cos those birds'll do anything. And I've got the money for anything. I've got the dosh to pay for a fuckin' five-star Premier League service on me cock."

But of course you didn't. You won't. They frighten the daylights out of you, these Portuguese girls with their big brown eyes and their tangled-up language.

"Wayne?" she yelled. "Are you coming?"

"Not bloody likely," you muttered and hit the flush.

***

Not only do you have to see his tosspot pretty-boy face wherever you turn, but you're also jumpy as fuck in case you round a corner and bump into the man himself.

Is that him, far away on that cliff top, outlined against the sky? Or that, lying on the bathing towel in that little cove you motored past, roasting himself into a well-done steak while you huddle in the shade, covered in sun block factor 50? Or that tall, long-necked bloke jogging along the beach early in the morning when nobody else is about?

You don't tell Coleen that you keep seeing him. Or think you keep seeing him. She'll tell you that you're raving mad. She's pissed off with you enough as it is. "Will you stop going on about that red card? And for the ten thousandth time, how was I to know that this place is suddenly such a problem for you? Back in December, when I booked this by-the-way very exclusive holiday, how was I to know? You were all such great mates together. So he cheated you out of your World Cup..."

"He did not cheat me out of my World Cup!" you yell. "The cheating sack of shit!"

"Aw, listen to yourself, Wayne. It was the ref, I keep telling you. And anyway, we're on holiday now, I don't want to keep discussing it."

That's how she talks these days. She's always on about discussing this or that or something or other.

"Well, I might find me someone who is, then!" you yell, and you have no idea why you yell that, or even what exactly you mean by it, except that you have a vague notion that it's going to drive her up the wall, and sure enough, it does.

"All right!" she screeches. "You do that, then! You go back to your whores and sluts!" That's when she wrenches off her ring. "You're always disrespecting me, Wayne! Sometimes I think you think more about that Ronny twat than you do about me!"

"You fuckin' slag!" you shout and you swing out at her though not for real, you'd never hit her but she ducks, anyway, and bursts into tears -- you hate it when she bursts into tears --, and then she gathers her clobber together and stuffs her ring into her bag and that's it, you're on your own.

The thing is, and you don't even know this about yourself: there's a light shining at the bottom of your eyes, and it makes your eyes all soft and grey, and she can see that light. She sees it all the time.

Life has been a fairy-tale. It's been a fairy-tale for close on four years now. It's not been real. The yacht, the marina, your cars in the drive, your mansion, your heated indoor pool, her £170,000 diamond and platinum engagement ring, the limos, the cameras, the ad campaigns. None of it's real.

Coleen's the only thing that's been real. When you look at her, you remember what it's like to be real.

But you think you love your fairy-tale, and she thinks she loves your fairy-tale, and maybe she really does love your fairy-tale best. You'd rather not know, so you yell at her and call her 'slag' and fall back on the only other reality left in your life.

That's the reality out on the pitch, of course.

Nothing could be more real than that.

Except now it's been marred by that wanker's face on every Madeiran billboard, and that's another thing you don't know about yourself: the depth of it, the need for it, the absolute essential necessity for that to remain real and true.

And how the very centre of you is knotted up in it.

Seeing, though, that you're not a chap given over to self-reflection, you storm away at the mouth for a bit. You yell abuse after Coleen's departing back, you yank your trainers off and hurl them to the bottom of the sea -- except that they just go sploosh somewhat ineffectively and bob to the surface, like a pair of shelducks. Bloody expensive they were, too, but then, you've got a dozen new pairs downstairs in your cabin.

Well, there's one thing about being left on your own, and that is that you now get to wank in peace.

***

Wanking is not the same as getting it.

It's quick and it's predictable, that's the good thing about it. It takes you all of two minutes, and then you're sitting on the queen-size bed in your cabin, a bog roll in one hand and a wad of tissue full of jism in the other.

But it leaves you high and dry and restless and wanting more, and within twenty minutes you've got another hard-on and nowhere to put it.

Your mobile beeps.

You flip it open. A message from Coleen on the voicemail. Her voice is deliberately neutral; she's pretending that nothing is wrong. But she's not asking you to join her, either, so she's still pissed off. You'll have to buy her something later, something funny and expensive.

Maybe she'll let you lick her arse in return.

Fat chance.

You look at your phone display, and you scroll down to the 'saved messages' menu.

There are all your text messages, neatly displayed in the order of arrival. COL, COL, COL, MUM, COL, COL, SVEN, ALEX, COL, COL, ALEX, MUM, COL, COL, COL.

Right at the bottom, there are the two oldest saved messages: RONNY and RONNY.

You stare at them and, sure enough, you feel the bile build up in your throat.

You lean back against the headboard of the queen-size bed, the cabin gently swaying on the waves, and you give a yawn.

But people who look bored on the outside are not necessarily feeling bored on the inside.

Somehow, your thumb's pressed the button, and the text messages pop up on your display.

Message Number 1:
HI WAYNE. THANX 4 UR TXT. IS ALL OK NOW YES. WE ARE FREINDS OF CUORSE.

Message Number 2:
WHY NOT. TELL THEM I AM UR FREIND. AND I LOVE U. SEE U IN MANCHSTRE.

The menu asks you: 'Delete?' But you press 'no' and stare into space.

You didn't save your own messages, the ones you sent. You can't remember what exactly you said, directly after the match, and what the 'why not' is about.

And you sure as fuck don't know what that line about love is all about.

A joke? A mistake? Coleen's the only one you read these out to, and she said, "Aw, Wayney, it means nothing. He can't speak proper English, you know that. He just means to say 'I like you'. Obviously."

What you suspect, though, is that he knows perfectly well what he means and what he means to say, and that he typed that line on purpose, to get you riled and rattled. That's what brings the bile to your throat. That and nothing else.

'I like you', your arse.

The cunning little gobshite tosser.

***

There's only one thing to do about a stiffie that won't go away, and that's to have a cool swim.

You can have a cool swim in the outdoor pool, next to the marina of the oh-so-exclusive yachting resort, and that is just what you're going to do right now.

The pool's not a real pool. It's a bit of fenced-off ocean. There's a slide, and a fountain thingy, and a row of umbrellas, and a bar with high bar stools where you can get lukewarm cokes.

The barman looks bored as he polishes a wine glass. His sunglasses have mirror lenses.

He's the only person there.

It's so hot you're going to die. Maybe that's why no one else is here.

On a recliner, at the end of the pool, there's somebody's canvas bag.

You do a length, and another length, and another length. You dry off in the shade; there's a hot wind and you're dry within what feels like seconds. You lie down on one of the recliners, and then you turn round on your front because your hard-on's back and you don't want the barman to see.

You think, maybe if you had a pee.

There's a pair of small changing rooms behind the row of umbrellas. The two doors bear inscriptions that you can't read, something foreign, but luckily, there are pictures underneath, and you push open the door with the picture of a man on it, and you walk into the cool, tiled interior.

Your eyes take two seconds to adjust to the dim light but somehow, even before you can see him properly, you know who it is.

You know who's in there, at the back of the changing room, in front of the set of metal lockers.

"Fuck," you say.

It's a shock to see him there, blood and flesh. He's so tall and so there, with nothing on; sporting just a naked torso, like yourself, and only a white towel slung round his hips.

It's a shock to see him but there's also an inevitability to it, like a rock that falls from a very high place and in a very long arc: it's got to land some time.

He says, "Oh." He sounds half-surprised, and half-not. As if he, too, has been expecting the rock to land. "It's you, Wayne." He pronounces it 'Wen'.

The bile shoots up your throat and out of your mouth, like a bullet; it rips through you. "What the fuck," you say. "What the fuck are you doing here, Ronny?"

There's a pause. "I am born here," he says. "What are you doing here?"

Either it's dim in the room, or it's dim inside your eyes. Either way, his face blurs in front of you, his stupid pretty-boy grin, his ear-rings, his hair, his bead necklace, such a lady-boy, such a one-trick prick.

"Don't you be cute with me," you say; your voice is hoarse with anger. "You better be careful around me, mate."

"What?" he says, and he's putting on that innocent expression of his but you're not fooled, oh no. "We are friends." He pronounces it 'frens'. "I thought we are friends."

There's an arrogant half-smile in his voice. You recognise that half-smile; you feel it in your blood, whispered into your ear, breathed against your skin from behind.

"Friends?" You force out the syllable. You try to make it drip with contempt.

"Yes." Still that pretend-innocent half-smile. That eyebrow, half-cocked. You've tried to do the James-Bond eyebrow; you've never been able to. "I like you, Wayne."

"Shut the fuck up." He's doing it on purpose, you know he is. Dimly, you know this, and dimly, you remember what they keep telling you about rising to the bait. But this bait is too fuckin' juicy, ripe for the taking, how dare he. How dare he mess with you! How dare he, the greasy, slippery Portuguese wanker!

"Shut up," you repeat. "You cheating, slimy Portuguese cunt."

A dark expression comes into his eyes. You know that expression: it's an expression of cold hate. A string of foreign gibberish comes out of his mouth. You don't understand a word of it but you don't need to; it's perfectly clear what he's saying.

"Fuck off!" you yell, and even in your own ears you sound like Coleen screeching her head off.

He yells something else in gobbledygook wog language; it sounds vicious and mean; it's like foreign whiplash.

"And try to learn some of my language, why don't you!" you yell.

"You learn mine!" he yells back, and then more blubbedy-blah, so you nut him good and proper, and ow, your head sings with that one, and then you deck him for good measure.

He flies back against the row of lockers with an almighty crash. He flies kind of far, kind of further than you thought he'd fly, shit, you didn't punch him that hard but no, he's probably up to his usual tricks; the cocky git, he's diving, he's pretending to flail all over the place.

You're onto him, though. You're after him. He's slumped against the lockers. He's doubled up a bit but he's still on his legs, upright and glaring at you. You smack him back against the lockers, metal clanging and the doors left and right flapping open and shut, coins spurting out of some of them onto the cement floor. You hiss, "fuckin' wankin' tosser." You pin him to the locker behind; you thrust yourself right up into his personal space; you bar his chest with one arm and grab one of his wrists with your free fist; you ram your leg against his. He squirms around, like the slimy mongrel that he is, and then, as inevitably as the rock thudding to earth, his towel slips off and you're pressed against his groin and he's stark naked.

And stark hard.

Hard as a fuckin' flag pole in a wind tunnel.

You jump back. You lash out; you slap his face, hard, so hard it burns your palm. "You pervert," you manage to pant, "you fuckin' lady-boy."

And amazingly, he talks back. He looks at you, and he's doing that eyebrow-thing, and he says, with his todger standing up hard and red -- but you don't want to look at that, you don't want to know about that --, he says in that low, shit-slow voice of his, "Not lady, I think, eh, Wayne?"

You whack him again, in the face, you don't care, where. And then you grab him; you grab his upper arm, so hard your nails cut into his skin, and your nails are short so it must be pretty damn hard.

"I'm going to give you what you've been beggin' for, you cunt, you bitch, you fuckin' piece of pussy," you rasp. You rasp it through a bucketful of harsh, ragged breaths; and his breaths are harsh and ragged, too; harsh, ragged and hot in your face; and his arm is sweating into your hand.

"Turn round," you snarl, "turn round, you fuckin'..."

But he's already turned. You grab him and you shove him but he turned before you shoved him, he turned round for you. He's begging for it, he's gagging for it, he's been wanting it for weeks, for months. The filthy scum, the wanker, the cry-baby, pretty-baby nob-head. And you're going to give it to him. That's right. That's just what he wants, a piece of English cock up his filthy arse-hole. Just what you want, Ronny, isn't that right, just what you've wanted for weeks. Months. Your English cock up his arse, it's just what you've needed. It's what you deserve.

Your head feels insane. Your fingers are doing stuff of their own accord, with fast, feverish movements. Your togs are down around your ankles; you shuck them off and kick the white towel out of the way. You spit on your palm, lick it good, froth it up, big foaming gobs of it. You lather yourself up, not that it matters, who cares if you tear him apart, filthy fuckin' bugger, you're longing for it, aren't you?

"Yes," he hisses. And, "yes", you say. Yes, yes. Oh, fuck, yes. So hard and tight, so hot, just like the fag pussy he is, only better; oh, this is so much better than pussy, so much tighter, so much filthier.

You don't have to think about anything else. You don't have to look at anybody's eyes or worry if you're doing it right or wish for more or long for something else. You don't have to wish or long or think; you can just thrust, in a wild, hard rhythm, nothing in front of you except a long smooth back, a hard nape, rippling muscles, something to brace yourself against.

"Take that, you bastard," you gasp; you mean it as a threat but it comes out more as a moan. "You take that; just take it..." You slam him up against the locker with your cock. Every time you thrust up into him, there's a clang of metal and the flapping of doors. He's going "hmph" and "oh" and "yes", and something in gobbledygook lingo but it doesn't make your bile boil any longer, it makes your blood sing.

You notice that he's got one hand down his front. At first you think he's protecting himself, like standing in the wall during a free kick, but no. He's bringing himself off. He's wanking, right there underneath you, on the other side of you. The wanker is wanking and going "oh"; he's grinding back up against you; he's so slippery now, slithering with sweat. His arse cheeks slap against your groin, fuck, and you want to hold him still. You want to stop him from doing that but that means you've got to take his arm; you've got to touch his arm; just a little, and the muscles in his arm are working, up and down, in a rhythm with you. You hold onto his arm; you slide your hand down his arm, to his wrist. His cock slides against the side of your hand, fuck oh fuck.

He turns his head, just a little bit. Just so he can reach your arm with his lips and sink his teeth into your biceps. And while he's doing that, he looks at you. He can only look at you sideways from that position, and you can only see one of his eyes. He looks at you out of the corner of that one eye. He's still got that look in his eye but you realise, through a red haze of lust, that it's not hate at all. It's something else altogether.

You grab at his neck with your other hand. You grab at the necklace, and it rips, and beads hop and pop all over the cement floor.

His mouth is clamped shut on your upper arm.

You come.

You shoot your whole load into his shit-hot arse. It feels like the jism of a thousand orgasms, stored up for years. There's such a lot of it; it doesn't want to end, just keeps on pumping out, into the depths of Ronny's arse. It shakes you dry, it leaves you high, it makes you moan senseless gibberish against the sweat of Ronny's nape.

"Take that," you groan. "Take that."

After that, it's hard to step away.

Your breath is all over the place.

You stare at his trembling back.

One last bead rolls across the floor and pings against the wall.

Slowly, very slowly, Ronny turns around.

His dick is limp. There's white stuff clinging to his pubes.

You stare at his dick, a bit helplessly. You don't want to look him in the eye. You blink.

Then you bend down, pick up your shorts and pull them on in one quick movement. You swallow, and you make yourself hard inside. You do look up at him now, one quick look. You hawk, and you spit right into his stupid face. And then, for good measure, you spit again; you spit at his pig of a dick, and you say, trying to still the trembling in your throat, "Fuckin' serves you right. You fuckin' deserved that."

Or something like that. You don't quite know what you're saying, actually. There's an aching spot in your left rib cage, your eyes are dizzy, maybe you're getting sunstroke.

Ronny, when you finally look at his face again, is smiling. He's smiling, the fuckin' cocky bastard, a lazy slow smile. And he says, in that slow drawl of his, "And you, Wayne. You deserve that, too."

There's a sort of buzzing in your ears, and a thumping in your head.

You turn round and lurch towards the door.

The last words you hear, hitting the back of your neck from afar, are: "See you in Manchester. Wayne."

You tumble into the dazzling sunshine.

You've won. Fuckin' halleluiah, but you've won. You know it. You gave it to him. You stuck it to him, really stuck it to him.

So why is it that there's this depleted hole at the bottom of your stomach? This sinking, slinking feeling? This suspicion, this dead certainty, that you've not really won at all? That it wasn't a question of victory or revenge. That it was a different conquest altogether.

The barman's still there, whistling a disjointed tune. By the poolside, your mobile rings.

You hobble to your recliner and dig the phone up from underneath your towel, just as it stops ringing.

You look at it. The display bleats at you, 'ONE message from COL'. The sign pulses on and off, 'saved messages', 'saved messages', 'saved messages'.

You hurl that phone into the pool water's depths.

It sinks like a rock thrown from on high. One lone bubble rises to the surface and pops into nothing.

***

THE END
Posted on 17 July 2006.

***
Some pertinent pics:

The Quinta do Lorde resort is in the east of Madeira:


Wayne and Coleen:




The Incident:


The Eyebrow:


Medal in Madeira:


Latest in: It has since emerged that Rooney is on holiday in St Tropez but, heh, he is on a yacht. *gg*

Comments

[kawaiimae.livejournal.com]

OH LOVING GOD.

I like them angry. (Thus me rereading Materazzi/Zidane fics lately.) But this just - this is just amazing. Rooney is a disgustingly joyous thing to read, and the fact that Ronaldo is what he is - and doing what he does in this fic - just turns it into Kawa-becomes-a-pile-of-goo worthy.

Not to mention that rough sex is made of win. Yes.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your feedback. And for turning into goo! That is the biggest fic-compliment, *g*. This was not easy to write but at one point I found its rhythm and then it flowed. I had to disconnect from C.Ronaldo to do it. And yes, I can see the connection to Materazzi/Zidane -- this fandom is doing my head in, it really is. When I fell into in, it was all about the pretty, but god, there is so much darkness in there as well! Thanks loads.

[pikku-enkeli88.livejournal.com]

THAT WAS ABSOLUTLY AMAZING!!!! Great work! I really enjoyed it quite much. =) Thanks for writing. =)

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for your feedback! The all caps make me feel rather special, *g*... Oh, and I adore your icon!

[junalele.livejournal.com]

Oh.My.Fucking.God!!!!!

The Nape... The Eyebrow... God, I have an eyebrow kink a mile wide... The Nape... The Eyebrow...

Please, excuse me while I go search for what is left of my brain. :)

God, I love your Wayne. He just seems so very real, so three-dimensional... And I learned a bucket full of new swear-words which is always a handy thing to know. Thanks to all those men at youtube.com ;)

And now this may sounds slightly pervy but I loved the violence. It just seems so fitting. Also how Wayne somehow manages to convince himself that the sex is just about violence, too... or is it. And how Cristiano doesn't fight back physically but drives Wayne up the wall with The Eyebrow... *off to drool and swoon again...*

P.S. And thanks for this fic. *blushes*

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you, and I'm glad you liked it! It's rather different to the ones I wrote before (or it felt different to write, anyway; it was more difficult to write) but I'm so glad I finished it and thanks so much for keeping on encouraging me. *g* And the Nape just presented itself as a little sub-item in the fic. I think it's looking at your icon all day long...

The swear words were a kind of catalyst for me; they helped me to get the focus on Wayne. I had to circle round him for a bit before I felt that I 'had' him. So I am especially pleased that you found him three-dimensional; in fact, that makes me very happy. Because I started out hating Wayne Rooney and setting myself this pairing as a challenge. But once you crawl into someone's head (as I learned four years ago), it's impossible to keep hating them. So then maybe the hate and the new mellowness combine into something approaching 3D.

Heh, I didn't know you had an eyebrow kink..! :-)

And now this may sounds slightly pervy but I loved the violence. I totally get off on violence plus sex (if it makes sense on an emotional level). When I fell into this fandom I had no idea! I thought it was all about the pretty! But there is so much darkness there as well -- Materazzi/Zidane etc., and all those shocking hate-posts in people's blogs and on you.tube etc.

Also how Wayne somehow manages to convince himself that the sex is just about violence, too.
See, that's not even something I put in there consciously. I love it when I find out things about a fic that I didn't realise myself! :-)

[byfrost.livejournal.com]

...GUH.




That was hot. And I liked the twist at the end. And Rooney's internal 'scape is just... fun.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your lovely feedback! And your icon is strangely fitting... By 'twist', you mean the depleted feeling of Wayne? I like the formulation internal'scape, *g*.

[miman.livejournal.com]

Twisted and wrong and strangely hot. GUH.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! Twisted and wrong, that gives me real pleasure. It was a tricky fic to write, and I am so happy that the 'wrongness' did something 'right', at least for you. :-)

[lhuneldaiel.livejournal.com]

Wow. I'm breathless. I really didn't expect the hotness and twistedness, and the swearing and violence is just so fitting...Great writing, hun. Love how you write Wayne and Coleen BTW

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you, thank you, that is such kind and lovely feedback!

I really didn't expect the hotness and twistedness
That is interesting. As soon as I set out to write Rooney/Ronaldo (and it was a challenge to myself) I knew it had to be twisted. And the hotness, well, I guess I find it hard to resist making Cristiano hot... *g* But maybe you were surprised because of having read my Kaká? This, I must say, felt very different to write. It was more difficult. Getting the swearing in there helped me to focus it.

Oh, and I'm so happy that you liked the Wayne/Coleen secondary pairing!! Now that is the one that surprised me but it just sort of crept in there! And then I had to prevent it from taking over. :-)

[darklucia.livejournal.com]

HOT. This was so wrong and yet so awesome and it caters to my perverted self. Thank you for writing this.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for your feedback! I'm glad you liked the 'wrongness' of it, so the 'wrongness' must be doing something 'right'. To me, the pairing feels 'wrong'; I set it myself as a challenge and I knew it would have to be somehow 'wrong'. But that's sexy, too. *g*

[grondfic.livejournal.com]

Loved the "internal monologue" and the hot sex of course. And the Txt messages were hilarious.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your lovely feedback! It was actually really wonderful to read your 'In Yer Dreams, Mate' when I was half-way through this one; I think it was because it confirmed for me that it was okay to write violence. I fell into this fandom, seeing only the pretty, and hadn't realised how much darkness there is out there as well. And your fic also helped me find my way into a sympathetic Wayne. Because I hated Wayne when I set myself the challenge to write this (as I think, I told you -- or did I?) but when you write someone (as I discovered four years ago), you can't keep hating them; it is impossible.

I am glad you liked the internal monologue which was a bit experimental because all in second person singular. And that you saw some humour in there, too! *g*

Thanks again. :-)

[sandrine]

Too hot for words - but that's not the only reason I loved it. I think Wayne's POV worked brilliantly here: the cursing, the ranting (the "You're in the wrong place, at the wrong time..." paragraph rocks!), the self-delusion and denial. Perfect! Thank you for sharing! :)

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your kind feedback! Ah, I am so happy that you found it hot. I found it hot! And I always happy if that comes across. :-) I challenged myself to write this from Wayne's pov, and it was not all that easy -- the swearing helped a lot, actually, to focus him. And I did it in second person, that helped a bit, too, because I could remain outside him just that little bit. And I am so very happy that you picked up on the self-delusion and denial, *smiles happily*.

Thanks again!

[isasolan.livejournal.com]

OH MY GOD! I adore this fic! You had me laughing a lot of times with Rooney's cursing. I had some sort of an odd approving moment when he almost hit Coleen but never really meant to... somehow I really see him thinking that. I love how he was obsessed with Cris and even Coleen noticed it, hee!

I have to say the sex was a bit unexpected but once I got into it OH WOW! That was soooooooooooooooooo hot!! The anger is such a good medium for the sheer sexiness of the moment. Wowowowow.

So, once again: this fic was brilliant :)

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your kind feedback! I am so glad you laughed because to me, parts of this fic felt very funny.

I had some sort of an odd approving moment when he almost hit Coleen but never really meant to... somehow I really see him thinking that.
Wow. I am impressed by what my fic can do now that I've thrown it out into the world. I was a bit worried about that line but it presented itself as fitting the overall mood of suppressed (and then not so suppressed) aggression. And also I liked making him suppress violence towards a woman but not towards a man.

I have to say the sex was a bit unexpected but once I got into i
Okay, this intrigues me. I'd be very interested in knowing what was unexpected. I found the dialogue leading up to it a bit of a hurdle; that had to be carefully calibrated. But I guess for me the sex was always inevitable, and what I was working towards, so I am interested to hear how that didn't quite come across for you. Feel free to be critical!! :-)

[olleander.livejournal.com]

I'm glad that you can't see me, because I'm blushing like mad. This was so filthy and perfect and right, hot damn, and I'm thrilled that you wrote it, and did it so much justice. I was waiting for a Ronny/Rooney post-WC fic, and did you ever bring it. Thanks so much for sharing! ^.^

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much, and your mad blushing I take as a great compliment! *blushes herself* This was tricky to write, and to get 'right' (when getting it 'right' also felt so 'wrong') but it was a challenge I had set myself, partly to deal with all the kerfuffle about these two. I am so happy it worked, at least for you. :-)

[atlanticsoul.livejournal.com]

...and that was hot! *goes to drink some cold water*

Really, really well-written fic! There was nothing out of character about Wayne or Cristiano, and I am pretty sure that you aren't far away from the truth about the relationship between Wayne and Coleen.:P

[atlanticsoul.livejournal.com]

Oh, almost forgot: Have you seen this pic? (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y108/Never-Smile/rooneyonholiday.jpg) Probably you have, but just in case, because it's related with the fic somehow...

[o-chan.livejournal.com]

holy crap!
Would never thought I'd warm up to this pairing. But guh. Your Wayne is EXACTLY how I picture him to be really.. Now excuse me which I go have a cold shower.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! I am incredibly flattered that you liked this despite hating the pairing. I mean: I hated the pairing! I hated Wayne Rooney, and I set myself this pairing as a challenge. Of course, once you write someone, especially if doing it from his pov, you can't continue hating him so I have mellowed amazingly... *g*

[blithesea.livejournal.com]

Sweet! I was hoping someone would write this story, and you've done it beautifully, as you do. :-* I loved the frustration of Rooney and the cock and cockiness of Ronaldo.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Blithesea!! So nice to see you here, a familiar friend and oldbie face! *glomps*

And you were hoping someone would write this...? :-)

the cock and cockiness of Ronaldo
Oh, what a great line. This about sums it up. *g*

Look! Icon in your honour!

[rezie.livejournal.com]

Thank you. You are my absolute favorite person right now. That was incredible. Plus it does nothing to quell my growing Roo/Ron love.

Your Wayne feels incredibly real - angry, intense, violent - just how I pictured him to be.

And after perusing your journal, I kind of hate you. Not really, it's more like .. love, because you have pushed me back to the side of Cristiano Ronaldo Love. Although I think he's a fucking diver, he is a sinfully hot diver at that. He's welcome to dive/jump/whine/cry to my bed anytime. Your constant picspams are heavensent. Pictures of him with pants, without them, shirtless. Gah, why is he SO FIT? And you're turning really bad wheels in my head with the constant mention of Cristiano/Kaka.

I cant even think right now .. I'm drowning in too much pretty.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for this wonderful, amazing feedback! I am quite awed. Heh, and you have a growing Roo/Ron love? (Sounds like a 60s song: doo ron ron and a roo ron ron.)

And I lured you back into the CR17 love? *cackles evilly*
Although I think he's a fucking diver, he is a sinfully hot diver at that.
See, I never noticed him diving until the media and LJ pointed it out to me. Either this means I am incredibly impartial or blindly smitten by lust. Then I did notice it a few times (but it wasn't diving that caused the Rooney Incident, after all) but always thought: What? Harmless! Look at the Italians!!! Look at the Croats!!! I find his diving kind of endearing. (It's my incredibly impartiality again, hoho.)

But then I was supporting Portugal in That Game, and I was supporting Italy in That Other Game where Italy cheated Australia with their diving penalty in the 89th minute (harrumph) so my diving antipathies were entirely elsewhere during this Cup...

the constant mention of Cristiano/Kaka>
A strange thing has happened in my head. Initially, the World Cup was all about the Cristiano/Kaká for me. Nobody else seemed conceivably. And, as you, I drowned in the pretty! And then this fic slapped me on the side of the head and I thought, oh, there can be angst as well as pretty...??!!

What a fandom. *reels*

[made-up.livejournal.com]

Orcs and ponies! I found this hilarious (the texts and Coleen/Wayne arguments are laugh-out-loud) but moving too - poor old Wayne's inarticulate and brutal confusion at being so utterly played. His voice is entirely convincing ('blubbedy blah', heh). And of course diving is part of Cristiano's seduction technique.

Lots of clever lines. I like the falling rock analogy very much; did you mean it to fit with the earlier image of CR (perhaps) standing on the cliff-top?

I'm even willing to concede a whisper of hotness although Rooney squicks me like mad. A relevant article from Euro 2004 here which agrees with your claim that there's a twinkly something in his eyes. It also mentions the intriguing fact that Wayne has a tattoo on his lower back that reads 'Then'. Think of the narrative possibilities...

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Orcs and ponies!
*bursts out laughing*
And why not Orcs/ponies, while you're about it?

Orc 1: Oi, get away from that pony, that's mine, that is.
Orc 2: *punches Orc 1's snout in* You there, ass. Turn round.
Pony: I am not a donkey. I am a Shetland thoroughbred. *tosses mane*

Thanks so much for your lovely, lovely feedback! I'm so glad you saw the funny parts of this, because parts of it felt funny while writing them. And I am especially happy that you found 'poor old Wayne' moving because that was my journey in this fic: I went from hating the guy to feeling empathy and sympathy -- which is what happens, I find, when writing people and crawling into their heads. And he's sort of grown on me.

And of course diving is part of Cristiano's seduction technique.
Oh, this had not occurred to me, and I love it! It's wonderful when readers find things in a fic that I didn't put in there consciously. But it makes such sense!

I like the falling rock analogy very much; did you mean it to fit with the earlier image of CR (perhaps) standing on the cliff-top?
Ah, you are sharp. *g* I'm not sure I 'meant' it to fit in but it was the cliff image that gave me the rock analogy so it all sort of chimed in, and then I revived the rock right at the end, with the sinking phone, which is maybe almost a little too OTT but I like these motifs and I want to play round with them a little more.

It also mentions the intriguing fact that Wayne has a tattoo on his lower back that reads 'Then'.
so758929**$%$*( Yes! On his lower back! And what a mysterious line...?! *cackles*

Just read that article you linked. So it stands for "OK then" -- had I but known!

"Can I fuck you this time round, Wazza?"
"OK then."

And the Guardian refers to him as 'a bit of rough'. *loves it* We all need a bit of rough as a foil to our pretty-boy thoroughbreds.

[p0rtu-chiik.livejournal.com]

OMG , I was hoping for some Roon/Ronny slash haha. And this was perfect! I love how Rooney tries to be a asshole haha.
Everytime I read art-work like thise I just don't want it to end.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks for your nice feedback! I'm glad you liked Rooney trying (trying!) to be mean. :-)

[one-true-bee.livejournal.com]

mm how wonderfully filthy. I dislike both of the players but I ahd to read it just for the hatesex *loves hatesex* And you did a very good job. I especially enjoyed how you brought Coleen into it. The WAGs are so often unjustly ignored in fics ;)

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your very nice feedback! I loved C.Ronaldo and hated Rooney before I wrote this fic, and set the pairing to myself as a challenge, but you know, when you write someone and crawl into their head, you can't keep on hating them... *g* I'm glad you liked the Coleen element, too! :-)

[crowswing.livejournal.com]

i have to come back for another, more detailed comment, but can i just say that i haven't had this much fun reading a fic in a very long time! you've got so many fantastic details that catch the eye (and ear - Wen, indeed), but best of all you've got a wonderfully casual and earthy style. hilarious and hot and perfectly voiced. a+ ficcage.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you so very, very much for this elevating feedback! It makes me so happy! *squeezes you* What makes me especially happy is that you say you had fun reading it. I've had two years of posting drought and then two months of posting fps (for SGA) experimental fic, and much angsting and self-criticism -- and it's the football fandom that's propelled me back to the fun of it. I, too, am having fun writing again, and it's lovely, and I'm so glad it's coming across!

Thank you for noticing the details; I pay a lot of attention to details; I like especially the interaction of person with inanimate objects. :-) And 'Wen', well, after listening to the you.tube C.Ronaldo interview about Wayne for the dozenth time, I just had to put that in. Also, I just get off endlessly on all the accents... *g*

you've got a wonderfully casual and earthy style. The earthy? That makes me so very, very gleefully happy. Ah, Crow, you give fabulous feedback! :-)

[mirroredimage.livejournal.com]

So I'm still new to a lot of this WC-related slash, but I must say, that story just sucked me right in. That was just incredibly hot. In that odd, should-be-wrong-but-it's-so-not type of way. :o)

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for your kind feedback! I feel new myself; I only fell into this fandom in the second week of the World Cup (so it's been, what, a month?), having spent the first week flailing obsessively with my usual suspects on my Friends list, nearly all of whom were blissfully indifferent to all things football. It was very frustrating! And then the football slash sucked me in...

That was just incredibly hot. In that odd, should-be-wrong-but-it's-so-not type of way.
But that's often the best way, is it not...? *gg*

I started out in this neck of the woods, thinking it was all about the pretty and drowning in Cristiano/Kaká -- and then I discovered there was all this dark angst out there as well. Whoa. This fandom is doing my head in so much.

[silverhielm.livejournal.com]

This was insanely hot. But I don't want to talk about the sex or how hot it was, I want to tell you that you're amazing. I suppose you're a girl? Well, did you rent a some guy's brain or what? You wrote Rooney's thoughts so perfectly. I'm...I'm blown away for the perfection of this fic.
The whole part about his "male needs" was so intense. He's a stupid shovinistic prick, but there are sooo many men who think exactly like him! And I can see why he turned all that rage into sheer lust. It's *believable*, it's so real I can touch it, and it's an explosion of hot sex to die for.

And while he's doing that, he looks at you. He can only look at you sideways from that position, and you can only see one of his eyes. He looks at you out of the corner of that one eye. He's still got that look in his eye but you realise, through a red haze of lust, that it's not hate at all. It's something else altogether.

T_T I want to cry. Cristiano is P E R F E C T !!! He's so cheeky and aware of his sensuality. Plus, Wayne repeating "Take it" like a litany is what blew me away.

You're great! Thank you so much for sharing this brilliant story!

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for your generous feedback!

I suppose you're a girl?
Yes, indeed I am; are you not? :-)

did you rent a some guy's brain or what?
Oh, I love this! It makes me so happy that you wrote this. And I guess I tried to draw on 'what I know about men' to build up my Rooney because I know next to nothing about him, just some media factoids; that 's the nature of rps, isn't it?

Wayne repeating "Take it" like a litany
This is what I love about posting: when readers discover things in a fic that I didn't consciously put in there. But yes, re-thinking it, you are so absolutely right: it is like a litany, as if he's trying to convince himself.

[imaginasian.livejournal.com]

Holy shit. That was so hot. In such a wrong way. In a way, I'm ashamed =X

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you for this feedback! And it pleases me absurdly that I made you ashamed, *g*. Just think: I'm the one who thought this up... But as soon as I challenged myself to write this pairing, I knew it had to be 'wrong' to come out 'right'.

Oh, and your icon... teh cute plus teh hawt.

[4jinx-removing.livejournal.com]

Very hot. I just loved the narrative and I'm not a fan of second person, but you totally won me over. The narrative flowed so well. Also, how much better does it get than Cristiano topping from the bottom. *g*

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much for your thoughtful feedback. I am so glad that you are mentioning the second person (finally somebody is mentioning the second person!) because I know that many readers out there hate the second person singular. I use it in a long, long HP fic of mine, so far not posted, and it's Dudley Dursley's voice. So when I decided to write Wayne (whom I initially hated but you can't hate someone once you've written them...) I thought I would borrow Dudley to help me -- they're both sporty, thuggy, English types (in my mind). So I also kept the second person, and to try it out, to see if it would work. It seems to have, *g*. I used that voice because it allowed me to creep into Wayne's head while retaining some distance.

how much better does it get than Cristiano topping from the bottom.
Okay, I love that line. :-)

Thanks so much again!

[shufflequeen.livejournal.com]

Oh my god, I love you. *fans* God, you're like my new hero. *gggg* Can I friend you? If not, I'll just stalk you, heeh...gah, that was freaking amazing. You rock.

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for your kind feedback. And friend or stalk away, *g*.

[karneol-vision.livejournal.com]

Truth is in your story they're both twisted Cristiano just as much as Rooney. They both are trying to reach a goal, it's just that Cristiano knows well what he's doing, while Rooney belies himself to an extent where he's achieved to turn the truth 100 % nearly.

Someone said he's inarticulate, self-delusional, in denial and this pretty much suits it, but he's like that because he is much more the raging boiling temper and emotion while Cristiano is playing the cunning manipulative little bastard that Rooney think him to be all the while, and which at the end of the day he also IS.

I must admit I can relate perfectly to what Rooney must be going through. When I'm furious and frustrated my emotions and instincts firmly take over and a kind of paranoia sets in. So there you have Rooney with his flaring temper and too much rage and ignored inner doubt, too much passion to stop and think and notice what exactly is going on here. When he notices something it makes him explode.

I must also say that I feel a great deal more angered by Cristiano's cocky demeanour than by Rooney, as – even though he doesn’t/can’t admit it, admit and see the reasons behind it – he “acts” primitively straight forward.
And personally I find such “cunning and manipulative” teasing people, as your Cristiano obviously is, highly irritating, of course I find them also highly intriguing and stimulating, lol. Though if I was in Rooney’s place and someone came up on me the way Cristiano did with him - and I love how the frustratiuon is fueled by the fact that we read the story from Rooney’s point of view and thus get all of Cristiano’s actions only through his eyes and with his connotations ;D - well let’s say the story opens up the gate to your own inner demon, “twisted and perverted”, it plays a little symphony on one’s darker drives and emotions, and not to forget, the hot angry sex is really… Rawrrr… ;D

I love you, you're perfect. Just go on like that ;D

[karneol-vision.livejournal.com]

OK, now this is the world hating me again as I just deleted another comment... >:(

I wanted to point out some more things that I found fantastic and which I had forgotten in my last comment... Like, someone's mentioned that already, during the sex scene, when Cristiano turns his face a little and bites into Rooney's arm and then looks at him out of the corner of his eye while he's hanging on his arm still... that was one of the hottest things I've read lately, so raw and only the idea of it, without much thought, because truly how much thought is there to something like that, purely instintive? It gives him the look of some wild creature, and yet controlled and focussed.

Something else... how one got in tune with Rooney when you made him misunderstand Cristiano and the reader had to misunderstand to of course, because we get what Rooney gets through his senses. What makes it so intense and hot is that his point of view is so limited and determined and so extremely loaded with rage and hate (as he thinks) that we simply can't grab anything that might be going on apart from what Rooney thinks or feels the very moment. Love it!

And of course the beginning way great to get one settled in the frustration. I think the way you make Rooney talk and think, the words and expressions must be enormously fitting and make him all the more realistic.