[oneshot] young soul in this very strange world
Title: young soul in this very strange world
Pairing: miroslav klose/mesut ozil
Rating: nc17
Genre: romance, smut
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: written for an anon on footballkink who wanted popped cherry/hero worship ozil/klose. 1,459 words.
“she looks like fucking michael jackson, man,” miro announces on friday night before the third place game. “how do you live with that?”
mesut’s head snaps around and he looks up from his seat on one of the couches in their hotel floor’s lobby. when he sees who it is, his eyes narrow and he starts fiddling at his left earring. “i’m not sure i’ll like the answer, but who are you referring to?”
miro pulls a chair up next to the coffee table and rests his chin on its back, grinning. “anna-maria, of course.” mesut groans and covers his face with a skinny arm. “don’t you get tired of her? she’s so clingy-she’s been here since before our final-sixteen game!”
“stop insulting her,” mesut wails, sinking even further into the cushions of the sofa. “we’re engaged!”
“sure, but you aren’t exactly jumping to defend her honor, are you?”
he shifts uncomfortably and shrugs. “perhaps i just see no reason to contradict you since you might be telling the truth.”
miro shakes his head and lets out a little laugh. “look at you, shacked up with a bitch like her. you could do so much better.” mesut says nothing, just sits there with a stern sort of expression on his face. “you deserve so much better.”
an awkward silence descends between them as their teammates bustle around them to get ready for bed. philipp and manuel have turned in early from the flu. hansi and basti murmur in low, tense tones down the hallway, no doubt discussing tomorrow’s captainship.
“you know, i didn’t know what to do with myself when the mannschaft started practicing together for world cup qualifiers,” mesut blurts out suddenly. “you and lukas and all of the other veterans were like these hotshots on pedestals, the gamemakers, and me, i was just this guy who was playing his first world cup and had worshipped the ground you walked on for years and years.”
miro’s eyebrows have migrated to the edge of his hairline. “what-mesut. i stand by what i said before. one day, somehow, you are going to make international football history, and the whole goddamn world is going to make you their king.” mesut glances up and there’s this naked, meek sort of look in his eyes reflected back at himself from miro’s, like he doesn’t know whether or not to believe him.
miro sighs. “look, kid. you don’t seem to realize the full depth and scope of your talent. which can be a good thing, don’t get me wrong-a lot of players today could do with a bit of humility.” a smile tugs at the corners of mesut’s mouth, crinkles the skin around his eyes. “but confidence is key, and hesitation at crucial times can kill you. play unpredictably and take calculated risks when the opportunities arise, and-” he winks, here, “-you might even surpass me one day. don’t let jogi or oliver or even princess anna-maria tell you otherwise.”
“thanks, miro,” he says drily. “i really appreciate the sentiment.”
the lights in the lobby are dim, now; they are the only two left. a dull roar from behind the closed door of the suite across from them probably signifies wohlfahrt’s rage at jogi’s stubborn refusal to rest despite a thirty-nine degree fever.
and then maybe it’s because miro’s looking at him with all the raw focus and intensity he usually reserves for the pitch, or perhaps mesut is just plain crazy and too tired of playing the perfect little midfielder all the time. or maybe miro’s words of praise are ringing just a bit too loudly in his ears, drowning out any cognizant common sense, because he’s leaning forward and closing that short gap between them-he’s tilting his head and pressing his lips against those of a person he has idolized for too fucking long for this to be wrong.
miro’s hand is warm as it comes around to connect with his nape. there’s a pocket of swirling heat building up in his chest, like something is fighting to burst out-and when he pulls back for air, lids half-lowered, miro is grinning at him again, a feral sort of expression on his face.
“what about anna-maria?” he asks breathlessly.
mesut feels as if he is standing on a steep precipice and about to jump off headfirst, uncharted waters beyond the cliff yawning down into darkness, into something strange and new and unknown.
“anna-maria who?” he finally returns, eyes fluttering shut when miro knocks the chair over in his haste to press open-mouthed kisses across mesut’s throat, the soft skin underneath his ears, the sharp line of his jaw.
they somehow end up in miro’s hotel room-his back is flush against the mattress of the large bed, miro working at the button of his jeans, pulling at his shirt. he hears the quiet click of a bedside drawer and then something cool and slippery is pressing into his ass, scissoring gently. mesut’s hands clench around his shoulders and miro stops, pauses to place a fleeting kiss at his temple.
“you are so, so beautiful,” he mouths into mesut’s ear, and a steady blush stains mesut’s skin a dark pink as he watches miro roll a condom down his dick and press inside. his head snaps back at the intrusion, hands trailing down miro’s back to fist at the pooled sheets around their waists.
“tell me if it hurts,” he breathes, and then he’s moving-mesut sighs shakily into the rhythm, the flex of hard muscle and the slick shift of skin on skin. he lets out a quiet cross between a hum and a gasp everytime miro thrusts in again, clasps his hands behind miro’s neck and groans when he reaches down to palm mesut’s cock, when he leans over to capture mesut’s lips in another bruising kiss.
the pillow underneath his head turns damp from perspiration, sweat dripping off the tips of miro’s hair to fall onto the bed as well. a slow-burning coil starts rising from low in mesut’s abdomen, and in a stunning display of flexibility, miro bends to tongue at the head of his dick-and then one final, forceful suck has mesut coming all over both their chests, semen splattering against miro’s face. he thrusts deeply once, twice, three times, and then he collapses forward, arms struggling to support his upper body as he rides the wave of orgasm.
mesut makes a face when miro beams and flicks his tongue out to lick at specks of his release still on miro’s cheek. “don’t do that,” he demands sleepily as miro reaches towards the bedside table for tissue to wipe them up as best he can.
“tastes good, you should try some next time,” is the last, snarky reply he hears before falling into blissfully exhausted sleep.
mesut wakes up in full out panic mode. his ass is on fire and he is in a room that is not his own; his bleary eyes try to survey the area, but then-ah, miro’s arm is coming around to rest heavily on his waist and pull him closer to the heat furnace behind him. “gutenmorgen.”
“this is completely embarrassing,” mesut moans out loud, pressing dry palms against his eyes in a vain attempt to clear them.
“oh?” he can feel miro’s smile against his shoulder. “why’s that?”
“i had the biggest crush on you when i was a teenager. i thought i’d grown out of it.”
“evidently not,” miro says cheerfully. “no complaints here. and i’m sure your id must be very pleased that you gave in to your sexual desires.”
“very funny.”
a silence occurs, in which mesut tries to shake himself fully awake without actually moving and miro strokes absentmindedly at his arm.
“can i ask you something?” mesut nods. “do you really think she converted to islam out of true love?” he doesn’t speak, just sighs and pushes back against miro’s chest, pulls the covers up to his chin against the drafty air conditioning. “surely you know what’s going to happen after you play your last world cup-when you get where i am.”
mesut grimaces. “can we not talk about her?”
“feeling guilty now, are you?”
“no,” he replies. “just conflicted.”
“conflicted,” miro repeats. “i can work with that.”
“say,” mesut says, realization slowly dawning. “what about sylwia?”
miro presses his elbow into the pillow and props his head up, grinning wickedly. “how do you know i don’t share all my dirty secrets with her and compare notes?”
mesut yelps and scrambles out of bed as fast as he can, the ache in his lower back forgotten. the deep blush doesn’t completely leave his skin until well after breakfast.
fin
Pairing: miroslav klose/mesut ozil
Rating: nc17
Genre: romance, smut
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: written for an anon on footballkink who wanted popped cherry/hero worship ozil/klose. 1,459 words.
“she looks like fucking michael jackson, man,” miro announces on friday night before the third place game. “how do you live with that?”
mesut’s head snaps around and he looks up from his seat on one of the couches in their hotel floor’s lobby. when he sees who it is, his eyes narrow and he starts fiddling at his left earring. “i’m not sure i’ll like the answer, but who are you referring to?”
miro pulls a chair up next to the coffee table and rests his chin on its back, grinning. “anna-maria, of course.” mesut groans and covers his face with a skinny arm. “don’t you get tired of her? she’s so clingy-she’s been here since before our final-sixteen game!”
“stop insulting her,” mesut wails, sinking even further into the cushions of the sofa. “we’re engaged!”
“sure, but you aren’t exactly jumping to defend her honor, are you?”
he shifts uncomfortably and shrugs. “perhaps i just see no reason to contradict you since you might be telling the truth.”
miro shakes his head and lets out a little laugh. “look at you, shacked up with a bitch like her. you could do so much better.” mesut says nothing, just sits there with a stern sort of expression on his face. “you deserve so much better.”
an awkward silence descends between them as their teammates bustle around them to get ready for bed. philipp and manuel have turned in early from the flu. hansi and basti murmur in low, tense tones down the hallway, no doubt discussing tomorrow’s captainship.
“you know, i didn’t know what to do with myself when the mannschaft started practicing together for world cup qualifiers,” mesut blurts out suddenly. “you and lukas and all of the other veterans were like these hotshots on pedestals, the gamemakers, and me, i was just this guy who was playing his first world cup and had worshipped the ground you walked on for years and years.”
miro’s eyebrows have migrated to the edge of his hairline. “what-mesut. i stand by what i said before. one day, somehow, you are going to make international football history, and the whole goddamn world is going to make you their king.” mesut glances up and there’s this naked, meek sort of look in his eyes reflected back at himself from miro’s, like he doesn’t know whether or not to believe him.
miro sighs. “look, kid. you don’t seem to realize the full depth and scope of your talent. which can be a good thing, don’t get me wrong-a lot of players today could do with a bit of humility.” a smile tugs at the corners of mesut’s mouth, crinkles the skin around his eyes. “but confidence is key, and hesitation at crucial times can kill you. play unpredictably and take calculated risks when the opportunities arise, and-” he winks, here, “-you might even surpass me one day. don’t let jogi or oliver or even princess anna-maria tell you otherwise.”
“thanks, miro,” he says drily. “i really appreciate the sentiment.”
the lights in the lobby are dim, now; they are the only two left. a dull roar from behind the closed door of the suite across from them probably signifies wohlfahrt’s rage at jogi’s stubborn refusal to rest despite a thirty-nine degree fever.
and then maybe it’s because miro’s looking at him with all the raw focus and intensity he usually reserves for the pitch, or perhaps mesut is just plain crazy and too tired of playing the perfect little midfielder all the time. or maybe miro’s words of praise are ringing just a bit too loudly in his ears, drowning out any cognizant common sense, because he’s leaning forward and closing that short gap between them-he’s tilting his head and pressing his lips against those of a person he has idolized for too fucking long for this to be wrong.
miro’s hand is warm as it comes around to connect with his nape. there’s a pocket of swirling heat building up in his chest, like something is fighting to burst out-and when he pulls back for air, lids half-lowered, miro is grinning at him again, a feral sort of expression on his face.
“what about anna-maria?” he asks breathlessly.
mesut feels as if he is standing on a steep precipice and about to jump off headfirst, uncharted waters beyond the cliff yawning down into darkness, into something strange and new and unknown.
“anna-maria who?” he finally returns, eyes fluttering shut when miro knocks the chair over in his haste to press open-mouthed kisses across mesut’s throat, the soft skin underneath his ears, the sharp line of his jaw.
they somehow end up in miro’s hotel room-his back is flush against the mattress of the large bed, miro working at the button of his jeans, pulling at his shirt. he hears the quiet click of a bedside drawer and then something cool and slippery is pressing into his ass, scissoring gently. mesut’s hands clench around his shoulders and miro stops, pauses to place a fleeting kiss at his temple.
“you are so, so beautiful,” he mouths into mesut’s ear, and a steady blush stains mesut’s skin a dark pink as he watches miro roll a condom down his dick and press inside. his head snaps back at the intrusion, hands trailing down miro’s back to fist at the pooled sheets around their waists.
“tell me if it hurts,” he breathes, and then he’s moving-mesut sighs shakily into the rhythm, the flex of hard muscle and the slick shift of skin on skin. he lets out a quiet cross between a hum and a gasp everytime miro thrusts in again, clasps his hands behind miro’s neck and groans when he reaches down to palm mesut’s cock, when he leans over to capture mesut’s lips in another bruising kiss.
the pillow underneath his head turns damp from perspiration, sweat dripping off the tips of miro’s hair to fall onto the bed as well. a slow-burning coil starts rising from low in mesut’s abdomen, and in a stunning display of flexibility, miro bends to tongue at the head of his dick-and then one final, forceful suck has mesut coming all over both their chests, semen splattering against miro’s face. he thrusts deeply once, twice, three times, and then he collapses forward, arms struggling to support his upper body as he rides the wave of orgasm.
mesut makes a face when miro beams and flicks his tongue out to lick at specks of his release still on miro’s cheek. “don’t do that,” he demands sleepily as miro reaches towards the bedside table for tissue to wipe them up as best he can.
“tastes good, you should try some next time,” is the last, snarky reply he hears before falling into blissfully exhausted sleep.
mesut wakes up in full out panic mode. his ass is on fire and he is in a room that is not his own; his bleary eyes try to survey the area, but then-ah, miro’s arm is coming around to rest heavily on his waist and pull him closer to the heat furnace behind him. “gutenmorgen.”
“this is completely embarrassing,” mesut moans out loud, pressing dry palms against his eyes in a vain attempt to clear them.
“oh?” he can feel miro’s smile against his shoulder. “why’s that?”
“i had the biggest crush on you when i was a teenager. i thought i’d grown out of it.”
“evidently not,” miro says cheerfully. “no complaints here. and i’m sure your id must be very pleased that you gave in to your sexual desires.”
“very funny.”
a silence occurs, in which mesut tries to shake himself fully awake without actually moving and miro strokes absentmindedly at his arm.
“can i ask you something?” mesut nods. “do you really think she converted to islam out of true love?” he doesn’t speak, just sighs and pushes back against miro’s chest, pulls the covers up to his chin against the drafty air conditioning. “surely you know what’s going to happen after you play your last world cup-when you get where i am.”
mesut grimaces. “can we not talk about her?”
“feeling guilty now, are you?”
“no,” he replies. “just conflicted.”
“conflicted,” miro repeats. “i can work with that.”
“say,” mesut says, realization slowly dawning. “what about sylwia?”
miro presses his elbow into the pillow and props his head up, grinning wickedly. “how do you know i don’t share all my dirty secrets with her and compare notes?”
mesut yelps and scrambles out of bed as fast as he can, the ache in his lower back forgotten. the deep blush doesn’t completely leave his skin until well after breakfast.
fin