Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Aug. 26th, 2010 06:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluetears07Title: Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: Part Three: The Bad Season: Lukas Podolski's football career was ended when he was only 19, resulting in a dramatic change. (aka: shameless Lukas!Hooker fic.)
Rating: Part Three: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: Hope you enjoy. So I'm trying something odd and new with the writing style--quasi Lukas' POV...swearing abound.
If there is one thing Lukas loathes, it giving a guy head in the front seat of a car. Especially if the steering wheel is fixed and especially if that car happens to be a fucking minivan. Lukas can’t think of a single time it has ended well for him. Meaning that the inexorable bane of his existence is blowing a guy in a goddamn minivan with a fixed steering wheel. It always goes the same way, the guy gets excited, slams his hips forward and Lukas winds up whacking the side of his head against the wheel. But it pays to compromise every once in a while—at least that’s how his friend convinced him to give up his ‘dumb fucking idea of a pipedream’ and embark on his new ‘career path.’ That and his serious cash flow problems were catching up to him after he jacked his knee up four years ago. Lukas had never realized how expensive physical therapy could be when you were a little too headstrong, your psyche riddled with bottomless wells of doubt. Granted having sex for money was a lot easier on the body than playing professional football year round, it was nowhere near as lucrative.
So when this guy rolled up, dark tinted aviators and thin pink lips, hood up, he paused to consider his options. They had already made an arrangement for five hundred on the phone the day before, but when the man pressed the money into his hand and then promises him an additional five when they were finished at the motel, Lukas decided this was one of those instances when personal preference was going out the window. And that’s how Lukas now finds himself stuck in a minivan knocking his head against the fixed leather steering wheel. The only consolation is that at least it’s one posh ass minivan, all black leather interior with every extra feature imaginable—so the guy is probably good for the extra five hundred euros.
After a couple minutes, Lukas figures he must be doing a pretty good job since the man’s hand is latched onto the base of his skull like he’s drawing out the everlasting life from him. His other hand is gently carding through Lukas’ short blond hair in approval, the pad of his thumb running along the tip of his left ear. Better yet, the guy is continually stifling a moan every time Lukas’ head bobs up and drags his teeth along the swollen head. The guy’s thin lips are swollen and marked with indentations from his teeth digging into the soft flesh as he tries to stay quiet. Right about now, Lukas is glad he decided to go with the strawberry flavoured condom instead of the funky smelling banana one as the strawberry flavouring seems to last longer. It’s still pretty early so he’s decided to go for broke on this one, trying to impress right out of the gate and maybe get a couple more bills out of the guy later.
Lukas has to admit he likes the way this guy’s veins pulse against his lips as his cheeks hollow around the latex and hot flesh. Sometimes it’s hit or miss, more often then not a big fat miss, but Lukas can’t deny that he’s enjoying this, despite the obvious hindrances of location. From the limited amount of him visible, the guy is pretty attractive—beautiful narrow hips and strong, actually, incredibly strong thighs that begin to quiver as Lukas runs his finger tips up along the inner seam of the guy’s jeans. He’s also quiet, suppressing his moans with little huffs and shallow breathing, which Lukas finds a bit endearing—he’s not making a fucking show of it. And, of course, Lukas has always been a fucking sucker for a sharp jaw line and gently curved, thin lips. In the back of his mind he begins to imagine how slutty he must look with a mouth full of this guy’s cock as they sit parked on the top level of the car park near Lukas’ flat. It makes him hard. They never discussed what exactly the guy wanted, how Lukas should behave, so he resists the urge to start rubbing himself through his trousers. He ends up moaning a bit in the back of his throat, finally drawing out a real moan from the man.
Lukas grins, swirling his tongue around.
It’s then that Lukas hears the muffled sound of something vibrating against leather off in the distance. He quickly realizes it’s a mobile phone. This guy is getting his dick sucked and his fucking mobile starts buzzing angrily from the backseat of his minivan. Lukas wants to laugh. He almost does but checks it before the desire swells into something unstoppable. It’s fucking absurd and they both know it. Who keeps their phone in the back seat, anyways, Lukas wonders.
“Eeeh, eeh,” the man stutters as he tries to manoeuvre himself between the two seats with one hand still pressed to the back of Lukas’ head as he continues to suck him off. He lifts his hips and Lukas whacks the back of his head on the steering wheel, groaning in pain. The guy falters for a moment, gasping as his breath catches in his arched throat, and Lukas thinks he might fall into the backseat so he grabs his unstable hips. He hears the man fumbling around with something, followed by the slick sound of a duffle bag being hastily unzipped. The persistent vibrations of his mobile get louder.
“Hey,” he breathes into the phone, half of his body still hanging in the backseat of the minivan. “I’m kind of busy at the moment.” He calmly slides into the driver’s seat once more—making no indication for Lukas to stop as he takes the call. Nice, Lukas thinks with a wicked smirk, wrapping his forefinger and thumb around the base of the man’s dick. The sudden pressure sends his narrow hips jerking. “Yes.” It hisses out of the man and Lukas isn’t sure if it’s intended for the distinctly female voice on the other end of the line or him. “I caahhh!” he gasps. Lukas has almost pulled away completely, teeth skidding along the length of him until just his lips, full and swollen, are left wrapped around the tip to suck it hard. The man swallows thickly before correcting himself, “I can’t. Yes, I’m fine. I just—” He glances down but Lukas can’t see anything but his reflection in the dark sunglasses. Fuck, what a sight. Podolski in all his fucking glory. Cheeks hollow and flushed, blue eyes smiling as he stares up into the man’s shadowed face, those lips thick around a lovely hard cock. He watches as the guy’s tongue slides out slowly to lick his thin lips. “Yes, but I thought you were going to—I know, but,” he halts, looking up through the windshield, clearly cut off by the woman on the other end of the line. Lukas can hear the stiff sound of the man’s hand twisting around the leather steering wheel, gripping it tight as he braces himself. “Yes, okay, fine.” He hangs up quickly, snapping the flip phone shut and pressing the cool metal against his cheek. Letting go of the steering wheel, the man’s free hand moves back to gripping the base of Lukas’ skull. The man starts moaning now, big open mouth, fucking jaw hiccupping moans. Lukas suddenly releases the pressure at the base of the man’s cock. The guy’s fist collides with the rim of the steering wheel and his mobile goes skittering across the dash, all the way to the passenger’s side. Lukas’ eyes water as he focuses on not gagging, the muscles of his throat contracting as he swallows a few times around the flavoured latex. “Fuck.” It’s louder than Lukas is expecting, the antithesis of the man who started out chewing his lips to shreds to keep quiet.
Silently, Lukas pulls the condom off the guy as he settles back into the passenger seat. The man quickly tucks himself back into his jeans, snapping his fly shut before jittery hands fall on the keys still dangling from the ignition. For some reason, and Lukas hasn’t the slightest fucking clue as to why, but whatever the woman said to this man has him totally rattled.
Great, now it’s Lukas’ job to get him back in the mood.
“We have to make a stop before we go to the motel.” Oh. Well, he’s sure he’ll soon find out what the problem is, whether he wants to or not. In his head, Lukas starts listing the amounts of back payment that are due for his truncated physical therapy. This is why he can’t say no, why he can’t go back now. He ties off the condom and tosses it out the window before they drive away.
It takes them about twenty minutes to drive across the city into the nice, gentrified part of Munich, where families live with lush green grass and clean rivers ways. Lukas plays with his seatbelt, twisting it back and forth, but relaxes a little when he watches through the pristine windshield as they drive up to a city park. People are sitting outside sun bathing on blankets, reading and chatting with other normal people about their normal lives and normal jobs. There is a swarm of children running around a shortened, makeshift football pitch with small track bags outlining the perimeter.
Kids. He has fucking kids.
Of course, well what self-respecting man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, would drive around Munich in a freaking minivan? Oh yes, a man with children. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised anymore when married guys phone him up for an appointment—shit, he’d probably still be deep in the closet dating the same girl since he was fifteen if it wasn’t for his accident and subsequent ‘complications,’ as Lukas likes to label them. But this guy wasn’t wearing a ring; he didn’t even have the tan line. Which wouldn’t be that strange, an unmarried couple with kids, Lukas reasons, except for the large cross hanging around the man’s neck. But then again, this is the same guy sitting in a minivan with a male prostitute who just gave him the best head he’s every received. Everyone is making exceptions these days, Lukas figures. He watches the man fumble absentmindedly with the necklace the crucifix is looped through—it reminds him of the rosary his grandmother sent him from back home in Poland when he turned thirteen. Usually Lukas is so good at knowing immediately what a man’s situation is so he can cater himself exactly to his needs, but he’s been totally thrown for a fucking loop with this guy.
They park across the street from the pitch and given the possibilities behind the phone call, it could have been so much worse, Lukas figures. After all, he loves kids. The guy leaves the engine running as he briefly turns to Lukas, his hand resting between them on the gear stick. “I’m sorry about this.” Lukas tries to smile at him but the man is fixated on the old Adidas laced up on Lukas’ feet. “Just play along and act like we’re old friends.” He glances up before turning to open the car door, catching Lukas’ eye as he nods. The man pauses, twisting back around in the driver’s seat. “Can you give me a name, your real one?” There’s an odd twist to his voice, biting and beautiful.
“Lukas.” He fumbles, forgetting his own fucking rules of play. It pops out before he has a chance to lie.
“Nice to meet you, Lukas.” The man flashes him a wry grin before stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
Two little identical boys in football kits dash over to the minivan. He has fucking twins, two fucking adorable sons that are all his own. The two children practically launch themselves at the man, dropping their bags and jumping up to wrap themselves around his wiry body. Lukas feels a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he sees the guy kneel down, arms full of his sons. The man sends them back to grab their duffle bags before taking their hands in his own. Lukas isn’t sure he ever greeted his own father like that, maybe once, after his first international cap. He watches the guy turn around, both sons holding their father’s hands as they walk back to the minivan. It’s sentimental and so fucking stupid-immature but Lukas knows the grin on his face is possibly threatening to become permanent. There is something about this guy—something off, something Lukas can’t really pin down but he knows that there is nothing he is looking forward to more than getting inside his head, opening him up and fucking him as soon as possible.
Every once in a while, when you make those concessions, like giving head in a minivan, and you get in return a truly fucking interesting, attractive man who is paying you for your time, Lukas is one hundred percent sure of God.
“How was practice?” The man asks, buckling the two into their seats, tugging at the belts to test them both.
“Great, Dad.” They are both bouncing around in their car seats, straining toward their father.
“Good,” he says with a bright smile, ruffling the short hair of the boy closest before sliding the minivan’s door closed. The man doesn’t look at Lukas as he climbs back behind the wheel. “I’m dropping you two off at your cousin’s, okay?” He glances into the rear view mirror as he speaks, watching for the boys’ reaction. They seem excited enough. They pull away from the park and head in the direction of one of the neighbourhoods nearby. “This is Lukas, he’s a friend of Daddy’s.”
“Hello, Lukas.” They both say politely in unison.
“Lukas, do you work with Dad?” One of the boys asks before Lukas has a chance to respond to their greeting.
“Yeah,” Lukas answers slowly, glancing over at the man to make sure he’s playing along to his liking. Quickly, he decides to change the subject before he gets caught up in the details. “I like your guys’ kits.” Lukas shifts around in his seat to talk with the boys face to face. The man reaches over and untwists the tangle of seatbelt cutting into the flesh of Lukas’ throat; it’s an automatic response and he hastily pulls his hand away after fixing the problem. Parental instinct. Lukas smiles brightly, amping up the charm and softening his low voice. “I was obsessed with football when I was your age.” He laughs a bit. Each boy looks up at him with a pair of big, inquisitive eyes and Lukas tries to imagine what the man seated beside him looks like without his sunglasses. “I even played a few matches for the Under 21 German National team, you guys know what that is?” They both nod vigorously with matching mystified looks on their faces.
“What team do you play for now?” It’s the same boy as before, spinning a football in his small hands.
“I don’t really play much any more.” Lukas stuffs a hand under his left knee, cradling it as he gently pulls it to his chest. He rests his chin on it, shooting for blasé but just narrowly misses it. The boy stops playing with the ball and hands it over to his brother as he starts fidgeting with his socks instead.
“Why not?” The quieter twin asks, passing the ball to Lukas.
“Well,” he starts but trails off into silence, twirling the football a few times, lost in remembering the weight and feel of it. It’s a bit heady and he has to stop. Lukas tosses the ball up, extending his arm and punting it back to the boy with his bicep.
“You can play on Dad’s team!” The other boy looks up as if he’s had a brilliant idea. Team? Lukas turns to stare at the man. Who the fuck is this guy?
“Lukas is more on the management side of things now.” The man finally steps in with a vague lie. His answer is greeted with a disappointed “Oh,” and suddenly the conversation comes to a total standstill.
The two boys begin chatting to one another in Polish and Lukas pretends not to understand. He turns back around in his seat, glancing over at the man, Polish? They are talking about him, speculating on why someone like Lukas would stop playing football. The quieter one of the two brushes it off. They quickly switch topics, talking about the other boys on their little football team and planning what games they want to play with their cousins that afternoon. Lukas starts to tune them out, opting to focus on their father as they turn onto another street lined with matching midsize starter homes with small manicured front lawns and short driveways.
Pulling up out front of one of the homes, the man slows to a stop before parking and getting out to help his sons out of the van.
“Okay, Mom will pick you guys up after dinner.” Lukas watches as he kneels down on the grass and takes his twins into his arms. “I’ll see you guys this weekend, yeah? Boys night Friday, Saturday and Sunday.” Perhaps it’s a separation, Lukas thinks. The man’s hug lasts a little too long, and even Lukas can see how it’s fringed with desperation. “Now go play with your cousins.” He finally releases them, playfully swatting at their retreating backsides as they take off running toward the backyard, calling for their cousins. The man stands there for a few moments and then walks back to the minivan.
They’ve been driving for a quarter of an hour in silence. Lukas can feel the stress radiating off the man in dull waves, his shoulders slightly hunched as he slouches against the soft leather seat. It’s slowly dissipating though, bit by bit with every mile that takes him further and further away from his reality, his responsibilities, his job, his sons, his everything. Lukas sends up a lone fucking prayer for that one. It’ll be easier to deal with him if he’s relaxed, easier to get inside his mind and unwind his insanely tight centre axis—after all isn’t that what he’s paying a thousand euros for? Relaxation de jour.
But then the man has to go and ruin it all by asking Lukas a shitty question like, “So what happened to you?” And once again Lukas finds all his expectations to be totally fucking subverted by this guy. Just when he figured he was about to have his go at the man, everything is flipped upside down. His voice is painfully nonchalant when he asks—as if he has not a single fucking clue how loaded a question like that is.
“Excuse me?”
“You just told my kids you used to play for Germany. If that’s true, why’d you stop?” It’s an accusation—Lukas is sure of that.
Why did you quit? Why didn’t you play through the pain, get back on the pitch, what happened to your unrivalled passion for the beautiful game? Weren’t you going to play until your last breath, what happened to that little boy? Were you too weak? Not a man?
He feels his joints lock up as he pulls anxiously at the seat belt.
“I didn’t.” Lukas needs to be very clear about this. They always think it was a choice, like he didn’t want to continue playing, as if it doesn’t hurt every day he has to lay on his back and fucking take it instead of running free on a pitch with gold, red and black bars on his chest. “This little shit quit working on me.” The man glances over as Lukas gestures to his left knee.
Lukas needs him to understand.
“We were playing against Iceland in a qualifier. I fucked up and tore my ACL.” He stops there, like always. Just the facts now, put a fucking stopper on those emotions before they come boiling over, Lukas.
“You didn’t get the surgery?” The man’s tone is polite, delicate even and Lukas knows this is the role the man always takes on—he can see how easily he slips into the part of the oh so considerate consoler with a motive of prying information out of someone in order to confront it and move on. It’s a great skill to have. Lukas knew a few guys like that, but they all belonged to the professional sports circuit—sports psychology 101.
“You sure ask a lot of questions.” This fucking guy. Lukas laughs uncomfortably, his smile painfully awkward as he feels the heat rising up his neck.
“I’m sorry.” The man backs down immediately. “It’s none of my business. It’s just…” He trails off, changing lanes as they approach their exit.
“It was a long time ago.” Lukas wants to smooth over it as soon as possible. “I’ve gotten over it.” Lukas turns back to the window, watching the trees spinning by in torrents of dark green and black.
When they get to the motel, the guy already has a key—every once in a while the guy will do this, but usually it’s the ones who are a bit paranoid, the ones that have something to lose. It’s not a bad place. Lukas has definitely stayed in worse places when working, but he’s also been in nicer ones.
This is when the math begins, well, the only kind of math Lukas actually excels at or really gets. He is adding everything up, making a tally of all the little clues and hints that have been dropped over the last hour and a half. It starts with the minivan, and the twins, no ring, a crucifix, Polish, questioning and a bit invasive and finally the middle class hotel. These sum up to equal; family man, separated, closeted, religious, morals, ethics, phlegmatic, and probably an average job that pays well but he’s now on a budget since he’s no longer living with his partner. So then the question in Lukas’ mind becomes, what would a man like that want a man like Lukas to do to make him feel good, to give him the pleasure that his life is clearly missing? Slowly but surely he’s narrowing down all the possible scenarios until he finds the one that fits those thin lips and strong thighs.
Lukas has his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the man’s ass as they cross the parking lot to the room. The guy has the track bag from his backseat flung over one shoulder. He fishes the keys out of his front pocket and unlocks the door. A nice, plush king sized bed dominates the dimly lit room with it’s fucking tackyass decor and red wine coloured trappings. It smells a bit like soap and detergent—stuffy and damp. Lukas moves around the room, running his fingers over all the surfaces, tugging the starched bed cover off and bundling it up. He throws it in the corner. Eventually, he settles on the cabinets the television is stacked on, watching as the guy plops his duffle bag down on the small table near the door. The man has pushed his hood off now, but sunglasses still intact. He’s got brown hair gelled into a short faux hawk, it works for him but is on the whole pretty generic.
“So do you keep up with football much anymore?” The man asks, that same probing nonchalant tone creeping back into his voice. He looks up at Lukas while he unzips his track bag and starts rooting around in the bottom. Almost sheepishly he pulls out a box of condoms and a bottle of lube, tossing them both on the bed.
Under any other circumstances, Lukas would find it really cute, endearing even, they way this guy is stalling, acting all tentative and almost coy—that is if the questions he seemed so fond of dropping on Lukas’ head didn’t hit so fucking close to home every single time. Apparently, with only a few words exchanged between them and this guy already knows exactly how to hit all his triggers in one go.
What a catch, Poldi.
“I’ll watch a Bayern match every once in a while. I’ve got an old friend who plays for them.” He’s glancing around the room, tugging at the cuffs of his hoodie, desperately avoiding the man. “But, you know, only when it’s on at the pub.” It’s a fucking bold-faced lie and he’s not so good about covering those up. If he’s being honest, Lukas hasn’t missed a single match since moving to Munich three years ago. And even more important than his loyalty as a fan to Bayern, is his practically religious dedication to following the national team’s World Cup qualification matches. But Lukas has already shared enough of himself with this man; he doesn’t need to know any more—doesn’t need to know just how pathetic he gets while watching a match he could maybe be playing in if only he had the money and the fucking balls to restart his physical therapy.
“Oh,” the guy murmurs and Lukas is sure there is an odd undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. “So eheem, I’m not eh—” he begins with that brief stutter halting his speech. Lukas hears the clatter of sunglasses against the table and looks up thinking to himself, fucking finally.
“Shit.”
Lukas doesn’t quite know how to react; the man is Miroslav Klose.
Fucking Miro my hero Klose paid him to suck his dick. Shit, Lukas thinks, he would have gone down on this baller for free.
A million and one fucking thoughts all go spiralling through his brain in a sudden rush and his head begins to reel. He grips the cheap wood cabinet beneath him. The very first thing that pops into his mind is the immediate desire that he could talk to Miroslav as Lukas Podolski, former U-21 German striker. Erase the whore from the man’s memory and become his equal. He wants the chance to explain himself properly, to go over every detail of why he just couldn’t fucking deal with physical therapy any more, why he couldn’t afford it, why he shut everyone out of his life, why he moved to Munich. But that all flies out the window when Miroslav grabs his arms.
“You cannot tell anyone, Lukas.” Miroslav has crossed the small motel room, now looming over Lukas as he sits stunned beside the television set. The long fingers wound about his biceps squeeze tight, hard enough to leave faint bruises. His eyes are so fucking sad and Lukas wants him to put the dark frames back on so he wouldn’t have to look at him like that. He can see that same sharp desperation from earlier rimming the irises. “Listen, I’ll pay you double. Whatev—”
“Of course.” Lukas snaps back to himself, not even thinking twice as he cuts Miroslav off.
He struggles to regain his calm, knowing the last thing a man like Miroslav wants right now is for Lukas to freak the fuck out. Yes, he’s been paid by far more powerful and influential men than a football player like Klose, but no one that he’s actually admired or knew about previous to their encounter. Lukas never was really all that interested in shitty political intrigue and so he never batted an eye when politicians and high-powered businessmen wanted to slum it with him. But it does give him a baseline for how men like Miroslav want a prostitute to act—though Lukas is pretty sure it’s a hard comparison to make given the type of man he likes to imagine Miroslav Klose to be both on and off the football pitch.
“I’m sure you saw on my site that I’m very discreet.” Taking a deep breath he tries on a small, hopefully earnest, smile. Miroslav’s hands drop away. “Trust me, Miro, can I call you Miro?” Miroslav cocks an eyebrow but does not protest. He reaches a hand out and gently hooks a few fingers around the man’s palm. The skin is a bit rough and dry, clammy to the touch—he’s beyond anxious. “The last thing I want to do is destroy your career and ruin my own life in the process.” Lukas twines their fingers together, palm-to-palm—he’s always been good at simulating intimacy, but he’s beginning to notice this one is too easy to fake. A little shiver runs up his spine. “We’re in this together.” Lukas knows guys like Miroslav, guys who are terrified of what they are, who live their delicate lives in public, love to hear that kind of crap. Though, in reality, it is true and Lukas hates to admit how much it would kill his family if they knew. He would never tell. The only hard part would be not bragging that you’ve slept with a guy you’ve idolized and if Lukas is doing the ‘full disclosure’ shtick, totally fantasized about when with other clients, for years now. But then again, who is left in his life that he would even speak to?
Miroslav sits on the edge of the bed, legs kicked out, shoulders round as his back arches inward with his elegant hands folded in his lap. He looks so fucking delicate and lost—deflated almost. A shadow against the garish red sheets. Lukas sees that those sad eyes are turned down, focusing on the tangle of fingers in his lap—no doubt lingering over the skin that was once habitually cover by metal. He thinks back and remembers hearing something in the news about Miroslav being temporarily sidelined due to injury or illness, in addition to the very public trial separation from his wife. No fucking wonder. At least Lukas is pretty sure he now knows the reason for that split.
Quietly, he slides off the cabinet, shoes padding lightly against the carpet. Careful not to trip, he moves to stand at the very corner of the mattress between the V of Miroslav’s sprawling legs. He stands there for a moment, examining the man before him. In his mind Lukas starts cataloguing all the tiny particulars about him that he never noticed before flashed up on a T.V. screen. Lukas finally touches him, stroking his hand down the side of that long face before tweaking Miroslav’s nose playfully.
“So what do you need me for?” Lukas tries to inject a bit of lightness back into the room, keeping his tone easy and curved with a smile.
Miroslav presses his face into the soft fabric of Lukas zip up, his thumbs tucking into the empty belt loops at the younger man’s hips. The man breathes in deeply, warm against his stomach. It’s a very fucking feminine position Miroslav has put him in and Lukas realizes the man doesn’t know how to be with anyone but his wife. He imagines a virginal Miroslav on his wedding night holding his wife in the same way, being as timid and respectful of her body. It makes Lukas’ stomach queasy, drawing parallels he shouldn’t, couldn’t begin to understand. But there is a distinct yielding in his posture and Lukas is sure that type of need had not yet burrowed its way into Miroslav’s consciousness. He cards his fingers through the man’s hair, dishevelling it a bit in the process.
“I want.” His voice is small and muffled by the bright red cotton of Lukas’ hoodie. It’s been a very long time since Lukas has been with someone so tentative, especially after that blow job in the minivan—Lukas is pretty sure he’s going to have a few bruises from the man’s iron grip. This is not the same man who would take a phone call from his estranged wife while getting fucking sucked off by a male whore in a car park. But then it clicks; for Miroslav, Lukas is now real. He’s become someone with a narrative he can relate to, a man who has met his kids, the only man who knows his greatest shame. And suddenly Lukas is possessed with this need to rise to Miroslav’s level, to be oh so gentle, to treat the man as if he’s made of thinly sculpted glass—though he know just how hard a hit the man can take and still get back up to shoot a game winning goal.
Lukas makes yet another fucking mistake.
He wants this to be something. Something memorable.
“Need.” Miroslav still refuses to solidify anything, stalling and hiding against Lukas’ body.
“You can say it.” Lukas is pushing and he knows it—he has a feeling about this, what a man like Miroslav need, and he decides to run with it.
If he’s ever been as intuitive about anything like he was on the pitch, it’s knowing what a guy wants done to him in all the filthiest senses of the fucking word possible. Every once in a blue fucking moon, though, his instincts fail him and it backfires like a motherfucker. Oh, but when it works. When it works something inside the guys comes unhinged, like a big old key being slowly turned in a rusted lock. You have to twist it slowly, until you don’t think it can turn any further and then it’ll snick open and the sex is fucking beyondwordsspectacular. He needs that with Miroslav. He needs this man to become unglued; to shake off the same constraints of Polish Catholic ethos that Lukas has spent years fracturing apart in his psyche.
“Miro.” Lukas’ back curves as he forms himself against the man, hands rubbing down the long expanse of his clothed back, pressing his lips to the man’s ear. “Say it.” His fingers catch the metal zipper of Miroslav’s track top, dragging it down his chest as the teeth click slowly one notch at a time as they unlock. He unzips the top to the man’s sternum before slipping his hand inside. “You want me to fuck you.” The soft cotton t-shirt stretched over Miroslav’s chest is warm beneath his fingertips as he lightly brushes them over the man’s nipple.
“Fuck,” Miroslav breaths against Lukas’ abdomen. His long fingers spasm and dig into the tough jean fabric stretched across his ass.
Slowly, oh so slowly, he slides down Miroslav’s body, tugging at the zipper until he is crouched between the man’s legs. He pushes the track top off Miroslav’s shoulders, down his arms and holds it against the bed, the man’s wrists still caught up in the fabric. The illusion of power has shifted and he wants Miroslav to understand what it means, wants him to be sure, to initiate. He stares up at the man. Lukas loves the way men stare at his eyes—every man he’s every slept with, both private and profession, has told him just how stunning, beautiful, cold, wicked, sexy, playful, goddamntruefuckingblue his eyes are and that he knows exactly how to use them. Clever boy. Miroslav is no exception to this, of course. The footballer pulls his hands free with no fight given by Lukas. He places them against Lukas’ cheeks, turning his face toward the light to watch his pupil contract, displaying the full spectrum of blue circling around it.
“Miro?” Lukas tries to encourage him, still pushing gently in a bid to draw out the striker. Eyes open, Miroslav leans down and kisses him. It’s slow at first, still soft and unsure and Lukas is enjoying the newness of sensation. The sad eyes, now shot through with flecks of hazel lust, slide closed. Hands move away from his face, back to brush along the short hairs at the back of Lukas' skull. To be honest, Lukas is a bit surprised when Miroslav tilts his head so soon and begins working his jaw, methodically exploring the inside of his mouth with a slick tongue.
It doesn’t last for long and soon the probing caresses quickly deteriorate into desperate, hot and sticky open mouth kisses—little breathy moans from Miroslav caught between them. Lukas surges up, toppling Miroslav back onto the mattress. He continues kissing him throughout, eager and messy as he wraps his fingers around the footballer’s sharp chin. Miroslav clutches the nape of Lukas’ neck. Little by little, Lukas pushes his way onto the bed until he’s crouched on all fours. In the back of his mind is buzzing the constant thought that, yes, indeed, that is Miroslav Klose writhing beneath him, mouth pliant and wet beneath his own.
The man pulls away from the kiss, head thumping against the mattress. Lukas knows he has to remain very still, hands clutching the bed sheet beneath Miroslav’s shoulders. He stares up at Lukas with hooded eyes and swollen lips that shine with saliva. It’s hard to resist the man’s touch and Lukas leans into it as Miroslav brushes a hand over his forehead, running his palm over the short bristly hairs covering his head. The hand traces down the corded muscles of Lukas’ throat, skidding along his pulse before splaying flat against the centre of his chest. Miroslav watches the progression of his own hand, pale against Lukas’ tan skin, before looking up into Lukas’ face.
“Fuck me.”
The heavy wooden cross hanging from his throat smacks against his sternum in time with Lukas sharp thrusts, the beads clattering together lightly as the necklace shifts around his throat. It makes a soft thumping sound each time Lukas snaps his hips. He fucking loves it. Everything about it and Lukas realizes it’s the most fucking arousing noise he’s ever heard. Nothing will ever come close.
From behind, he wraps a hand around the tense muscles of Miroslav’s thigh, fingers running along the sensitive inner skin. He tugs gently, spreading the man’s thighs further apart, before grabbing those narrow hips. Pressing down with just his thumbs, Lukas cues Miroslav to arch his back, opening himself up further to Lukas’ cock. Suddenly he’s pushed deeper inside him. One hand supporting his weight, Miroslav clutches the cross and presses it to his chest, halting its movement. Lukas doesn’t try to mask the fucking pathetic whimper of displeasure that escapes.
“More.” Lukas releases Miroslav’s hips, one hand pressing against the small of the football player’s back, keeping him in position as he continues to slam into him. The other hand glides along the bumpy spine, skin slicked with sweat, to have fingers tangle in the damp hair at the top of Miroslav’s head. He’s menacing over the older man, steadily pushing inside him as his chest presses down against Miroslav’s back. Full lips move against the tip of Miroslav’s ear before a tongue snakes out to run along the flushed cartilage.
“Like this?” It’s Lukas’ favourite role to play, to bottom from the top. Miroslav nods his head, beads of sweat dripping off the ends of his hair, head bowed between his shoulders. They move in tandem with one another. He grunts as he presses back into the cradle of Lukas’ hips, each violent thrust meet with a push. Unable to balance any longer on the one arm, Miroslav releases the crucifix, both hands twisting in the sheets. Lukas grins, pressing fleeting kisses against the side of his neck as he pulls the man’s head up. Loud moans start dripping from thin lips as Lukas slides his hands down Miroslav’s arms, covering the man’s with his own and tangling their fingers together.
The line is so fucking blurred he might as well blaze right past it.
Miroslav is so goddamn warm. Fucking fit as hell. Lukas wonders if this is how he used to be? Blood coursing in his veins, surging through his body, spreading out from his heart straight to his dick—it’s so perfect, the form of a world-class athlete. So goddamn tight. Slick. Hard. Fresh. Untouched. New. His.
Lukas throws his head back.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Oh, Fuck.
Lukas’ mind is reeling, running a mile a minute as he tries to process everything surrounding him. Ground him. He’s kneeling on a mediocre motel mattress in Munich fucking the shit out of his ‘once upon a pipedream’ hero. A crucifix dangling from his flushed throat acting like a goddamn metronome keeping him on pace as his hips crank up the speed. The epitome of everything he ever wanted is bowed before him, moaning, sobbing and begging for more as he fucks his ass ragged. And he’s paying him to do so. He’s a paying customer, a solicitor, not a lover, not a teammate, nothing but a stack of euros, a couple used condoms and some fuckoff fantastic orgasms.
It’s dark when they leave the motel, the door softly shutting behind Lukas while Miroslav walks slowly to where his car is parked. Lukas feels fucking ridiculous, insane and stuffs his hands in his pockets of his hoodie as he follows. Inside the recesses of red fabric his fingers brush against the thick wad of bills.
2,000 euros to fuck and suck your idol.
Miroslav is quiet as they drive away of the motel, his expression set and not giving a single hint as to what’s going through his brain. Lukas shifts in the passenger seat, pulling at a loose string hanging from his cuff. There’s no tension between them, no need to speak to one another but Lukas can’t stand the prospect of a half hour of silence like before—not anymore, not with all the things he wants to say.
“I was a striker.” It comes out before Lukas can stop it. He feels Miroslav glance over at him but he continues to stare out the front of the car. Bright headlights flash by coming the opposite way, illuminating the interior of the minivan. “Everyone said I had an iron left foot.” A little smile spreads across his lips before he turns to look at the man driving. There is a gentle crease of concentration between the man’s brows and Lukas feels odd that it’s a familiar expression, one he’s seen countless times before flickering on a television screen. “Miro,” Lukas starts and he’s so sure he’s about to say something profound. Something that will actually have meaning for a guy like Miroslav—something to make him remember Lukas as more than just his first real fuck with a man. But the words turn to ash on his tongue when he sees the bright eyes flick over to search his face. A little bit of the sadness has disappeared, replaced with a touch of levity usually colouring Lukas’ own eyes. Job well done, Lukas.
“Hmm?” Lukas lets the sound fill the space of the empty minivan.
They are silent for the rest of the drive.
With Lukas’ direction, Miroslav finds the parking structure near Lukas house once more and pulls into a spot close to the back exit before killing the engine. His hands drop to his thighs, running his palms along the fabric of his jeans.
“I did have the surgery.” The Polish words sound funny in his mouth—it’s been a long time since he’s been with anyone who would understand. Miroslav turns to look at him, directly in the eyes and Lukas isn’t expecting how they will pin him to the seat. “I think I just got stuck.” It takes a moment before Miroslav nods, and Lukas is thankful. The athlete in Miroslav understands, he can empathize—Lukas isn’t sure about the man in him. If he had said half this shit to an average guy they would have either been all over him, trying to fix the poor broken hearted hooker who just needs love in his life, that’s all, or they would have fucked him that much harder for his weak will, wanting to break him further for not having a fucking spine to see himself finally make it in the Bundesliga, back to wearing the gold, black and red stripes.
He doesn’t have anything else in him.
One hand on the latch with the car door already open, a foot dangling just above the cement, Miroslav grabs his wrist. He uncaps a pen and starts scrawling loopy numbers down the inside of his wrist. It’s a phone number. The skin along his cheeks and neck is flushed when Miroslav releases him. The last thing Lukas wants it so be a fucking charity case, but he looks up into Miroslav’s face and those fucking impossible big green-hazel eyes, those wide, sad eyes bore into him no other.
That’s not what this is going to be, Lukas.
Fuck.
He knows he’ll call.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Part Four: Miroslav was raised Catholic. At twenty-five he is the youngest priest to be sent to Cologne with hopes of bringing young men like Lukas Podolski back to the Church. (Priest!Miro AU: Lukas' Confessor)
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: Part Three: The Bad Season: Lukas Podolski's football career was ended when he was only 19, resulting in a dramatic change. (aka: shameless Lukas!Hooker fic.)
Rating: Part Three: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: Hope you enjoy. So I'm trying something odd and new with the writing style--quasi Lukas' POV...swearing abound.
Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Part Three: The Bad Season
Part Three: The Bad Season
If there is one thing Lukas loathes, it giving a guy head in the front seat of a car. Especially if the steering wheel is fixed and especially if that car happens to be a fucking minivan. Lukas can’t think of a single time it has ended well for him. Meaning that the inexorable bane of his existence is blowing a guy in a goddamn minivan with a fixed steering wheel. It always goes the same way, the guy gets excited, slams his hips forward and Lukas winds up whacking the side of his head against the wheel. But it pays to compromise every once in a while—at least that’s how his friend convinced him to give up his ‘dumb fucking idea of a pipedream’ and embark on his new ‘career path.’ That and his serious cash flow problems were catching up to him after he jacked his knee up four years ago. Lukas had never realized how expensive physical therapy could be when you were a little too headstrong, your psyche riddled with bottomless wells of doubt. Granted having sex for money was a lot easier on the body than playing professional football year round, it was nowhere near as lucrative.
So when this guy rolled up, dark tinted aviators and thin pink lips, hood up, he paused to consider his options. They had already made an arrangement for five hundred on the phone the day before, but when the man pressed the money into his hand and then promises him an additional five when they were finished at the motel, Lukas decided this was one of those instances when personal preference was going out the window. And that’s how Lukas now finds himself stuck in a minivan knocking his head against the fixed leather steering wheel. The only consolation is that at least it’s one posh ass minivan, all black leather interior with every extra feature imaginable—so the guy is probably good for the extra five hundred euros.
After a couple minutes, Lukas figures he must be doing a pretty good job since the man’s hand is latched onto the base of his skull like he’s drawing out the everlasting life from him. His other hand is gently carding through Lukas’ short blond hair in approval, the pad of his thumb running along the tip of his left ear. Better yet, the guy is continually stifling a moan every time Lukas’ head bobs up and drags his teeth along the swollen head. The guy’s thin lips are swollen and marked with indentations from his teeth digging into the soft flesh as he tries to stay quiet. Right about now, Lukas is glad he decided to go with the strawberry flavoured condom instead of the funky smelling banana one as the strawberry flavouring seems to last longer. It’s still pretty early so he’s decided to go for broke on this one, trying to impress right out of the gate and maybe get a couple more bills out of the guy later.
Lukas has to admit he likes the way this guy’s veins pulse against his lips as his cheeks hollow around the latex and hot flesh. Sometimes it’s hit or miss, more often then not a big fat miss, but Lukas can’t deny that he’s enjoying this, despite the obvious hindrances of location. From the limited amount of him visible, the guy is pretty attractive—beautiful narrow hips and strong, actually, incredibly strong thighs that begin to quiver as Lukas runs his finger tips up along the inner seam of the guy’s jeans. He’s also quiet, suppressing his moans with little huffs and shallow breathing, which Lukas finds a bit endearing—he’s not making a fucking show of it. And, of course, Lukas has always been a fucking sucker for a sharp jaw line and gently curved, thin lips. In the back of his mind he begins to imagine how slutty he must look with a mouth full of this guy’s cock as they sit parked on the top level of the car park near Lukas’ flat. It makes him hard. They never discussed what exactly the guy wanted, how Lukas should behave, so he resists the urge to start rubbing himself through his trousers. He ends up moaning a bit in the back of his throat, finally drawing out a real moan from the man.
Lukas grins, swirling his tongue around.
It’s then that Lukas hears the muffled sound of something vibrating against leather off in the distance. He quickly realizes it’s a mobile phone. This guy is getting his dick sucked and his fucking mobile starts buzzing angrily from the backseat of his minivan. Lukas wants to laugh. He almost does but checks it before the desire swells into something unstoppable. It’s fucking absurd and they both know it. Who keeps their phone in the back seat, anyways, Lukas wonders.
“Eeeh, eeh,” the man stutters as he tries to manoeuvre himself between the two seats with one hand still pressed to the back of Lukas’ head as he continues to suck him off. He lifts his hips and Lukas whacks the back of his head on the steering wheel, groaning in pain. The guy falters for a moment, gasping as his breath catches in his arched throat, and Lukas thinks he might fall into the backseat so he grabs his unstable hips. He hears the man fumbling around with something, followed by the slick sound of a duffle bag being hastily unzipped. The persistent vibrations of his mobile get louder.
“Hey,” he breathes into the phone, half of his body still hanging in the backseat of the minivan. “I’m kind of busy at the moment.” He calmly slides into the driver’s seat once more—making no indication for Lukas to stop as he takes the call. Nice, Lukas thinks with a wicked smirk, wrapping his forefinger and thumb around the base of the man’s dick. The sudden pressure sends his narrow hips jerking. “Yes.” It hisses out of the man and Lukas isn’t sure if it’s intended for the distinctly female voice on the other end of the line or him. “I caahhh!” he gasps. Lukas has almost pulled away completely, teeth skidding along the length of him until just his lips, full and swollen, are left wrapped around the tip to suck it hard. The man swallows thickly before correcting himself, “I can’t. Yes, I’m fine. I just—” He glances down but Lukas can’t see anything but his reflection in the dark sunglasses. Fuck, what a sight. Podolski in all his fucking glory. Cheeks hollow and flushed, blue eyes smiling as he stares up into the man’s shadowed face, those lips thick around a lovely hard cock. He watches as the guy’s tongue slides out slowly to lick his thin lips. “Yes, but I thought you were going to—I know, but,” he halts, looking up through the windshield, clearly cut off by the woman on the other end of the line. Lukas can hear the stiff sound of the man’s hand twisting around the leather steering wheel, gripping it tight as he braces himself. “Yes, okay, fine.” He hangs up quickly, snapping the flip phone shut and pressing the cool metal against his cheek. Letting go of the steering wheel, the man’s free hand moves back to gripping the base of Lukas’ skull. The man starts moaning now, big open mouth, fucking jaw hiccupping moans. Lukas suddenly releases the pressure at the base of the man’s cock. The guy’s fist collides with the rim of the steering wheel and his mobile goes skittering across the dash, all the way to the passenger’s side. Lukas’ eyes water as he focuses on not gagging, the muscles of his throat contracting as he swallows a few times around the flavoured latex. “Fuck.” It’s louder than Lukas is expecting, the antithesis of the man who started out chewing his lips to shreds to keep quiet.
Silently, Lukas pulls the condom off the guy as he settles back into the passenger seat. The man quickly tucks himself back into his jeans, snapping his fly shut before jittery hands fall on the keys still dangling from the ignition. For some reason, and Lukas hasn’t the slightest fucking clue as to why, but whatever the woman said to this man has him totally rattled.
Great, now it’s Lukas’ job to get him back in the mood.
“We have to make a stop before we go to the motel.” Oh. Well, he’s sure he’ll soon find out what the problem is, whether he wants to or not. In his head, Lukas starts listing the amounts of back payment that are due for his truncated physical therapy. This is why he can’t say no, why he can’t go back now. He ties off the condom and tosses it out the window before they drive away.
It takes them about twenty minutes to drive across the city into the nice, gentrified part of Munich, where families live with lush green grass and clean rivers ways. Lukas plays with his seatbelt, twisting it back and forth, but relaxes a little when he watches through the pristine windshield as they drive up to a city park. People are sitting outside sun bathing on blankets, reading and chatting with other normal people about their normal lives and normal jobs. There is a swarm of children running around a shortened, makeshift football pitch with small track bags outlining the perimeter.
Kids. He has fucking kids.
Of course, well what self-respecting man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, would drive around Munich in a freaking minivan? Oh yes, a man with children. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised anymore when married guys phone him up for an appointment—shit, he’d probably still be deep in the closet dating the same girl since he was fifteen if it wasn’t for his accident and subsequent ‘complications,’ as Lukas likes to label them. But this guy wasn’t wearing a ring; he didn’t even have the tan line. Which wouldn’t be that strange, an unmarried couple with kids, Lukas reasons, except for the large cross hanging around the man’s neck. But then again, this is the same guy sitting in a minivan with a male prostitute who just gave him the best head he’s every received. Everyone is making exceptions these days, Lukas figures. He watches the man fumble absentmindedly with the necklace the crucifix is looped through—it reminds him of the rosary his grandmother sent him from back home in Poland when he turned thirteen. Usually Lukas is so good at knowing immediately what a man’s situation is so he can cater himself exactly to his needs, but he’s been totally thrown for a fucking loop with this guy.
They park across the street from the pitch and given the possibilities behind the phone call, it could have been so much worse, Lukas figures. After all, he loves kids. The guy leaves the engine running as he briefly turns to Lukas, his hand resting between them on the gear stick. “I’m sorry about this.” Lukas tries to smile at him but the man is fixated on the old Adidas laced up on Lukas’ feet. “Just play along and act like we’re old friends.” He glances up before turning to open the car door, catching Lukas’ eye as he nods. The man pauses, twisting back around in the driver’s seat. “Can you give me a name, your real one?” There’s an odd twist to his voice, biting and beautiful.
“Lukas.” He fumbles, forgetting his own fucking rules of play. It pops out before he has a chance to lie.
“Nice to meet you, Lukas.” The man flashes him a wry grin before stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
Two little identical boys in football kits dash over to the minivan. He has fucking twins, two fucking adorable sons that are all his own. The two children practically launch themselves at the man, dropping their bags and jumping up to wrap themselves around his wiry body. Lukas feels a lopsided grin spreading across his face as he sees the guy kneel down, arms full of his sons. The man sends them back to grab their duffle bags before taking their hands in his own. Lukas isn’t sure he ever greeted his own father like that, maybe once, after his first international cap. He watches the guy turn around, both sons holding their father’s hands as they walk back to the minivan. It’s sentimental and so fucking stupid-immature but Lukas knows the grin on his face is possibly threatening to become permanent. There is something about this guy—something off, something Lukas can’t really pin down but he knows that there is nothing he is looking forward to more than getting inside his head, opening him up and fucking him as soon as possible.
Every once in a while, when you make those concessions, like giving head in a minivan, and you get in return a truly fucking interesting, attractive man who is paying you for your time, Lukas is one hundred percent sure of God.
“How was practice?” The man asks, buckling the two into their seats, tugging at the belts to test them both.
“Great, Dad.” They are both bouncing around in their car seats, straining toward their father.
“Good,” he says with a bright smile, ruffling the short hair of the boy closest before sliding the minivan’s door closed. The man doesn’t look at Lukas as he climbs back behind the wheel. “I’m dropping you two off at your cousin’s, okay?” He glances into the rear view mirror as he speaks, watching for the boys’ reaction. They seem excited enough. They pull away from the park and head in the direction of one of the neighbourhoods nearby. “This is Lukas, he’s a friend of Daddy’s.”
“Hello, Lukas.” They both say politely in unison.
“Lukas, do you work with Dad?” One of the boys asks before Lukas has a chance to respond to their greeting.
“Yeah,” Lukas answers slowly, glancing over at the man to make sure he’s playing along to his liking. Quickly, he decides to change the subject before he gets caught up in the details. “I like your guys’ kits.” Lukas shifts around in his seat to talk with the boys face to face. The man reaches over and untwists the tangle of seatbelt cutting into the flesh of Lukas’ throat; it’s an automatic response and he hastily pulls his hand away after fixing the problem. Parental instinct. Lukas smiles brightly, amping up the charm and softening his low voice. “I was obsessed with football when I was your age.” He laughs a bit. Each boy looks up at him with a pair of big, inquisitive eyes and Lukas tries to imagine what the man seated beside him looks like without his sunglasses. “I even played a few matches for the Under 21 German National team, you guys know what that is?” They both nod vigorously with matching mystified looks on their faces.
“What team do you play for now?” It’s the same boy as before, spinning a football in his small hands.
“I don’t really play much any more.” Lukas stuffs a hand under his left knee, cradling it as he gently pulls it to his chest. He rests his chin on it, shooting for blasé but just narrowly misses it. The boy stops playing with the ball and hands it over to his brother as he starts fidgeting with his socks instead.
“Why not?” The quieter twin asks, passing the ball to Lukas.
“Well,” he starts but trails off into silence, twirling the football a few times, lost in remembering the weight and feel of it. It’s a bit heady and he has to stop. Lukas tosses the ball up, extending his arm and punting it back to the boy with his bicep.
“You can play on Dad’s team!” The other boy looks up as if he’s had a brilliant idea. Team? Lukas turns to stare at the man. Who the fuck is this guy?
“Lukas is more on the management side of things now.” The man finally steps in with a vague lie. His answer is greeted with a disappointed “Oh,” and suddenly the conversation comes to a total standstill.
The two boys begin chatting to one another in Polish and Lukas pretends not to understand. He turns back around in his seat, glancing over at the man, Polish? They are talking about him, speculating on why someone like Lukas would stop playing football. The quieter one of the two brushes it off. They quickly switch topics, talking about the other boys on their little football team and planning what games they want to play with their cousins that afternoon. Lukas starts to tune them out, opting to focus on their father as they turn onto another street lined with matching midsize starter homes with small manicured front lawns and short driveways.
Pulling up out front of one of the homes, the man slows to a stop before parking and getting out to help his sons out of the van.
“Okay, Mom will pick you guys up after dinner.” Lukas watches as he kneels down on the grass and takes his twins into his arms. “I’ll see you guys this weekend, yeah? Boys night Friday, Saturday and Sunday.” Perhaps it’s a separation, Lukas thinks. The man’s hug lasts a little too long, and even Lukas can see how it’s fringed with desperation. “Now go play with your cousins.” He finally releases them, playfully swatting at their retreating backsides as they take off running toward the backyard, calling for their cousins. The man stands there for a few moments and then walks back to the minivan.
They’ve been driving for a quarter of an hour in silence. Lukas can feel the stress radiating off the man in dull waves, his shoulders slightly hunched as he slouches against the soft leather seat. It’s slowly dissipating though, bit by bit with every mile that takes him further and further away from his reality, his responsibilities, his job, his sons, his everything. Lukas sends up a lone fucking prayer for that one. It’ll be easier to deal with him if he’s relaxed, easier to get inside his mind and unwind his insanely tight centre axis—after all isn’t that what he’s paying a thousand euros for? Relaxation de jour.
But then the man has to go and ruin it all by asking Lukas a shitty question like, “So what happened to you?” And once again Lukas finds all his expectations to be totally fucking subverted by this guy. Just when he figured he was about to have his go at the man, everything is flipped upside down. His voice is painfully nonchalant when he asks—as if he has not a single fucking clue how loaded a question like that is.
“Excuse me?”
“You just told my kids you used to play for Germany. If that’s true, why’d you stop?” It’s an accusation—Lukas is sure of that.
Why did you quit? Why didn’t you play through the pain, get back on the pitch, what happened to your unrivalled passion for the beautiful game? Weren’t you going to play until your last breath, what happened to that little boy? Were you too weak? Not a man?
He feels his joints lock up as he pulls anxiously at the seat belt.
“I didn’t.” Lukas needs to be very clear about this. They always think it was a choice, like he didn’t want to continue playing, as if it doesn’t hurt every day he has to lay on his back and fucking take it instead of running free on a pitch with gold, red and black bars on his chest. “This little shit quit working on me.” The man glances over as Lukas gestures to his left knee.
Lukas needs him to understand.
“We were playing against Iceland in a qualifier. I fucked up and tore my ACL.” He stops there, like always. Just the facts now, put a fucking stopper on those emotions before they come boiling over, Lukas.
“You didn’t get the surgery?” The man’s tone is polite, delicate even and Lukas knows this is the role the man always takes on—he can see how easily he slips into the part of the oh so considerate consoler with a motive of prying information out of someone in order to confront it and move on. It’s a great skill to have. Lukas knew a few guys like that, but they all belonged to the professional sports circuit—sports psychology 101.
“You sure ask a lot of questions.” This fucking guy. Lukas laughs uncomfortably, his smile painfully awkward as he feels the heat rising up his neck.
“I’m sorry.” The man backs down immediately. “It’s none of my business. It’s just…” He trails off, changing lanes as they approach their exit.
“It was a long time ago.” Lukas wants to smooth over it as soon as possible. “I’ve gotten over it.” Lukas turns back to the window, watching the trees spinning by in torrents of dark green and black.
When they get to the motel, the guy already has a key—every once in a while the guy will do this, but usually it’s the ones who are a bit paranoid, the ones that have something to lose. It’s not a bad place. Lukas has definitely stayed in worse places when working, but he’s also been in nicer ones.
This is when the math begins, well, the only kind of math Lukas actually excels at or really gets. He is adding everything up, making a tally of all the little clues and hints that have been dropped over the last hour and a half. It starts with the minivan, and the twins, no ring, a crucifix, Polish, questioning and a bit invasive and finally the middle class hotel. These sum up to equal; family man, separated, closeted, religious, morals, ethics, phlegmatic, and probably an average job that pays well but he’s now on a budget since he’s no longer living with his partner. So then the question in Lukas’ mind becomes, what would a man like that want a man like Lukas to do to make him feel good, to give him the pleasure that his life is clearly missing? Slowly but surely he’s narrowing down all the possible scenarios until he finds the one that fits those thin lips and strong thighs.
Lukas has his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the man’s ass as they cross the parking lot to the room. The guy has the track bag from his backseat flung over one shoulder. He fishes the keys out of his front pocket and unlocks the door. A nice, plush king sized bed dominates the dimly lit room with it’s fucking tackyass decor and red wine coloured trappings. It smells a bit like soap and detergent—stuffy and damp. Lukas moves around the room, running his fingers over all the surfaces, tugging the starched bed cover off and bundling it up. He throws it in the corner. Eventually, he settles on the cabinets the television is stacked on, watching as the guy plops his duffle bag down on the small table near the door. The man has pushed his hood off now, but sunglasses still intact. He’s got brown hair gelled into a short faux hawk, it works for him but is on the whole pretty generic.
“So do you keep up with football much anymore?” The man asks, that same probing nonchalant tone creeping back into his voice. He looks up at Lukas while he unzips his track bag and starts rooting around in the bottom. Almost sheepishly he pulls out a box of condoms and a bottle of lube, tossing them both on the bed.
Under any other circumstances, Lukas would find it really cute, endearing even, they way this guy is stalling, acting all tentative and almost coy—that is if the questions he seemed so fond of dropping on Lukas’ head didn’t hit so fucking close to home every single time. Apparently, with only a few words exchanged between them and this guy already knows exactly how to hit all his triggers in one go.
What a catch, Poldi.
“I’ll watch a Bayern match every once in a while. I’ve got an old friend who plays for them.” He’s glancing around the room, tugging at the cuffs of his hoodie, desperately avoiding the man. “But, you know, only when it’s on at the pub.” It’s a fucking bold-faced lie and he’s not so good about covering those up. If he’s being honest, Lukas hasn’t missed a single match since moving to Munich three years ago. And even more important than his loyalty as a fan to Bayern, is his practically religious dedication to following the national team’s World Cup qualification matches. But Lukas has already shared enough of himself with this man; he doesn’t need to know any more—doesn’t need to know just how pathetic he gets while watching a match he could maybe be playing in if only he had the money and the fucking balls to restart his physical therapy.
“Oh,” the guy murmurs and Lukas is sure there is an odd undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. “So eheem, I’m not eh—” he begins with that brief stutter halting his speech. Lukas hears the clatter of sunglasses against the table and looks up thinking to himself, fucking finally.
“Shit.”
Lukas doesn’t quite know how to react; the man is Miroslav Klose.
Fucking Miro my hero Klose paid him to suck his dick. Shit, Lukas thinks, he would have gone down on this baller for free.
A million and one fucking thoughts all go spiralling through his brain in a sudden rush and his head begins to reel. He grips the cheap wood cabinet beneath him. The very first thing that pops into his mind is the immediate desire that he could talk to Miroslav as Lukas Podolski, former U-21 German striker. Erase the whore from the man’s memory and become his equal. He wants the chance to explain himself properly, to go over every detail of why he just couldn’t fucking deal with physical therapy any more, why he couldn’t afford it, why he shut everyone out of his life, why he moved to Munich. But that all flies out the window when Miroslav grabs his arms.
“You cannot tell anyone, Lukas.” Miroslav has crossed the small motel room, now looming over Lukas as he sits stunned beside the television set. The long fingers wound about his biceps squeeze tight, hard enough to leave faint bruises. His eyes are so fucking sad and Lukas wants him to put the dark frames back on so he wouldn’t have to look at him like that. He can see that same sharp desperation from earlier rimming the irises. “Listen, I’ll pay you double. Whatev—”
“Of course.” Lukas snaps back to himself, not even thinking twice as he cuts Miroslav off.
He struggles to regain his calm, knowing the last thing a man like Miroslav wants right now is for Lukas to freak the fuck out. Yes, he’s been paid by far more powerful and influential men than a football player like Klose, but no one that he’s actually admired or knew about previous to their encounter. Lukas never was really all that interested in shitty political intrigue and so he never batted an eye when politicians and high-powered businessmen wanted to slum it with him. But it does give him a baseline for how men like Miroslav want a prostitute to act—though Lukas is pretty sure it’s a hard comparison to make given the type of man he likes to imagine Miroslav Klose to be both on and off the football pitch.
“I’m sure you saw on my site that I’m very discreet.” Taking a deep breath he tries on a small, hopefully earnest, smile. Miroslav’s hands drop away. “Trust me, Miro, can I call you Miro?” Miroslav cocks an eyebrow but does not protest. He reaches a hand out and gently hooks a few fingers around the man’s palm. The skin is a bit rough and dry, clammy to the touch—he’s beyond anxious. “The last thing I want to do is destroy your career and ruin my own life in the process.” Lukas twines their fingers together, palm-to-palm—he’s always been good at simulating intimacy, but he’s beginning to notice this one is too easy to fake. A little shiver runs up his spine. “We’re in this together.” Lukas knows guys like Miroslav, guys who are terrified of what they are, who live their delicate lives in public, love to hear that kind of crap. Though, in reality, it is true and Lukas hates to admit how much it would kill his family if they knew. He would never tell. The only hard part would be not bragging that you’ve slept with a guy you’ve idolized and if Lukas is doing the ‘full disclosure’ shtick, totally fantasized about when with other clients, for years now. But then again, who is left in his life that he would even speak to?
Miroslav sits on the edge of the bed, legs kicked out, shoulders round as his back arches inward with his elegant hands folded in his lap. He looks so fucking delicate and lost—deflated almost. A shadow against the garish red sheets. Lukas sees that those sad eyes are turned down, focusing on the tangle of fingers in his lap—no doubt lingering over the skin that was once habitually cover by metal. He thinks back and remembers hearing something in the news about Miroslav being temporarily sidelined due to injury or illness, in addition to the very public trial separation from his wife. No fucking wonder. At least Lukas is pretty sure he now knows the reason for that split.
Quietly, he slides off the cabinet, shoes padding lightly against the carpet. Careful not to trip, he moves to stand at the very corner of the mattress between the V of Miroslav’s sprawling legs. He stands there for a moment, examining the man before him. In his mind Lukas starts cataloguing all the tiny particulars about him that he never noticed before flashed up on a T.V. screen. Lukas finally touches him, stroking his hand down the side of that long face before tweaking Miroslav’s nose playfully.
“So what do you need me for?” Lukas tries to inject a bit of lightness back into the room, keeping his tone easy and curved with a smile.
Miroslav presses his face into the soft fabric of Lukas zip up, his thumbs tucking into the empty belt loops at the younger man’s hips. The man breathes in deeply, warm against his stomach. It’s a very fucking feminine position Miroslav has put him in and Lukas realizes the man doesn’t know how to be with anyone but his wife. He imagines a virginal Miroslav on his wedding night holding his wife in the same way, being as timid and respectful of her body. It makes Lukas’ stomach queasy, drawing parallels he shouldn’t, couldn’t begin to understand. But there is a distinct yielding in his posture and Lukas is sure that type of need had not yet burrowed its way into Miroslav’s consciousness. He cards his fingers through the man’s hair, dishevelling it a bit in the process.
“I want.” His voice is small and muffled by the bright red cotton of Lukas’ hoodie. It’s been a very long time since Lukas has been with someone so tentative, especially after that blow job in the minivan—Lukas is pretty sure he’s going to have a few bruises from the man’s iron grip. This is not the same man who would take a phone call from his estranged wife while getting fucking sucked off by a male whore in a car park. But then it clicks; for Miroslav, Lukas is now real. He’s become someone with a narrative he can relate to, a man who has met his kids, the only man who knows his greatest shame. And suddenly Lukas is possessed with this need to rise to Miroslav’s level, to be oh so gentle, to treat the man as if he’s made of thinly sculpted glass—though he know just how hard a hit the man can take and still get back up to shoot a game winning goal.
Lukas makes yet another fucking mistake.
He wants this to be something. Something memorable.
“Need.” Miroslav still refuses to solidify anything, stalling and hiding against Lukas’ body.
“You can say it.” Lukas is pushing and he knows it—he has a feeling about this, what a man like Miroslav need, and he decides to run with it.
If he’s ever been as intuitive about anything like he was on the pitch, it’s knowing what a guy wants done to him in all the filthiest senses of the fucking word possible. Every once in a blue fucking moon, though, his instincts fail him and it backfires like a motherfucker. Oh, but when it works. When it works something inside the guys comes unhinged, like a big old key being slowly turned in a rusted lock. You have to twist it slowly, until you don’t think it can turn any further and then it’ll snick open and the sex is fucking beyondwordsspectacular. He needs that with Miroslav. He needs this man to become unglued; to shake off the same constraints of Polish Catholic ethos that Lukas has spent years fracturing apart in his psyche.
“Miro.” Lukas’ back curves as he forms himself against the man, hands rubbing down the long expanse of his clothed back, pressing his lips to the man’s ear. “Say it.” His fingers catch the metal zipper of Miroslav’s track top, dragging it down his chest as the teeth click slowly one notch at a time as they unlock. He unzips the top to the man’s sternum before slipping his hand inside. “You want me to fuck you.” The soft cotton t-shirt stretched over Miroslav’s chest is warm beneath his fingertips as he lightly brushes them over the man’s nipple.
“Fuck,” Miroslav breaths against Lukas’ abdomen. His long fingers spasm and dig into the tough jean fabric stretched across his ass.
Slowly, oh so slowly, he slides down Miroslav’s body, tugging at the zipper until he is crouched between the man’s legs. He pushes the track top off Miroslav’s shoulders, down his arms and holds it against the bed, the man’s wrists still caught up in the fabric. The illusion of power has shifted and he wants Miroslav to understand what it means, wants him to be sure, to initiate. He stares up at the man. Lukas loves the way men stare at his eyes—every man he’s every slept with, both private and profession, has told him just how stunning, beautiful, cold, wicked, sexy, playful, goddamntruefuckingblue his eyes are and that he knows exactly how to use them. Clever boy. Miroslav is no exception to this, of course. The footballer pulls his hands free with no fight given by Lukas. He places them against Lukas’ cheeks, turning his face toward the light to watch his pupil contract, displaying the full spectrum of blue circling around it.
“Miro?” Lukas tries to encourage him, still pushing gently in a bid to draw out the striker. Eyes open, Miroslav leans down and kisses him. It’s slow at first, still soft and unsure and Lukas is enjoying the newness of sensation. The sad eyes, now shot through with flecks of hazel lust, slide closed. Hands move away from his face, back to brush along the short hairs at the back of Lukas' skull. To be honest, Lukas is a bit surprised when Miroslav tilts his head so soon and begins working his jaw, methodically exploring the inside of his mouth with a slick tongue.
It doesn’t last for long and soon the probing caresses quickly deteriorate into desperate, hot and sticky open mouth kisses—little breathy moans from Miroslav caught between them. Lukas surges up, toppling Miroslav back onto the mattress. He continues kissing him throughout, eager and messy as he wraps his fingers around the footballer’s sharp chin. Miroslav clutches the nape of Lukas’ neck. Little by little, Lukas pushes his way onto the bed until he’s crouched on all fours. In the back of his mind is buzzing the constant thought that, yes, indeed, that is Miroslav Klose writhing beneath him, mouth pliant and wet beneath his own.
The man pulls away from the kiss, head thumping against the mattress. Lukas knows he has to remain very still, hands clutching the bed sheet beneath Miroslav’s shoulders. He stares up at Lukas with hooded eyes and swollen lips that shine with saliva. It’s hard to resist the man’s touch and Lukas leans into it as Miroslav brushes a hand over his forehead, running his palm over the short bristly hairs covering his head. The hand traces down the corded muscles of Lukas’ throat, skidding along his pulse before splaying flat against the centre of his chest. Miroslav watches the progression of his own hand, pale against Lukas’ tan skin, before looking up into Lukas’ face.
“Fuck me.”
The heavy wooden cross hanging from his throat smacks against his sternum in time with Lukas sharp thrusts, the beads clattering together lightly as the necklace shifts around his throat. It makes a soft thumping sound each time Lukas snaps his hips. He fucking loves it. Everything about it and Lukas realizes it’s the most fucking arousing noise he’s ever heard. Nothing will ever come close.
From behind, he wraps a hand around the tense muscles of Miroslav’s thigh, fingers running along the sensitive inner skin. He tugs gently, spreading the man’s thighs further apart, before grabbing those narrow hips. Pressing down with just his thumbs, Lukas cues Miroslav to arch his back, opening himself up further to Lukas’ cock. Suddenly he’s pushed deeper inside him. One hand supporting his weight, Miroslav clutches the cross and presses it to his chest, halting its movement. Lukas doesn’t try to mask the fucking pathetic whimper of displeasure that escapes.
“More.” Lukas releases Miroslav’s hips, one hand pressing against the small of the football player’s back, keeping him in position as he continues to slam into him. The other hand glides along the bumpy spine, skin slicked with sweat, to have fingers tangle in the damp hair at the top of Miroslav’s head. He’s menacing over the older man, steadily pushing inside him as his chest presses down against Miroslav’s back. Full lips move against the tip of Miroslav’s ear before a tongue snakes out to run along the flushed cartilage.
“Like this?” It’s Lukas’ favourite role to play, to bottom from the top. Miroslav nods his head, beads of sweat dripping off the ends of his hair, head bowed between his shoulders. They move in tandem with one another. He grunts as he presses back into the cradle of Lukas’ hips, each violent thrust meet with a push. Unable to balance any longer on the one arm, Miroslav releases the crucifix, both hands twisting in the sheets. Lukas grins, pressing fleeting kisses against the side of his neck as he pulls the man’s head up. Loud moans start dripping from thin lips as Lukas slides his hands down Miroslav’s arms, covering the man’s with his own and tangling their fingers together.
The line is so fucking blurred he might as well blaze right past it.
Miroslav is so goddamn warm. Fucking fit as hell. Lukas wonders if this is how he used to be? Blood coursing in his veins, surging through his body, spreading out from his heart straight to his dick—it’s so perfect, the form of a world-class athlete. So goddamn tight. Slick. Hard. Fresh. Untouched. New. His.
Lukas throws his head back.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Oh, Fuck.
Lukas’ mind is reeling, running a mile a minute as he tries to process everything surrounding him. Ground him. He’s kneeling on a mediocre motel mattress in Munich fucking the shit out of his ‘once upon a pipedream’ hero. A crucifix dangling from his flushed throat acting like a goddamn metronome keeping him on pace as his hips crank up the speed. The epitome of everything he ever wanted is bowed before him, moaning, sobbing and begging for more as he fucks his ass ragged. And he’s paying him to do so. He’s a paying customer, a solicitor, not a lover, not a teammate, nothing but a stack of euros, a couple used condoms and some fuckoff fantastic orgasms.
It’s dark when they leave the motel, the door softly shutting behind Lukas while Miroslav walks slowly to where his car is parked. Lukas feels fucking ridiculous, insane and stuffs his hands in his pockets of his hoodie as he follows. Inside the recesses of red fabric his fingers brush against the thick wad of bills.
2,000 euros to fuck and suck your idol.
Miroslav is quiet as they drive away of the motel, his expression set and not giving a single hint as to what’s going through his brain. Lukas shifts in the passenger seat, pulling at a loose string hanging from his cuff. There’s no tension between them, no need to speak to one another but Lukas can’t stand the prospect of a half hour of silence like before—not anymore, not with all the things he wants to say.
“I was a striker.” It comes out before Lukas can stop it. He feels Miroslav glance over at him but he continues to stare out the front of the car. Bright headlights flash by coming the opposite way, illuminating the interior of the minivan. “Everyone said I had an iron left foot.” A little smile spreads across his lips before he turns to look at the man driving. There is a gentle crease of concentration between the man’s brows and Lukas feels odd that it’s a familiar expression, one he’s seen countless times before flickering on a television screen. “Miro,” Lukas starts and he’s so sure he’s about to say something profound. Something that will actually have meaning for a guy like Miroslav—something to make him remember Lukas as more than just his first real fuck with a man. But the words turn to ash on his tongue when he sees the bright eyes flick over to search his face. A little bit of the sadness has disappeared, replaced with a touch of levity usually colouring Lukas’ own eyes. Job well done, Lukas.
“Hmm?” Lukas lets the sound fill the space of the empty minivan.
They are silent for the rest of the drive.
With Lukas’ direction, Miroslav finds the parking structure near Lukas house once more and pulls into a spot close to the back exit before killing the engine. His hands drop to his thighs, running his palms along the fabric of his jeans.
“I did have the surgery.” The Polish words sound funny in his mouth—it’s been a long time since he’s been with anyone who would understand. Miroslav turns to look at him, directly in the eyes and Lukas isn’t expecting how they will pin him to the seat. “I think I just got stuck.” It takes a moment before Miroslav nods, and Lukas is thankful. The athlete in Miroslav understands, he can empathize—Lukas isn’t sure about the man in him. If he had said half this shit to an average guy they would have either been all over him, trying to fix the poor broken hearted hooker who just needs love in his life, that’s all, or they would have fucked him that much harder for his weak will, wanting to break him further for not having a fucking spine to see himself finally make it in the Bundesliga, back to wearing the gold, black and red stripes.
He doesn’t have anything else in him.
One hand on the latch with the car door already open, a foot dangling just above the cement, Miroslav grabs his wrist. He uncaps a pen and starts scrawling loopy numbers down the inside of his wrist. It’s a phone number. The skin along his cheeks and neck is flushed when Miroslav releases him. The last thing Lukas wants it so be a fucking charity case, but he looks up into Miroslav’s face and those fucking impossible big green-hazel eyes, those wide, sad eyes bore into him no other.
That’s not what this is going to be, Lukas.
Fuck.
He knows he’ll call.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Part Four: Miroslav was raised Catholic. At twenty-five he is the youngest priest to be sent to Cologne with hopes of bringing young men like Lukas Podolski back to the Church. (Priest!Miro AU: Lukas' Confessor)
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Date: 2010-08-27 06:13 am (UTC)Lukas, trying to make sense of his ridiculous situation, in denial and not in denial, trying and failing to use humor to make it better, finding out that understanding Miro means understanding himself - amazing.
Miro, filled with conflict, filled with longing, looking for something and not knowing how to find it, asking all the right questions to everyone but himself - also amazing.
I have been enjoying these so far, but this one's made me the most incoherent by far. You've done a good job of preserving what makes the pairing special - foreigners in a foreign land, religion (I can't WAIT for the priest AU), the age difference, the bond between strikers. Of course, being a child of immigrants and a somewhat conflicted Catholic myself, I end up doing a lot of empathizing, too!
Please keep these up! I don't want to add to my rec list until I find some more things, but I have a feeling these will end up there once you finish~. ~^
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