prompts #1
Aug. 3rd, 2025 10:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
footballmemeWelcome to this Football Kink/Prompt meme. You can leave a prompt or request for a fic and comment to fill a prompt.
Prompts and fills of all ratings, ships, eras and topics within the theme of football RPF are welcome.
Only post one prompt per comment.
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Please remember YKINMK, the age-old rule of Don't Like Don't Read and be reasonable when posting about real life things.
Anonymous comments are enabled.
FILLS/FICS ARE COLLECTED HERE.
Helpful links:
And now kick off below! ⚽
Prompts and fills of all ratings, ships, eras and topics within the theme of football RPF are welcome.
Only post one prompt per comment.
This meme is choose not to warn! Content warnings are encouraged but will not be enforced.
Please remember YKINMK, the age-old rule of Don't Like Don't Read and be reasonable when posting about real life things.
Anonymous comments are enabled.
FILLS/FICS ARE COLLECTED HERE.
Helpful links:
- questions posts
- example list of kinks and tropes
- kink generator
- men's football rpf / women's football rpf / sports rpf on ao3
And now kick off below! ⚽
frimpong/wirtz, transferring together
Date: 2025-08-03 09:04 pm (UTC)Re: frimpong/wirtz, transferring together
Date: 2025-09-29 08:47 pm (UTC)https://archiveofourown.org/works/71554711
Re: frimpong/wirtz, transferring together
Date: 2025-09-30 03:08 pm (UTC)Mikel Arteta/Martin Odegaard
Date: 2025-08-03 09:15 pm (UTC)Jamal Musiala/Michael Olise, CWC shenanigans
Date: 2025-08-03 09:56 pm (UTC)Jamal/Michael, halftime show
Date: 2025-08-04 06:09 pm (UTC)---
They’re sitting at the pool area, Michael on one of the deck chairs and Jamal on the edge of the pool, when Jamal says it out loud for the first time.
“Do you ever feel like you have no idea what you’re doing?”
Jamal stares at the coiling reflection of himself in the swirls of the water as he speaks. The waves from Manuel treading water at the far end of the pool are reaching him even here.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jamal can see Michael look up from his phone, squinting. “Not really,” he replies. “That sounds– existential.”
“No, I mean, does this not feel insane to you? Middle of June and we’re in Florida still playing matches?”
Michael shrugs, puts his phone into the pocket of his shorts and lifts himself off the deck chair. He stretches then, with a little satisfied sound, and Jamal’s not looking, he really isn’t, but Michael’s shoulder blades stand out against the orange-red fabric of his shirt and the muscles of his jaw are working and that’s– just an observation.
Jamal forces his stare back onto the surface of the pool. Michael sits down next to him, legs in the water close to Jamal’s, and their reflections blend with each other and with the glare of the afternoon sun.
“I guess it is insane,” Michael says in that flat tone that Jamal still has trouble deciphering sometimes. He’s also smiling slightly, though, leaning back relaxedly with his hands on the paved path behind them.
And, in a way, that’s the part Jamal’s been confused about, too. That he clicks through his Insta stories full of vacation photos, of beaches he should be laying on, of cocktails he should be drinking and that he really does not mind that he’s doing neither. That his Insta stories would be Michael in his Bayern gear, head down, barely visible dimples. Jamal lay awake in his own sweat last night, AC on blast, thinking about it extensively and only stopping when he was afraid to arrive at the inevitable conclusion.
“Give me your phone,” Jamal says abruptly and Michael cocks his head in reply but he does the crazy thing of actually handing the phone to Jamal, no questions asked. It makes Jamal feel a little delirious as he throws the phone back onto the deck chair and then pushes Michael into the pool.
The splashing sound along with Michael’s high-pitched yell makes Manuel shout something at them from the other end of the pool, but Jamal doesn’t care one bit and just dives down behind Michael, luke warm water enveloping him like blanket.
He has to blink a couple of times before he can see anything under the surface and even then he can barely make out Michael through the wall of bubbles at first. For a moment everything seems in slow motion down here, like on a foreign blue-tinted planet with distorted sound.
Jamal pushes himself away from the tiled wall of the pool towards Michael, two strokes until he can get ahold of Michael’s shirt and pull him back down from where Michael was already kicking back up towards the air.
Michael snorts, which Jamal can tell because there’s tiny air bubbles coming from his nose, and reaches towards Jamal, too. His hand ends up on Jamal’s shorts right where his hip joint hurts a bit more than it reasonably should, for a twenty-two-year-old.
They stare at each other for a moment, a split second even if it feels hours longer, and all Jamal can think about is that he could kiss Michael down here in the water, swapping the air in their lungs, and nobody would know. Nobody would know.
The urgency of the thought hits Jamal so suddenly that it pushes his breath out of his mouth and has him let go of Michael’s shirt. Freed again, Michael swims back up to the surface, Jamal watching his chest, his legs, his feet vanish as he climbs out of the pool entirely.
Jamal follows. His lungs are burning and he gasps pathetically as soon as he reaches the hot air again. He wipes away the water dripping from his hair down his face as he clings to the edge of the pool.
Michael’s back in the deck chair, phone in hand, dripping wet. “You’re insane,” he says, way too kind, and Jamal laughs because he doesn't know what else to do and dives back under.
Re: Jamal/Michael, halftime show
Date: 2025-08-12 10:28 pm (UTC)Robertson/Salah
Date: 2025-08-04 07:12 pm (UTC)Robertson/Salah
Date: 2025-08-04 07:17 pm (UTC)Robertson/Salah - last call, baby
Date: 2025-08-09 09:41 pm (UTC)---
Andy can hear his pulse woosh in his ears as he swipes through his weather app for the fifth time. Still cloudy with spots of sun tomorrow, same thing it said the last four times he checked.
It’s obviously starting to look weird, the way everyone else is on their way out the door, freshly showered, and Andy’s still sitting here in full kit with a towel across his lap. But fuck if that’s his fault and not Mo’s for calling him a good boy twice during passing exercises today. And thinking about it again has his dick perking up again with renewed excitement, brilliant.
“You try to become a statue here?” Tsimi ribs him from somewhere on his right while he’s dousing himself in a bloody appalling amount of aftershave.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” Andy mutters and starts to rummage through his bag as if he was looking for something, his shower gel maybe, and was actually about to get up any second now, drop the towel and show everyone the hard-on that’s likely very visible even pressing through the two layers of compression and footy shorts.
It buys him time enough to see the other guys to clear out without becoming the centre of banter for at least the next two weeks, though he’s too cowardly to look straight into the corner where Mo’s leaning against the wall next to the flipchart.
Only after Ibou is the last to leave, Andy allows himself to look up properly and watches as Mo gets up and closes the door of the locker room as if it’s the most regular thing to do. It’s not made to be truly locked, not by the players, anyway, but there’s the decisive click of the handle and then there’s Mo pushing a box of Gatorade up against the door with his foot to block it.
“You’re easy,” Mo says then, satisfied grin directed at Andy. Wanker.
“I’m not,” Andy replies, burying his nails into the towel across his thighs, but his voice goes up so embarrassingly high when Mo walks towards him that it ends up sounding more like question. And maybe he is. Easy. Been folding without pressure for Mo ever since the first time, drunk and picking confetti out of each other’s hair in Madrid, and then a whole year later after they had both tried to pretend not to remember that first time.
They’ve come a long way, Andy thinks nervously, from the scared hands-over-mouths hook-ups in locked hotel suites past curfew to his wet dream of doing it in Kirkby, visible for anyone strong enough to push a couple of Gatorade bottles away.
Mo sits down next to Andy on the bench, grabs the towel from his lap and drops it on the floor without looking. He smells like his citrusy shower gel and the supposedly scentless beard oil that Andy could still pick out of a line-up by smell, making Andy acutely aware that the sweat from training has barely dried on himself. Mo doesn’t seem to mind though when he unceremoniously puts his hand right on top of his dick, pressing the heel of his hand against Andy’s shorts so firmly that Andy curls in on himself a little.
“Hm,” Mo says, an appreciative sound, “Was it the good boy? Or the good boy in front of everyone else?” It can’t really have been just the second one because the words still go straight to Andy’s cock even now, said into the silence of the empty locker room.
“You can’t do that shit in training, man,” Andy objects weakly, Mo’s hand warm and promising and unmoving and making him tremble just a little. “I can’t be coming in my pants in front of the gaffer. Fucking hell, can you just–”
Andy leans over and kisses Mo who follows the lead right until it’s him who’s leading, tongue against Andy’s teeth, pulling him into this lap by the collar of Andy’s training jersey.
It’s as awkward as anything, Mo half-sitting half-lying on the bench and Andy plastered on top of him, trying to keep himself from rutting like a badly-behaved dog waiting for the go signal. When Andy blindly reaches around against the lockers to support his weight, his hand knocks against somebody’s boot, maybe Joe’s, before he can brace himself on the wood of the bench.
“Eager there, mate,” Mo breaks the kiss and holds Andy’s face by his chin, forces him to make eye contact. “You’re not gonna fuck me now, we just ran five miles,” he adds and Andy is so gone that all he can think is, oh God, Jesus, Gerrard, let there be a ‘but’.
No matter how relaxed Mo is trying to look, Andy can clearly tell he’s riled up, too. Andy rocks against him once more and slides his free hand up to rub Mo’s pec through the linen of his shirt, and it makes Mo’s eyes glaze over, just for a moment, in the most delicious way.
“But,” Mo continues, voice rough, and Andy’s dick twitches happily at that, “you’re still going to come. Come on, get out of these, Robbo.”
Mo tugs Andy’s shorts down, and then the compressions shorts are a bitch to get out off, especially with a hard-on – clearly Nike never thought to take that into account. Finally Andy’s cock does spring free, though, and Andy feels like he’s going to burst when Mo spits into his hand and gives him a few slow strokes.
Andy would have taken the simple handjob. Gladly. But Mo’s clearly got something else in mind, shifts around a little under Andy, bunches up the legs of his shorts with the hand that’s not holding Andy’s cock and, well, nobody’s ever said that Andrew Robertson was a slow learner.
Mo’s thighs are smooth skin, dusted with dark hair and slightly oily from whatever shit he put on after his shower. His quadriceps flexes when when he spreads his legs a little, just enough for Andy’s dick to slide between this thighs, and then pushes them together again. And, fuck, it’s– so– it’s amazing. Heavenly friction for Andy to rut into and a whole new memory to banish from his mind the next time he’s going to be watching Mo do squats.
Andy fucks into Mo’s thighs, feeling hot and flushed all over, sweat running down his neck into the tracking vest below his jersey again. Small mercy is that he already dropped the tracker itself off with the staff so no need for an awkward explanation about what that extra workout after training was all about.
“I told you,” Mo says, breathless and with his hand frantically working his cock that’s squished between them by now, “so fucking eager.”
“Please, Mo– I– please, fuck, tell me again,” Andy says desperately and grips onto Mo’s thigh, inadvertently digs into the meat of the muscle there so hard it must burn at least a little as he feels the heat rise up inside of him, roll over him.
“Good boy,” Mo complies, and Andy bucks against him one more time before he finally comes.
Maybe it’s fate that Andy’s towel comes in handy again afterwards for clean-up.
“I was serious about you not doing this in training again. And Jesus, we can’t fuck in here again,” Andy says but he probably doesn’t sound very convincing, sitting here with just his training shirt on and his soft dick out.
“There’s always Anfield,” Mo says with an innocent smile and graciously accepts the come-stained towel being thrown at his head in response.
Re: Robertson/Salah - last call, baby
Date: 2025-08-10 06:46 pm (UTC)Re: Robertson/Salah - last call, baby
Date: 2025-08-13 05:42 am (UTC)Re: Robertson/Salah - last call, baby
Date: 2025-08-30 06:13 pm (UTC)Martin Ødegaard/Kai Havertz
Date: 2025-08-04 07:25 pm (UTC)Julian Brandt/Niko Kovac, sex pollen
Date: 2025-08-06 02:09 pm (UTC)Joshua Kimmich/Nagelsmann
Date: 2025-08-08 06:58 pm (UTC)two goalkeepers
Date: 2025-08-09 04:10 pm (UTC)after the crowd's done - Manuel Neuer/Sven Ulreich
Date: 2025-08-09 07:16 pm (UTC)~~~~~~
Sven ventures into the storage room to look for a fascia roller, nothing more.
You'd find gruesome things in these half-hidden rooms sometimes - cardboard cut-outs of Claudio Pizarro or taxidermied animals in Bayern jerseys from four season ago, dusty and abandoned after some marketing stunt - but you don't expect to find Manuel Neuer sitting on an upturned crate, cheeks wet like he's been crying.
"Oh," Sven says before he can stop himself and think of something more appropriate. "You okay?"
Manu turns and looks at him, irritated. "What's it look like?"
"Like I'm supposed to turn around and pretend I didn't see anything." Sven pauses. "Which I didn't. So. You're good."
He half-turns to leave, even though he sees the fascia roller he needs just behind Manu's shoulder, but Manu's voice stops him.
"Can I ask you something?"
Manu's not looking at him as he's speaking, his gaze focused entirely on his hands, both in gloves. The velcro is undone and Manu is rubbing the palms of the gloves against each other idly.
"Sure," Sven says.
"What did you think when you heard I was retiring from the national team?"
That I would have liked to hear it from you first instead of from Instagram, Sven thinks, faster than he can help it, but then that's inappropriate to say because for the most part they're just colleagues. He doesn't have another word for it, anyway.
"Good for you," Sven says, not a lie at all, and Manu barks out a laugh. "And - what now?"
That makes Manu collapse into himself a little again, shoulders moving with each of his measured breaths. He moves aside a little on the crate he's sitting on, making space next to him, then looks up at Sven. Sven gives in, of course he does, and sits down next to Manu with a sigh.
"Yeah. 'What now?' Isn't that just the question of the week," Manu says testily. "And everyone wants me to have the answer all ready."
Sven shrugs. "You are the go-to guy for answers here."
"Well, the answer is that it feels like shit. I know I'm supposed to be happy or proud or– but it just–" Manuel huffs, covers his eyes with his gloved hand for a moment. "Everything feels so goddamn far away."
"Did you think it wouldn't?" Sven asks. "I've never even– and even I know it must hurt like hell."
"Doesn't hurt. Just feels numb."
Sven raises his eyebrows and Manu huffs. "Fine. It hurts. That's why I'm sitting here and sobbing like a girl and wishing someone could just tell me that it’s okay."
Sven doesn't. Doesn't tell him that it's okay, that is. He's not entirely sure that it is, for one, and the phrase would feel empty either way now.
"I’m thirty-eight years old," Manu says slowly. "That's pushing it, even for a goalkeeper. That guy everyone thinks I am, the guy who runs to the centreline and back and still saves it, I’m not that guy anymore. But I don't know who I am if I’m not."
"You still play here, for the club."
Manu makes an annoyed noise and balls his hands to fists. "Until my hamstring disintegrates, sure."
Sven frowns. "I really don't get what– everyone gets old, Manu. What the hell am I supposed to tell you? You really look back at your career and think, damn, should have done this differently? I have to cry in a supply closet about it?"
It comes out harsher than intended and when Sven puts his hand on Manu's forearm to try to soften the words a little bit, all it does is give the whole thing a weird undertone, so he drops it again. The storage room is barely lit, most of the light coming in through a windows that's half-covered by a ladder. The shadows streak both their bodies in a jumbled pattern.
Manu stares at Sven for a moment, then at his own hands again, then at a far point at the opposite wall. Seconds pass before he speaks again.
"Ter Stegen texted me, you know. Said thanks and wished me all the best. What do you even say to that?"
"The same thing you told me." Sven shrugs and does air quotes, "'You’re welcome.'"
Manu flinches. "You know that was a joke."
"I do." They're running in circles, Sven thinks, around Manu's fear of life outside of two goalposts. "You know, you should probably talk to Thomas about it. He'd get it. Retirement and everything."
"If I go to Thomas-" Manuel starts and pauses, rubs a hand across his face and shakes his head faintly. "If I go to Thomas, he's going to try to make me feel better about all of this. I don't want that. Right now I just want to feel as miserable as I can. And anyway, he doesn't know how I feel. He's not a goalkeeper."
"Is that why you’re telling me? Because I’m a goalkeeper? Because I know what being alone really feels like out there?"
Manu looks surprised when he hears Sven say that. "I guess," he says then, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him before but seems correct.
Sven takes one of Manu's gloved hands in his. The blue fabric feels cool, rubbery and very stiff before Manu relaxes his hand in it. It's a familiar feeling of work and training and play. When Sven tugs at the fingers of the glove to remove it, Manu lets him. Lets him hold his naked hand, too, thumb brushing across the warm callused palm.
"Well, here’s what I can tell you - nobody knows what you feel like," Sven says and Manu snorts, pulls his hand back just a little bit for Sven catches it. "Because nobody’s done what you’ve done. So I'm sure it'll hurt until the day you die, to not be able to play like that anymore. So you can sit here and wait for Joshua to walk in on you crying too or you can get a grip and– and–"
Sven's words falter because as he was speaking Manu had been moving closer and closer until he was so close that it wasn't subtle anymore. The crate they're sitting on suddenly seems a lot smaller than before.
"And what," Manu asks defiantly, his mouth distractingly close to Sven's. His cheeks are still a little red from crying, the way they usually get after a good training. Behind Manu, the fascia roller is glaring at Sven, neon green and orange and reproachful.
"And do whatever you want."
Manu half-closes his eyes and moves in even further at that. Sven can feel his breath on his lips - before he jerks back and gets up from the crate, stumbling over his own as well as Manu's feet.
"Not that," Sven says, embarrassed by how thin his voice sounds.
Manu startles, then laughs roughly. "Right. Sorry. Whatever I want, except that."
As intelligent as Manu is on the pitch, Sven thinks, as much does he simply not get it sometimes outside of it.
"I would, you know," Sven says quickly. "Kiss you. Do you. Blow you. All that. But not when it's some kind of… grounding exercise to you. I deserve better than that. Hell, you do, too. And Thomas, he's been waiting for your go signal since… always. You gotta figure that out first before I'll do so much as touch you.”
"What does that mean?"
"Means I'm not going to fuck you."
Manuel snorts, wipes the last bit of wet away from the corner of his eyes. "Not that. The other thing. Thomas."
Sven's eyebrows draw together in disbelief.
"You’re joking."
"I’m not, I swear."
"You wanted to kiss me in this dusty cave but don't know that Thomas has been head over heels for you for a damn decade. You know, it's a good thing that you retired. We really have to get something other than football into your head."
Manu keeps a stupid expression on his face for the entire times it takes for Sven to reach past him and wiggle the fascia roller from below the boxes on the shelf.
"So it’s not a no," Manu says finally, when he's apparently gone through all the necessary calculations of this conversation in his head.
Sven can't help but laugh as he's leaving the room. He turns around once more before closing the door behind him, facing Manu again.
"It’s never going to be a no."
Re: after the crowd's done - Manuel Neuer/Sven Ulreich
Date: 2025-09-18 07:17 pm (UTC)broken/dumb old man, Sven taking none of his shit, I love it
Omar Marmoush / Hugo Ekitike
Date: 2025-08-10 08:12 pm (UTC)I don’t know if it’s too early to request this or too late for them but I desperately need to read something of them
Musiala/Olise/Eze
Date: 2025-08-10 08:51 pm (UTC)Established Reus/Hummels post UCL final h/c smut
Date: 2025-08-11 03:02 am (UTC)williamson/caldentey hurt/comfort(?)
Date: 2025-08-13 12:15 am (UTC)Ibou/macca, spanking
Date: 2025-08-13 05:48 am (UTC)Ter Stegen/anyone, 25/26 season angst
Date: 2025-08-18 07:27 pm (UTC)Re: Ter Stegen/anyone, 25/26 season angst
Date: 2025-08-31 05:43 am (UTC)Martin/Kai, post match(or training) sex
Date: 2025-08-18 07:39 pm (UTC)Re: Martin/Kai, post match(or training) sex
Date: 2025-09-08 05:57 pm (UTC)~
Kai gets codependent in his convalescence. If Martin had to venture a guess as to why, he’d say that it’s a form of penance – Kai’s twisted way of making up for not being able to live up to his full potential as a partner. It’s faulty logic but it’s the kind that’s almost impossible to escape in their line of work. No one cares about your thoughts and feelings, about the life you have built off the pitch. If the stats don’t add up in your favor, you’re worthless. The extent to which your body is useful is the extent to which you matter.
They didn’t use to brush their teeth together but Kai seems to have rearranged his entire routine since the knee brace rejoined their relationship. He’s standing so close that Martin can feel the warmth radiating off of him, early morning soft with a head of unruly curls sticking up wildly in a dozen different directions. Martin likes that he’s let it grow out. He gets to twirl his fingers in it when Kai pillows his head in his lap during movie nights, gets to use it as leverage when he wants to spend just a little while longer making out with him.
Kissing can be the main event; he’s wanted to say that several times, speak the words directly against Kai’s lax, spit-shiny mouth, like maybe, that way, it would stick, sink all the way down into his blood and bones and heal him. They don’t have to do anything else, go any further. Kai doesn’t have to push himself for Martin. He’s not Mikel.
It’s been three days since they last had sex. Not unusual for the rest of the population, probably, but unusual for them. It’s only a little past seven and they’re not due at training until a while later. When Martin finishes, breath minty fresh and clean, he busies himself with cleaning up. There’s a domesticity to these moments that Martin is secretly fond of. When Kai is also finished, Martin takes that opportunity to spin him around, hands firm on his hips as he backs him up against the porcelain floating sink.
Despite his initial confusion, Kai goes willingly, lets Martin maneuver him however he wants. Kai’s easy like that. Always. Pliant and trusting and ready for whatever Martin has in store for him – for them. It’s elating, having that kind of power, knowing that he’s done well enough by Kai to earn it. He won’t let him down.
Martin palms him through his navy blue boxers, looking up at him as he does, searching Kai’s face for any indication that he actually doesn’t want to do this. Because maybe that’s why – except that Kai’s hips almost immediately stutter forward, a quick, needy movement followed by a choked-off moan. Desperate already even though Martin has barely touched him. How’s Martin supposed to not let that get to his head?
“I wish I could blow you,” Kai says then, quiet and mournful, as if Martin touching him has to automatically require a quid pro quo reaction. No, Martin knows that it’s not like that. Not exactly. He knows that Kai blowing him is just as much for his benefit as it is for Kai’s. Maybe even more so. The way Kai gets all zen and calm after spending half an hour with his mouth stretched around his cock, jaw aching no doubt. Martin’s never seen anything like that before.
“I wish you’d just let me do this,” It comes out more honest than Martin wanted it to, frustration seeping into his tone. Whatever. Guess they’re doing this – having a serious conversation while Martin pushes down the hem of his boxers so he can fist his hand around Kai’s cock. As good of a time as any.
“I am.”
Martin frowns as he spreads the precum leaking from the tip, easing the glide of his hand, “Not really. I mean, yeah. Sure. But you – feel guilty.”
It’s stilted, the way Martin says it, because despite thinking about it a lot, rotating it in his head almost constantly, he still hasn’t quite figured out how to properly put Kai’s behavior into words.
It’s Kai’s turn to frown. He wants to protest, push back. Martin can tell because Kai’s easy to read. To him. Martin wants to kiss the crease between his eyebrows, make it go away. Which he does. Because he can. Leans right up on his toes and presses his lips to Kai’s forehead. An awfully tender gesture that doesn’t match the filthy movement of his hand, the wet squelch that mixes with Kai’s ragged breaths. Martin feels them against his mouth; that’s how close they are right now. Close enough that the hard plastic of Kai’s brace is digging into his thigh but he couldn’t care less. Kai is flushed all the way to the tips of his ears and down beneath the hem of the shirt he sleeps in. Pink and turned on and fucking breathtaking. Martin loves him.
“Last night–”
Kai tries to say but the rest of the sentence gets cut off when Martin twists his wrist just right. On purpose. He's careful to press his other hand against Kai's hip, keeping him from moving too much and jostling his knee on accident. It must register, what Martin is doing – coddling him, that’s probably the word Kai would use – because he's down right scowling now and looks upset when he should only be feeling good.
Last night, Martin helped him into bed, the way he's helped him every night since his knee started giving him trouble again. The way he helped him all throughout the spring after the last surgery and the way he will help him again after this next one. Thing is, Martin doesn’t even really think about it, it's just another thing he needs to do – start the dishwasher, check that the front door is locked, tuck a pillow underneath Kai's injured knee and help him get settled in for the night. Easy. Not something Martin thinks twice about.
There’s a whole missing conversation that’s on the tip of Martin’s tongue. It starts with asking why Kai seems to ignore the fact that Martin’s career hasn’t exactly been injury free. Did Kai think he was a burden when he sprained his ankle? When he literally needed Kai’s help to hobble around the apartment? Instead, what comes out is:
“What do I have to do to get you to understand that I don’t care?” Martin asks. He’s half tempted to slow down, draw this out as much as he has to until Kai gets it through his head that he’s not a heavy weight to carry. But you can’t undo years of psychological damage with one handjob, so he takes mercy on Kai, sweeps his thumb over the head, digs his nail into the slit just enough for Kai to moan with his entire body. He should ask Siri later if enough orgasms can rewire your brain for the better.
Kai doesn’t answer. He can barely speak, putting all of his energy into finding a way to fuck into Martin’s hand while half of his leg is immobilized. Martin wants to tell him that he’s doing good but praise is a double-edged sword with Kai. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it does more damage. Kissing is always fine though. Martin crowds him as best as he can while still being able to move his hand and kisses his jawline, risks the beard burn just to prove a point here.
“I’d rather have messy, complicated sex with you than easy sex with someone else,” Martin says, “Do you get that?” He’s looking at him now, one possessive hand on the back of Kai’s neck to keep him from looking away. Martin presses his hips against Kai’s good thigh. “Do you feel that? That’s what you do to me, Kai. Without even touching me. I’m so fucking gone for you.”
Kai comes then, spilling all over Martin’s hand and dribbling some onto the shiny tiles. It’s fine. Martin doesn’t mind cleaning up after them. He blindly reaches for one of the towels while keeping his hips firmly pressed against Kai’s leg, rutting against it. When Kai flexes his thigh, he moans, tucking his face against his shoulder. He wants to bite, regain some semblance of control because getting off like this always makes him feel a little crazy and vulnerable.
“Martin,” Kai breathes his name against his temple, lips pressed there so innocently, as if one of Kai’s hands isn’t currently gripping his ass and urging him on.
“This – shit – this is what you do to me,” Martin says, accusatory and demanding, but there isn’t much heat to it. He thinks he can feel Kai smile. He definitely feels him nodding.
“Yeah. Okay.”
It doesn’t take long for him to come, come splattering all over Kai’s thigh. When he pulls back on shaky legs, Kai’s arm around his waist for support, Martin catches him looking down in awe. Which, yeah, he knows Kai likes that – getting marked.
It’s a split-second decision, not much thought behind it, when Martin dips two fingers into the mess and brings them up to Kai’s lips. No instructions needed, Kai wraps his free hand around Martin’s wrist to bring it closer to his mouth. His tongue swirls around his fingers and the way he hollows out his cheeks – it’s like he’s putting on a show.
“You said you wanted to blow me,” Martin says, lazily pumping his fingers in and out of Kai’s mouth, “We can get creative.”
Kai fusses over him as soon as they’re alone, before Martin can even pull the car out of the parking lot and get them onto the main road. A tentative touch to his shoulder, tender and reverent. He learned early on that Kai needs that more than almost anything else – physical contact, palpable reassurance.
“I’m fine,” Martin tells him, and this time, he means it. Mikel’s initial assessment should be ignored; the man erring on the side of catastrophe before their medical staff ever even had a chance to look him over. Really. He’s good. Just landed awkwardly on his shoulder. Nothing some painkillers and a few rounds of physical therapy can’t fix. If luck is on his side, he’ll be there at Anfield next week.
“If you say so,” Kai mumbles, sounding unconvinced but reluctantly willing to give Martin the benefit of the doubt.
They’re getting better at that – trusting each other, actually being honest about how they’re doing instead of lying for the ultimate benefit of no one.
The medical staff didn’t put his arm in a sling, deeming it unnecessary, but they still made sure to insist that he take it easy and lay off his shoulder for the next couple of days. Which makes it practically impossible for him to do the usual (push Kai down on their bed, hover over him, manhandle him to the best of his abilities). He can’t even ask Kai to ride him, because yeah, sure, they can do the whole dangling Kai’s bad leg over the side of the bed but Martin would still need two working arms to be able to steady him and help him out.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Kai says, ever so casually, as he lays that ridiculous bright blue icepack over his shoulder and fastens the strap under his good arm. Medical aids are practically their own version of lingerie now. Martin briefly wonders if this could be considered ice play.
“But you want to do something,” Martin pushes back, gently.
“Only if you do–”
“Kai,” Martin’s too worn out to be properly annoyed but he does keep his voice firm – captainly, “C’mon. Please – just –”
“It feels kinda selfish to say yes.”
Martin rolls his eyes, dramatic but appropriate, in his opinion, “You’re so annoying sometimes,” And because he still has one functional arm, he fists his hand into Kai’s shirt and pulls him in for a not-so-gentle kiss. “Say yes. Say it.”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust me?” Martin slides his hands over Kai's calves, lazy and sweet, spreading his legs just a little wider. He knows he doesn’t have to ask but he wants to. It does something to Kai, turns him on more when Martin’s considerate like that.
“Always,” Kai says without hesitation.
It takes some trial and error but eventually, Martin manages to slide up Kai’s body. It’s a little awkward, on account of the fact that he’s only able to brace himself with one arm, the other pressed safely against his side. The moment he even tried moving it, Kai huffed in annoyance and maneuvered it back into a safe position, flashing him a look warning not to do it again. It’s all good. Kai grabs his hips, steadying him, drawing him closer. Teamwork. Just like on the pitch. There’s a look in his eyes that Martin thinks means that he's figured out what they're about to try and he looks hungry for it.
Martin's hard, has been for the better part of the last five minutes, and as soon as he's settled high up on Kai's chest, Kai immediately opens his mouth.
“So good for me,” Martin cups his cheek, thumb dipping between his parted lips. He can’t help heaping on a little praise. Not when it’s true.
Kai’s hands are all over him, his thighs, his ass. He gets one hand high up on Martin’s chest too, brushing over a nipple before he slides it down to his stomach, scraping his nails over his happy trail just to get Martin shivering and somehow even more turned on. It’s actually a little ridiculous that they’ve never done this before.
“I can just–” Both of Kai’s hands are on his ass now. And the thing is, Kai’s got big hands, and good grip strength, so it’s all a little overwhelming for Martin. Their size difference is on sharp display. He’s on top but at the same time, he doesn’t exactly feel in control. Not with the way Kai is looking at him – predatory, starving, empty.
“Yeah,” Martin breathes out the word, encouraging Kai to take what he wants.
It ends up closer to a blowjob than Martin fucking his mouth. He’s not doing much beyond flexing his thighs to stay upright and keep from toppling over. Kai’s doing the bulk of the work, pulling him in, taking him down so deep that Martin feels his nose pressing against his skin.
Kai’s cock is so hard, red and angry and leaking all over his perfect fucking abs. God. It’s like Martin blinked and suddenly he was one of the beefiest guys at the club. His Kai. That lanky, noodle of a man who never quite knew what to do with all of his limbs.
“Touch yourself,” Martin finds himself saying, “C’mon. Let me,” With a hand braced against the wall, Martin rolls his hips experimentally, fucks slow and deep into Kai’s mouth. It’s messy, spit mixed with precome spilling out. Just the way Kai likes it.
One of Kai’s hands moves to his lower back, keeping him from moving too far backward because – yeah, of course. If Kai’s not practically choking on it, he’s not satisfied. Martin’s trying to last, make this good for him, but Kai does this thing where he swallows around him and it makes Martin’s brain feel the way television static sounds and looks.
Kai’s rhythm falters when he finally gets a hand around himself but it’s fine. Martin does his level best to get them on track. It’s frustrating that he can’t sink his fingers into Kai’s hair, guide him properly, but he’d rather not risk falling off the bed and ruining the moment. Details. Overthinking. Somehow, he manages to still do it while his cock is shoved down Kai’s throat. Mikel would be proud of him.
It takes a second for him to realize that Kai is coming, only doing so when he feels something warm on his ass. He finishes before Martin. Fuck. It’s only kind to return the favor, so he pulls out of Kai’s mouth and sits his full weight on his chest. He can take it. He’s a big boy now.
“Close your eyes,” Martin wraps his good hand around himself, jerks off once, twice, before painting Kai’s beautiful face.
Serene shouldn’t be the word he wants to use to describe the way Kai looks right now but it is. He looks spent and satisfied. Martin can feel his chest rising. Up and down. Up and down. It’s like Martin is weightless on top of him.
When Kai opens his eyes, his tongue peeks out, swiping over his bottom lip to taste. Martin’s aim wasn’t great; there’s some in Kai’s hair. His beard too. They’re going to need another shower. For now, the tissues on the nightstand will have to do.
“I told you we’d figure it out,” Martin tells him as he gingerly cleans him up, swiping over his cheekbones, just below his hairline. He takes his time, revels in the aftercare.
“This was better than a blowjob.”
Martin shakes his head, painfully fond, “You would say that.”
Leon Goretzka/Serge Gnabry
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