ᶠÚᵗᵇᵒˡ Oɴᴇsʜᴏᴛs ⎳⎳

Hot Polish guy

As someone who's obsessed with changing ages in her own story, I'll do it again. Lewandowski is 31 here and cris 27- okay? Cristiano at 27 is FUCKING PERFECTION. Ahem. To the story.

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The recent transfer window left the players of Barca in such of a badly dismantled state,- forcing them to slack during practice.

It was this pact that Barca players and madrid players had agreed to follow the rules and regulations of, which read as follows:

- The transfer of the players of an opposition team to the rival team is strictly forbidden. Although R9 had gotten away with it, now it's strictly forbidden.

It's like some sort of untold and unspoken curse that's been left to age with time, as both clubs begin to loose all their players that once glorified the Spanish clubs to stand where they are now, floating in a sea of praises from their home fans.

Although the 'pact' has been left untouched and in a pile of dust from not being dared to have a glance at, Cristiano being the Godly of a person he thinks he is, decides to break through the barrier, beyond all the odds that no fan has ever dared to think about.

The transfer. It's been troubling everyone, like an itch that just won't go.

It's successfully flooded their minds with a high level of anxiety- one that's gonna make you go so insane that there's no name for it. The insanity has lived to be a great threat, and it has certainly given everyone a great spin- now that they're just plain stiff, too shocked to even begin with.

But Lewandowski doesn't understand any bit of it, as he paces across the field back and forth, thinking of how Cristiano would look in the new blaugrana jersey that would now replace his boldy red jersey of red that once made him an easy target in the transfer window.

Without a care in the world, he manages to harshly clash with a mannequin, his head clanking with the flat, cold metal surface, stumbling to the ground, hand stuck on his head, a low groan escaping his lips.

He hears a low laugh, as someone's shadow blocks the sun out of his way. Lewandowski looks up to find a fairly tall and tanned figure to be acting as the shade from the sun, his face not exactly too visible from the shadow but too familiar and recognizable.

So it wasn't too hard for him to realize who it is, at first glance.

Lewandowski used his new fellow team-mate's hand and got back up on his feet, flashing a smile, his pale blue eyes standing alone in a void of it's own, which the sun's rays couldn't find itself worthy enough to compete against, reflecting away, leaving a sparkle.

Cristiano smiled back, a very teethy one, the one he doesn't usually show. His cheeks heated- probably from the burning rays of the sun. Lewandowski escorted him to the bleachers where they found themselves to be in a small conversation, getting engaged with each other's life and hobbies.

But it wasn't before long the Polish began to feel a tad bit uncomfortable. Maybe he wasn't feeling well. He shrugged it off and continued to talk, without realizing how this would grow to be a major problem within a few minutes.

And it lived upto it's expectations, none of which Lewandowski payed attention to, but definitely should have.

A man got him hard. A fucking man. Disgusting. He's straight. But that does seem like it, anymore.

The tent in his shorts doesn't say much about his sexuality that he refers himself to be, well.

- "I might need to excuse myself, if you don't mind that is."

He said standing up, as Cris looked up at him and smiled almost apologetically.

- "No no ofcourse, please go ahead" He gestured his hand politely, as the Polish was soon out of his sight, breathe heavy and mind empty of any solution to the problem- the solution he wants to avoid but can't.