red wine, chocolate, irishmen.

Flying At the Speed of Sound

2009-05-12T20:38:03Z

Title: Flying At the Speed of Sound
Pairing: Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Rumors fly regarding the Liverpool captain and his number 9. Xabi doesn't like it at all.
Warning: angst (loads of it), anger, and a mention of physical violence
Notes: Everyone keeps fighting over how Stevie/Nando isn't the otp so the idea for this story came to me during English class. Title is from Coldplay's Speed of Sound, and also I was in Physics listening to my teacher rant about Albert Einstein and the theory of relativity. But you didn't really need to know that. Thanks for the beta, Greta!
Disclaimer: fake like my grillz

His accusations hurl at you in rapid-fire Spanish. ¿Por qué? he asks. ¿Por qué? You catch a few words here and there, like "why" and particularly the phrase "you and Nando." You've been around the Spanish lads long enough to understand simple words and phrases.

¿Por qué? he asks again. ¿Por qué?

Because. Because.

I don't know.

But you don't say anything because he expects a straight answer out of you. You've hardly seen him angry. Hardly ever. And never personally. This is a first and it surprises you, so you brace yourself for the worst. Every relationship has its ups and downs, you tell yourself, but this feels different.

"Slow down, Xabi," you hear yourself say, "You're speaking in Spanish again."

"I know that!" His tone is clipped, bitter, loud.

At this moment you're afraid of him. No matter how much you try to disconnect yourself from your current situation, the anger in his eyes will still be there, burning, burning. The fire won't go away. In your mind you create an alternate reality, piece it together with fragments of past memories, of happier times. Now you're running, running away; off to the pitch you go. You're entering Melwood, breathing in its familiar smell, smiling at the staff, at Rafa, at Xabi. Then you change in the locker rooms, you take a quick jog around the pitch, you talk and laugh with your fellow teammates. When you're done, you stand beside Xabi and watch the others work on drills, all the while you're kicking a ball back and forth, you're cracking jokes with him and he smiles. He laughs. Amusement is etched on his face and it makes you grin.

Without warning, you're being shoved from behind and your face hits the ground hard. The sharp smell of dirt fills your nose; the taste of grass lingers on your mouth. You can't breathe anymore.

Your mind whirls to the present. Xabier Alonso Olano's fist has just made contact with your face. He pulls it back and lets it fly again and again. Somehow, you're not surprised at his actions. You would've done the exact same thing.

I'm sorry, Xabi. I am so, so sorry.

Please forgive me.

But like the coward you are, you say nothing. Absolutely nothing. You only see stars, bright stars, and taste the warm, iron rich blood dripping from your broken nose as you raise your arms and try to defend yourself. You can't calm him down.

¿Por qué? he asks again.

Why?

Les chocolats

2009-04-07T17:23:49Z

Title: Les chocolats
Pairing: Michelle Obama/Carla Bruni
Rating: PG-13 (allusions to sex of the lesbian kind)
Summary: Enter Carla Bruni: ex-model, singer/songwriter, and the First Lady of France
Author's Notes: fluff & stuff written in 2nd person, 5 drabbles, 100 words each
Disclaimer: fake ass shit like plastic surrrgery

Un: To compare yourself with Carla Bruni

You blame the media. They're the reason for the hype that surrounds you and your encounter with Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. It isn't such a big deal to you. You've heard about Carla; you've heard so many things about the model, the musician, the wife of Nicholas Sarkozy. Nothing surprises you anymore.

You want to tell the media, "It's just a visit. She's a model. Stop comparing us. I can't compete with her level of beauty and grace."

Your husband disagrees. America, oh America, disagrees.

You've caught Carla's husband staring at you once. No, twice. Apparently he disagrees with your opinion too.

Deux: A thing about the French

This isn't what you've expected. In your mind, you've fashioned Carla Bruni to be a pretentious woman, a tour de force in and of itself. But instead, she's a charming woman with an endless supply of wit.

"My no-good husband is staring at you again," she whispers in her accented English. You're surprised by her blunt statement.

"Well..." You're not sure what to reply with.

"Perhaps you and your husband would like to-" Her eyebrows raise. She smiles suggestively.

For lack of a better answer, you say, "Maybe."

Is this a form of French diplomacy that you weren't aware of?

Trois: Une guitare pour ma femme

An all-American Gibson guitar.

Well, you tell yourself, it's better than Barack's DVDs.

Carla receives your gift with genuine happiness. Hugging you, she leans in, whispers, "I'll write a song for you. I promise." You're flattered by her declaration. You laugh lightly, say a thank you in return, clasp her hands tightly, smile. "You don't have to."

Months later, sitting in the White House, reminiscing, you wonder if Carla ever fulfilled her promise. Then you find your mind wandering, your imagination conjuring an image of the First Lady with the guitar on her lap, strumming some chords, singing in French.

Quatre: Flashback

It's a quiet night in Turkey. The day was well-spent. Now your husband lies beside you, tranquility written on his face. He has done so much these past few months. You've always wondered at his ability to stay sane under this pressure.

Leaning against the pillows, your mind veers sharply to the days in Europe.

Carla Bruni. Tasting chocolate truffles for dessert. French cuisine on silver platters. Gossip after dinner. Carla's silent proposals. Scandal.

You agree to her advances with a slight tilt of your head, a simple touch on her arm. She states the time and place. Simple diplomacy.

Cinq: La fin

You're lying on an ancient four poster bed in a gilded room. God knows what time it is; blame it on your jet lag. Turning your head to one side, you watch Carla as she closes her eyes, a tiny smile on her lips. You bring the blankets closer to yourself, tucking them beneath your chin.

Carla stirs, sighs. You remember.

Expensive champagne the night before. Husbands gone off to meet the press. The palace is eerily empty for such a big event.

It was only meant to be a girls' night out.

This is something you've never done before.

He's BIG and he's f*ckin' HARD! STEVE GERRARD, GERRARD!

2009-03-16T04:38:44Z

HAPPY BELATED/EARLY BIRTHDAY, GRETA! I know your dad's being a dick so I hope this picspam makes you happy. (I know next to nothing about Liverpool, or club football for that matter, so correct me if anything's wrong. lol) I wanted to do the current challenge @ picspammy and I figured, hey, why not? Liverpool seems like a good topic. And plus, I'm into Stevie and Nando now. lol

P.S. Hope you don't mind that I pimped this out in random places. hahahaha

ily.

1. Steven Gerrard
(captain, midfielder, #8)

Steve Gerrard, Gerrard,
He'll pass the ball 40 yards,
He's big and he's fuckin' hard,
Steve Gerrard, Gerrard

(epic pic is epic.)

Liverpool v. Everton
@ Anfield
19 January 2009

1 - 1

Gerrard 69'

Newcastle United v. Liverpool
@ St. James' Park
28 December 2008

1 - 5

Gerrard 31', 66'
Hyypia 36'
Babel 50'
Alonso 76' (pen.)

Bolton Wanderers v. Liverpool
@ Reebok Stadium
15 November 2008

0 - 2

Kuyt 28'
Gerrard 73'

2. Fernando Torres
(striker, #9)

His armband proved he was a red,
Torres! Torres!
"You'll Never Walk Alone," it said,
Torres! Torres!
We bought the lad from sunny Spain,
He gets the ball, he scores again,
Fernando Torres!
Liverpool's number 9!

(stretching and ball throwing. hola, stevie!)

(a-do-ra-ble.)

Liverpool v. Chelsea
@ Anfield
1 February 2009

2 - 0

Torres 89', 90'

Preston North End v. Liverpool
@ Deepdale
3 January 2009

0 - 2

Riera 24'
Torres 90'

3. Liverpool v. Real Madrid
@ Anfield
10 March 2009

4 - 0

Torres 16'
Gerrard 28' (pen.), 47'
Dossena 88'

4. Manchester United v. Liverpool
@ Old Trafford
14 March 2009

1 - 4

Torres 28'
Gerrard 44' (pen.)
Aurelio 77'
Dossena 90'

5. Anfield
(the fans, the stadium, the history)

When you walk through a storm,
Hold your head up high,
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm,
There's a golden sky,
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind, Walk on through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown...

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone...
You'll never walk alone.

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone...
You'll never walk alone.

The end.

Hope you enjoyed it and it wasn't too bad. haha

sources: pictures, stats

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

2009-02-06T21:39:35Z

Title: Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: Mafiaverse & AU In which Rahm Emanuel discusses the specifics of Jon Favreau's next assignment.
Author's Note: (x-posted to rahmbamarama) I don't even know...

"Oy, you! Stop fucking around and start driving!"

Rahm's voice cuts through the silence in the SUV. His driver can be seen extinguishing his cigarette in haste before putting on his chauffeur's cap and clambering into the driver's seat. Jon Favreau watches from the corners of his eyes, all the while feigning disinterest so Rahm doesn't call him out for being nosy. The chauffeur isn't the only guy who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.

"Incompetent son of a bitch."

Jon uses this opportunity to dispel Rahm's anger by greeting him calmly.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Emanuel."

Rahm's head jerks up at Jon's voice. After a couple of seconds, he recollects himself and mutters a greeting in return.

"Favs."

His tone speaks volumes. Rahm's degrees of emotions and his mood swings are much too complicated for an outsider to understand. Outward appearances aren't everything.

"You have an assignment for me, boss?" Jon asks quietly.

"Yeah. It's a big one, sorta. But don't worry, it's quite simple."

As soon as he says this, Rahm catches a flicker of a frown on the young man's face. It's gone now, but it was there nonetheless. These subtle details never escape his notice.

"You're disappointed, aren't you? You probably think this is a job for a recruit, am I right?"

He doesn't mean to push Jon's buttons; no, not at all. That's just his personality showing. Jon has grown accustomed to his boss's threats and inquisitive questions but it still unnerves him from time to time.

After thinking over his response, Jon opts for a neutral statement.

"I won't question your judgement."

"You're one of my best men. You don't have to stroke my fucking ego."

Jon shrugs.

"Anyway," Rahm continues, "for this particular assignment, I want you to... coerce Blagojevich."

Now this kind of thing really sparks Jon's interest.

"Blagojevich? As in the Rod Blagojevich?" Jon wonders aloud. For a second there, he's a little skeptical.

"You know any other fucker named Rod Blagojevich?"

"Well, no."

"Because that motherfucker still owes me some money."

"How much?" Jon dares to ask.

"Five hundred grand."

There's an uncomfortable silence.

"So... do you want me to threaten him? Wave a gun around? Harm him? Or maybe some waterboarding will do?"

"I don't care, pick one. Just keep it discreet."

"All right, then."

"Wait," Rahm interjects, "If the fucker doesn't have my money, I want you to shave that fucking chinchilla on his head. It's a fucking pathetic excuse for hair."

"'Shave the fucking chinchilla.' Got it, boss."

"And do not- do not forget my number one rule."

Jon risks a glance at him and recites the rule from memory.

"Make the fucker squeal."

Your Fictions of Flimsy Romance

2009-02-05T13:43:09Z

Title: Your Fictions of Flimsy Romance
Pairing: Jon Favreau/Katie Johnson (it's bound to happen)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: Jon "Favs" Favreau pretty much considers himself an awesome speechwriter, he's not gonna lie. But his skills with the ladies are... something else. (Valentine's Day sucks, anyway.)
Author's Note: This was meant to be a Valentine's Day fic but school happened and I forgot all about it... Title is from a Lord Byron poem called "The First Kiss of Love." x-posted to rahmbamarama

Damn, she's hot.

Jon Favreau is just your average 20-something male (minus the fact that he's kind of a big deal due to the whole "Obama's Director of Speechwriting" gig). And like any other male, he gets a hard-on for chicks with rockin' bodies. Smart chicks with rockin' bodies get a +1 in his book. Smart chicks with rockin' bodies who happen to be personal secretaries to the leader of the Free World get complimentary tickets.

Yeah, you could say that he might just be a tad obsessed.

Somehow Jon manages to have the mindset of a pubescent boy when Valentine's Day arrives, complete with those stereotypical raging hormones and the works. Hell, his palms have been sweaty and cold and outright disgusting since his day began. (And no, hand soap isn't the answer to his problem.) And his heart? That metaphorical thing beating against his ribcage like a rabid pit bull? Jesus, don't even mention it. It's sure to give him hypertension or high blood pressure or whatever that medical shit is called.

Jon has prepared his gift the day before the dreaded V-Day. That expensive box of Godiva chocolates to one: "Katie Johnson" from "Your secret admirer"? Signed, sealed, and delivered. (Yeah, yeah, he's a goddamn cliché.) He's Obama's chief speechwriter, so surely he's more than capable of whipping up a love poem or two rivaling those of Lord Byron. But he has decided against it. Because for one, Jon Favreau doesn't waste his time reading Lord Byron or Keats or any of that old school shit. And two, he is not a romantic sap. He has his limits, you know.

So when the day arrives, he's definitely not ready to face Katie Johnson. Stupid Valentine's Day. Those two words can emasculate a proud member of the male sex.

He walks into her office with the calm and collected air of a man who has his priorities in perfect order. He's nonchalant. He plays it cool. After all, he's only dropping by to hand in the president's rough copy of his next speech. Something about the economy or the middle class or Joe Biden or whatever. Damn, he's already forgotten what it's about when he sees her seated at her desk, a phone in one ear and a pen in one hand, jotting down appointments for Obama or whatever the hell it is that a president's personal secretary does. As a result of watching too much porno, sexual thoughts keep creeping into his mind whenever anyone mentions the word "secretary."

Yeah, don't judge him.

Right as he's in the middle of this extremely hot fantasy involving Katie and the president (so sue him), she looks up from her desk and gestures that she's busy. Even though that is obvious enough, he might've interrupted her if she hadn't directed otherwise. Jon can be one of those clueless people sometimes. His jitters would've also been a cause for his aborted act of idiocy. Jesus Christ. The things that a woman can do to you...

"Hold on a sec," she mouths.

"Uh, sure thing."

There's nothing else to do but stand there nervously and possibly look like a total tool.

A moment later, she hangs up and announces, "Okay, I'm done. What do you need?"

Her tone of voice doesn't sound too inviting.

"I have Barack's speech."

He waves the manila folder in his hand as if she had failed to notice it the first time around. Or maybe the fact that he's a) Jon Favreau and b) Obama's Director of Speechwriting hasn't sunk into her mind yet. Now he really feels like a tool for having this train of thought, because Katie isn't stupid. Obviously.

"Yeah, I can see that. Just put it here on my desk," she mutters sarcastically.

Okay, so what exactly did he do to piss her off like this? He's about to snap at her in return right as she starts to apologize.

"God, I'm so sorry, Favs. I'm really, really stressed out right now."

"Oh, I see. I can definitely understand. You know, for a sec there I thought you were having some boyfriend trouble or something."

She looks at him blankly. Okay, so maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Geez. Nice going, Jon. His flirting skills are absolutely inadequate.

"Uh, I don't have a boyfriend. What made you think so?"

"Um, well, uh..." (This conversation is really starting to become awkward.) "Because it's, you know. It's Valentine's Day."

"Oh."

He stares at her and attempts to smile. Yeah, it doesn't work. With his mouth twisted in a weird fashion he probably looks like a complete fool. She returns his stare and doesn't say a word. She probably has no idea how she should react or what she should say in return. How awkward is this?

She adds, "To be honest, I didn't even realize it was Valentine's Day."

"Technically, it still is," he says in a rush of nerves.

"Huh?"

"Um, nothing, nothing. It was just a grammar thing. You said it 'was' Valentine's Day but since Valentine's Day is today, you should've said, 'It is Valentine's Day.' It's just a tense thinger. Um, yeah. I should probably shut up now."

She laughs lightly, a coy smile dancing on her lips. "I like you. You're a cute one, Favs."

He had expected her to shoo him away or maybe even ban him from her offices till the end of Obama's term for being such a nuisance. But this? Holy shit! He's home free! It encourages him to play it smooth like James Bond.

Sure, yeah, he tries.

"So, KJ, I'm always working on ideas for Barack's next speech. And I was wondering if you were up for some team brainstorming one of these days. Maybe we could make an appointment during your lunch break?"

"Hmm, I suppose..." She puts on a thoughtful expression while rubbing her chin in concentration. She's a terrible actor. He already knows what her reply will be.

"We could even discuss the finer points of proper grammatical usage in everyday conversation."

"You may or may not be pushing it a little too far with that one."

"Okay, then. We can just stick it to brainstorming."

"Well, I have to check my schedule..." Katie teases as she takes out her BlackBerry.

Oh, god. He knows their flirty banter is so stupid, but what the hell, who cares? He's on a roll and nothing, nothing can stop him.

"Hmm, I can't do tomorrow... Or Thursday either..."

Come on, come on, KJ. Stop dangling that tasty bone in front of him like a dog! Why does she have to be so diabolical?

"Okay, so I guess I'm free on Friday..."

"Friday?" he pounces on this opportunity.

"Yup."

"Fuck yes!"

His reaction isn't meant to be exclaimed out loud. He realizes this mistake as soon as those two words escape from his mouth.

Quickly trying to recover, he says, "Uh, what I meant to say was, 'Okay, I'll bring the materials required for a proper brainstorming session tomorrow at lunch.' Yeah, that's it. I didn't mean to say, 'Fuck yes!' Nope. That was an unintended and involuntary response."

Katie rolls her eyes. "You're so ridiculous, you know that?"

But hey, she's smiling. At least she's still amused.

"All righty, then. I'll leave so you can work in peace without any interruptions. Yeah."

Jon shoves his hands in his pockets and offers a grin before he turns to leave her office. There is one other thing that's been nagging at his thoughts, but (as much as he's embarrassed to admit it) he's too nervous to mention it to her.

"Hey, Favs!"

"Yeah?" He cranes his neck to glance behind him. Now is a chance to ask her about those chocolates.

"Did you, by any chance, pay one of the interns to deliver a box of chocolates to me?"

Whoa! What is she now? A mind reader or something?

"Uh... No?"

Idiot.

"Oh, all right. I just thought... Well, I guess they must be from Rahm then."

She's definitely taunting him. Of all the people in the White House, she decides to pick Rahm fucking Emanuel? Her previous boss? What the hell? Damn, she's good at emasculating a man.

"Okay. Fine. It was me."

"Really? I thought it was from some creepy intern."

"No way! You knew it all along. I know you're just teasing me."

She looks at him with her poker face. "No, I wasn't."

"...Wait, what?"

"Thanks for clearing things up. For a while there, I wondered if those chocolates were safe to eat."

"KJ, if you're being sarcastic-"

"No, I'm not," she says as she opens a desk drawer and pulls out that incriminating box of chocolates.

"'From your secret admirer.' See, the reason I thought it was from a creepy intern is because there's nothing else included in the greeting. I figured that you of all people would include a love sonnet at least."

"You know me. That's not how I work. Love poems are for pussies!"

She raises an eyebrow at this statement.

"You know what I mean!" he tries to convince her, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

"You silly rabbit. Now get the hell out of my office."

Jon knows her anger is a bluff. Because just as soon as he leaves her office, he catches a glimpse of her smiling to herself while popping a chocolate truffle into her mouth. And that's when it really hits him. A date with Katie Johnson? Fuck yes! Score one for Favs! Making sure that no one else is around, he pumps his fist through the air in manly triumph.

Yes, he can, goddammit. Yes, he can.

"Today, as I suspend my campaign, I congratulate him on the victory he has won."

2009-01-25T20:24:54Z

x-posted to rahmbamarama

Because their relationship is really intriguing, don't you think?

"Today, I am standing with Sen. Obama to say, 'Yes we can.' "

And here are a couple of extras. This one's a Daily Show reference.

This one's just for the hell of it.

Hope you enjoyed this picspam!

[source]

The Incidental Voyeur

2009-01-23T02:27:10Z

Title: The Incidental Voyeur
Series: AC 360, Campbell Brown: No Bias, No Bull
Pairing: Erica Hill/Campbell Brown, Anderson Cooper
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: After stumbling on two of his female colleagues sharing an intimate moment, Anderson decides that being a heterosexual male is probably one of life's hardest challenges.

That's hot.

For one quick second Anderson chides himself for having the mindset of Paris Hilton, but it isn't as if he's hung up on that particular fact. The sight before him is enough to bungle his thoughts and render him silent. After all, what are you supposed to do when you see two of your co-workers grope and kiss each other passionately with the utmost abandon?

Like any other heterosexual male on this planet, Anderson watches the two women in a voyeuristic fashion. With his mouth slightly agape, he finds it extremely hard to move his feet or look away. At this very moment, Campbell's hands are gripping Erica's hair while she moans quietly in pleasure. Anderson tries to keep himself in check as Erica leaves a trail of kisses on Campbell's neck. Where are her hands, anyway? He catches a glimpse of her arms in Campbell's blouse. Obviously Erica's trying to unclasp her bra.

Jesus, couldn't these two find an empty room and lock the damn door? This is seriously too much for him to handle.

Just as Anderson is about place one foot behind the other and tiptoe backwards, Erica opens her eyes. Without a doubt, she'd already notice him before he could make his getaway.

"Oh. Anderson."

It isn't a question as much as it is a statement. Anderson freezes and quickly focuses on a dusty plastic plant lying in the corner, although he finds it hard to keep his eyes away as Campbell gently pushes herself from Erica and smooths her blouse and trousers. Her lame attempt at trying to pretend as if nothing had happened almost makes Anderson smile in amusement.

He tries to clear his throat but due to his anxiety, he fails. In a raspy voice, he says, "Uh. I think I better, uh, leave. Um, sorry. I didn't mean to, uh, intrude."

"Well, you already have," Campbell interrupts loudly. Her attitude indicates that she might be a tad annoyed at him. Anderson doesn't reply and an uncomfortable silence settles around them.

"Okay then," begins Erica, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "So, um, Anderson. Are you going to leave anytime soon? Or are you thinking of joining us?"

He looks up, staring at her in shock. "Uh, Erica. I-I- Uh."

Campbell has an incredulous look on her face. She eyes both of them warily, wondering what Erica is up to and waiting anxiously for Anderson to refuse the offer and leave them alone.

"Oh, come on, Anderson! Why would you say no?" Erica asks playfully. He becomes a little uneasy when she saunters in his direction, smiling and teasing. A chunk of his mind is telling him to say "yes, yes, yes" but obviously this isn't just a yes or no situation.

"Don't lie to me," Erica accuses, "I've seen the way you've looked at us."

Okay, so maybe this really is a yes or no situation.

Erica continues on. "You don't know what you're missing."

"Uh."

"Oh, come on. Say yes!"

He notices Campbell scrutinizing him with her arms crossed, waiting impatiently. She looks as if she's ready to tear his throat out. Anderson thinks that her attitude seems promising for all the wrong reasons. It leaves him no choice.

"Um, yes?"

Jesus Christ. It's hard being a man sometimes.

This Isn't Your Mother's Gondola

2009-01-18T06:18:46Z

Title: This Isn't Your Mother's Gondola
Series: Planet in Peril
Pairing: Anderson Cooper/Jeff Corwin
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: Maybe a giant Amazon leech isn't the best way to break the ice.

What Anderson sees and hears is the Amazon rainforest with its stunning foliage and exotic sounds. He's quite curious when it comes to learning about this specific biome. Reading books helps foster his knowledge, but to Anderson, there isn't a better guide than Jeff Corwin. There aren't any boring moments as they trek through the humid rainforest, sweating like pigs in a sauna. With Jeff's lighthearted comments and playful disposition, Anderson barely gives a second thought to the mosquitoes buzzing around his face.

Well, almost.

Right now as they experience a sleepy boat ride through the jungle, Anderson sits calmly and absorbs the breathtaking wildlife. Jeff is behind him, paddling the wooden boat slowly and steadily.

"Hey, Anderson! Look what I found."

Jeff's voice snaps him out of his peaceful reverie. Before he can turn around, Jeff lifts the paddle and swings it in front of Anderson's face.

"Jesus!"

"Look, it's a giant leech!"

Well, sometimes Jeff isn't the best friend that Anderson makes him out to be.

Rahm Emanuel/Nancy Pelosi Picspam

2009-01-15T03:55:45Z

x-posted to rahmbamarama

"I just cannot get behind this pairing. She is just so terribly unfortunate looking, and looks more likely to be his mom than his fuck buddy."

- anonymous in fandomsecrets

"I don't often ship real people, especially when they're not in a relationship together, but are you high? She looks perfectly fine. If there's an imbalance in the "relationship" (wtf) it's because he's a fug-ass psycho who looks like the type of guy who goes to third world countries with lax child safety laws for some severely underaged poon."

- anonymous reply

"The meaning of Rahm Emanuel's first name, as he explained to a white-tie crowd of Washingtonians with tongue planted firmly in cheek not long ago: 'Go Screw Yourself.'"

"This, of course, was Emanuel's way of acknowledging in good humor his own reputation for a salty tongue and fiery demeanor in the heat of political battle."

"They say Emanuel is profane, nasty and always throwing his weight around, Cheney noted at that dinner - 'My opinion of the man? He's vice presidential material.'"

"When Emanuel addressed a dinner of the Gridiron Club early last year, speaking alongside Vice President Dick Cheney, he jokingly suggested that his own leadership role in the House of Speaker Nancy Pelosi, chairman of the Democratic caucus, isn't all that exalted. He called himself her 'valet.'"

"'Actually, Nancy gave me two very important tasks as soon as she became speaker,' Emanuel told the Gridiron on March 31, 2007. 'Sit down and shut up.'"

"For all of her success in consolidating power within the House, one man has eluded her grasp these past few years – and he’s about to be the second-most powerful man in the White House."

"Cozying up to Pelosi would be pointless, he quickly realized; she already had her favorites and knew too much about his ambition. Plus, it wasn’t exactly his style."

"If he wanted real power in the House, and if he wanted to establish a clear avenue to a leadership spot, Emanuel would have to go around Pelosi – something no one had succeeded in doing since she’d become the Democratic leader."

"Pelosi and Emanuel aren’t exactly enemies, but there’s not much trust between them and there’s plenty of reason for the speaker to be apprehensive about what he might do with his new power."

"After all, he’s the only Democrat in the House since she became the party’s leader to show the ability to outmaneuver Pelosi."

"It’s highly unusual for a first-termer to win a Ways and Means seat, but Emanuel, a onetime top aide to Bill Clinton who was backed behind the scenes by some of the party’s most influential national donors, was not a typical freshman. Still, Pelosi knew that giving him the slot as a freshman would anoint Emanuel as a member to watch, hastening his rise in the House. So he was told no."

"'I got pretty mad,' he said, working his script with the timing of a seasoned comedian. 'I said there is only one woman in my life who can order me around like that...

Hillary Clinton.'"

"Rahm is a little intense, he is strong, he is aggressive, he is emotional, he is moody and the Republicans have finally figured out one way to control him: they are going to start steroid testing members." - Barack Obama

Sources: Daylife, NY Observer, Chicago Tribune

When The Devil Makes A Deal

2009-01-12T04:02:01Z

Title: When The Devil Makes A Deal
Pairing: Rahm Emanuel/Hillary Clinton (if you squint hard enough)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: Hillary hatches a plan and she wants Rahm on her side. He isn't easily swayed, of course.
Author's Note: This is my first mafia!verse fic. (God, I love that 'verse, especially with Rahm Emanuel in it.)

"I... I have a proposal to make. I think it would be in your best interest to consider it," Hillary announces silently.

She stares at the windows behind the Chief of Staff's empty desk, trying to hold her composure as best as she can. At least the man standing behind her isn't coming any closer. She knows that she's in a bad position; she can't see him, therefore she can't judge his every move. With Rahm Emanuel standing behind you, who knows what could happen?

"Hillary," the President's Chief of Staff purrs in a tempting voice, "you know I always have a willing ear for you."

Lies. It's always lies. There are hardly any truths when you're dealing with people like him.

"Don't push me, Rahm," she warns. His footsteps are hardly audible on the plush rug, but despite his training as a ballet dancer she can easily detect his stealthy approach through the eerie silence.

"You're always so tense," he remarks as he finally reaches her. Laying a hand on her waist, he leans in to plant a small kiss on the side of her neck.

"Stop it right now." Hillary tries her best to sound threatening but Rahm refuses to listen. He reaches his hand into her suit jacket and wraps his fingers around the cold handle of a compact semi-automatic.

"You think you can hide this from me, don't you?" he hisses into her ear while grabbing the pistol, "You think I'm too stupid to realize that this is just a set-up?"

She frees herself from his grasp, turning around to retort angrily. "With you it's always lies and double crossing! Didn't you ever think that for once, I might be working on your side?"

"Now that's a very good question," he states with a casual smile as he flicks the safety lock on and off, "That's the kind of thing you should be asking."

"That gun is for our protection."

"I figured you'd say something like that to save your own ass." Rahm shrugs and stares at the semi-automatic in his hand. "Beautiful gun. I'd even venture to say that it's quite feminine. It's not the cheap kind, is it? Made in the USA?"

Hillary ignores this question. "Do you want to listen to my proposal or not?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening," he says as he views the pistol in his hand. He's feigning disinterest for her benefit. She might be more willing to let a few intimate details escape this way.

"You and me. We'll work together to throw him out of office."

He knew it. He'd known this all along. The only thing that surprises him is how long it has taken her to share her plans with somebody else.

She continues on, "I've worked out most of the details. All you have to do is say yes."

"Don't tell me, Hillary," Rahm begins to say, "You've actually convinced Joe already."

"It was that or the whole plan would be in shambles."

"Shambles? Who says that anymore?" he asks, laughing. It sounds hollow and tinged with underlying sarcasm.

"Pick your side, Rahm," she states flatly while she eyes her gun in his hand. He twirls it by the trigger guard, catches the handle, and keeps on doing it as if he's a pro.

Which he probably is.

"You need a lot more to convince me, you know. Your ultimatum isn't enough. This is treason we're talking about."

"Money."

The word makes him look at her automatically. His attention isn't focused on the pistol anymore. Money is always much more interesting.

"Yeah, I'm listening," he replies.

"You want money, right?" she begins, "Never mind. In your case, that's a rhetorical question," she adds.

"In a capitalistic world, one can never have enough money. You know I'm quite fond of that saying, Hillary. I always make sure you remember it. Of all the things, don't ever disappoint me by forgetting my favorite saying."

"So, are you in or not?"

"How much are we talking here?"

"It's undisclosed information. But I'll have you know that it's more money than you've ever earned in one year."

"I've earned quite a bit."

"Your attempt at modesty is beyond pathetic."

"Hillary," Rahm begins to say, "once you have this whole deal squared away with the other members of your little conspiracy, then you can come back here and sell me your best offer. I want to hear the exact amount and none of this bullshit."

"I knew you'd say that."

"Then why did you even schedule this meeting? It's pointless! You've wasted my precious time on a discussion that led to nowhere."

She looks at him and says, "Oh, I'm just testing the waters. That's all. I wanted to see if you could be persuaded to join me."

"Give me the money first and then we'll talk again. Until then, consider this meeting over," he states firmly as he reaches for the door to his office.

"This discussion never happened," she whispers harshly at the doorway while she pauses to scrutinize his facial expression. Rahm keeps his emotions in check so his face remains strangely neutral.

When she's already out in the hallway, Rahm remembers one important detail and calls after her.

"Madam Secretary! I think you left something here."

She stops. Turning around, she expects him to wave the gun in the air as if it was an important document that needed signing. But of course, what she only sees is his hand hidden in a pocket of his suit jacket and an icy smile on his bemused face. He waves at her with his right hand; his stub of a middle finger is a grim reminder that Rahm Emanuel isn't an easy man to deal with.

Two's Company

2009-01-07T13:14:31Z

Title: Two's Company
Pairing: Anderson Cooper/Reza Aslan
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: "Allah curses the one who does the actions of the people of Lot."
Word Count: 100

Lying in bed, Reza stares at the ceiling while lost in his musings. It is only when Anderson starts to trace his finger softly on Reza's collarbone that his mind snaps to the present moment.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

Reza casts his eyes briefly at Anderson, a small, almost forlorn smile on his face.

"That's a clichéd saying if there ever was one. But in all seriousness, I think you know exactly what I'm thinking."

"Hell? God? Religion?"

"You know me too well, Anderson."

"Two's company. When you go to hell, I'd be glad to accompany you."

Anderson winks.

Anderson's Folly

2008-12-27T04:58:56Z

Title: Anderson's Folly
Series: AC360
Pairing: Anderson Cooper/Erica Hill
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: Anderson and Erica's love for inside jokes aren't blatant enough for their audiences to understand, but their flirting is another thing entirely.
Author's Note: This fic is a result of this short clip.

It's those smiles, that knowing laughter, and an inside joke or two that really gets to him. When she mentions a subtle reference to their relationship—on air, no doubt—he feels a sort of voyeuristic pleasure at having millions of people tune in their flirty exchanges and inside jokes.

Maybe those anonymous viewers aren't so dimwitted after all. Anderson bets a million dollars that they're able to catch his double entendres faster than Erica can. As if those aren't enough, once in a while the cameramen even gives them odd looks while they're taping. Their facial expressions can range from slight disbelief to muffled laughter. They're easily amused, those cameramen. (And quite nosy too.)

Every time Erica laughs, Anderson realizes that he can be quite the charmer. Just look at her. That laughter definitely isn't faked for the camera. Sure, Erica might deny the effect he has on her but her reactions have been recorded on tape far too many times. She'll never come up with a defense strong enough to prove her innocence. Anderson is well aware of this, of course.

So when she shows their viewers how a Pottery Barn Kids catalog has products (such as diaper bags, blankets, etc.) with both of their names coincidentally engraved on the items, and he asks if her husband was a little nervous—a little jealous, maybe?—when he saw their names together, she replies with, "No. I mean I hope you don't take that the wrong way. But you know, he's confident."

He easily states that Erica's husband has absolutely nothing to be nervous about. He delivers this affirmation with such confidence that it makes Erica laugh. And then she laughs again when she finally catches on to his meaning, because both of them know that her husband has everything to worry about.

Even if she isn't forced into admitting the truth, Erica will still agree with Anderson's statement. After all, the two are quite fond of inside jokes.

Scoring One Past the Goalkeeper

2008-12-16T13:44:15Z

Title: Scoring One Past the Goalkeeper
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Michael Ballack/Iker Casillas
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: After the initial satisfaction of having won the European Championship wears off, Iker finds himself in an odd situation.
Author's Note: That whole yellow card thing during the Germany vs. Spain match pretty much did it for me.

Maybe Iker really doesn't know what he's doing. After all, he's lying on his hands and knees in a dingy room somewhere in Austria or Switzerland. Hell, he's already forgotten which country he's in. What's the difference, anyway? They're both the same to him.

All he sees is the dark wall in front of him. There's a pillow underneath him somewhere. He can feel the rough blankets tangled around his legs. Maybe it isn't so bad after all. From his position, he can hardly see the German behind him, panting and groaning for the man's own selfish pleasure.

When Iker buries his head in the mattress, he sees absolutely nothing. Maybe that's a good thing, he thinks, because he really doesn't know what he's doing in bed with his supposed enemy.

He knows he deserves much more than a red card for this. (Oh, definitely. For sure. There's no doubt about it.) Because, well, everything else is going straight to the dogs.

And I'll Run You Through

2008-12-15T22:30:05Z

Title: And I'll Run You Through
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Michael Ballack/Torsten Frings
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: Because of his recent criticisms against Joachim Loew, Micha unleashes his anger on Torsten, the man who has always stood by his side.

Micha shoves himself into Torsten for the first time in god knows how long. His lovemaking is rough tonight, and Torsten lets out a pained hiss as Micha pushes deeper inside. Micha doesn't give any forewarnings. He hardly says anything except for an unintentional grunt here and there.

Torsten knows that a lot has been troubling Micha lately, one of which includes his pre-planned apology to Coach Loew due to his outspoken criticisms against Loew's actions. The apology is only an opportunity for the media and the public (and for their coach's ego and gratification; Torsten wouldn't put it past the man) but since Micha will be in Germany for the time being, then why not schedule a visit anyway? You can kill two birds with one stone, Torsten adds. Micha willingly agrees because after all, how many times has Torsten faithfully defended his actions without question?

Their lovemaking is turning violent as Micha's nails scratch and grope at his lover's shoulders. Torsten figures that his winces are probably inaudible. Micha doesn't stop. He digs his fingernails into Torsten's hips while he leans closely against Torsten's back, kissing the great expanse of skin. His hurried kisses suddenly turn into sharp, unforgiving bites. Micha wants something vulnerable tonight; he wants something easy to control as he tries to empty his mind of any stressful thoughts. His forced apology by Joachim Loew is humiliating for someone in his position. Micha's anger has been well controlled up to this point.

The captain of Germany doesn't participate in underhanded deals but Coach Loew is one for such arrangements. Thinking of this makes him frustrated, and who else is there for Micha to silently release his anger on?

Torsten always stands by his side. He never complains either.

Micha decides to think about the consequences later.

The Simple Art of Breathing

2008-12-07T05:32:14Z

Title: The Simple Art of Breathing
Rating: PG
Pairing: Bella Swan/Carlisle Cullen
Disclaimer: Fiction. I own nothing.
Summary: Two clandestine lovers share a single kiss.
Author's Note: This is my first Twilight fanfic. It's quite short, but I think the message is conveyed despite its length. Written in 2nd person.

Breathing.

It is, by no means, a difficult act to achieve when someone so handsome—so perfect—is within a hair's breadth from your skin. Your breathing is disjointed; it interrupts simple words that try to form in your mouth. Your sentences lack the syntax that makes up the rules of grammar.

And then you feel foolish for even attempting to say hello.

But he greets you first, and you thank whatever's above that your vocal cords can even manage to say, "Hi, Dr. Cullen."

This is where it begins. This will lead to the pinnacle of your relationship, but yet you doubt yourself. How can a flawless being, like the man standing before you, love a young and foolish girl? You blame yourself for your social ineptitude, not to mention your deficiency when it comes to the archetype of a graceful and polite female.

Before your mouth can stumble over an excuse, he makes contact with your skin. An involuntary shiver runs down the length of your spine; it makes your hair stand. You freeze and catch your breath.

His cold lips touch your own.

Quietly, you accept what has occurred even though your mind is running at the speed of light. No thoughts compute. Your head is refusing to believe what is evident right before your eyes. Akin to a puppet, you tilt your head just slightly as he holds you like a fragile lamb.

And like his illicit lover you return his kiss with one of your own.

Five Drabbles Concerning The Exploits of Bastian Schweinsteiger and Lukas Podolski

2008-12-02T04:10:01Z

Title: Five Drabbles Concerning The Exploits of Bastian Schweinsteiger and Lukas Podolski
Rating: PG
Pairing: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Lukas Podolski
Disclaimer: Fiction
Summary: Boys and their idiocy...
Author's Note: This is my foray into football rps. Hope you like it!

Bastian Schweinsteiger Was Never Subtle

Lukas did not want a sweaty, all-too-excited Bastian Schweinsteiger jumping onto his back like a spider monkey high on cocaine. But that is exactly what transpires after he scores Germany's first goal against Russia. He had thought that they weren't on speaking terms after Bastian ignored him for his "the Schweinski was never a marriage" statement all those months ago.

But maybe he was wrong, Lukas thinks to himself as Bastian yells, "Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah!" into his right ear at 110 decibels. Or maybe it was the moment calling for Bastian's impulsive behavior.

Not like he's complaining.

Bastian and Lukas Become Germany's Most Patriotic Citizens

Michael is irritated by Bastian and Lukas's silent argument so he decides that humiliation is the key to their reconciliation. Just like their first day on the team, he forces the two boys to march around the pitch (naked, nonetheless) and sing Deutsche Nationalhymne at the top of their lungs. The entire team finds this amusing, and even Jogi cracks a smile.

But Michael forgets that Bastian and Lukas are just teenagers playing adults, so what starts out as a punishment becomes something extremely silly. Michael hears their laughter and mock-singing penetrate through the chilly air.

Well, it worked.

Lukas Speaks Polish, Thereby Causing Frustration For Bastian (But Bastian Takes Advantage of It, Anyway)

Bastian sees Lukas and Miro huddled together, conversing in a language that he has tried to learn but he swears he can never understand. It's hopeless when Lukas tries to teach him some conversational Polish during their stolen moments together. He can't even say, "Hi, I'm Bastian Schweinsteiger. How are you?" after twenty-one unsuccessful tries. Consecutively.

So when he sees them laughing, he feels the need to march up to Miro and utilize the only Polish phrase that he knows perfectly.

Because he can always blame Lukas for telling him that *chuj ci w dupe meant "Awesome goal yesterday."

*Fuck you

Jogi Sees All. No, really.

Jogi has an iron fist when it comes to coaching his team. His roving eyes always sees everything, from Klose's quiet determination to Ballack's defiant behavior.

And then there's Podolski and Schweinsteiger.

Lukas and Bastian sometimes wander off into their own little world during practices. He sees them joking around as if they're invisible to the team. Knowing those two, Jogi keeps an even closer eye on them when he instructs other players.

One day his eyes start to wander away. The next thing he knows they're unleashing a well thought out prank on an innocent victim.

Poor Philipp Lahm...

The Robot Theory

Bastian comes up with ridiculous ideas every second, so when he tries to explain to Lukas about his robot theory Lukas is hardly paying attention. (Because who actually pays attention to Bastian Schweinsteiger?) But Bastian is persistent (and maybe a little obsessive) so Lukas decides to respond when he explains it for the third time.

"Jogi isn't really a human being," Bastian begins to say excitedly, "He's actually a robot who's planning to make us his slaves!"

Then Bastian convinces Lukas to yell out, "Hail Jogi, our robot overlord!"

Lukas doesn't even know why he agrees to this idiotic idea.

Five Occasions In Which Sasha Artemev Annoys Nastia Liukin

2008-10-22T01:42:11Z

Title: Five Occasions In Which Sasha Artemev Annoys Nastia Liukin
Pairing: Artemev/Liukin
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fiction
Author's Note: x-posted to olympichet

I.

There are countless things that annoy Nastia Liukin, and phone calls in the middle of the night happens to be one of them.

"Breaking news, milady," says the familiar voice on the other end of the line, "Dinner at my place tonight."

"And why in the world does this information require a call at one in the goddamn morning?"

"Hmm, well... Now that's a very good question, Ms. Liukin," he says calmly without any semblance of sympathy, "You know, I have absolutely no idea."

"Good night then!"

She's about to throw her phone across the room before he offers an insinuating, and tempting, reply.

"You wanna see where Briana sleeps?"

II.

One day, while the U.S. Men's and Women's Gymnastics Teams are training for the tour, Sasha randomly walks up to Nastia, pausing to stand a few feet away and watch her perform her routine on the balance beam. He doesn't say anything for a while as the music to her routine plays in the background, but right after she accidentally slips off the beam, he decides that this is the perfect moment to speak up.

"Hey, Nastia! I love to see your performances on the balance beam. Especially ones that can earn you a silver medal at the Olympics."

In a blinding flash, and Sasha can faithfully swear on his mother's proverbial grave, he feels a forceful punch making solid contact with his gut. Instinct tells him to bend over and clutch his stomach in agony, and it isn't long before his arm is the subject of assault by unrelenting jabs and uppercuts.

III.

"Hey, Nas," comes the soft and tired voice of a certain Belarusian gymnast as he approaches her.

She looks up automatically and quickly disregards whatever she was doing. Clearly Sasha is more important right now. The bags under his eyes are evident, and he doesn't seem to have that certain spring in his step anymore. His eyes are half-closed. Whether this is from a lack or sleep or something else, well, truthfully Nastia doesn't have a clue.

What happened to the Sasha Artemev she knew?

Wait a minute.

His hands are behind his back. He's walking awkwardly. She swears that she can see a strip of pink ribbon dangling right behind him.

He's definitely hiding something.

"What is it now?" she tries her best to sound nonchalant, but of course her heart is beating insanely. She's likely to suffer from an anxiety attack at this rate.

Just as she's about to prepare herself mentally for a major disappointment, Sasha jumps in front of her and thrusts a bouquet of pink roses into her face.

He literally shoves them into her face, and keeps shoving them in front of her as he shouts an earsplitting "Happy Birthday, Nas!"

IV.

There is one thing she hates more than rap music. And that particular thing happens to be poseurs, including a certain white boy who likes to play dress up and pretend that he's a gangsta.

And yes, that's gangsta with an "a" at the end.

"Sasha, you're not a gangsta. Please, just- Stop. I mean it," she says one night when they're alone, "I know you guys pretend to be all gangsta for the opening of the tour performance, but the whole thing's already over and done with. Can you just- Oh, I don't know -drop the gangsta act? It's not very becoming, seriously."

"Baby girl, am I too hood for you?" is all he asks with a cheeky smile, his shirt unbuttoned, and his jeans sagging. He throws gangsta signs with his hands for an added effect.

V.

"You might think that this is really, really weird, but my dad said that he doesn't mind it if you ask me out," Nastia says nervously as she fidgets with the tight sleeve of her leotard. She's been pulling it and stretching it for god knows how long.

Standing beside Sasha Artemev before they're about to perform for the tour is the definition of nerve-wracking.

"Well, that's... interesting."

And that's the extent of his reply before he turns to the rest of the U.S. Men's Gymnastics Team and continues to joke around.

Nastia hates it when he ignores her, but she's used to it.

That happens all too often.

Like Two Soviet Russian Bombs Colliding At Constant Velocity

2008-10-13T20:09:30Z

Title: Like Two Soviet Russian Bombs Colliding At Constant Velocity
Pairing: Alexander Artemev/Nastia Liukin
Rating: R
Summary: They have no idea what they're doing, and that makes it twice as thrilling and three times as risky.
Disclaimer: Fake. Not real. Don't sue.
Author's Note: x-posted to olympichet

He has her body shoved against the pommel horse with his hands tangled in her hair and his mouth mashed against her lips without any semblance or thought of dignity or courtesy. Now his right hand starts to linger on the crook of her back, while his left hand's ready to tear her T-shirt off. There are definitely no hints of ceremony. She moans beneath his body, and he swears that she wants this as much as he does. Her sharp nails graze against his bare shoulders, and it pinches his skin as his hand find its way beneath her bra. He grinds his lower half against her. The moment is calling for it. His actions elicit a slight gasp from her lips, and he grunts as she reciprocates by the undulations of her body.

At exactly 6 am, when the lights suddenly turn on at 5280 Gymnastics, he jumps with a start and quickly backs a foot away. His heart is beating like a train wreck has just occurred before he realizes that the lights are on an automatic timer. Thank god that no one is walking through the doors right now. They've lost track of time ages ago, how should he have known?

"You think your dad will be here this early?"

"What?"

"Nastia, is your dad even awake yet?"

"Look, Artemev. If this situation isn't already as compromising as it is-"

"Get on the horse. We can finish this off with something special."

"Hell no! I'm not a whore. Or your plaything either."

Nastia Liukin stands her ground, the angry blaze in her eyes emulating her stubborn personality. Sasha Artemev notices the way she places her hands on her hips. They're curled into fists, and he can easily see that she must be extremely angry or else she wouldn't be baring her teeth at him like a tigress protecting her cubs. Of all the times that he's watched her during the women's artistic gymnastics competitions at Beijing and elsewhere, he's never seen her this furious before.

"Stop being so bitchy, Nasti."

"It's Miss Liukin, for your information. And what the hell is wrong with you, anyway? This is your daddy's gym and we're supposed to be your guests. He said I could come in here this morning without any interruptions. And frankly, you're being an interruption."

"Shut up. Please?"

"What did you say?"

Sasha mutters under his breath, "I said 'please.' Are you gonna gloat over me now because I'm polite for once?"

"Sasha, my dad's at your place. He's still asleep, I think."

Nastia says this in such a quiet voice that he doesn't even catch it at first. He knits his eyebrows in confusion and stares quite blatantly at her. Maybe it isn't so much that her attitude has spun 180 degrees but that she's dressed in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a flimsy, lace underwear and matching bra underneath.

"Quit looking at me with those eyes!" she snaps. "It's like you're staring into my soul and I don't like it at all."

"I'm sorry then, Ms. High and Mighty," Sasha quips. His face narrows into an angry stare.

"Artemev, let's stop fighting."

Sasha shrugs and mumbles, "Whatever," as he starts to pull himself up onto the pommel horse. Extending his hand to Nastia, he waits for her to grab ahold of it before pulling her up beside him.

They're sitting on the pommel horse now, two perfect gymnast offsprings of parents from Soviet Russia. Nastia tilts her head slightly to study the sharp cheekbones of the man seated beside her. In a hushed timbre she articulates the name, "Artemev" into his ear.

"What?" He turns to look at her.

"Shut up, Alexander. You never appreciate the subtle things I do for you," she says this with a pained frown on her face. She tries to keep her voice at a steady level, but the damage has already been done. Her voice cracks on the last word.

"We're not a couple in the first place. When did you start to think that?"

"Then I'm glad that I haven't slept with you yet. Asshole."

"God, would you please just shut up?"

"Fuck you."

Sasha sighs heavily, his shoulders rising and falling in such a dramatic gesture that it makes Nastia laugh in scrutiny.

"And would you please just call me 'Sasha'? I'm getting sick of all your 'Artemevs' and 'Alexanders'. It's Sasha, plain and simple."

"When I'm fucking you, I'll still call you Alexander Artemev. If that ever happens, that is."

"We need to consummate this obviously arranged marriage situation," Sasha states in an apathetic tone. "Our fathers would love it if I proposed to you at dinner tonight. And if you say yes, they'd probably explode like two Soviet Russian bombs or whatever stupid metaphor that I can't think of right now."

"I'd rather go to hell than-"

"-marry me? Sleep with me? Yeah, yeah. I've heard that spiel before. Your rebuttals are getting so old, Nas."

"I told you to call me 'Ms Liukin.'"

By now Sasha is already sick of her negativity. To quieten her, he grabs her hand and cups his fingers against her soft cheek, quickly kissing her fiercely before she could show any signs of protesting. Nastia is the one who pulls away after a few seconds. She takes a while to catch her breath, and this time around, she doesn't care whether he's staring at her with those large, soul-searching eyes of his.

A breathless whisper escapes her lips, "What are we doing, Sasha?"

He reaches for her hand, squeezes it, plays with her fingers, anything while he tries his best to think of a concise answer.

"I have absolutely no idea, Nas," he finally says quietly.

They have a silent moment to themselves. The hum of the artificial lights in the gym cut through their thoughts like an ever-present insect. It isn't long before Nastia speaks her mind.

"Your fiancé's coming for dinner, right?" she asks with a neutral expression on her face. Sasha's trying his best to read her, but he's never been the best at it. Especially with Nastia.

"Yeah, you finally get to meet Brianna. You guys are going to be such great friends," he utters sarcastically.

Snorting with derisive laughter, Nastia shoots back, "I'm oh so excited then!"

"Just don't mention the fact that one of her favorite gymnastics idols is sleeping with her fiancé."

"Not quite. However much you want it."

As the thought of sex with Nastia Liukin hits him, Sasha perks up and surveys the room, taking note of the lack of cameras on the walls and ceiling of the gym. Well, they could theoretically-

"Not gonna happen, buddy," Nastia cuts through his thoughts before he could even formulate his question.

"Stop being so virginal, Ave Maria."

Sasha winks at her, hinting at the Tour of Gymnastics Superstars reference. Whenever he sees Nastia performing her routine to Ave Maria, in a solid white leotard nonetheless, he always snickers and sneers at their shared inside joke. It's all done in great fun, of course.

"Oh hell. Shut it, Artemev," comes her tired response. She heaves a sigh and pushes herself off the pommel horse.

Sasha doesn't make a move to stop her, nor does he call out her name as she reaches the door to the women's locker room. He sits placidly on the pommel horse, watching the slight curve of her bottom peeking through her oversized T-shirt.

"You coming?" Nastia shouts over her shoulder as she pauses in front of the door. Twisting her head around, she eyes him with feigned disinterest as he takes his sweet time to make up his mind.

When Nastia finally sees the knowing smile curling on the edges of his lips, she already knows what his answer will be. Without a second glance, Nastia Liukin walks into the women's locker room, letting the door swing shut behind her. Her arms are pulling her T-shirt over her head before she absentmindedly discards it on the floor.

She doesn't turn around as she hears the door swing open for a second time.

You're So Vain

2008-10-07T01:24:29Z

Title: You're So Vain
Pairing: Fabian Hambuechen/Jonathan Horton
Rating: PG-13 (for language and mature situations)
Disclaimer: Don't know these people, don't own them, borrowed for the sake of fiction. (x-posted to olympic_slash)

It is only after he leaves Beijing that Jonathan realizes what he will really miss about his first Olympics. The gut-wrenching feeling of heartbreak tightens his chest during the flight to America. It forces him to gasp for air. Breathing is hard and it is nothing he has ever felt so strongly before, even while performing his death-defying high bar routine. Was the silver medal of the utmost concern when he will never see Fabian again until their next gymnastics meet months from this very day?

The question isn't a hard one; the answer hisses angrily in his ears.

Jonathan knows the exact reason why Fabian Hambuechen had missed the bar and fallen during team finals. That error wasn't due to miscalculations nor a second's hesitation of hand-eye coordination. Their close proximity had affected the German throughout the entire competition, and Jonathan knows this subconsciously.

He was feeling the same way.

He clearly remembers confronting Fabian afterward, but Fabian only shakes his head, denies it, suggests they go to his room to celebrate Jon's bronze medal; they're all just pathetic excuses. Fabian doesn't want to talk about it with Jon, of all people, much less anyone. It's the fucking team finals and he had blown Germany's chances of medaling.

At night, Fabian finds it hard to tear his eyes away from the medal that lies silently on Jon's nightstand, with its scarlet ribbon and intricate designs of lighter toned swirls. The ribbon dangles off the edge. It taunts him and mocks him while they're making love in the darkness.

Jon doesn't notice this, of course.

While Jon gasps and moans at the climax of his pleasure, Fabian reaches out and pushes the medal off the nightstand without caution or a second thought. It falls with a muffled thump onto the carpeted floor, out of sight from his scrutinizing gaze.

Jon doesn't notice this either.

Why So Serious, Sasha Artemev?

2008-10-01T15:04:30Z

Title: Why So Serious, Sasha Artemev?
Pairing: Sasha Artemev/Justin Spring
Rating: PG (contains some swearing)
Summary: Sasha Artemev reflects on his thoughts during the first few days of the Olympics, and pines for a certain red-headed gymnast in the process.
Disclaimer: Don't know these people, don't claim to know them. It's pure fiction.
Author's Note: x-posted to olympic_slash

Part 2: "God, you're amazing on the pommel horse, Sasha."

It's three o'clock in the morning and Sasha swears he can't go to sleep at all. He tosses and turns every which way, staring at the objects in the room. His eyes are so accustomed to the dark that he could probably walk around without bumping into anything. He pauses for a while, and listens to the whir of the the air-conditioning before turning to his other side. He sees Raj, the other alternate on the U.S. Men's Gymnastics Team, sleeping like a baby in his own bed and snoring to high heaven. Grumbling, Sasha turns to look at the alarm clock in between their beds. The red LED numbers read 3:05.

"Godammit!"

It only adds to his frustration. The last time he checked the clock was about an hour ago. Why is it such a pain in the ass just to go to sleep tonight? God, he'd rather be stuck in an elevator with Jon and Justin if sleep would come to him sooner. Well, maybe not. That just might be too drastic of an act.

Sighing loudly in irritation, Sasha rolls himself to the edge of his bed and swings his legs over the side. Sitting up, he stretches his arms and yawns. When he stands, he tries to rub the sleep from his eyes before heading for his suitcase to grab a pair of shorts and a polo. Sasha rummages through his clothes, pushing away folded boxer briefs and socks. Finally finding what he's been looking for, he takes a sniff of his clothes before slipping them on. It might be three in the morning, but if he happened to run into someone while walking around outside, at least he wouldn't be judged for wearing dirty, smelly clothes. Olympians can be so judgmental of each other.

Grabbing his key card and ID from the desk, Sasha heads to the door and quietly sneaks into the hallway. He makes sure that he doesn't wake Raj up, or else he'd be in for one hell of a scolding. When Sasha's finally by himself, he wonders what an Olympian would do at three in the morning in Beijing. He isn't really planning anything exciting for tonight. It's three in the goddamn morning for pete's sake, and team finals are only in a couple of days. It's not like he can just go clubbing and get drunk on a whim. The situation is much more different than it would be if he were back at home in the States.

As Sasha walks outside in the darkness, it suddenly hits him. He doesn't really want to get out of the Olympic Village tonight, so why not hang out here? He feels as if he has an unhealthy obsession with gymnastics, because the first thing that pops into his mind is the gymnastics training center a few blocks away. Never mind the clubbing or drinking. Why not get on a pommel horse and do a routine or two just for the heck of it? After the workout, maybe he'd be tired enough to fall asleep. It's three in the morning and that's the only viable activity that he can think of. Thank god for this idea.

Sasha jams his hands into his pockets and walks at a brisk pace, determined to reach the training center in a short time. He's looking around the Olympic Village at all of the apartments towering above him, and wonders which athletes are rooming in which apartment complex. The Olympic Village is pretty huge, and everything the Chinese have done to prepare for the 2008 Olympics have astounded him. Looking up at the sky, he realizes that it's almost impossible to see the moon because of the thick smog enveloping the city. He's been thinking about how cool this place is that he almost forgets about the pollution. Oh yeah.

When Sasha finally reaches the training center, he pauses at the door and scrambles for his ID card in his pockets. There are no signs that indicate when the place is opened or closed, so he's assuming that athletes are free to come and go as they please. Sliding his ID card against the sensor, he sees a tiny green light blink and a lock starts to unbolt. He opens the door and casually walks inside. The gymnastics apparatus are right through another set of doors and that's where he heads for.

Seeing the pommel horse in the corner, Sasha immediately walks over there and starts to stretch. He places his leg on top of the apparatus and stretches his muscles for ten seconds at a time. After a few more stretches, he starts to take his shoes off and swing himself onto the pommel horse. Now's not the time for fancy moves and perfect scores, he's just doing this for fun so he can relax his mind a bit.

Swinging his legs back and forth across the pommel horse, he's starting to get the hang of things. He has a good routine going on now and before he knows it, more than twenty minutes have passed. He's still performing on the apparatus when he sees someone sneak through the doors on the other side of the room. Through the blur of his spins and twists, he swears that he can recognize that person. After all, who else has bright orange hair and walks with that very distinct gait? It's Justin Spring, of course.

"Whatcha doing here?" Sasha asks out loud. He's trying not to breathe too quickly, but it's not working. Being on the pommel horse while Justin Spring is walking towards him is making his breathing feel much more constricted. A few seconds are going by without Justin saying a word, so Sasha tries to ignore the fluttering feeling in his chest before he loses too much of his concentration.

Sasha sees that Justin's right there in front of him now and it's not helping him with his routine at all. He pretends to concentrate on the pommel horse instead, but that orange hair of Justin's is making him lose his focus. This is getting a little absurd so Sasha tries to land a dismount. Doing a handstand on the pommel horse, he flips over and lands neatly on the mat.

"That's a perfect landing right there," Justin comments softly. He looks at Sasha and gives him a small smile.

"I'm surprised I didn't slip and fall or something, " Sasha mumbles to himself. He knows the reason why he's saying this. His heart's starting to beat rapidly, and it isn't from completing a routine on the pommel horse.

"Why would you fall?" Justin begins to say, "God, you're amazing on the pommel horse, Sasha," he adds silently. He's looking at Sasha with a serious look on his face and it's making Sasha feel uncomfortable. Sasha chews on his lip and looks away.

"Well, I'm not too bad, " he says, shrugging nonchalantly. "I mean, I'm okay if that's what you mean."

"You're too modest, you know that? When I say that you're amazing on the pommel horse, I really, truly mean it."

"Uh, thanks, Justin," Sasha says. He can feel his cheeks burning and he feels so embarrassed for being complimented in a blunt manner.

For some reason, Justin's stepping closer to Sasha now. It causes Sasha to automatically back away. He has nowhere to go without looking as if he's trying to avoid Justin, so Sasha climbs on the pommel horse and sits there, straddling the apparatus between his legs.

"Hey, you know what that reminds me of?" Justin begins to say as he nods at Sasha who's just sitting quietly on the pommel horse.

"Hmm?"

"History of Men's Artistic Gymnastics 101."

Justin grins and it's contagious. Soon enough, Sasha's smiling too.

"A long time ago, soldiers used the pommel horse to practice mounting and dismounting," Justin continues on. He nods at the apparatus and begins to lean on it. He runs his hands over its smooth surface and turns his head up to look at Sasha.

"I knew that. I think every gymnast does. Who becomes a world class gymnast without knowing the history of gymnastics?"

"I was just saying," says Justin with a shrug. Sasha watches him closely as he starts to lift himself onto the pommel horse. Justin's sitting atop the pommel horse too and now they're staring at each other without speaking a word. Of course Sasha looks away quickly enough before he could feel too embarrassed for staring at Justin for too long.

"Hey, Sash," Justin begins to say, "During breakfast, when you were just sitting there being all quiet and stuff-"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"You all right, Sash? If you have something on your mind, you can just tell me, you know."

Sasha just shrugs his shoulders carelessly.

"And when I said that you're amazing on the pommel horse, it's true, you know. I'm absolutely positive that you'll medal in individuals. I'm dead serious."

"Yeah, thanks," Sasha mumbles politely. He glances at Justin, who's not smiling anymore. Instead, he looks quite serious.

"Well," Sasha starts to explain, "you know my father, right?"

"Yeah, of course. He's... okay, I guess."

"Even my father doesn't think I'm good enough to medal," Sasha lets the statement drop into the air.

As soon as it's out, he feels as if a dead weight has lifted from his shoulders. His father, Vladimir Artemev, was a world class gymnast who competed for Soviet Russia. The man really was a stereotypical father who was too strict on his son and expected him to perform at the highest level, at any given time. Having Vladimir Artemev as your coach definitely didn't make things any easier at all. Sasha's had to deal with this all of his life and now he's finally able to tell someone about it. And that someone happens to be Justin. It feels good for a change.

"Wait. What?" Just looks incredulous. It's as if he doesn't believe what Sasha's saying.

"My father. He doesn't believe that I can get a medal. He says I'm good, but he always says that I'm never good enough."

"Jesus Christ, Sasha. I'm sorry," Justin's saying this and trying to reassure him, Sasha knows that. But Justin's brand of reassurance includes rubbing Sasha's hand in comfort. He definitely wasn't ready for that. Sasha pulls his hand away in instinct and immediately feels abashed for doing so.

"Sasha-"

"What?"

Justin reaches for Sasha's hand again, and this time, Sasha's trying his best not to pull it away. He feels quite uncomfortable. He's been wanting this moment to happen for months now and the best he could do is react negatively to it? Sasha quickly decides that this romantic stuff isn't as easy as it seems. As he watches Justin slip his fingers slowly through his own, he's very aware of how cold and clammy his hands have grown to become ever since Justin stepped into the room. He definitely knows that Justin's aware of this fact and it makes him feel so awkward. Now Justin's trying to place one hand on Sasha's cheek while staring deep into his eyes. Sasha blinks once, twice, but Justin never looks away. The moment feels so surreal that Sasha swears he's fallen asleep a while ago and this is all just a dream.

"Don't move," Justin orders quietly. Sasha obeys and sits there, watching closely as Justin cups the contour of his cheek. He can feel Justin's fingers as they trace the sharp line of his jaw, and it sends chills down his spine. Shivering, he clasps Justin's hand tighter. Then Justin moves his face closer until he's only about a hand's width away from Sasha's face.

"Now close your eyes."

Sasha does as he's told. Soon enough, he can feel Justin's lips on his own. Kissing feels like a natural instinct, and Justin definitely doesn't need to tell him what to do now.

Why So Serious, Sasha Artemev?

2008-09-30T12:44:01Z

Title: Why So Serious, Sasha Artemev?
Pairing: Sasha Artemev/Justin Spring
Rating: PG (contains some swearing)
Summary: Sasha Artemev reflects on his thoughts during the first few days of the Olympics, and pines for a certain red-headed gymnast in the process.
Disclaimer: Don't know these people, don't claim to know them. It's pure fiction.
Author's Note: x-posted to olympic_slash

Part 1: "This is like, 'The Breakfast of Champions' or some shit!"

Sasha stares at the bowl of Wheaties on the table, using his plastic spoon to swirl the cereal around in the milk. He'd specifically requested skim milk, but apparently the Chinese had no idea what he was trying to say. And apparently they didn't have any skim milk in China or something. He had looked around the cafeteria and the only type of milk they provided tasted like whole milk. Not his favorite at all.

Just as he's ready to swirl the cereal around his bowl for what seemed like the millionth time, he hears the doors to the cafeteria opening. Two familiar voices are drifting over to his corner of the room, and he looks up to confirm who they are. Jon's grinning like there's no tomorrow, while Justin's laughing his head off. It causes everyone else in the cafeteria to stop talking and glance at the two American gymnasts for a few seconds, but after they realize that it isn't anything too important, they're back to their conversations and whatever else they happened to be doing before Jon and Justin interrupted the already noisy atmosphere.

Sasha watches those two with curiosity and a hint of jealousy in his eyes. To be truthful, he's more than a little envious of Jon for being so close to Justin. Those two have grown to be friends in only a few weeks, and Sasha doesn't have anyone in the team that he's really able to turn to. Sure, they're all pals and chums, but Jon and Justin seem to be best friends or something like that. Of course he wishes that it's him and Justin instead. He's had his eye on the red-headed gymnast since the Olympic trials back in the beginning of the summer. But ever since then, he's been too scared to make a move. Look what happened because of that. Now Jon and Justin are such close buddies that it becomes annoying to even look at them for too long.

As he watches them fool around with the Chinese volunteers serving the breakfast, he thinks back to the day when they were all on the plane to Beijing. That was only about a few days ago, but it seemed like a long time to him. Jon and Justin weren't exactly close friends then. Sasha had sat across the aisle from those two, and after take-off, for some reason, one of them sparked an argument with the other about God and religion. Justin happened to be an atheist, and Sasha figured that seeing Jon praying before the plane was leaving the runway didn't suit well with Justin. Maybe Justin was snickering at Jon's religious devotion, because suddenly Jon started to hiss, "Shut up!" under his breath. Sasha still doesn't know how that situation turned them into such close friends.

Secretly, Sasha was glad that he didn't have that kind of problem as he watched them fight from the corner of his eye. He wasn't religious, nor was he irreligious. Nobody really knew what his views on religion were, and he was hoping to keep it that way lest he got into some kind of heated debate with one of his teammates, especially with either Jon or Justin. Which isn't really a good way to start out your Olympics.

Spooning some cereal into his mouth while keeping an eye on those two, Sasha almost misses his mark and the milk starts to dribble down his chin. Right at that moment, Justin turns his head around and notices Sasha sitting in the corner. This causes Sasha to scramble for the napkin on his lap, quickly wiping the mess off his face. He hopes Justin isn't relaying his faux pas to Jon; they both seem to be conferring with each other now before turning to look at Sasha and giving him smiles and waves in greeting.

"Oh Christ, " Sasha mumbles under his breath. He keeps wiping his mouth and chin obsessively, hoping to wipe all traces of the milk. He really doesn't want Justin to see him like this, and judge him as if he were a four year old eating cereal while making a sloppy mess of things. It's really embarrassing, as if that isn't obvious enough.

When Sasha's finally putting the napkin away, he sees two shadows on the shiny surface of the table. The winsome twosome are seating themselves down across from him, clattering their plastic trays on the table and scraping the chairs back across the floor. Sasha feels a little self-conscious because Jon and Justin are making such a commotion. Is it really necessary to make so much noise? They haven't even start to eat their breakfast yet and they're already the focus of attention in the room. Sasha notices the French men's gymnastics team giving them the eye.

"Hey, Sash! 'Sup, buddy?" comes the sound of Jon's voice as he tries to make himself comfortable. He's still scraping the chair against the floor noisily and it makes Sasha roll his eyes in annoyance.

Sasha turns his attention to Justin instead. Justin's smiling and staring at him for a little too long, his eyes sparkling with excitement. It almost makes Sasha blush so he looks down at his bowl of cereal before he embarrasses himself in front of Justin again. Sasha cannot look at Justin for more than two seconds before focusing his attention somewhere else. It's ridiculous and he knows it. He feels like a preteen girl with a crush and if Justin knows about it, he'd probably be too embarrassed to show himself in front of Justin ever again. This is so ridiculous; did he mention that?

"Why so serious, Sasha Artemev?"

Justin's the one who asks this question and it makes Sasha look up with a confused expression on his face. He shrugs his shoulders and mumbles some random excuse.

"Eh, it's nothing."

Jon's cutting into the conversation now. "Sash, don't lie to us! When we walked in, we saw you sittin' here in the corner looking all sad."

"Mm, exactly," Justin agrees as he takes a bite of scrambled eggs. He's chewing thoughtfully and staring at Sasha so much, it makes Sasha look away in unease.

"Yo, really. You can tell us what's wrong," Jon says, nodding. He's calmed down a bit and it makes Sasha glad because he's not being too obnoxious and hyper like he usually is..

"It's nothing," Sasha mutters, "I mean, I was just thinking about the team finals."

"Team finals?" says Jon. He looks from Justin to Sasha, then nods knowingly at the people seated around the cafeteria.

"What?" Sasha asks, feeling confused. Justin looks at him and shrugs, his mouth full of scrambled eggs.

Jon starts to explain his thoughts, "Look around the room, you guys? Can't you see it?"

Justin swallows his food and asks, "See what? People eating breakfast? Yeah, we're all hungry. So what?"

"Look deeper, yo!"

Sasha scans the cafeteria and tries to see what Jon's hinting at. He fails to see what the connection is so he shrugs and says, "Uh, what are we supposed to be looking at, exactly?"

"Everyone in here's our competition!" says Jon, "See the froggies over there? And the ex-Soviets in that corner? The Japs are over there filming themselves eating breakfast. This is like, 'The Breakfast of Champions' or some shit!"

"You're so politically correct, aren't you? Although I totally agree with you on the last point," Justin says sarcastically. He eyes Sasha and winks at him. "Sasha's a champ, he's eating some Wheaties, I think."

"Breakfast of Champions, all right," Sasha agrees, taking a bite of his cereal.

"Right now, you're like the poster boy for Wheaties. They should totally pay you," says Justin with a nod.

"I see the German team!" Jon says excitedly. "Oh my god, Fabi!"

"Who the hell is Fabi?" asks Justin.

"He's my man! Uh, never mind."

"Chyeah, he is," Justin murmurs in a sarcastic tone. He's looking at Sasha and smiling. His eyes are full of laughter. Sasha grins in return, silently laughing along at the joke.

"Man, shut up, you guys. That's gay." Jon's looking down at his plate of food and trying his best not to make any eye contact with either Justin or Sasha.

"Dude, " says Justin, "if you're friends with the enemy, then we don't mind." He winks at Sasha. Sasha smiles and winks back at him.

"Traitor, " Sasha simply states. He's smiling at Justin, happy that they're sharing a joke between themselves. And they're poking fun at Jon, no less.

"Shut up, yo."

"It's okay, Jon. We love you too, even though you're sleeping with the enemy," Justin snickers and fakes a cough.

"Man, stop hating on me."

"Justin's right," Sasha joins in, "If Kevin finds out then you're screwed."

"This isn't cool, you guys."

"We're just kidding, Jon! Can't you take a joke? We still love you, short stuff," Justin assures him. He throws his arm around Jon's shoulders and grins widely. "Right, Sash?"

"Yeah. Of course."

Even though Sasha enjoys playing along with Justin's joke, he can't help but to feel a stab of jealousy at their close friendship. The only sound he hears is that of his heart beating heavily. Sasha wishes Justin would sling his arm over his shoulders instead.

Let's Play A Round of "Who's Your Olympic Crush?"

2008-09-28T18:48:05Z

Title: Let's Play A Round of "Who's Your Olympic Crush?"
Rating: PG
Summary: Shawn gets really bored on their flight to Beijing, so she asks Alicia and Nastia if they're up for a round of "Who's Your Olympic Crush?" Hardly does she know that her friends can get very defensive about their crushes...
Disclaimer: Figment of my imagination.
Author's Note: There aren't really any pairings here, tbh. It's just a friendship!fic, with the word "crack!fic" written all over it in big bold letters. I had fun writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading this story! (x-posted to olympic_slash)

"Okay, okay! So let's play a round of... Who's Your Olympic Crush!"

Shawn's grinning and bouncing off her seat as she looks at her two compatriots seated to her immediate right and left. Nastia seems uninterested; she has her headphones on, moving her head along to the music. Shawn swears she can hear the beat of Supergirl by Saving Jane leaking through. Nastia doesn't even take a glance at the all too excited Shawn. She begins to pull the in-flight magazine from the back of the chair in front of her, and starts skimming the first few pages.

"Nas?" Shawn probes gently with a slight frown on her face.

"I'M READING," she almost screams back. The loud sounds from the airplane's jet engines aren't enough to drown out her voice and Shawn can hear her all too clearly.

"You don't have to shout!" Shawn retorts.

"What did you say?" Nastia looks at her and starts to take her headphones off, but Shawn just shakes her head.

"NEVER MIND."

Nastia shrugs and returns to reading her magazine and listening to Supergirl. Poor Shawn feels dejected by her best friend, so she turns to the girl seated on her other side.

She beams cheerfully and says, "Alicia! Wanna play a game of Who's Your Olympic Crush?"

Alicia looks up from the latest issue of People magazine in her hands and gives Shawn a look that conveys, 'Are you serious?'

"Are you serious?" Alicia asks sarcastically.

"Um... yeah?" Shawn says in a timid voice.

"Uh, no."

Since Alicia isn't up to the game either, Shawn stops pestering her and looks straight ahead. After a few minutes have passed, Shawn starts to squirm around uncomfortably in her seat.

"Alicia? Nas? Please, please, please can we play a game? I'm so bored here and I feel like I can literally explode with boredom!"

The two girls sitting on her left and right still don't respond. Shawn whips her head from side to side and neither one of them even so much as glances up to glare at her or tell her to shut up.

"Okay then, I guess I'll just have to start first," Shawn announces in a stubborn tone. "So, guys. Guess who my Olympic crush is!"

Alicia mutters a sarcastic, "Your mom" while Nastia just bobs her head along to her music.

"Your mom," Shawn shoots back.

She glares at Alicia, who doesn't even look up from her magazine. Glancing over at the page that Alicia's on, she sees that her teammate is intrigued by a picture of Michael Phelps wearing the new speedo swimsuit. She turns to look at Nastia, who doesn't even seem to notice that Shawn and Alicia are bickering.

"Do you have that stupid Supergirl song on repeat or something?" Shawn says out loud. The statement fails to reach Nastia's ears, even though Nastia glances up for a quick second and flashes a thumbs up at Shawn. Shawn smiles awkwardly and returns the thumbs up.

"Umm, yeah. Sure..." Shawn mutters, feeling dejected now.

Sighing and leaning back in her seat, she says aloud to nobody in particular, "Woohoo. Wanna know who Shawn Johnson's Olympic crushes are? Yeah, I know you guys are just way excited to find out."

No response from either Alicia or Nastia. Shawn trudges on lamely.

"Drum roll, please! I like... Da da da! Ooh, the suspense is so unbearable!" Shawn glances at her friends again. "Isn't it?"

"Ungh," comes a noncommittal response from Alicia. Shawn notices that she's still looking at that picture of Michael Phelps.

"He's fugly," Shawn tries to instigate, but Alicia just mumbles, "Mmmhmm."

"Did you even hear what I said?"

"God, Michael Phelps is so sexy. I'd do him in a heartbeat," Alicia says to herself in a lovesick voice. She sighs and bats her eyelashes at the picture.

"But I just said that he's fugly!"

"Uh huh."

"Alicia, you're not even listening to me!"

"Yup."

Shawn shakes her head and sighs. She rolls her eyes at the ceiling and continues her monologue in a bored as hell monotone.

"My Olympic crushes from the men's gymnastics team are... Jonathan Horton, annnnnd Justin Spring, annnnnd that Russian guy, Alexander Artemev or whatever his name is. And also Ryan Lochte from the swim team."

Upon hearing Ryan Lochte's name, Alicia perks up and looks at Shawn. She frowns and snaps accusingly at her.

"Ryan Lochte? No, Shawn! He's mine! So you better go find some other guy, okay? Got it?"

"What? But I just said that I had a crush on him! It's not like I dated him or anything!"

"Ryan Lochte and Michael Phelps are mine! You can go take your puny gymnast guys and leave my swimmers alone!"

"What the hell?!" exclaims Shawn in confusion. "I was just saying that-"

"And I don't think Nas appreciates the fact that you like Sasha Artemev," Alicia rambles on. She nods at Nastia, who happens to take off her headphones just then.

"What the heck are you guys fighting over now?" Nastia asks. She looks from Shawn to Alicia with a raised eyebrow.

Alicia begins first with an accusation. "Shawn says that he's after your man!"

"What?" Nastia asks, looking confused.

"Sasha Artemev!"

"Oh no, you didn't!" Nastia snaps at Shawn.

"But-" Shawn isn't even able to protest before Alicia cuts in.

"And she can't even pronounce 'Artemev' correctly."

Nastia looks at the poor, sad Shawn seated beside her. Even though her large, shiny eyes scream innocence, Nastia finds it in herself to say, "Geez, Shawn. It's pronounced 'Ar-ti-miv.' Duh."

"I didn't know!"

"And you're not even an adult yet!" Nastia continues on, "So it's basically illegal. Alicia's right. Go find someone your own age, Shawnie."

"Why are you guys so mean to me?! Nas, I didn't even know you like that Sasha guy. Sasha's a girl's name, by the way. And he has creeper eyes!" she added in a huff. Pleased with herself, Shawn smiles smugly at Nastia.

"Ugh, you're just jealous, Shawn."

"But why would I be jealous?! I just said that he has creeper eyes! That's creepy, you know! I mean, haven't you noticed?"

Alicia starts to snort with laughter. "Oh really? Creeper eyes are creepy? Obviously, Shawn! Redundancy, much?"

"You guys are so mean!"

Nastia replies, "As long as you stay away from our men, then you're fine. We won't have to drag you to some alleyway in Beijing and beat you to a pulp for hitting on Michael Phelps, or Ryan Lochte, or especially my Sasha!"

"Sasha's a girl's name!" Shawn tries to fight back.

"Yeah, " Alicia says, "and Shawn's a guy's name. So shush, little girl."

As soon as Alicia says this, both Alicia and Nastia turn to their magazines. They're back to ignoring poor little Shawn Johnson now, who's sitting in her seat feeling confused and flustered.

Be Still

2008-09-09T02:59:33Z

Title: Be Still
Pairing: Fabian Hambuechen/Jonathan Horton
Rating: PG-13 (for sexual references)
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Author's Note: I'd like to dedicate this to adlove for being my inspiration to write this fic and pairing. I seriously loved Sounds. (x-posted to olympic_slash)

They're sitting on Fabian's messy bed. Sheets strewn every which way are tangled around their legs. Fabian himself notes the relaxed way in which Jon is leaning back against him. Fabian can see that the older man's eyes are closed in contentment.

He hears an audible sigh escape from his own lips.

The artistic gymnastics events are over, and Fabian is relieved. He's had his ups and downs during the games, and the competition for a gold medal is slowly ebbing away now. There's nothing else left for them, except for the gymnastics gala tomorrow. Fabian knows that he will do well in front of the audience. Tomorrow won't be about the competition, but gymnastics as a passion. No one will be there to judge their tiny missteps by a fraction of a point.

He looks forward to the gala, however tired he is from days of spinning around and around on the high bar, being a perfect example of Newton's Laws of Motion.

As he's about to lie back against the headboard, Jon stirs awake in his arms. The American's eyes flutter open; his face tilts up into Fabian's dark, searching gaze.

"Hey," Jon mutters with a smile.

Fabian replies with a soft, languid kiss to Jon's lips. Of course he doesn't protest.

After they separate their lips, Fabian leans back to study Jon's face closely. The German can see that something's wrong now. Jon has a serious look on his face. There are no traces of his sleepy smile from a mere few seconds ago.

"What? What is it?"

Fabian tries not to panic. They are sitting comfortably in each other's arms. What could be the matter?

"Fabi," Jon says softly, "I'm leaving right after the gala tomorrow."

"What?"

Fabian cannot comprehend this. He blinks once, twice, before the information starts to process properly in his mind.

"I'm not staying for the closing ceremony. I'm really sorry about it," Jon adds hurriedly.

Fabian isn't taking this news in an easy way. His disappointed frown is reminiscent of the time that he fell off the high bar earlier in the competition. Fabian is at a loss as to how to react.

"But... Why aren't you staying? I thought we... I thought we were going to-"

"I have to catch an early flight out of Beijing," Jon tries to explain. He knows that his explanation sounds like a pathetic excuse but he doesn't know what else to say. After all, it really is the truth.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Fabian asks sadly. He looks away, sighing in defeat.

"I just... I didn't want to disappoint you or anything. But I guess this isn't working out the way that I was planning it."

"And how did you plan this?"

"...I didn't really have a plan," Jon admits. "I just wanted to make last night the best night we've ever had."

Fabian cracks a small smile. "It worked."

"Well, I try my best." Jon grins in the boyish manner that Fabian has grown to love. "I care about your feelings, you know," he adds quietly.

Fabian doesn't say a word. It leaves a silent moment for Jon to kiss him gently.

"The next time I see you, Fabi, I swear I'll stay till the whole competition's over. And that's a promise."

As much as Fabian is disappointed with Jon right now, he cannot deny the fact that he loves the short, fiery, American gymnast. Jonathan Horton is, and always has been, too damn adorable in Fabian Hambuechen's eyes.