[Fic - Real Madrid] I Want Every Kind of Kiss [We've Never Shared]
Title: I Want Every Kind of Kiss [We've Never Shared]
Fandom/Pairing: Real Madrid - Mesut Özil/Sergio Ramos
Rating: R
Author: onyxexistance/openmoments
Spoilers: --
Word Count: 3,703
Summary: Mesut and Sergio are dating and Mesut wonders if they're being too obvious.
Prompt: This is for ziphertis who 'won' our ridiculous game of, "When will Sergio and Xabi get a yellow?" Also used for this prompt over at footballkink2.
Author's Notes: ---
He knows he had a goofy smile on his face when he dedicated his goal to Mesut. He tried to keep it under control, tried to say it like it was just for a good friend, someone he cared about, but was just a friend. Except that would be lying and he’s never been good with lying about his feelings. They’re all there, on his sleeve, for everyone to see and this, this has been the hardest thing he’s ever done.
“You’re the most obvious person I know,” Iker tells him after he’s done with the interview, making his way to the locker room.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is what he replies with, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. They both know that’s a lie because if there’s anyone who knows him, it’s Iker. The only way he gets away with a lie is because Iker lets him, gives him his space, waits to tell him the truth. He likes knowing that Iker knows him this well and accepts him. That Iker does accept it and is still here. But, for now, it’s easier this way. To have it stay under the surface and not have to look it in the eyes.
Iker just rolls his eyes at him before clapping his hand on his shoulder and Sergio drops a kiss on his temple just before they enter the locker room. Inside it’s chaotic and Sergio can’t help the smile spreading across his face, the way everyone’s yelling at each other, dancing on benches.
He scans the room quickly and finds him sandwiched between Karim and Sami, the three of them listening to something on someone’s phone, kits slung over shoulders and clutched in hands as their heads bob to whatever beat they’re listening to.
Mesut looks up and catches him watching, offers a smile before Karim pokes at the phone in his hand and he pulls it away to his disappointment. There’s a brief exchange of words and Sergio’s sure that the only reason Sami’s saying anything is because he needs to translate half of what Mesut is saying for Karim.
The thought makes him shake his head before Marcelo bounces over with Pepe close behind and he gets pulled in to their celebratory mini conga line, Cris hanging back against the wall, Iker sitting on the bench next to him, calmly untying his boots.
They drive home separately most days, even though it makes sense for them to drive together. Mesut asks about it every so often, but after they had a big fight about it one night, with Mesut tight lipped and walking out, the door closing so quietly Sergio knew he was furious, he’s accepted it won’t happen, not like he wants it to.
Sometimes Sergio thinks it’s all his fault and that he should say yes, that he shouldn’t feel like the bottom of his stomach’s fallen out and all the air’s been pulled out of his lungs. But he does because he doesn’t what to acknowledge what the consequences would be. Would, not possibly because there’s a certainty he can’t shake off.
He explained it to Mesut, after. After he had knocked on the door, pressed his ear up against it and begged him to please open it up because there was a reason and that he wanted to say yes, to everything.
“You’re getting obvious,” is how he answers the phone as he maneuvers through traffic, signaling and pulling into the right lane.
“It’s harmless,” he reasons calmly and Sergio catches the blinker signaling right as well before pulling in behind him.
“Besides,” he continues as they stop when the light turns red, “you’re the one who got all stupid dedicating your goal to me. If I’m obvious then I don’t know what you were,” and Sergio doesn’t want to admit that he has a point.
“But I had to considering that whole “I put your gross, sweaty kit under mine,” deal that had José threatening to bury me alive,” he counters practically.
There’s nothing from the other end of the line as the light turns green and they drive up another two blocks before turning right.
“You still there?” he asks after it’s gotten too quiet and his blinker has turned off.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he replies and there’s a pause before he adds, quietly, “I wish you could love loudly, like you’re supposed to,” and Sergio has to let that sit for a minute, lets it rest against his heart for a minute because it almost hurts.
“Don’t say that,” he replies softly as he sees Mesut’s car pull into his driveway as he continues past to his.
“Why not? It’s true,” and there’s an edge of desperation to his voice and Sergio can picture him in his car, forehead against the wheel, the heel of his left hand pressed against his knee.
“No it’s not,” he tells Mesut, firmly, wanting him to shut up and stop talking because he’s starting to panic.
“I can tell when you’re lying, you know,” Mesut tells him and he can hear the slight crook of a smile in his voice and he realizes he’s been holding his breathe in.
“Looks like I’ll have to start practicing,” he teases and Mesut laughs. It’s dry and cut a little short, but it’s a laugh.
They’re silent again, both of them in their cars, meters apart, sitting the dark, just breathing at each other and Sergio likes this, likes how they can be quiet together. No words just to talk.
“You were fantastic tonight,” he finally says because he hasn’t said it and he knows Mesut’s smiling, shy and proud.
“You too,” he replies with and it’s not much but Sergio knows he means it with his whole being and that’s all that he needs.
“I’ll be over in ten?” and it’s a question even though they both know, by now, it’s a statement but he feels it’s polite to ask, just to let Mesut know he can say no if he ever wants to. His breathing always slows down, almost stops while he waits for Mesut’s answer, wonders if today will be the day Mesut says no.
“Like you need to ask anymore,” is what he replies with and the weight in his chest eases up and his breathing returns and he hangs up the phone as he opens the door, pulls his equipment bag out from the backseat.
He doesn’t even need ten minutes, it’s just what he always says. He dumps his smelly clothes into the laundry and putters around the kitchen for a couple of minutes, drinks a glass of water as he leans against the counter and sees a couple of lights turn on in Mesut’s house. He finishes his glass, rinses it and sticks it on the drainboard before checking his pockets and locking the house.
It took him a couple of months before he listened to Mesut and stopped knocking. He still pauses outside the door before he enters, knuckles resting against it before he turns the knob and lets himself in.
He almost passes by the living room on his way to the kitchen and then upstairs before he sees Mesut’s feet propped over the edge of the sofa. The TV’s playing softly and there are no lights on, though there are in the kitchen and, if he looks a little, there are lights on upstairs.
He frowns a little as he pauses for a moment, trying to make out Mesut’s dark head against the black of the room. Mesut doesn’t turn to look at him until he grabs his sock clad toes and then he smiles and they stand there like that, smiling at each other as the TV plays match highlights from the evening.
“Can I join you?” he finally asks and he knows Mesut just rolls his eyes as he doesn’t say anything. His grin stretches as Mesut rolls over and he climbs over the edge of the couch and slides in between the back of the couch and Mesut.
He props his head on his elbow, his other hand resting on the waistband of Mesut’s jeans even as Mesut adjusts his legs, tangles theirs all together. He likes this. Likes how Mesut feels pressed up against his chest, how he can hear him breathe. Likes knowing beyond a doubt that he’s there, touchable, solid.
“You never watch match highlights,” Sergio finally says and it sounds stupid but it’s true: Mesut doesn’t. He doesn’t normally enjoy it and usually finds some telenova to watch instead, has Sergio translate and explain what he doesn’t understand (which is normally all of it).
“I wanted to see our goals,” he says simply and Sergio moves his arm, slides it around his chest and pulls him closer.
“You know,” he teases, “You said you were going to dedicate your goal to me and I haven’t heard you do that yet.”
“Well you went and hogged the interview so you’ll just have to wait,” he says and Sergio laughs before pressing a kiss just behind Mesut’s ear.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, voice serious and he feels Mesut go still, stop blinking, stop breathing. “Next time I’ll let them interview you and let you tell them how ‘muy feliz’ you are about scoring with me,” and his mouth curves into a smile against Mesut’s neck before Mesut sits up and turns around, balancing precariously on the edge of the couch.
“Oh really?” he asks, eyebrows raised, looking down at Sergio, who stares up with wide eyes. He mutters something under his breathe, Sergio can’t quite make it out, but he figures it’s in German before Mesut says, “If they really knew who the lucky one was...,” and Sergio bursts out laughing as he reaches up and tugs Mesut down towards him.
He loves kissing Mesut. He makes it feel like so much more than just kissing. Sergio thinks maybe it’s because he’s young, remembers, knows, that he’s not naive, but that he’s got this exuberance, this desire to say so much with such a small act.
“Do you want to finish watching the highlights?” Sergio asks after he pulls back and Mesut glances over his shoulder at the TV, watching as the announcer starts discussing their match before he shrugs.
“No, it’s alright, I was there,” he replies cheekily and Sergio laughs as Mesut pushes himself over Sergio, straddling his hips, both hands on his chest.
Part II
Fandom/Pairing: Real Madrid - Mesut Özil/Sergio Ramos
Rating: R
Author: onyxexistance/openmoments
Spoilers: --
Word Count: 3,703
Summary: Mesut and Sergio are dating and Mesut wonders if they're being too obvious.
Prompt: This is for ziphertis who 'won' our ridiculous game of, "When will Sergio and Xabi get a yellow?" Also used for this prompt over at footballkink2.
Author's Notes: ---
He knows he had a goofy smile on his face when he dedicated his goal to Mesut. He tried to keep it under control, tried to say it like it was just for a good friend, someone he cared about, but was just a friend. Except that would be lying and he’s never been good with lying about his feelings. They’re all there, on his sleeve, for everyone to see and this, this has been the hardest thing he’s ever done.
“You’re the most obvious person I know,” Iker tells him after he’s done with the interview, making his way to the locker room.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is what he replies with, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. They both know that’s a lie because if there’s anyone who knows him, it’s Iker. The only way he gets away with a lie is because Iker lets him, gives him his space, waits to tell him the truth. He likes knowing that Iker knows him this well and accepts him. That Iker does accept it and is still here. But, for now, it’s easier this way. To have it stay under the surface and not have to look it in the eyes.
Iker just rolls his eyes at him before clapping his hand on his shoulder and Sergio drops a kiss on his temple just before they enter the locker room. Inside it’s chaotic and Sergio can’t help the smile spreading across his face, the way everyone’s yelling at each other, dancing on benches.
He scans the room quickly and finds him sandwiched between Karim and Sami, the three of them listening to something on someone’s phone, kits slung over shoulders and clutched in hands as their heads bob to whatever beat they’re listening to.
Mesut looks up and catches him watching, offers a smile before Karim pokes at the phone in his hand and he pulls it away to his disappointment. There’s a brief exchange of words and Sergio’s sure that the only reason Sami’s saying anything is because he needs to translate half of what Mesut is saying for Karim.
The thought makes him shake his head before Marcelo bounces over with Pepe close behind and he gets pulled in to their celebratory mini conga line, Cris hanging back against the wall, Iker sitting on the bench next to him, calmly untying his boots.
They drive home separately most days, even though it makes sense for them to drive together. Mesut asks about it every so often, but after they had a big fight about it one night, with Mesut tight lipped and walking out, the door closing so quietly Sergio knew he was furious, he’s accepted it won’t happen, not like he wants it to.
Sometimes Sergio thinks it’s all his fault and that he should say yes, that he shouldn’t feel like the bottom of his stomach’s fallen out and all the air’s been pulled out of his lungs. But he does because he doesn’t what to acknowledge what the consequences would be. Would, not possibly because there’s a certainty he can’t shake off.
He explained it to Mesut, after. After he had knocked on the door, pressed his ear up against it and begged him to please open it up because there was a reason and that he wanted to say yes, to everything.
“You’re getting obvious,” is how he answers the phone as he maneuvers through traffic, signaling and pulling into the right lane.
“It’s harmless,” he reasons calmly and Sergio catches the blinker signaling right as well before pulling in behind him.
“Besides,” he continues as they stop when the light turns red, “you’re the one who got all stupid dedicating your goal to me. If I’m obvious then I don’t know what you were,” and Sergio doesn’t want to admit that he has a point.
“But I had to considering that whole “I put your gross, sweaty kit under mine,” deal that had José threatening to bury me alive,” he counters practically.
There’s nothing from the other end of the line as the light turns green and they drive up another two blocks before turning right.
“You still there?” he asks after it’s gotten too quiet and his blinker has turned off.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he replies and there’s a pause before he adds, quietly, “I wish you could love loudly, like you’re supposed to,” and Sergio has to let that sit for a minute, lets it rest against his heart for a minute because it almost hurts.
“Don’t say that,” he replies softly as he sees Mesut’s car pull into his driveway as he continues past to his.
“Why not? It’s true,” and there’s an edge of desperation to his voice and Sergio can picture him in his car, forehead against the wheel, the heel of his left hand pressed against his knee.
“No it’s not,” he tells Mesut, firmly, wanting him to shut up and stop talking because he’s starting to panic.
“I can tell when you’re lying, you know,” Mesut tells him and he can hear the slight crook of a smile in his voice and he realizes he’s been holding his breathe in.
“Looks like I’ll have to start practicing,” he teases and Mesut laughs. It’s dry and cut a little short, but it’s a laugh.
They’re silent again, both of them in their cars, meters apart, sitting the dark, just breathing at each other and Sergio likes this, likes how they can be quiet together. No words just to talk.
“You were fantastic tonight,” he finally says because he hasn’t said it and he knows Mesut’s smiling, shy and proud.
“You too,” he replies with and it’s not much but Sergio knows he means it with his whole being and that’s all that he needs.
“I’ll be over in ten?” and it’s a question even though they both know, by now, it’s a statement but he feels it’s polite to ask, just to let Mesut know he can say no if he ever wants to. His breathing always slows down, almost stops while he waits for Mesut’s answer, wonders if today will be the day Mesut says no.
“Like you need to ask anymore,” is what he replies with and the weight in his chest eases up and his breathing returns and he hangs up the phone as he opens the door, pulls his equipment bag out from the backseat.
He doesn’t even need ten minutes, it’s just what he always says. He dumps his smelly clothes into the laundry and putters around the kitchen for a couple of minutes, drinks a glass of water as he leans against the counter and sees a couple of lights turn on in Mesut’s house. He finishes his glass, rinses it and sticks it on the drainboard before checking his pockets and locking the house.
It took him a couple of months before he listened to Mesut and stopped knocking. He still pauses outside the door before he enters, knuckles resting against it before he turns the knob and lets himself in.
He almost passes by the living room on his way to the kitchen and then upstairs before he sees Mesut’s feet propped over the edge of the sofa. The TV’s playing softly and there are no lights on, though there are in the kitchen and, if he looks a little, there are lights on upstairs.
He frowns a little as he pauses for a moment, trying to make out Mesut’s dark head against the black of the room. Mesut doesn’t turn to look at him until he grabs his sock clad toes and then he smiles and they stand there like that, smiling at each other as the TV plays match highlights from the evening.
“Can I join you?” he finally asks and he knows Mesut just rolls his eyes as he doesn’t say anything. His grin stretches as Mesut rolls over and he climbs over the edge of the couch and slides in between the back of the couch and Mesut.
He props his head on his elbow, his other hand resting on the waistband of Mesut’s jeans even as Mesut adjusts his legs, tangles theirs all together. He likes this. Likes how Mesut feels pressed up against his chest, how he can hear him breathe. Likes knowing beyond a doubt that he’s there, touchable, solid.
“You never watch match highlights,” Sergio finally says and it sounds stupid but it’s true: Mesut doesn’t. He doesn’t normally enjoy it and usually finds some telenova to watch instead, has Sergio translate and explain what he doesn’t understand (which is normally all of it).
“I wanted to see our goals,” he says simply and Sergio moves his arm, slides it around his chest and pulls him closer.
“You know,” he teases, “You said you were going to dedicate your goal to me and I haven’t heard you do that yet.”
“Well you went and hogged the interview so you’ll just have to wait,” he says and Sergio laughs before pressing a kiss just behind Mesut’s ear.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, voice serious and he feels Mesut go still, stop blinking, stop breathing. “Next time I’ll let them interview you and let you tell them how ‘muy feliz’ you are about scoring with me,” and his mouth curves into a smile against Mesut’s neck before Mesut sits up and turns around, balancing precariously on the edge of the couch.
“Oh really?” he asks, eyebrows raised, looking down at Sergio, who stares up with wide eyes. He mutters something under his breathe, Sergio can’t quite make it out, but he figures it’s in German before Mesut says, “If they really knew who the lucky one was...,” and Sergio bursts out laughing as he reaches up and tugs Mesut down towards him.
He loves kissing Mesut. He makes it feel like so much more than just kissing. Sergio thinks maybe it’s because he’s young, remembers, knows, that he’s not naive, but that he’s got this exuberance, this desire to say so much with such a small act.
“Do you want to finish watching the highlights?” Sergio asks after he pulls back and Mesut glances over his shoulder at the TV, watching as the announcer starts discussing their match before he shrugs.
“No, it’s alright, I was there,” he replies cheekily and Sergio laughs as Mesut pushes himself over Sergio, straddling his hips, both hands on his chest.
Part II