you're on my radar with your designer love

27 Assorted Oranje Icons.

2009-04-19T02:43:19Z

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dieuepargne @ 2008-10-29T22:36:00

2008-10-29T22:42:30Z

27 KJH icons.

2008-09-24T17:57:04Z

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dieuepargne @ 2008-09-12T20:06:00

2008-09-12T19:14:49Z

goonerbabyy, remember you told me to make a bunch of Samir icons and then post them up? :) Well, here you go. I finally realised I had made loads of Samir icons that it was enough to post as a batch:

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Icon #23 is made before Samir joined Arsenal, so you can't actually use it. But, yeah. It's there because I liked it and someone complimented on it ages ago. ;)

Fic: Amber - Part One - Gerrard/Terry; Terry/Lampard

2008-08-25T14:01:46Z

If you're a new reader, do read the Prologue.

Part One.

The sun wasn’t entirely up yet and Rio Ferdinand is already watching his friend approach him with a small discontented sigh. More than anything, he’d like to maintain a healthy customer and owner relationship when business takes place in the seaside bar he’s inherited from his uncle, The Red Devil. In other words, he wishes they’d start paying for their drinks instead of taking their friendship for granted and demanding continuous freebies.

‘Friendship discount!’ James would argue, taking a swig of his beer and flashing Rio his best gracious smile, in attempt to win him over.

Rio grunts under his breath, wishing they would die and disappear at times, but he takes it easy, and that’s really how anyone should live life in the island, stress free and no hassle. He wasn’t anyone important, he doesn’t have much – just the whole island, the never-ending sunshine, and five bastards who are constantly responsible for finishing his beer supply every other week or so.

He picks up a crate of empty beer bottles, stacking it up on top of the others he’s placed neatly on the back of his wagon ready to be transported back to The Valley, mentally making note of the amount of bottles sold that week. Business was doing well so far, he’s concluded; his uncle has definitely picked a winning spot for the bar, in the best corner of East Shoal Bay.

‘Rio-oh,’ Joe sing-songs, having been watching Rio work from afar, a surfboard wedged between his arm and side, wet-suited all ready to go, expression pretty much expected, typical of Joe Cole - youthful and optimistic, ‘Surf’s up, let’s go, Ferdinand. The sun will be up in no time’

Rio doesn’t stop working, lifting crates and counting bottles, doesn’t let Joe bother him with temptations. It wasn’t working, no way.

‘The crates can wait, mate, but these gorgeous waves can’t, so drop it, and let’s go!’

‘I’m busy, Joe, honestly,’ Rio grunts, hands readily twitching to do as Joe told him to, but he knew he had priorities, and unlike Joe, it wasn’t messed up in order, ‘Take your brother’

‘Why pull that shit, Rio? Wayne sucks and you know it,’ Joe glowered, ‘anyways, he’s already off chasing his dream in The Valley’

‘Job interview?’

‘Yeah, whatever you kids call it these days,’ Joe mutters, spitting to sand as he gave a shrug.

‘Joe, he’s only looking out for you,’ Rio started, earning a warning frown from the younger man, ‘He quit school cause of you’

Joe waves it off, and that’s a sure sign he doesn’t want to talk about it.

They continued, arguing back and forth, or rather, Joe argued, while Rio diligently stayed where he should be, occasionally answering the younger man’s complains with humdrum remarks that Joe’s heard too many times in the last five minutes. Any average man would want to hit him over the head, but Rio’s used to it. This time, he’s trying his luck in drowning out his voice by moving over towards the stereo and cranking up the music, the speakers surrounding the bar leaking with tunes from a local station.

Joe gave him the most wearisome look before turning away, shaking his head as he fails with flying colours to win Rio’s attention over. Rio sniggers quietly, dumping the last of his crate into his wagon and closing the back of it as he heaves an exhausted breath, catching Joe stabbing his board into the sand before leaving it behind and going over towards the water. He smiles quietly to himself, grabs a bottle of coke from behind the counter and he leans back, slowly sipping the sickeningly sugary drink, no matter if it was still five thirty in the morning.

Out of the back, Ashley creeps from behind, snatching the bottle away from the older man before his reflex has a chance to do anything about it and he gulps a quarter in one go, ‘Thanks, mate, I owe you one.’

‘Ashley, goddamnit!’ Rio curses, taking the bottle back as Ashley was ready to toss it back to him, flashing an innocent smile.

‘You stay and bitch, Ferdinand,’ Ashley nods, hands fumbling behind to zip up his suit, momentarily grunting and whining in not being able to find the zipper before succeeding, ‘Those waves are about as rare as Stevie smiling.’

Ashley hurriedly scuttles over towards the beach with his own board fixed between his arms, taking Joe’s board in the process, before running towards the water’s edge and wading more into the water, the younger man following him with childlike sounding shrieks.

Rio wanted to yell curses at them, threading thoughts of responsibility and priorities before muttering a ‘fuck it’ under his breath, stripping down to his shorts and grabbing his wetsuit from behind the counter, slipping snugly into it. He grabs his board resting against a column and scurries down towards the shoreline with the other two cheering him on as his body hits the cool water, watching the waves behind them in admiration.

‘I knew you couldn’t resist’ Ashley laughs, paddling more into the deeper water, blood shooting up throughout his body as his ears catch the sound of the incessant crushing waves in front of him.

Their eyes watchfully observed the waves, their vision never once resting before they find the perfect wave to take a ride on. Ashley points to a couple but they stayed on, deciding that only time would help until nature gave them their each individual flawless wave. Moments later, the three nodded to each other as the perfect carriage arrived – and this one has Joe Cole’s name on it.

‘This one’s mine, boys’ Joe beamed, tapping his fingers to the board underneath him as he lays down on his front, both hands batting the water beneath him, sense of direction aimed at the swell heading right for him.

The other two held a balanced position on their boards and watches him from a distance, Rio calling out for him to take it easy while Ashley tells him to ride it like he means it. Rio shoots a glare to the other man, knowing that Wayne would kill him if he found out his younger brother is out there rubbing shoulders with big swells once again. Joe held no concern, he hated what Wayne taught and expected of him since they were little, and when he argues, he hits Wayne where it hurts the most – the truth. They weren’t really brothers, just by accidental fuck ups of their own folks, and now they had to pay the price.

Joe didn’t pay attention to anything they had to say, what he had by this point is the eight foot wonder he was paddling straight at. He held his breath, and when he reaches the peak, he swiftly stood on his board, his natural foot on the back of the board and he lets himself drop in the wave, his weight leaning forward, taking him down through the blue carpet of sea water, leaving a trail of white as he makes sharp turns. He extends both arms, keeping a sense of poise and gracefully riding the wave like he knows he could. For Joe Cole, the climax of his life is this: him and his board - and the swirl of blue catching after him.

Back on dry land, Steven had just taken his first step in about seven hours, eyes still obscure as he searches for his shirt. Tugging it over his body, he blindly walks across the room, only to by chance hit a tank of oxygen and he curses loudly, grabbing his foot and cringing in pain. He comes out of his dark room, the first sign of light grabs him by a surprise and the first view is his grandmother making breakfast.

‘There’s some good swell’ she greets, instead of an overdone good morning, pouring a glass of orange juice and handing it to her grandson.

He groans softly as the pain in his foot resumes throbbing, taking the juice and gulping it, before his eyes caught sight the window and hearing the sound of the waves crashing. He reaches for a piece of toast, grabbing a bite before tossing it back to the plate and questioning, ‘Did my letter come?’

‘It’s seven, Steven, the mailman doesn’t come until nine,’ she replies, battering some eggs as Steven stood up from his seat and making his way out onto the terrace, grabbing his wetsuit and stepping into it, taking off his shirt and throwing it onto the hammock.

‘Gonna get some of those good swell, Grandma, I’ll see you later’

Seizing his board after, he runs out towards the shore, zipping himself up as he dashes off as fast as he could, yelling at the three already faraway from the shore. He strides across the water, riding his board seconds later and wading his way over to where they were, eyes watching both the waves and the ascending sun, ‘Morning, lads’

Ashley turns around, followed by Joe after, having been watching Rio ride his wave, ‘Hey, Stevie’

At that point, Rio took a wrong turn on the shoulder of the wave and falls off his board, a total malfunction that earned laughter from all three of them. The board re-emerges on the surface of the water, and Rio finally did too, paddling back towards them while spitting out the salty taste out of his mouth, ‘Fucking hell’

‘Bloody wipe out,’ Steven gave a gentle laugh, picking out his own waves as he does.

‘Shut it,’ Rio glares, climbing back onto his board, and adjusting the leash on his right ankle, before looking up at Joe, ‘Shouldn’t you be heading off to school, Coley?’

‘Damn it, you guys, Wayne ain’t here, is he?’ Joe whined.

‘Should go off, anyway, mate, the sun isn’t going down anytime soon,’ Steven replied, looking at the younger man with a triumphant smile.

Joe gave a chain of curses and he’s leaving them all before they had anything else to say, treading through water back to the shore and he’s back on sand, dragging his board behind him before walking towards the front of The Red Devil and sticking his board near the sign, shedding his wetsuit and grabbing a towel nearby, drying himself off. He dresses up in board shorts and an old Quiksilver t-shirt, snatching his messenger bag, dropping down to the floor to wear his Chucks before he catches the sight of someone’s feet bound in black flip flops. His eyes trail up, the sight of a foreigner appeared before him and he knows because he’s never seen him before.

‘This is local territory, mate, you shouldn’t be here,’ Joe declared, standing up so that he’s level with the outsider by now, face to face with him.

‘I didn’t know the island was divided like that’ John scoffed, looking behind Joe, his attention set on Rio and Steven surfing for a moment, before coming back to Joe.

‘And why should you? You ain’t a local, so you best piss off out of here’ Joe’s tone hinted at warning, almost commanding.

‘I’m John Terry’ The Londoner offered his hand and Joe simply looked at it distastefully, disapprovingly.

‘No one asked’

‘My father owns Chelsea Energy,’ John started, pulling back his hand when he’s sure the younger man doesn’t want it, ‘Pretty much the source of electricity, oil and gas here – simply put - what’s running the whole of this island’

‘Thanks for that, mate,’ Joe retorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he slung his bag across his body, ready to walk away.

‘He’s coming into more leisure-oriented business now,’ John ignores Joe’s obvious disinterest and continues, ‘Hotels, resorts, the works. I came here with Frank Lampard, you know, the –‘

‘- incompetent spoiled brat who took over from Redknapp, yeah, I know him. Everybody knows him. Excuse me, alright? I gotta get to school’ Joe replied agitatedly, glaring at the older man and this time, he walks off.

‘He’d be pleased to know there’s a perfect spot right here for a brand new resort he’s planning to open with the Lampard family,’ John says casually, watching Joe stops mid track and turning around again, expression highly unimpressed.

‘Oh, fuck off and take it, alright? Like we have any say on this anyway!’ Joe snaps at him.

‘We’re only thinking on what’s best for the economic growth of the island,’ John remains relaxed, gesturing at what’s behind him, ‘We want people to see that the British West Indies has something more to offer’

Joe stayed quiet, and out of everything, he wanted to cry – for a reason, just to prove how much he hated being the most right out of the two of them right now, but yet every response that John is giving him is proving him to be the most wrong, ‘What’s so fucking wrong with the tourists going off to the French side?’

‘Nothing’s wrong, of course, we’re just giving more options’ John explained, shrugging and behaving as if nothing at all’s wrong – because that’s exactly how he sees it.

‘You’ve got the Cayman for that’ Joe responded under his breath, almost hesitant to answer at first, but he can’t help it.

‘Cayman Islands are nice, but we need a new hot spot and Anguilla’s perfect for that,’ John gave a smile, a surprisingly sincere one.

Joe quiets, before speaking up again, ‘It’s eight in the morning, what the hell are you even doing here?’

‘I came here to watch surfers. I endorse them, patronage, something like that. Love the sport but have no time to do it myself,’ John shrugs, further explaining, ‘I’m looking for new talents, and everyone’s saying the best ones come here to East Shoal’

Joe’s mind churned with thoughts, he could betray his principles and offered himself right to John fucking Terry on a platter or he could walk away and tell him to fuck off like he did to the other bloodsucking monsters that are the heirs to tycoons. He had always dreamed of being sponsored, professionally, so he could get out of the island and try some bigger and better waves – Hawaii, California, Bali, Australia.

He bit his lip, almost drawing blood as he gave the thought another go but he shook it off, giving a last look to the Londoner, ‘Excuse me, I have to go’

And with that Joe walks over towards his bicycle, straddling it and heading off, leaving John to watch him with a small scorn, attention coming back towards the other surfers for an instant, before he walks away, leaving the area.

After Steven has bid his goodbye to Rio, he runs off towards his house, glancing at the already glaring sun and knowing he’s late for work, definitely looking forward to James yelling at him. He darts off to his room, stumbling across dirty laundry and grabbing his bag, stuffing money, his mobile, and text books into it; along with some board shorts he’s not sure if it was clean or used.

He runs out of the house after, jumping onto his bicycle and cycling as fast as he could, passing by houses, palm trees, and the endless coastline. He arrives fifteen minutes later, chaining his vehicle to a rail by the docks and scampering over to the shed where he could already see James with his arms folded across his chest, disappointment written across his face.

‘I’m going to guess catching waves with Coley, Rio, and Ash? First time East Shoal isn’t flat after months now, so I wouldn’t be surprised,’ James muttered, going inside the shed and dragging an oxygen tank outside, opening the valve before attaching the regulator to it.

‘You’re only bitter cause you weren’t there, Jamie,’ Steven gave a smug grin, leaning against a counter and watching the docks already coming to life hours before.

‘No,’ James mumbled, screwing the valve shut almost emotionally, then coming back inside to retrieve another tank.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Steven laughed, walked over and ruffled his hair, only to be swatted away by James, ‘So what’s the job this morning?’

‘Scrub Island,’ James shrugged, screwing another valve shut, ‘With Frank Lampard and that blue polo friend of his’

‘You’re fucking joking,’ Steven groans, looking at James for any signs that he was indeed joking but James remained quiet, mouth checking through all the regulators.

‘They should come in about ten minutes, so gear up’

Steven followed his instructions, stepping into a full wetsuit this time half up to his waist and he straps the depth metre onto his wrist, before coming over to snap shut the latch on the BCD onto the tank. He stays where he is, sweating under the hot Caribbean sun and he sits down for a moment, looking up at James, who hands him a bottle of water.

He clears the content of the water, sighing in content when he feels he’s back and hydrated. He throws his head back, squinting at the sun before something shadows over him and he catches the sight of the Lampard Hotels heir hovering above him.

‘Anytime you’re ready, mate,’ Frank smirks as Steven abruptly stood, stumbling a little and studying the two newcomers.

‘Mr. Lampard,’ Steven nodded, then gestured at John behind him before his eyes comes back to pay full attention to Frank.

‘Jamie spoke highly of you, so I hope to god he’s not just taking the piss,’ Frank strides across the docks, glancing at Steven, ‘Unfortunately for you, I’m not going to take chances. But fortunately for me, I have a meeting with the general manager today, so John’s taking your ride alone’

John watches the two with no concern, his focus wandering off to a group of fishermen, only when Frank leaves and he nears him, giving a smile and an absent kiss on his cheek, ‘I’ll see you later, John’

Frank walks off towards the crowd, leaving John to face Steven alone, and he gave a light cough, ‘So, where are you taking me?’

‘Scrub Island,’ Steven replied coldly, watching Frank leave in disdain.

James has been quiet all the time, coming from behind and handing John a wetsuit. John took it without question and after being pointed to where he could change, he does so. John comes back ready, and he’s making small talks to James while all this time Steven pretended as if he didn’t exist, quietly preparing everything.

When everything’s done, James helped Steven bring the equipment down to the boat where another local was already sitting down inside, all set to steer the boat. Steven and James hands the BCD-strapped tanks to him and then the two walks back, approaching John.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Steven shrugs, watching him.

John gave a small nod, eyes on Steven for a moment before walking towards the boat, greeting the local and getting in the boat with Steven watching his every move all the time.

‘Try not to lose him,’ Jamie reminded, examining the look on Steven’s face – in between sickened and exhausted on dealing with brats like this one.

‘Sure’, Steven shrugs, ‘If he’s lucky enough to live till he gets lost,’ Steven gave an honest but playful grin to his best mate, and then sauntering off, his fins and mask trailing behind him.

Fic: Amber - Prologue (Trial) - Gerrard/Terry; Terry/Lampard

2008-08-23T17:16:46Z

Title: Amber – Prologue (Trial)

Pairing: John Terry/Steven Gerrard; John Terry/Frank Lampard; supporting characters includes Jamie Carragher, Ashley Cole, Joe Cole, Rio Ferdinand, Wayne Bridge, and more.

Author: dieuepargne

Rating: R

Warning: AU

Disclaimer: It’s all just a reflection of creativity.

Summary: Amber is the colour of your energy.

A/N: It’s been such a long time since I wrote a fic, so apologies and so forth for anything that might not be too appealing, writing wise. This is a trial on a three to four part series, dedicated to diskarte, mightypretty, and udontknoowme. I’d like to know what you think so I could either continue or dump it. :) Inspiration credits goes to 311 and their wonderful song, Amber.

Being Anguillan has got to be one of the most frustrating things on earth.

The first moment you step out onto the shore, toes digging deep into the sand, the salty breeze are knocking all your senses down, you were young enough to not understand. Steven could remember the first time he heard a palm tree sing to him, and he wasn’t crazy because each and every local would tell you the same thing. He’s doing what he does best in life, loving and living Anguilla.

‘Stevie,’ a voice, calling, or rather, shouting from a shed by the docks, harbouring everything from locally made wooden boats to travel to the minor islands and cays to privately owned yachts.

The golden haired twenty something watched towards the East, hiding his face from the sun with his right hand as he tries to gain twenty/twenty vision, squinting hard as his other hand reaches behind to the zipper of his wet suit, feet kicking his fins off. He pays no attention to the voice (who by now is rising into dangerous tones); continuing to watch the East before nodding to himself and scoffing, ‘Look whose come to visit.’

James heads out, frustrated that he wasn’t being heard, hands on his hips and he stares down at the younger man below on the shore, ‘Stop taking them via beach entry.’

Steven resisted paying attention, unzipping his wet suit and unhurriedly peeling it off his right shoulder as his attention remains anchored at the Easterly direction.

‘I swear to god, Stevie, they’re animals,’ James sighed, walking along the wooden planks of the docks before finally sitting down at the edge, feet kicking at the buoy underneath him, ‘They won’t stop messing with my head.’

James was still ignored, this time Steven is fully topless, wet suit down to his waist and he’s lugging a tank of oxygen towards the sand, making a coarse dragging noise. By then, James has had enough, ‘Are you fucking listening, Gerrard?’

‘Yeah,’ Steven negligently retorted, screwing the octopus away from the mouth of the tank.

‘Goddamnit, I’m serious,’ James, by this time, was whining and it wasn’t of him to sound like he’s in a little desperado moment, and especially not to Steven, but dealing with tourists has gotten into his head. There are different kinds of tourists, he admitted, but these brats he had to work with daily are beyond infuriating. And he knew the reason why.

Greedy businessmen are overtaking the island. Ever since tourism exploded on the island, the multi nationals are crowding in to try their luck, and it included a lot of spoiled hotel heirs who knew nothing but to spend money away building the biggest and most luxurious resorts – so obviously destroying the island’s natural habitat. But what do they know? They come in, strutting with their designer luggage wheeled behind them, shades as big as their heads covering their eyes, and uniformed white linen over their bodies, only to prove to themselves that money could indeed buy everything.

‘They come up with so many excuses on not carrying all the stuff there alone, and you know how pissy you can get when the BCDs are covered in bloody sand,’ James continued, hesitant to stop talking even when he knew Steven’s mind was completely on something else.

‘Jamie, do us a favour and ring Ash. His boy’s here.’ Steven mumbled, finally screwing close the valve of the tank and then blowing into the regulators, efficiently working his routine like he does that he could close his eyes doing it.

‘What for? That’s not Redknapp,’ James argued, eyes by now on the same direction as Stevie’s, a stunning yacht heading straight for the docks, the Union Jack flowing in wind on top of the sail of the boat, ‘Besides, Ash went off to Anguillita with some mates he’s been hiding from us in Martinique.’

‘And like the arse he is, he left you and me,’ Steven rolls his eyes, before grunting as he takes up both the oxygen tank and the BCD onto his shoulders, climbing his way up towards James, and a minute later he grunts again, putting the container down as he heaves a heavy breath. He turns towards James, ‘What do you mean it’s not him? Look at the boat.’

‘It’s not him; it’s that cousin of his, Frank Lampard.’

‘No shit,’ Steven almost snorted, still fumbling with the regulators to make sure they’re neatly put away before he takes a breath or two.

‘Yeah, apparently, he’s decided to call managing the one in London a fucking bore and head down here to cause trouble just like Redknapp did,’ James gave a hearty laughter at that, shaking his head, ‘When are they all going to learn that they have no talent whatsoever? You heard what he did in London.’

‘Got the hearsay, yeah.’ Steven shrugs, before walking towards the other man and sitting down beside him, looking over at the yacht that is by each passing second, closing in to park.

They both stayed quiet, breathing inaudibly as the arid wind hit against their face, eyes observing the new arrival as the crew started to crowd out and secure the boat. Minutes later, the first out of the boat draws closer towards the sunny outside; unfortunately for James, after betting ten dollars that he would be wearing white was far off from succeeding as he was sporting a blue polo shirt.

‘He’s a strange one,’ James remarks, a small judgmental laugh followed after.

The one in the blue polo peers around, and he wasn’t wearing any shades either; he looked uncomfortable, and kept looking back to see if something would come and attack him from behind. No Louis Vuitton wheeled behind him, just a black Hugo carry on held in his hands. He grabs a mobile from his pocket, looking like he’s checking texts as the two friends from across continues to judge and make a mockery of the newcomers.

Steven watches him while James maintained his ridiculing laughter. This is where the local boy watches the foreign lad, and though they’re English, British, or whatever that is, he knew they were something else than different, where a new word is needed. He was born and bred in Anguilla, just like James. He’s been to England once, when he was six and he remembered not liking it all that much – the weather, in particular. His parents stayed behind, and his grandparents took him back to Anguilla. Unfortunately, no discussion is needed there.

Another man followed the one in blue, but he looks far from alien, he’s too typical to miss. They’re not a rare breed and Steven didn’t need to look twice. Frank James Lampard, heir to the Lampard Hotels, cousin to the powerful Jamie Redknapp, newly declared owner of the most popular resort in the island, The Shore, and others around the Caribbean. After his father is destined to lay motionless on the hospital bed since two strokes, Jamie took over with open arms.

Steven continues to watch them while James gradually lost interest, this time deep in absent little talks that he considers important enough to discuss with his best mate. The one in blue looks lost, looking back at Frank Lampard as he seems to be complaining about something. Frank didn’t look interested on what he had to say, quickly brushing him off as some of the staff from the resort has come to approach him, practically almost kissing the ground he’s walking on. Steven heavily snorted at this.

He stood up slowly as his eyes never miss a moment from watching the one in blue who he feels strangely in tune to. His body had dried up under the hot sun and he’s starting to redden as he shakes it off, his stare aimed at something different for once in the last fifteen minutes. He stares at the clear sky, and then turns his back on James as he starts to walk away, ‘Forget them, let’s go to Shoal.’

NOTES - I don't know who dives or who doesn't or who has this so-called general knowledge, but a little glossary is fine, right? :)

BC/BCD: bouyancy compensator/buoyancy control device - that's the 'jacket' you use where the tank is secured to.

Beach entry: where divers enter the sea through the beach, usually, strapped to their BCD and tank/tanks, so it's a tad bit of an effort while trying to walk on your fins across the sand.

Regulator: where you breath the oxygen from when underwater, it's attached to the valve and the opening on top of the tank.

Octopus: basically, a secondary regulator for safety - but I just call all regulators along with their valves by this name. All the regulators, compression metre, and so forth look like an octopus, simply saying.

"She's lost that lovin' feeling."

2008-06-04T15:36:43Z

Last night watched 'How I Met Your Mother' - I don't care much for the show, but I do love Neil Patrick Harris as Barney. On one episode, it was Halloween's, so he dressed up as Iceman from Top Gun, urging for Ted to be his wingman - Maverick, taken from that scene where:

Iceman: You can be my wingman anytime.
Maverick: Bullshit! You can be mine.

-
NOW. TOP GUN IS ALL THAT IS IN MY HEAD.

It's kind of a childhood thing for me - okay, no, I wasn't even born when it was released, but I remembered my siblings watching it when I was young, and it just became one of those things that was - well. Oh whatever, it's a classic, yeah?

Right. So 'Highway to the Danger Zone' is stuck on my head, and last night I dreamt about that oh-so-gay scene where the four boys are playing volleyball on the beach, shirt off with that 'Playing With The Boys' running in the background. Seriously. Anyways. Since, I don't have a DVD lying around somewhere, I opted to let my Top Gun-ness pour into the creative mind of making icons. Eh. Yeah. It's not like I can write an Iceman/Maverick fic, can I? CAN I? o.O

Yeah. If you like Top Gun, do feel free to take and credit. :) If not, then I suggest just, look at Val Kilmer before age caught up?

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Fic: If - Gerrard/Terry

2008-05-31T00:49:11Z

Title: If

Pairing: John Terry/Steven Gerrard; John Terry/Frank Lampard

Author: dieuepargne

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: It’s all just a reflection of creativity.

Summary: Sometimes the best of affection is best kept covered.

A/N: Thanks to the boys completely over each other in the US friendly – as mentioned by the lovely mightypretty, herself. And I quote – ‘I cant tell you how all over each other they were...I honestly was thinking, "uh...what about lamps?" he totally brushed frank aside and went and grabbed stevie!!’

Moments like this, moments where I could pinpoint and see, and realise out of thought that maybe there was more to this than just stolen seconds of –

John scraped the remaining grass out of his boots, can’t help but to smile to himself. Last time where he did the very same was Moscow – haunt – I, can’t – Chelsea – winners of the – Manchester United is the Champions of – no, he didn’t want to go there, more than ever, he knew he shouldn’t. Psychologically damaging as it is, he’s starting to understand why he probably didn’t see the ending as he previously wrote it. It wasn’t always right – but it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

He didn’t get it – that night he would’ve killed any Red Devil crossing his way, flaunting their victory up on him, taunting him on the double – no, John. Sportsmanship. Yeah, that’s what it is. Oh, fuck it. Lampsy told him that night it’ll be over soon, but it never really did, the hurt never really seemed to go away even if it was days after it. Everyone called. Everyone. People he didn’t give a shit about, people he knew was just doing it for the sake, people who he knew probably cared but at the time he concluded didn’t care. So, in conclusion, yeah, everyone.

Stevie called.

The only one - who’s gone up there, lifted the ol’ big ears himself called.

He sounded – proud. John wasn’t sure of what exactly, and he sure as hell didn’t think it was him. And why should he? It’s his team he kicked out of the chance to run for the final. But for some reason, it felt good, as if the feeling really did started to go away.

‘You did great’

John scoffed.

‘Seriously’

John rolled his eyes again – he was resorting to the stubborn, obnoxious, sore loser persona he’s been adapting to for the last week. It was getting on everyone’s nerves, and particularly a certain Frank Lampard – whom he hasn’t spoken to since. Says he was busy. Says he was tired. Of things. Of him, maybe? But for some reason, John wasn't overly concerned so he shrugged it off, told him to just -

Steven let out a laugh, ‘It’s not the end of the world’

John mumbled. Somewhere between ‘Yeah, it is’ and ‘Yeah, it (still) is’

‘We’ve got England soon’

John whispered this time – to anything, to wind, to air. Wow. Can’t wait.

‘Ready, Cap’n?’

No.

‘No?’

‘No’

‘That’s funny; I could’ve sworn you’re all for avenging that loss’

John managed to smile, weakly, forcefully, maybe even disturbingly.

‘I’ll see you soon, yeah?’

Can’t wait.

John scraped the remaining grass out of his boots, can’t help but to smile to himself. Last time where he did the very same was Moscow –

‘Hey’

John didn’t look up. Automatic response, ‘Hey, Lamps’

‘Look at me’

John did and to his surprise chuckled, softly – the only honest one he’s managed to let out ever since – yeah.

‘Sorry, Stevie’

‘Do I sound the same?’

‘As?’

‘That vice captain of yours’

John contemplated, shook his head as his eyes fixed on the floor, ‘Nah, no, you don’t, I was just – yeah’

‘I hope not’

John looked up, gave a confused expression but then he decided to let it go, ‘We did good, yeah?’

‘You did – you proved them you weren’t exactly mentally damaged from that night’

‘What – a man can’t cry?’

‘Sure they can, mate,’ Steven chuckled, nudged his captain aside as he took a seat, placed a hand over his thigh and then looked up – straight to his eyes, piercing, almost.

John looked over to where Stevie’s hand is, why he’s being overly friendly after a game is beyond him – usually, a pat, a quick exchange of hugs were all they shared, and that was that. John once again, managed a whisper to air – to wind. What is this?

For the first time he felt like the only one who could ease the pain, the frustration, the humiliation, and the regret is someone he never wanted to admit did. Sure, they had a little exchange of over-friendly smiles on the side, but that was nothing, John told himself it was just spur of the moment. He’d never admit he was falling for something else – something new. But he knew he needed to feel difference, and just anything but familiarity.

He looked away for a moment, around the dressing room. Voices, glances, laughs, jokes, steam, expensive cologne, sweat, and a better moment gave him a chance to realise that maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. His eyes caught Frank’s attention, who can’t help but manage an eye roll out of their body language (Steven’s, particularly, he didn’t like) and he shook his head, frustrated that he couldn’t get a sense of the John Terry he knew, always known. John looked away, quickly, and out of anything he’d want to get rid of that comfort zone.

Steven patted his thigh – removed his hands, stood up and walked away, shaking his head this time.

John refused to believe it – can he see that? Can he – can he what? No. That wasn’t obvious.

Forward to when it’s all over – when the players had left the dressing room one by one, the captain sat at the same place, wishing for once, if the right things would happen at the right moment. What if - ? He didn’t understand some of the things that had happen, and he sure as hell wouldn’t understand what’s to come next and he might avoid it if he wanted.

‘Hey’

A different response this time, ‘Hey, Stevie’

‘Look at me’

John looked up, greeted by a frown and he didn’t bother apologising before shaking his head, cursing under his breath.

‘Please don’t tell me I sound the same as he does’

‘No, Lampsy, you – you don’t’, John shook his head, puzzled more than anything.

‘He left, alright?’

‘Yeah – I – what?’ John managed to grant a hint of disappointment there.

‘He left’

John nodded, solemnly this time.

‘You did well’

John nodded again, smiling this time as the tip of his fingers managed to touch Frank’s side, affectionately, but with sorry – and he’s unsure why.

‘And your vice captain did to’

‘Yeah, yeah, you did,’ John smiled again – sincerely more than forced. Bravely this time, he reaches out to clutch his wrist.

‘I’m not the one who scored’ Frank shook his head, but he’s smiling. Why are you smiling?

‘Oh, Stevie’

‘Yeah, Stevie’ Frank nodded, gravely, almost looking defeated as he shrugged out of his grip. ‘I can’t make you snap out of it but England comes calling and you’re back on your feet all of a sudden?’

John looks up, disbelief written on his face and he scoffs, ‘What are you talking about? I scored out there – I proved it all to them that I’m okay, what the hell else is there?’

‘Steven, John! Steven fucking Gerrard. That’s what’

‘Well, fuck me – what the hell are you on about?’

‘He comes strolling – just out of nowhere, for a few days, scores with you – oh glory days and you’re fine, you’re alright!’ Frank yells, ‘But what do I get, John? What the fuck do I get? I try hard to get you back to your senses, to make you the John we all know and love but no – fucking no, I get silence, I get the very thing I was afraid of – that look, like you think I’m nothing, I’m fucking worth nothing. Do you fucking know how much that hurts?’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘Oh fuck you’ Frank jeers, ‘Fuck you very much’

John shook his head, stood up from his seat and gave Frank a last look, grabbing his belongings and storming out of there, and there’s no way he could’ve avoided that even if he tried. There was a part of him that felt that Frank was right. But then again, he was. He knew he hadn’t given Frank the chance to lift him back up and that – the only one who he knew could do it was someone he’d never spent the amount of time he did with Frank with, someone he never took the time to appreciate, someone he never really knew. But at least he did.

John toyed with thoughts in his mind once more, and then he came back – marching his way through to the dressing room, finding Frank still there, gathering his belongings.

‘I’m sorry’

There was no way in hell how he could explain this. All of this. He glanced at the man beside him – why I’m lost without you – no, he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. He needed to feel safe, protected, loved, and wanted – though by what he thinks is the wrong person. He knew him – how? Barely. He’d like to though, if he weren’t so deep in his comfort zone with this one. John shifted, wrapped his arms around the one he knew would always be there – but not necessarily the one he felt missing from a part of him.

There were ways though, maybe – where he could let things uncover for themselves, but for now he’d let it stay where it should. At least he knew him. That was all.

Fic: When We Forget We're Human - Gerrard/Terry

2008-04-15T08:33:21Z

Title: When We Forget We’re Human

Pairing: John Terry/Steven Gerrard; John Terry/Frank Lampard

Author: dieuepargne

Rating: R

Disclaimer: It’s all just a reflection of creativity.

Summary: And when you can’t tell the difference between wants, needs, and desires.

A/N: As always, the beloved angst - but on a much different level I’ve never gone into. This fic is so unbelievably emo, I'm actually still going wtf to myself right now.

Blue. He’d for eternity see Blue. Nowadays though, he sees Red more often than he’d like, but never side by side by his trusted Blue. The colours painfully clash. Never had he met anyone dare to place both colours so bold to compliment each other. There was only one way to bring them together; either to place a neutral colour in between or tentatively let them collide.

Why he’d always count the days until summer comes ever since he was chosen to replace the irreplaceable is still bewildering. That case of not having enough to fill his shoes, but incapability aside he’d never forget that day; the day when he starts seeing Red all the time – even more Red than the cool, calm and collected Blue. He can’t help that burning, dominant, significant, and even a suggestion of sex poured right out of his mouth when telling of the colour.

There was always a want. Then it grew to a need, perhaps even an obsession, a passion to and for desire. But even he wouldn’t admit it. Why instead of shoving neutral in between the two, he’d rather stop seeing Blue altogether and drown in Red. Sometimes he thinks of death, death and blood. Isn’t the colour of blood the same as that colour of must and should? It’d all be much better than trying to figure out if he’s worth wanting him. If maybe, he was ever in his mind.

It’s all ending: the self-control, the ability to rationalise. He would drive this obsession with Red to the very ends, even if he knew he would fail. He already knew. He’d always known. The moment he was chosen to replace the irreplaceable, there was no thought he would come through with glory and its success; just stolen moments, where he could contemplate on the look, on light touches and painful sighs between the two, but again, never side by side to compliment each other.

He stands in the shower, slowly reaching out for the controls in front of him. Eyes were closed and he no longer cared for temperature or how it’ll feel against his skin. There was heat, but it wasn’t found anywhere where he wanted it. He has no power over anything any longer. He’s lost influence, lost trust, and lost the courage to ever go out there and –

‘Stevie?’

He turns around, and it only seems like seconds ago he’s out there, fighting the last fight – knowing he’ll bow out in complete disgrace.

He doesn’t say anything, resorted to body language as he gives the other man a chance to gather himself together and say what needs to be said.

It all seemed so quiet though. As if the world had punished him for something he was deliberately trusted on.

Even staring at the very person he’s thought he’s given himself and everything to, he can’t find the meaning of sanity any longer. Not when he’s still longing to see if he’s wanted all of this without question, or at least a little session of thinking on what he’ll be giving up. He knows he needs to end it, quickly. There was still the obvious and needed love, but there was no longer heat - and everything seems too easy with him, there’s no challenge in it, nothing new, just part of an overrated schedule and his getting-old superstitions. How he has to kiss him before he says a certain something, or how he’d always let himself undress before he does.

‘Fuck him. Fuck him by all means,’ He says; his breath irrational and staggered. ‘But let me stay. Fuck you, just let me – fucking stay’

He knows he doesn’t see the point anymore but cries, begs, pleas, and even sincerity wouldn’t get him far. He’s settled on what he wanted for now, although he knew it was a tough call. Why would he give up on something settled and crystal clear on someone who loved him beyond betrayal and lies, on a basis of everything he’s struggled to reach.

‘No?’ He scorned, but then as if giving a second chance to this, to him, to consideration, ‘What the fuck do you want, John? What the fuck is your – fuck it. Fuck you, just fuck you’

His plea had gone in too long, clinging to the younger man by now, almost looking like an innocent prey begging to spare his life. He finally gathers the courage to push him away, almost lured to hit him, to just hurt him, to make him bleed – for him, for this, for them, for what they had. Had. Had is an idea he hated. He swore to never fall this bad, to love so much that it would shatter him when he’d walk out the door and -

‘– for what, John? He doesn’t want you for fuck’s sake’

When would he take a look beyond anything else, beyond everybody else, beyond the past, and beyond his loyalty to his beloved Red (a lot more than his to his trusted Blue)? When would he realise there was more to him than what they all say, that he could be better, he could be worth having, worth loving, and worth more than just sharing?

Do you know how much this hurts?

But he knows it wasn’t all to be in the end.

Stevie. Goddamn it. Just fucking have me.

He’s released his fallback, and his bets are all on that one certain thing - that deep down he knows it’s not true. It’s never true. Even when he’s caught him with someone else, always with someone else - loving, lusting, sweating, writhing, thrusting, moaning, grinding, fucking – he knows it’s not true. He knows it’s not true because he could see by the way he talks to him is special, far more special than what he had with anyone else.

Maybe I’m not worth even wanting you.

But maybe he’s not Red enough; maybe that’s why he’s obsessing about this Red too much. Maybe he’s too far, too distant, too different – but no, fuck all, he’s perfect for him. He’ll prove it even it meant hurting. Didn’t he remember that blood is the colour that he wanted? He knows he’s still perfect for him even when that cold, sharp, callous, cruel, and vicious edge forces its way to the thin layer of his skin, drawing Red – because there's another way to bring Red and Blue together, to let the other dominate, find the weak point and overwhelm.

He leans back against him as he half cringes, half smiles, earning a predictable nod of agreement from the other as he drives inside of him - just because he’s willing to go that far. But did he crave, yearn, or ache for it? - fuck it. Fuck all. Because -

You want me. I know you do.

Fic: Changes - Gerrard/Terry

2008-03-10T13:25:35Z

Title: Changes

Pairing: Steven Gerrard/John Terry; reference to John Terry/Frank Lampard

Author: dieuepargne

Rating: R

Disclaimer: It’s all just a reflection of creativity.

Summary: And then there were differences.

A/N: I’ve never written anything this long in ages, and it’s only good that I’ve decided to sit myself down and actually try and write. I keep telling myself I have writer’s block, but look what I managed to come up with. Obviously, I’ve been telling myself lies. For mightypretty. (I'm so moved that you consider me one of your fave authors, I just have to write you something <3) It's un-edited, mind you.

If there were any consolation good enough for what was to come, he’d hope it would be death.

There was nothing that could make this an easy message to throw across and each and every moment he took a breath, the thought scattered like a spilled jar full of marbles – unstoppable. (‘We’d become unstoppable. We’re better when we’re together – I can see it’) He stopped and thinks, took another breath, and then held back. He never saw himself in that position, in that manner, in that point of discretion. It was always near enough to perfection, but just not quite right.

When did everything become so wrong?

Scarred in blue, he’d dragged his weary self – trying to find a point in life where it was all back to where it should be. He wanted to know things beyond explanation, beyond that strip of white and royal blue always gripping tight around his body (suffocating, at times). Maybe there would come a day where he would abandon it, where he could throw all causes of hopes and dreams away. Just like that - without worry.

But he’s (not) like that. He’d strive to find some kind of excuses, for why plans crumble, for why futures fail, and for why the only one who would appreciate him through and out decided to give up on him, on everything, on a fight, on a way to the top; on them.

He sat back, relaxed a little – saw another point. A better point. He could speed up life, finish it all together while he’s on the edge, the balance in between appreciated and hated. He gripped the steering wheel, palms sweating and he stares at the splendor of a gate in front of him. (‘Nice place’) He never felt so guilty, at times.

(They were never tangled in sheets, just words; never justified with an exchange of heat, slick, and sweat, just a simple understanding.)

Today, it was more than a trip back and forth from the safe South to the unfamiliar North. He wanted to end it all, there. Just before he could hear the decision made by the man in charge. He leans against air for a while; the faint sound of an incoherent song is the soundtrack to this scene and the feeling of: regret, regret, regret - is all there is to it.

Who did he love? Where did his affection lie? Rhetorical questions aside, he’d hope it was easier. It seemed perfect then; especially when he’s around to explain to him why things aren’t always what they seem. Nobody knows, he doesn’t know, that other he sure as hell doesn’t know; she doesn’t know – she never knows.

He types a few meaningless words into the keypad, the mobile seemingly held tighter than before and his fingers tremble – misspelled. And it was more than just a fault of ‘wbht’ to ‘wait’ – it was something a lot more even he couldn’t see. He sends it off, while trying to figure out why that ridiculous smell of manufactured on his leather seat isn’t gone yet. With him, everything smells fake, repulsive, and maddening. It was too ironic for his liking. Back then it smelled like them, warmth and care, intimacy mixed with victory and the highest point in life. The best point.

But then came him.

‘What are you doing here?’ A question. He can give him anything but a question. There was never a right answer; a good, no, decent answer, but never correctly replied to.

‘Talk’ He sounded more scared than confused; ‘I need to talk to you’ (He rephrases.)

‘A phone call would’ve made sense’

Cold. He’s being cold.

They made their way beyond the splendor gate he laid his eyes on earlier. He sat, comfortably on the white suede chaise; he doesn’t lean back – doesn’t want to give the impression that he’s here to stay. He asks in one quick gesture if he needed anything, though he knew what he didn’t need. He didn’t need confrontation, the truth, what he really wanted, what he actually longed for. He still had his mobile gripped tight around his hands, more sweat, a recurring set of nerves, and a hell whole lot of wishes that he was out of there.

He says it softly, casually. (He starts with a small smile; then his hands travel to places he never wanted him to delve into at this point and time. But it felt so good.) ‘What are we doing here?’

He shook his head, gently, doesn’t know what to tell him. Isn’t this the very same question he gave him when he started all of this? (He arches back against him when he pushes him down lightly towards the bed and he’s close to taking his breath away. He knew this was so wrong, especially here and now at his house; but he didn’t forget to tell him not to worry because they’re the only ones there.) ‘I don’t know.’

‘Can’t you be honest for once?’ (There were times where he made him felt the same way as he’s doing now, but he didn’t remember much of it. He grazed his hand up and through his body, feeling on him, every touch he gave him earned a warm thankful noise.) He frowns this time, but it’s mostly disappointment rather than annoyance.

He stares at him, and he still resorts to the ongoing fact that he doesn’t know what to tell him. (He moans, and it’s nothing even close to lust, just a reassurance that he hasn’t lost him. Not now, and not ever. He runs his fingers through his shade of sandy and golden hair, pulling him close as he tastes him against his mouth.) ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

He gapes at him, but it was nothing comical or laughable. It was sincere and he made a point of that as he turned his attention away from him, shaking his head with a small laugh.

‘What are you on about? There’s nothing between us.’

He loves the way his body feels on top of his – the way he strokes his hair affectionately, caringly, with a purpose, never mind his real aim. The friction, the heat against them and he can only unwind, completely loose and free, it was something he never could find with him.

He’s close to driving himself insane as he tries not to make too much noise as he leans down, closing in on him; putting it on him. He wraps his legs around him, pushing back at him, drawing him even nearer and he doesn’t want any space between them. The real distance between them is more than enough and he never tires himself in putting that point across the table – if only to help him reason why they can’t stay like this forever.

He took it slow at first, rhythm was flawless and his pressure was close to breathtaking.

He had his eyes closed, head tilted back as he doesn’t resist to give it to him harder, and at the last few moments, faster. He can’t seem to find a flaw for now, and with him these days, there’s always something wrong. Temperature, the time, the place, it was too fast, too slow, and too sudden, to the point where he didn’t want it any longer. Their relationship was crumbling faster than he could shout to stop it, but there was no way he could get over him fast enough. He’d make time go faster if he could, but it never happened, nobody was answering his prayers.

He was close already. Too close.

He laid there, his arms around his body, the sweat once there is now cool against his body. They were never tangled in sheets. He thinks this could make him change his mind, at last, after only basing what they had with each other with only words, an occasional but meaningless kiss, and – something more, but nothing like this. They decided what they had didn’t have to involve that certain addiction to insignificant intercourse (and also, he wouldn’t feel as guilty to him).

He whispered in his ears, this time, something useless but it managed to make him smile, stupidly to himself. Has he changed his mind yet? He thinks he could keep him down here, forever, all the time. Meanwhile, he doesn’t want to be a secret any longer, he wants everything like it should – and maybe once, maybe not now, these changes would be unstoppable.

[I'm not sure if this is obvious but, the italic he's or them and their is the reference to Frank Lampard.]

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