Fic: The Closest Thing We Have To Magic
Title: The Closest Thing We Have To Magic
Rating: R
Pairing: Schweinsteiger/Podolski and Ballack/Lahm
Word Count: 3 drabbles
Pairing: Schweinsteiger/Podolski, prompt:
Schweinsteiger allows his hands to trail up Podolski's neck, insinuating themselves inside the hoodie, his fingers warm against Podolski's hair, wet from sweat and runnning and running and not being enough.
Schweinsteiger pushes his forehead against Podolski's, desperate to give comfort, to feel those lips opening against his, to have everything go back to the way it used to be, when it was them against the world, and having him in his arms felt so much like winning.
He let his fingers speak for him, trailing words he cannot force past his lips into Podolski's hair, don'tgoneedyougodpleasedon'ttakethisaway. His hands feel warm around his head, the weight pleasant and reassuring as he relaxes into his touch, tilting his head slightly back and into his hands. He presses his lips harder against his, and nothing that he could have said matters because Podolski's lips parts under his and Schweinsteiger is lost.
He licks right into his mouth, warm and pliant against his tongue. He pushes further, licks the defeat out of the curve of his lips. He shudders as he feels Podolski going nearly limp against him, collapsing against his shoulders. He wants to tell him it will be ok, they will always have each other, no matter that they will be on opposite sides of the field, but already, he sees Podolski in black and him in red, and he was never a good liar.
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Pairing: Schweinsteiger/Podolski, prompt from footballkink: Comforting each other after losing to Spain.
Schweinsteiger was the last one to leave the pitch, entering the tunnel, and behind him, the stadium roars. He walks into the locker room, and nobody says a word, each one alone in defeat. Eventually, Mertesecker gets up, enters the showers and Friedrich follows behind him. One by one, the rest rouse themselves and follows. Schweinsteiger remains seated on the bench in the middle of the room, legs straddling it, his knees apart, head hanging loosely between stooped shoulders. He's shirtless, the Iniesta jersey sitting on a pool of red and gold on the floor, forgotten. Lahm gets up from where he was sitting in the corner, takes off the armband, and walks over to where Podolski is sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up, his arms holding himself together, as if he would fall apart without it. He looks up from where his face was buried in his arms at Lahm's approach.
Lahm nods his head towards the bench. And Podolski has never had a problem understanding his Captain's unspoken instructions, but then Schweinsteiger looks so alone, walled up with his grief, and Podolski doesn't know if he has the strength to walk up to the bench. Lahm claps a hand on his shoulder before heading for the shower.
He's left alone with him, and feels the grief nearly choke him. He has always been able to break through to Schweini, but they lost to fucking Spain. Again. And it has been nearly a year since he moved away, and his mind spins with how much people can change in twelve months.
He stands up, walks over to the bench, stands over him. He doesn't say a thing, and neither does Schweini, and their breaths sound impossibly loud in the stale locker room air. He goes to his knees in front of Schweini, nudges himself between his knees, leans closer to him. Schweini's eyes are closed, but he doesn't protest. He shifts his legs apar, accomodating Podolski, his thighs warm against his sides.
Neither of them says a word, but even without opening his eyes, Schweini's hands find themselves curled around Poldoski's head, and Podolski leans forward, presses his forehead against his.
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Pairing: Ballack/Lahm, prompt from footballkink : power struggle
Lahm is tiny, and Ballack's hand forms a complete circle around his arm, his grip tight, covering the yellow of the Captain's armband completely. Lahm stuggles in his grip.
"Let me go"
Ballack doesn't say anything, his hand closing tighter around Lahm, with force strong enough to press bruises the shape of his fingers into his arm. He stares down at the defender, towering over him, and Lahm stares back up, defiant, challenge in his eyes.
He tugs hard on Lahm's arm and he falls forward, his body slamming against Ballack's with a surprised gasp. He tries to straighten up, pushing against Ballack's chest with his other hand for leverage. Ballack holds him down, against his chest, curling his arm around Lahm's body and pressing the smaller man against his own, Lahm's arm still tight in his grip. Effortless. Easy as a thought. Lahm's face flushes with humiliation.
Ballack turns and presses Lahm up against the wall behind him, reversing their positions, one hand still gripping onto Lahm's left arm, over the armband, and the other on the wall, beside his head, his body a solid wall, completely blocking off all escape for Lahm. He leans down, forces his lips against Lahm's with bruising force, knocking Lahm's head against the wall behind him with an audible thump. Lahm's hurt gasp allows Ballack entrance, his tongue pressing forward into his defender's. He licks his way inside his mouth, his teeth catching on Lahm's lower lip, drawing blood.
He can feel the panic welling up inside Lahm's body, tensing the way it does on the pitch, with forwards rushing their defense. Ballack presses harder against him, renders him completely immobile between the wall and his own body. Without taking his mouth off Lahm's, he tugs the yellow armband off, with enough force that he nearly tears it, tossing it blindly to the side before he nudges a hand down, between their bodies, between Lahm's legs.
He rubs the heel of his hand against the bulge in Lahm's shorts, grinning against Lahm's mouth. He backs away enough to look at his face, his body still pressed tight against Lahm's and his hand rubbing circles into his cock. Whether Lahm's face is red with arousal or humiliation, Ballack can't tell. He feels Lahm hardens even further under his hand and his laugh sounds almost like a bark. Lahm turns his face to the side, furious, eyes bright with tears, but refusing to let a drop fall, his teeth biting into his bottom lip, already smeared with blood, and only through sheer will of steel, prevents the tears from falling.
Ballack pushes his hand into his shorts, and sees Lahm biting even harder into his lips, barely managing to stifle his cry. He jerks Lahm off like that, his hands moving hard and fast even though there shouldn't be enough space for him to even move his hand, given how tightly his body is pressed against his. When Lahm comes, he keeps his face turned away, furious and humiliated. Ballack wipes his hands off on Lahm's jersey, which he hasn't bothered to take off, picks up the yellow armband off the floor, and leaves.