is it cause you don't mean it, or cause i don't feel it
title: just another heat wave
rating: pg
fandom: football
word count: 423
prompt: 08, crash
pairing: mesut, mesut/marko
summary: mesut just crashes.
notes: before mesut transferred to real, obviously. really sorry about the crappiness of this fic ): i've come to the realisation that i can't write mesut, which is really unfortunate ):
He always thought that friendships were easy. There’s nothing complicated when it comes to friends. He’d made sure that he knew where he stood with everyone and vice versa. Friendships, as far as he knows them to be, are a piece of cake.
That is until he meets Marko.
When people talk about love and coming to the realisation of being in love, it’s always the same story. They’d crashed into each other at full force-the speed of light. They’d experience this strange sort of feeling, some kind of pull that that pushed them into each other’s arms.
This is the feeling that Mesut experiences with Anna-Maria: the strange tug and pull, the churning in his stomach of something being just perfect. For the first time ever, Mesut finally understands what it’s like to be in love.
Except, it’s not really love.
Marko doesn’t barge into his life, doesn’t storm into it the way Anna-Maria had. He’s quiet, comforting and everything about him is everything that Anna-Maria is not. Marko gives Mesut this burn that doesn’t disappear even after he douses himself in cold water. And, for the first time in his life, Mesut finds that friendships are complicated. Complicated because he’s really not supposed to develop this kind of affection for Marko, he’s not supposed to burn for someone else.
What Mesut doesn’t understand is why there is no tug and pull, why he doesn’t just crash into Marko with everything that he’s got. He needs answers. It’s dark and they’re coming out of the change rooms and he acts on impulse. One moment he’s beside Marko, the next his fingers are in Marko’s hair, pulling him closer and closer and Marko just laughs.
Mesut so desperately wants to question him, wants answers because he’s been acting so so so strange, but this is Marko. Marko, looking up at him just waiting for something to happen, and really, who is he to deny that kind of request? So he puts their lips together, closes his eyes and just-oh, oh, oh, because now Mesut finally understands what it’s like to really crash into someone.
There is no physical crash, no getting under his skin in the most terrifying of ways, none of that. It is just this: a long, dark tunnel with no light and a type of burn that leaves a person breathless for long periods at a time, and most of all, the comfort that no matter where the tunnel leads, there is no feeling of loneliness.
Mesut crashes.
title: the stars aren't shining
rating: pg-13
fandom: football
word count: 1051
pairing: david villa/david silva
summary: five times david silva tried to say i love you, for freefallskyline.
notes: i apolgoise for shitty characterisation ):
i. You’re not the type of person to articulate how you feel into words. You and words don’t really mesh well because whenever you needed them most they always seem to fail you-poof, disappear. You prefer, instead, letting your actions speak for themselves.
When you touch the back of his shoulder at night, this is your way of saying I missed you, because anything other than that is far too much for you to handle.
ii. It’s always late at night when you get this odd knot in the pit of your stomach. You chalk it up to being tired despite it being only 9PM. So, you settle into bed without bothering to strip down to your boxers. You rub your stomach gently, willing for yourself to sleep, wishing for the knot to untie itself, to disappear.
It doesn’t.
You hear your cell vibrate on the bedside drawer and you reach up to get it, smiling when you see what the text says. Your fingers move quickly, mind too muddled to keep up with the pace and it’s only when the highlighted word send blinks at you does it click.
You hit delete, face heating up and roll onto your stomach. The knot just doubled without you noticing.
iii. He doesn’t tell you that he’s leaving until after the contract’s been signed and you’re half-hard in the passenger’s seat of his car, lips on your neck and hand down your pants. Screw being surprised, you’re goddamn shell shocked because this is Valencia, and he is David Villa.
You try to push him off you but he’s stronger, much stronger. He grunts and moves his body to get a better angle on your neck, his hand palming lazily at the front of your boxers. His lips are moving, you feel his tongue flick at your skin a few times, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s speaking or it’s because he’s him.
Even though he’s here, here right in front of you, all yours right in front of you, you can’t help but feel like you’re losing him. And you are, because he’s leaving Valencia and you’re staying put, unmoving. So, you tilt your head, mouth slightly open, begging for him to kiss you just this once. He does so, with more teeth than tongue, just the way you like it and fuck, it’s so good, so good, you wonder why he wants any of this to stop.
His cell rings, loud and clear in the car, cutting into the night and you think Patricia. You forgot about her-again, again, again, again. This isn’t like you, to forget such an important detail. Your eyes slide over to David who’s swearing, wiping sweat and precum onto your dark jeans, reaching around for his cell. When he answers you get that feeling again, that dreadful feeling of losing him and as he stays on the phone, you think maybe you lost him a long time ago.
He hangs up, sighing loudly and then reaches for your cock again, this time his hand sliding between the wet fabric of your boxers and sweat covered skin. You get this crazy idea in your head: to tell him, to talk about feelings and everything else under the sun.
You shudder, not sure if it’s the disgust that you feel at yourself or because his breath is hot and his mouth is warm.
iv. It’s still transfer season and this time you decide it’s time for something new-fresh. This time, it’s a decision you make for yourself, something that makes you happy. You want something bigger, better-no strings attached, no guilty conscious when you look at a certain player’s wife and daughters. You don’t want to intrude (anymore).
Alexis is the first one to confront you, which shouldn’t surprise you but it does. His lips are pressed into a thin line as he leans against the lockers, towering over you.
“You’re sure?” he asks, even though you don’t need to answer because he knows, you can see it in the way his eyes rake over your body, lingering at the fading hickey on your neck.
“Yes,” you reply, and the word is so, so heavy on your tongue.
Alexis doesn’t say anything after that, just reaches a hand out, fingers flitting through your hair lightly for a brief second. You know what Alexis wants, but you can’t give it to him because he’s not-you stop yourself from finishing that thought. And then you think, to hell with it because there’s nothing stopping you from saying it right? Alexis may not be, well-Alexis may be Alexis but he is still everything about Valencia to you, except.
He’s not.
You keep your mouth shut.
v. Your flight leaves in an hour and you half-expected him to volunteer to go with you, to wait for your plane to take flight. He doesn’t, which should’ve been obvious but it doesn’t stop the knot in your stomach from forming.
He calls, though, and this is surprising.
“Leaving soon?” he says, voice rough and you know he’d just woken up.
“In an hour.”
“Mmm,” he replies. “Doesn’t it rain a lot in England?”
“I think so,” you say, wondering where he’s going with this. “Why?”
“Aren’t you going to miss the sun?” You smile into the curve of the phone, because this is his way of saying aren’t you going to miss me.
“Possibly,” you answer, “I’ll come visit and stuff since my family’s still here.”
He doesn’t respond, the only indication that he’s still there is the static and his heavy breathing. You begin to think that it’s one of those times, that you should actually be man about this and admit your feelings.
And then he sighs, and whatever courage you’d given yourself in that five seconds disappears instantly.
“Take care of yourself, chico,” he says, and your lips twitch at chico because it’s not a word that’s often in his vocabulary.
“Yeah, you t-”
He hangs up before you can finish your sentence, and you sigh as you flip your phone close. That’s as far as any kind of confession you’re going to get from him. It should hurt, but it doesn’t.
(Maybe this is where the new beginning starts, maybe, just maybe.)
rating: pg
fandom: football
word count: 423
prompt: 08, crash
pairing: mesut, mesut/marko
summary: mesut just crashes.
notes: before mesut transferred to real, obviously. really sorry about the crappiness of this fic ): i've come to the realisation that i can't write mesut, which is really unfortunate ):
He always thought that friendships were easy. There’s nothing complicated when it comes to friends. He’d made sure that he knew where he stood with everyone and vice versa. Friendships, as far as he knows them to be, are a piece of cake.
That is until he meets Marko.
When people talk about love and coming to the realisation of being in love, it’s always the same story. They’d crashed into each other at full force-the speed of light. They’d experience this strange sort of feeling, some kind of pull that that pushed them into each other’s arms.
This is the feeling that Mesut experiences with Anna-Maria: the strange tug and pull, the churning in his stomach of something being just perfect. For the first time ever, Mesut finally understands what it’s like to be in love.
Except, it’s not really love.
Marko doesn’t barge into his life, doesn’t storm into it the way Anna-Maria had. He’s quiet, comforting and everything about him is everything that Anna-Maria is not. Marko gives Mesut this burn that doesn’t disappear even after he douses himself in cold water. And, for the first time in his life, Mesut finds that friendships are complicated. Complicated because he’s really not supposed to develop this kind of affection for Marko, he’s not supposed to burn for someone else.
What Mesut doesn’t understand is why there is no tug and pull, why he doesn’t just crash into Marko with everything that he’s got. He needs answers. It’s dark and they’re coming out of the change rooms and he acts on impulse. One moment he’s beside Marko, the next his fingers are in Marko’s hair, pulling him closer and closer and Marko just laughs.
Mesut so desperately wants to question him, wants answers because he’s been acting so so so strange, but this is Marko. Marko, looking up at him just waiting for something to happen, and really, who is he to deny that kind of request? So he puts their lips together, closes his eyes and just-oh, oh, oh, because now Mesut finally understands what it’s like to really crash into someone.
There is no physical crash, no getting under his skin in the most terrifying of ways, none of that. It is just this: a long, dark tunnel with no light and a type of burn that leaves a person breathless for long periods at a time, and most of all, the comfort that no matter where the tunnel leads, there is no feeling of loneliness.
Mesut crashes.
title: the stars aren't shining
rating: pg-13
fandom: football
word count: 1051
pairing: david villa/david silva
summary: five times david silva tried to say i love you, for freefallskyline.
notes: i apolgoise for shitty characterisation ):
i. You’re not the type of person to articulate how you feel into words. You and words don’t really mesh well because whenever you needed them most they always seem to fail you-poof, disappear. You prefer, instead, letting your actions speak for themselves.
When you touch the back of his shoulder at night, this is your way of saying I missed you, because anything other than that is far too much for you to handle.
ii. It’s always late at night when you get this odd knot in the pit of your stomach. You chalk it up to being tired despite it being only 9PM. So, you settle into bed without bothering to strip down to your boxers. You rub your stomach gently, willing for yourself to sleep, wishing for the knot to untie itself, to disappear.
It doesn’t.
You hear your cell vibrate on the bedside drawer and you reach up to get it, smiling when you see what the text says. Your fingers move quickly, mind too muddled to keep up with the pace and it’s only when the highlighted word send blinks at you does it click.
You hit delete, face heating up and roll onto your stomach. The knot just doubled without you noticing.
iii. He doesn’t tell you that he’s leaving until after the contract’s been signed and you’re half-hard in the passenger’s seat of his car, lips on your neck and hand down your pants. Screw being surprised, you’re goddamn shell shocked because this is Valencia, and he is David Villa.
You try to push him off you but he’s stronger, much stronger. He grunts and moves his body to get a better angle on your neck, his hand palming lazily at the front of your boxers. His lips are moving, you feel his tongue flick at your skin a few times, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s speaking or it’s because he’s him.
Even though he’s here, here right in front of you, all yours right in front of you, you can’t help but feel like you’re losing him. And you are, because he’s leaving Valencia and you’re staying put, unmoving. So, you tilt your head, mouth slightly open, begging for him to kiss you just this once. He does so, with more teeth than tongue, just the way you like it and fuck, it’s so good, so good, you wonder why he wants any of this to stop.
His cell rings, loud and clear in the car, cutting into the night and you think Patricia. You forgot about her-again, again, again, again. This isn’t like you, to forget such an important detail. Your eyes slide over to David who’s swearing, wiping sweat and precum onto your dark jeans, reaching around for his cell. When he answers you get that feeling again, that dreadful feeling of losing him and as he stays on the phone, you think maybe you lost him a long time ago.
He hangs up, sighing loudly and then reaches for your cock again, this time his hand sliding between the wet fabric of your boxers and sweat covered skin. You get this crazy idea in your head: to tell him, to talk about feelings and everything else under the sun.
You shudder, not sure if it’s the disgust that you feel at yourself or because his breath is hot and his mouth is warm.
iv. It’s still transfer season and this time you decide it’s time for something new-fresh. This time, it’s a decision you make for yourself, something that makes you happy. You want something bigger, better-no strings attached, no guilty conscious when you look at a certain player’s wife and daughters. You don’t want to intrude (anymore).
Alexis is the first one to confront you, which shouldn’t surprise you but it does. His lips are pressed into a thin line as he leans against the lockers, towering over you.
“You’re sure?” he asks, even though you don’t need to answer because he knows, you can see it in the way his eyes rake over your body, lingering at the fading hickey on your neck.
“Yes,” you reply, and the word is so, so heavy on your tongue.
Alexis doesn’t say anything after that, just reaches a hand out, fingers flitting through your hair lightly for a brief second. You know what Alexis wants, but you can’t give it to him because he’s not-you stop yourself from finishing that thought. And then you think, to hell with it because there’s nothing stopping you from saying it right? Alexis may not be, well-Alexis may be Alexis but he is still everything about Valencia to you, except.
He’s not.
You keep your mouth shut.
v. Your flight leaves in an hour and you half-expected him to volunteer to go with you, to wait for your plane to take flight. He doesn’t, which should’ve been obvious but it doesn’t stop the knot in your stomach from forming.
He calls, though, and this is surprising.
“Leaving soon?” he says, voice rough and you know he’d just woken up.
“In an hour.”
“Mmm,” he replies. “Doesn’t it rain a lot in England?”
“I think so,” you say, wondering where he’s going with this. “Why?”
“Aren’t you going to miss the sun?” You smile into the curve of the phone, because this is his way of saying aren’t you going to miss me.
“Possibly,” you answer, “I’ll come visit and stuff since my family’s still here.”
He doesn’t respond, the only indication that he’s still there is the static and his heavy breathing. You begin to think that it’s one of those times, that you should actually be man about this and admit your feelings.
And then he sighs, and whatever courage you’d given yourself in that five seconds disappears instantly.
“Take care of yourself, chico,” he says, and your lips twitch at chico because it’s not a word that’s often in his vocabulary.
“Yeah, you t-”
He hangs up before you can finish your sentence, and you sigh as you flip your phone close. That’s as far as any kind of confession you’re going to get from him. It should hurt, but it doesn’t.
(Maybe this is where the new beginning starts, maybe, just maybe.)