[oneshot] if you can't hold on (hold on)
Title: if you can't hold on (hold on)
Pairing: miroslav klose/mesut özil
Rating: nc17
Genre: porn without plot
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: gratuitous porn of the voyeuristic variety. written for an anon at footballkink who wanted hot and bothered özil/klose jacking off, 1,290 words.
Miro is very, very flexible for a thirty-two year old.
Mesut knows this because every morning at four, Miro is out on the small, bright-lit field behind their hotel doing warm-up stretches and performing random feats of acrobatics without his shirt on. And this is what he has to resort to-spying on one of his own fucking teammates whenever insomnia strikes-because everyone else sleeps in until seven, because Anna-Maria is never there when he needs her, and because, well, this is Miroslav Klose, and who would pass up the chance to watch him train?
But this is more than just watching him train, Mesut thinks; this is almost voyeurism because there is so much raw beauty in the way Miro dribbles, in the way he taps the ball when he juggles, how it seems to kiss his ankles and his kneecaps and the places where his shoulders meet his chest.
There’s a chilly draft coming from the stairs leading up to the lobby of their floor, and it raises the hairs along Mesut’s nape as he sees Miro’s face break into a genuine grin, the first he’s seen since after the game against Spain.
His heart nearly pounds out of his chest when Miro starts running towards the window he’s peering out of-and then Mesut realizes he’s just grabbing a bottle from the sideline and dumping its contents over his head. What the fuck, he thinks, because it’s freezing outside, but then Miro is running a hand through his hair and rivulets of water are running down his torso, carving immaculate patterns into his skin that Mesut can see even from his dark perch on the second story of the hotel.
An inexplicably warm feeling starts building up in the pit of his stomach, becoming more pronounced as Miro bends to sit down and stretch (wow, how pathetic am I, Mesut thinks, that I’ve memorized his whole workout schedule?), his shorts pulling at odd places to frame strong thighs. For a second, Mesut wonders what it would feel like to wrap his legs around those hips, to run a hand down Miro’s side and curl it at his waist, to press fingertips against firm shoulders.
Before he can think about how much of violation this is or how easy it would be for someone to step outside of their room and see him splayed out against the couch, his hand is already under the waistband of his boxers, his breath coming out in hot pants. When he looks to the window again, Miro is up and running with the ball, his feet so light on the ground that it seems like he’s tap-dancing with it, performing effortless feints and cuts around invisible defenders.
A soft moan escapes Mesut’s mouth as Miro shoots the ball into the top-left corner and the net billows wildly. Mesut’s sweaty palm gives a particularly vigorous pull at his throbbing dick, his eyes half-closing in arousal. If he shuts them all the way, he can pretend that it’s Miro who’s jerking him off-and that it's not his comforter but Miro’s body that is pliable and heated and wrapped around his own.
His eyes fly open when he comes, a choked gasp wrestling its way out of his mouth and into the cool lobby air, sticky shirt plastered to his skin. Fuck, is the first thought that enters his mind, but he hasn’t even had time to pull his hand out of his boxers when-
“What are you doing?” Lukas’s sleepy voice floats over from down the hall, and to Mesut’s great mortification, he is peering straight at him.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Mesut manages shakily-it's a half-truth, really-and he watches Lukas pause, puzzled, before he shrugs and mutters an easy okay. The minute Lukas ducks back into his room, Mesut sprints to his own and makes for the bathroom, face burning.
Mesut likes staying late after practice and doing extra runs and long stretches; he likes warming down slow, so he never gets to the locker room until almost everyone else is gone. Miro would probably have never known if he hadn't left his water bottle behind one night and returned to retrieve it. The pitch is still and empty when he steps onto the grass, save for the far right corner where Mesut is still doing toe touches, bright pink cleats flashing in the light.
He shakes off the errant tingle that runs down his spine, grabs his bottle off the bench and leaves. Of course, it makes sense that it's only after he's done cleaning up and already halfway through the front lobby of the stadium that he realizes he's forgotten his practice kit hanging on the wall outside one of the shower stalls. Jesus, he thinks, marching angrily back down the stairs, two at a time. He's only thirty-two, which may be old in football years but certainly not in real life-it's far too early for him to be this absent-minded.
The locker room is cold and dimly lit when he returns. He can see the red sleeve of his jersey down the long hall to the showers and strides quickly towards it, pulls it off the hook. In his haste to leave, a puddle on the floor sends him crashing backwards into one of the stalls, nearly breaking his head on the smooth, hard tile. The swishing curtain twists strangely in his vision and he closes his eyes, hand pressed against where his skull hit the wall.
There's a clatter from outside the stall and he freezes, yanks his legs in and fists the kit that's slowly soaking water off the wet floor. When he peers around the shower curtain, he sees Mesut pulling off his clothes and he jerks backward before he can see anything, almost colliding with the wall again.
Miro lets a shaky breath out when he hears the noise of rushing water. He leans forward slowly, as if some sort of magnet is pulling his head. He can't help but stare as cascades of water make their way down Mesut's torso, some pooling for a moment at the jut of his hip before slipping over tan skin and onto the floor, and-God, why isn't his fucking curtain drawn?
Exhibitionist, Miro thinks, but he's not complaining because the friction against his jeans has him slipping a hand inside and palming his half-hard dick, trying in vain to will it down. Mesut chooses this time to fully face the opposite wall and Miro can see the flex of firm muscle as he shifts on his feet and cards shampoo into his hair. His thumb slips over the head of his erection and he gasps, the sound muffled by the damp jersey he's brought to his face. He can't close his eyes: Mesut is reaching for the soap now, is running his own hands everywhere, and it doesn't matter that the touch isn't remotely sexual because it's driving Miro crazy anyway, makes him stroke faster and faster in his pants until-
He bites his lip to stop the moan that threatens to escape his mouth when he comes-bites so hard that he draws a little blood, its coppery taste warm on his tongue. When the heady rush of post-orgasmic bliss fades, Mesut is toweling off and pulling fresh clothes on. Miro relaxes and leans back against the wall, regains his breath as Mesut gathers his things and prepares to leave, and then-
"I know you're there," Mesut says. Blood is pounding loudly in Miro's ears and the kid is fucking laughing. "See you at practice tomorrow, Miro."
It takes an extra moment after Mesut leaves for it to sink in completely.
"Fuck my life."
fin
A/N: this is me forever: (/________________\) title from all these things that i've done by the killers.
Pairing: miroslav klose/mesut özil
Rating: nc17
Genre: porn without plot
Warnings: swearing, sex
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: gratuitous porn of the voyeuristic variety. written for an anon at footballkink who wanted hot and bothered özil/klose jacking off, 1,290 words.
Miro is very, very flexible for a thirty-two year old.
Mesut knows this because every morning at four, Miro is out on the small, bright-lit field behind their hotel doing warm-up stretches and performing random feats of acrobatics without his shirt on. And this is what he has to resort to-spying on one of his own fucking teammates whenever insomnia strikes-because everyone else sleeps in until seven, because Anna-Maria is never there when he needs her, and because, well, this is Miroslav Klose, and who would pass up the chance to watch him train?
But this is more than just watching him train, Mesut thinks; this is almost voyeurism because there is so much raw beauty in the way Miro dribbles, in the way he taps the ball when he juggles, how it seems to kiss his ankles and his kneecaps and the places where his shoulders meet his chest.
There’s a chilly draft coming from the stairs leading up to the lobby of their floor, and it raises the hairs along Mesut’s nape as he sees Miro’s face break into a genuine grin, the first he’s seen since after the game against Spain.
His heart nearly pounds out of his chest when Miro starts running towards the window he’s peering out of-and then Mesut realizes he’s just grabbing a bottle from the sideline and dumping its contents over his head. What the fuck, he thinks, because it’s freezing outside, but then Miro is running a hand through his hair and rivulets of water are running down his torso, carving immaculate patterns into his skin that Mesut can see even from his dark perch on the second story of the hotel.
An inexplicably warm feeling starts building up in the pit of his stomach, becoming more pronounced as Miro bends to sit down and stretch (wow, how pathetic am I, Mesut thinks, that I’ve memorized his whole workout schedule?), his shorts pulling at odd places to frame strong thighs. For a second, Mesut wonders what it would feel like to wrap his legs around those hips, to run a hand down Miro’s side and curl it at his waist, to press fingertips against firm shoulders.
Before he can think about how much of violation this is or how easy it would be for someone to step outside of their room and see him splayed out against the couch, his hand is already under the waistband of his boxers, his breath coming out in hot pants. When he looks to the window again, Miro is up and running with the ball, his feet so light on the ground that it seems like he’s tap-dancing with it, performing effortless feints and cuts around invisible defenders.
A soft moan escapes Mesut’s mouth as Miro shoots the ball into the top-left corner and the net billows wildly. Mesut’s sweaty palm gives a particularly vigorous pull at his throbbing dick, his eyes half-closing in arousal. If he shuts them all the way, he can pretend that it’s Miro who’s jerking him off-and that it's not his comforter but Miro’s body that is pliable and heated and wrapped around his own.
His eyes fly open when he comes, a choked gasp wrestling its way out of his mouth and into the cool lobby air, sticky shirt plastered to his skin. Fuck, is the first thought that enters his mind, but he hasn’t even had time to pull his hand out of his boxers when-
“What are you doing?” Lukas’s sleepy voice floats over from down the hall, and to Mesut’s great mortification, he is peering straight at him.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Mesut manages shakily-it's a half-truth, really-and he watches Lukas pause, puzzled, before he shrugs and mutters an easy okay. The minute Lukas ducks back into his room, Mesut sprints to his own and makes for the bathroom, face burning.
Mesut likes staying late after practice and doing extra runs and long stretches; he likes warming down slow, so he never gets to the locker room until almost everyone else is gone. Miro would probably have never known if he hadn't left his water bottle behind one night and returned to retrieve it. The pitch is still and empty when he steps onto the grass, save for the far right corner where Mesut is still doing toe touches, bright pink cleats flashing in the light.
He shakes off the errant tingle that runs down his spine, grabs his bottle off the bench and leaves. Of course, it makes sense that it's only after he's done cleaning up and already halfway through the front lobby of the stadium that he realizes he's forgotten his practice kit hanging on the wall outside one of the shower stalls. Jesus, he thinks, marching angrily back down the stairs, two at a time. He's only thirty-two, which may be old in football years but certainly not in real life-it's far too early for him to be this absent-minded.
The locker room is cold and dimly lit when he returns. He can see the red sleeve of his jersey down the long hall to the showers and strides quickly towards it, pulls it off the hook. In his haste to leave, a puddle on the floor sends him crashing backwards into one of the stalls, nearly breaking his head on the smooth, hard tile. The swishing curtain twists strangely in his vision and he closes his eyes, hand pressed against where his skull hit the wall.
There's a clatter from outside the stall and he freezes, yanks his legs in and fists the kit that's slowly soaking water off the wet floor. When he peers around the shower curtain, he sees Mesut pulling off his clothes and he jerks backward before he can see anything, almost colliding with the wall again.
Miro lets a shaky breath out when he hears the noise of rushing water. He leans forward slowly, as if some sort of magnet is pulling his head. He can't help but stare as cascades of water make their way down Mesut's torso, some pooling for a moment at the jut of his hip before slipping over tan skin and onto the floor, and-God, why isn't his fucking curtain drawn?
Exhibitionist, Miro thinks, but he's not complaining because the friction against his jeans has him slipping a hand inside and palming his half-hard dick, trying in vain to will it down. Mesut chooses this time to fully face the opposite wall and Miro can see the flex of firm muscle as he shifts on his feet and cards shampoo into his hair. His thumb slips over the head of his erection and he gasps, the sound muffled by the damp jersey he's brought to his face. He can't close his eyes: Mesut is reaching for the soap now, is running his own hands everywhere, and it doesn't matter that the touch isn't remotely sexual because it's driving Miro crazy anyway, makes him stroke faster and faster in his pants until-
He bites his lip to stop the moan that threatens to escape his mouth when he comes-bites so hard that he draws a little blood, its coppery taste warm on his tongue. When the heady rush of post-orgasmic bliss fades, Mesut is toweling off and pulling fresh clothes on. Miro relaxes and leans back against the wall, regains his breath as Mesut gathers his things and prepares to leave, and then-
"I know you're there," Mesut says. Blood is pounding loudly in Miro's ears and the kid is fucking laughing. "See you at practice tomorrow, Miro."
It takes an extra moment after Mesut leaves for it to sink in completely.
"Fuck my life."
fin
A/N: this is me forever: (/________________\) title from all these things that i've done by the killers.