Mikel Arteta
by 4or5paragraphs
“Wojtek!” Jack swung open his door, beaming, shirtless in light flannel pajama pants.
“Your pronunciation is still shit.” Wojciech strode past him into the house, heading towards the media room. “And the TV is off.” He stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked at Jack incredulously, hands on his hips. “Do not tell me you’re watching Sky Sport in bed.”
“It’s comfortable.” Jack shrugged, unapologetic.
“You’re ridiculous.” Wojciech shook his head, because Jack didn’t even have the sense to be embarrassed, and followed him up the stairs.
“You’re just jealous of my setup.”
“Yeah. That’s it.” Wojciech snorted, rolling his eyes at Jack’s bed, which was rumpled and strewn with wrappers. Three mugs sat on the end table, one with a spoon sticking out of it. Wojciech flopped down and pulled a cookie out of one of the open packages.
“That’s mine.” Jack climbed over Wojciech to the other side of the bed, picking up his discarded Blackberry with one hand and holding out the other expectantly.
“You’ve had enough,” Wojciech mumbled through a mouthful. Jack always had sugar, and Wojciech was always hungry. He’d been stealing Jack’s food since he was sixteen.
“Fuck you.” Jack dug out another packet and opened it, still scrolling through messages.
“Any news?” Wojciech polished off another cookie and looked at the television. It wasn’t as big as the one in the media room, but it was big enough.
“No,” Jack grumped, putting the Blackberry aside and frowning at the commercials. “No words. Nothing! It’s all off.”
“We signed a center-back.” Wojciech was trying very hard to not laugh at Jack’s pouting face. “He seems nice.”
“A center-back is not Arteta.”
“We still needed one.”
“Fine.” Jack rolled his eyes. “But he’s not Arteta.”
“You and bloody Arteta.” It was kind of cute, in a very Jack Wilshere kind of way, how Jack had been obsessing over Arteta all day. He was always excitable, optimistic, and a sucker for a pretty face.
The commercials ended and Jack wasn’t paying attention to him any more, instead watching the screen raptly. His phone was clutched between his hands and he looked almost as excited as he did before the first day he trained with the first team. More nervous, though. Jack had been confident that he’d do well back then, he’d had no need for nerves. Now, though, he looked tense. Wojciech thought that maybe he should try to calm Jack down, but it was his own fault for getting so involved with this ridiculousness.
Wojciech opened another packet of Jammy Dodgers. “Any news?”
“You’re watching TV, you can tell.”
“Eh, you’re on your phone, too, I’m not looking at Twitter.” Jack had good junk food at his house, some innate English knowledge about what he shouldn’t be eating at all times.
“Hey!” Jack smacked Wojciech’s ankle. “Are you eating all my biscuits?”
“I’m helping you not ruin all your diet. Boss will be upset if you eat all of these.” Wojciech wiggled the packet at Jack, grinning.
“And he won’t be with you?”
“I’m skinny. He won’t notice.”
“You calling me fat?”
“Yeah, you’ve got a fat arse.” Wojciech would have slapped it if Jack wasn’t sitting down, so he kicked his thigh instead.
“I’m not listening to you.” Jack laughed, not turning around, eyes still on the screen. “I’m paying attention to news that will be important to our team.”
“We’ll hear about it tomorrow,” Wojciech said, more out of a desire to be difficult than actual belief. He wanted to see who signed. He was hopeful as well. It was just hard for him to take it all as seriously as Jack was, and he felt that Jack needed to calm down.
“You could have gone to sleep.”
“And miss you freak out like this? Like a fucking kid on Christmas, or whatever. Should be filming.” Wojciech poked a toe into the center of Jack’s back. “Besides, you sounded like a twat on Twitter. You need someone to look after you, make sure you don’t die of anxiety or something.”
Jack turned back to grin at Wojciech. “I’m touched, you soft git.”
Wojciech laughed, dropping the now-empty packet and swinging his legs off the bed. “I’m thirsty. You want something to drink?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Wojciech knew Jack’s house better than he knew his own. It’s bigger than it was, of course, grander than the house Jack had lived in when Wojciech was a teenager and spending every minute of his free time at the Wilsheres, but it still felt the same. It was Jack’s and therefore comfortable. Anywhere Jack went exuded a weird sort of comfort.
And occasional terribleness. Wojciech had no idea how Jack had even found a patent-leather Union Jack couch, or why he was so proud of it, but it was there every time Wojciech went towards the kitchen. He scratched his nails against it as he passed.
Jack was curled up by the pillows and packets when Wojciech returned, knees against his stomach and eyes wide on the screen.
“News?” Wojciech clambered in next to him and handed over the can.
“Arteta’s back on.” Jack’s bouncing was evident in his voice. “Just on, you just missed it.” He waved at the television, the giant head of Jim White now talking about some nonsense or another.
“You’ve got such a hard-on for Arteta.” Wojciech snickered into his soda.
“Fuck off.”
“You do.” Wojciech nudged Jack with his elbow. “I bet you’re hard now, thinking about being in the dressing room with him.”
“Pervert.” Jack twisted his head back so Wojciech could see his bright, blinding smile.
“Yeah, always. You like that about me.” Wojciech ruffled what there was of Jack’s hair, then let his hand relax, fingers curling over Jack’s skull. “You’re not denying it.”
“Fuck off,” Jack laughed, but didn’t shake off Wojciech’s hand.
“You are,” Wojciech purred, almost sing-song, and lunged for the waistband of Jack’s pants. Jack attempted to squirm away, but Wojciech already had his arm around him, and Jack wasn’t trying as hard as he could. Wojciech held him easily, sliding his hand under the elastic. “Thinking about Mikel Arteta in the showers, all wet…”
“Wojtek…” Jack squirmed as Wojciech wrapped his hand around his cock.
“Oh yeah. You are into that.” Wojciech wasn’t sure if Jack was responding to thoughts of Arteta or to his hand, but it wasn’t important. Jack was responding to something, his cock growing harder in Wojciech’s grip. “Water running down his back, bouncing off his bare arse? Bet it’s really nice, under our white shorts.”
“Fuck.” Jack was still moving, but this time it was into Wojciech, pressing against him eagerly, kicking out his leg, pants riding down.
“Yeah.” Wojciech craned his neck around, grinning as he spotted the bottle of lotion on Jack’s side table. Jack was predictable. Wojciech grabbed it with his free hand, flicking the cap open with his thumb and squirting lotion over the other. It would do. “How are you gonna greet him, huh? On your knees? You want to suck his cock?”
That got a reaction. Wojciech chuckled, twisting his hand up and down Jack’s erection slowly. This hadn’t been completely his intention when he’d come over, but with Jack, it was always an option. “You’d like to suck his cock, wouldn’t you? I can tell, you’re hungry for it. Can’t wait to get him in your mouth, all hard and thick. I know how much you want that. Want his cock right down your throat, so you’re almost choking on it, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jack echoed, eyes fluttering shut.
“Bet you’d swallow for him, yeah? Wouldn’t miss a drop. Or maybe he’d want to come on you, huh? Your chest? Maybe your face? You’d look good like that.” Wojciech couldn’t deny that he loved seeing Jack like this, abandoned to pleasure. Jack never did anything by half. He didn’t hold back, didn’t care. “His cum all over you.”
Jack was breathing hard now, legs splayed and thrusting into Wojciech’s hand.
“Or maybe you’d do things a little differently.” Wojciech licked his lips, trying to sort the images in his head into proper words. “Get him on the benches in Colney, straddle his hips, get him hard that way? Just grinding against him until you can’t stand it, until you beg him to let you ride his cock.” He leaned in, lips to Jack’s ear. “You think he’d let you ride his cock?”
“Fuck,” Jack gasped, “fuck, I hope so.”
“How could he not? If he saw you right now…” Wojciech sped up his hand, grip tighter now. He knew Jack was storing this for future use. He wouldn’t be surprised if he tried all the things Wojciech was saying. “He’d let you. Let you fuck yourself on his cock, drive yourself fucking insane with him. He’d be so fucking hard inside of you. You’d go mad. I know you.”
Jack came with a high whimper, surging up and then slumping against Wojciech. Wojciech laughed softly and reached back for the tissues, wiping off his hand with a grimace and tossing it somewhere back in the direction of the table. That should calm Jack for possibly five whole minutes.
Jack’s eyes opened. “Is Arteta signed yet?”
Notes:
1. On the last day of the transfer window, Arsenal FC made a flurry of signings: Per Metersacker, Andre dos Santos, Yossi Benayoun, and, eventually, Mikel Arteta. Jack Wilshere was particularly excited about it.
“Wojtek!” Jack swung open his door, beaming, shirtless in light flannel pajama pants.
“Your pronunciation is still shit.” Wojciech strode past him into the house, heading towards the media room. “And the TV is off.” He stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked at Jack incredulously, hands on his hips. “Do not tell me you’re watching Sky Sport in bed.”
“It’s comfortable.” Jack shrugged, unapologetic.
“You’re ridiculous.” Wojciech shook his head, because Jack didn’t even have the sense to be embarrassed, and followed him up the stairs.
“You’re just jealous of my setup.”
“Yeah. That’s it.” Wojciech snorted, rolling his eyes at Jack’s bed, which was rumpled and strewn with wrappers. Three mugs sat on the end table, one with a spoon sticking out of it. Wojciech flopped down and pulled a cookie out of one of the open packages.
“That’s mine.” Jack climbed over Wojciech to the other side of the bed, picking up his discarded Blackberry with one hand and holding out the other expectantly.
“You’ve had enough,” Wojciech mumbled through a mouthful. Jack always had sugar, and Wojciech was always hungry. He’d been stealing Jack’s food since he was sixteen.
“Fuck you.” Jack dug out another packet and opened it, still scrolling through messages.
“Any news?” Wojciech polished off another cookie and looked at the television. It wasn’t as big as the one in the media room, but it was big enough.
“No,” Jack grumped, putting the Blackberry aside and frowning at the commercials. “No words. Nothing! It’s all off.”
“We signed a center-back.” Wojciech was trying very hard to not laugh at Jack’s pouting face. “He seems nice.”
“A center-back is not Arteta.”
“We still needed one.”
“Fine.” Jack rolled his eyes. “But he’s not Arteta.”
“You and bloody Arteta.” It was kind of cute, in a very Jack Wilshere kind of way, how Jack had been obsessing over Arteta all day. He was always excitable, optimistic, and a sucker for a pretty face.
The commercials ended and Jack wasn’t paying attention to him any more, instead watching the screen raptly. His phone was clutched between his hands and he looked almost as excited as he did before the first day he trained with the first team. More nervous, though. Jack had been confident that he’d do well back then, he’d had no need for nerves. Now, though, he looked tense. Wojciech thought that maybe he should try to calm Jack down, but it was his own fault for getting so involved with this ridiculousness.
Wojciech opened another packet of Jammy Dodgers. “Any news?”
“You’re watching TV, you can tell.”
“Eh, you’re on your phone, too, I’m not looking at Twitter.” Jack had good junk food at his house, some innate English knowledge about what he shouldn’t be eating at all times.
“Hey!” Jack smacked Wojciech’s ankle. “Are you eating all my biscuits?”
“I’m helping you not ruin all your diet. Boss will be upset if you eat all of these.” Wojciech wiggled the packet at Jack, grinning.
“And he won’t be with you?”
“I’m skinny. He won’t notice.”
“You calling me fat?”
“Yeah, you’ve got a fat arse.” Wojciech would have slapped it if Jack wasn’t sitting down, so he kicked his thigh instead.
“I’m not listening to you.” Jack laughed, not turning around, eyes still on the screen. “I’m paying attention to news that will be important to our team.”
“We’ll hear about it tomorrow,” Wojciech said, more out of a desire to be difficult than actual belief. He wanted to see who signed. He was hopeful as well. It was just hard for him to take it all as seriously as Jack was, and he felt that Jack needed to calm down.
“You could have gone to sleep.”
“And miss you freak out like this? Like a fucking kid on Christmas, or whatever. Should be filming.” Wojciech poked a toe into the center of Jack’s back. “Besides, you sounded like a twat on Twitter. You need someone to look after you, make sure you don’t die of anxiety or something.”
Jack turned back to grin at Wojciech. “I’m touched, you soft git.”
Wojciech laughed, dropping the now-empty packet and swinging his legs off the bed. “I’m thirsty. You want something to drink?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Wojciech knew Jack’s house better than he knew his own. It’s bigger than it was, of course, grander than the house Jack had lived in when Wojciech was a teenager and spending every minute of his free time at the Wilsheres, but it still felt the same. It was Jack’s and therefore comfortable. Anywhere Jack went exuded a weird sort of comfort.
And occasional terribleness. Wojciech had no idea how Jack had even found a patent-leather Union Jack couch, or why he was so proud of it, but it was there every time Wojciech went towards the kitchen. He scratched his nails against it as he passed.
Jack was curled up by the pillows and packets when Wojciech returned, knees against his stomach and eyes wide on the screen.
“News?” Wojciech clambered in next to him and handed over the can.
“Arteta’s back on.” Jack’s bouncing was evident in his voice. “Just on, you just missed it.” He waved at the television, the giant head of Jim White now talking about some nonsense or another.
“You’ve got such a hard-on for Arteta.” Wojciech snickered into his soda.
“Fuck off.”
“You do.” Wojciech nudged Jack with his elbow. “I bet you’re hard now, thinking about being in the dressing room with him.”
“Pervert.” Jack twisted his head back so Wojciech could see his bright, blinding smile.
“Yeah, always. You like that about me.” Wojciech ruffled what there was of Jack’s hair, then let his hand relax, fingers curling over Jack’s skull. “You’re not denying it.”
“Fuck off,” Jack laughed, but didn’t shake off Wojciech’s hand.
“You are,” Wojciech purred, almost sing-song, and lunged for the waistband of Jack’s pants. Jack attempted to squirm away, but Wojciech already had his arm around him, and Jack wasn’t trying as hard as he could. Wojciech held him easily, sliding his hand under the elastic. “Thinking about Mikel Arteta in the showers, all wet…”
“Wojtek…” Jack squirmed as Wojciech wrapped his hand around his cock.
“Oh yeah. You are into that.” Wojciech wasn’t sure if Jack was responding to thoughts of Arteta or to his hand, but it wasn’t important. Jack was responding to something, his cock growing harder in Wojciech’s grip. “Water running down his back, bouncing off his bare arse? Bet it’s really nice, under our white shorts.”
“Fuck.” Jack was still moving, but this time it was into Wojciech, pressing against him eagerly, kicking out his leg, pants riding down.
“Yeah.” Wojciech craned his neck around, grinning as he spotted the bottle of lotion on Jack’s side table. Jack was predictable. Wojciech grabbed it with his free hand, flicking the cap open with his thumb and squirting lotion over the other. It would do. “How are you gonna greet him, huh? On your knees? You want to suck his cock?”
That got a reaction. Wojciech chuckled, twisting his hand up and down Jack’s erection slowly. This hadn’t been completely his intention when he’d come over, but with Jack, it was always an option. “You’d like to suck his cock, wouldn’t you? I can tell, you’re hungry for it. Can’t wait to get him in your mouth, all hard and thick. I know how much you want that. Want his cock right down your throat, so you’re almost choking on it, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jack echoed, eyes fluttering shut.
“Bet you’d swallow for him, yeah? Wouldn’t miss a drop. Or maybe he’d want to come on you, huh? Your chest? Maybe your face? You’d look good like that.” Wojciech couldn’t deny that he loved seeing Jack like this, abandoned to pleasure. Jack never did anything by half. He didn’t hold back, didn’t care. “His cum all over you.”
Jack was breathing hard now, legs splayed and thrusting into Wojciech’s hand.
“Or maybe you’d do things a little differently.” Wojciech licked his lips, trying to sort the images in his head into proper words. “Get him on the benches in Colney, straddle his hips, get him hard that way? Just grinding against him until you can’t stand it, until you beg him to let you ride his cock.” He leaned in, lips to Jack’s ear. “You think he’d let you ride his cock?”
“Fuck,” Jack gasped, “fuck, I hope so.”
“How could he not? If he saw you right now…” Wojciech sped up his hand, grip tighter now. He knew Jack was storing this for future use. He wouldn’t be surprised if he tried all the things Wojciech was saying. “He’d let you. Let you fuck yourself on his cock, drive yourself fucking insane with him. He’d be so fucking hard inside of you. You’d go mad. I know you.”
Jack came with a high whimper, surging up and then slumping against Wojciech. Wojciech laughed softly and reached back for the tissues, wiping off his hand with a grimace and tossing it somewhere back in the direction of the table. That should calm Jack for possibly five whole minutes.
Jack’s eyes opened. “Is Arteta signed yet?”
Notes:
1. On the last day of the transfer window, Arsenal FC made a flurry of signings: Per Metersacker, Andre dos Santos, Yossi Benayoun, and, eventually, Mikel Arteta. Jack Wilshere was particularly excited about it.