Fic: Secret Polish Family Recipes
Sep. 26th, 2010 02:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluetears07Title: Secret Polish Family Recipes
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski, Bastian Schweinsteiger/Philipp Lahm
Summary: German locker room after the match against Azerbaijan. Miro just wants to get laid, Lukas likes to tease, Bastian can't stand secret conversations in Polish and Philipp takes charge.
Rating: PG-13/R
Disclaimer: Don't know them, but it'd be lovely if I did.
AN: Had a bit too much Spaten at Oktoberfest so I'm de-anon-ing.
The boys pour into the locker room, pulling off their kits as epinephrine and hot blood courses through their veins. Everyone is chatting and laughing as they strip down, some head straight for the showers while others absorb the moment for just a little bit longer. A 6-1 victory feels pretty nice, granted it was against Azerbaijan, but nonetheless with only a few matches to qualify every goal counts. Muller is practically vibrating with excitement as he blazes past Lukas in order to pounce on Holger as they are the last to enter the room. Lukas plunks down onto the long bench beside Bastian. He glances over and follows his best friend’s gaze to the opposite side of the room. They both watch quietly as Philipp makes a beeline for the team trainer, weaving between much taller sweaty bodies—probably going to ask about Per.
“What’s up, Basti?” Lukas nudges him in the side as he looks over with a wide, knowing grin. Immediately, Bastian’s eyes flick away from Philipp and up to see the smirk on Lukas’ face. The midfielder folds in on himself, back curving as elbows press against his thighs. A faint flush creeps up the back of his neck and Lukas barely bites back a laugh—it’s a rare sight to see Bastian blushing these days.
“Same old, same old.” He runs a hand down the side of his face before anxiously tearing at the athletic tape wrapped around his wrists. The tape falls to the floor between his feet, curled and sweaty.
“Ok, Basti, it’s been months.” Lukas sighs, slinging an arm around Bastian’s shoulders and pulling him close. He gives his friend a squeeze before slouching back against the frame of his locker. “We talked about this on the bus. Just go ask him to dinner or something.” Palm flat, Lukas thumps Bastian on the wide expanse of his naked back. It echoes throughout the room and Philipp glances over at the two. The man rolls his eyes but a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Bastian ducks his head down as his face heats up once more. “You know, be casual,” Lukas continues, voice trailing off as his bright eyes become fixed upon the doorway to the showers.
“Lukas, he just got married.” Bastian stares at Lukas as if he’s suddenly gone crazy, speaking in a frantic, hushed whisper.
“So.” Lukas shrugs distractedly as his focus is instantly drawn to the low-slung towel wrapped around the narrow hips of a dripping wet Miroslav. The older man strolls in from the showers, walking over to his locker directly across from the infamous duo. Lukas lifts his chin, nodding toward Miroslav as he slips into Polish. “You coming over tonight?” He keeps his voice even, speaking as if he’s asking Miroslav about how well he thought they worked together on the pitch.
“Who’s topping?” Miroslav calls back as he searches through his track bag for a clean pair of boxer briefs. Lukas can’t stop the grin from growing wider; his partner never misses a beat. After a few seconds, Miroslav finds his underwear and starts to slip them on beneath his towel.
“Don’t.” Miroslav drops the garment and without pause stuffs it back into the bag before fishing out his warm ups. Following Lukas instructions, he pulls them on instead. “You’re on my field now, Mirek.” Lukas keeps his voice nonchalant, only edged out along the rim with aggressive suggestions that causes Miroslav to stand a bit straighter and he towel dries his hair. Bastian stares at his friend; his face is the picture of complete and utter perplexity.
“You guys can stop anytime now.” He gently shoves Lukas in the side as he starts to toe off his boots. Anxious, Bastian checks to see if Philipp has finished speaking with the trainer. The two are still deep in conversation and Bastian does not care for the deep crease between Philipp’s brows. He’s been waiting so patiently for their captain to start undressing beside him. “I’m sure trash talking everyone else can happen later.” It was all planned out on the bus with Lukas’ help, the best way to ensure that his locker was alongside Philipp’s—but now it was doing him no good.
“Sorry Bastian.” Miroslav glances over his shoulder from under the towel with a small conciliatory smile before answering Lukas in Polish once again. “True, but I’ve already scored twice on it tonight. I win.” The towel hangs around Miroslav’s neck as he angles his body toward his partner. Wide, deceptively innocent eyes lock with Lukas’. “I top.” Bastian scoots away from his friend unsure what exactly is transpiring between the two men but knowing that he definitely does not want to get in the middle of it.
“You scored thanks to whose fine ass?” Lukas counters, sliding forward to the edge of the bench—giving away his engagement in the conversation.
“Alright, Lukaz,” Miroslav chuckles, hanging up his towel before turning around to face Lukas. Slipping on a clean undershirt, he continues speaking in that same light, easy tone. “But I expect a lot of personal attention first.” He grins and Lukas is sure the older man never had that particular facial expression in his repertoire before he came along to show him exactly how to grin like an idiot. Bastian sighs dramatically, frustrated in every way possible as Miroslav cross the room to stand in front of the two younger men. He grabs Lukas face in one hand, as if to chastise him. Lukas represses the shiver than runs up his spine, staring up intently at his partner. “Put that pretty mouth to good use.” Miroslav steps away, looking down at Bastian. “I told him to stop.”
“Thanks, Miro.” Bastian gives Miroslav a half smile while Lukas stands to be eye to eye with the older man. The midfielder remains seated, totally ignoring the tension between the two while he strips off his socks and shorts. He tosses the lot, grabbing Lukas’ socks as well, in to the centre of the room to be cleaned.
“Yeah, thanks Miro.” Playfully, Lukas shoves the older man in the chest, his thumb brushing over a nipple to tweak it.
“Little shit.” Miroslav cuffs him gently on the back of the head before turning back to finish changing.
Mesut and Sami return from the showers, attempting to speak to one another in a broken Spanish-German hybrid. They start changing side-by-side, trying to name every article of clothing in Spanish. Seeing their chance, Lukas and Bastian grab their towels and hurry to the showers.
“Can you stay the night?” Lukas shouts to Miroslav over the spray of water.
“What do you guys even talk about that is so top secret?” Bastian muses aloud, wiping away a bit of soap that gets in his eyes.
“Secret Polish family recipes.” Lukas glances over with a wicked grin he knows Bastian will miss thanks to the stinging suds. Blindly, Bastian takes a swing at Lukas and ends up whacking him on the shoulder blade.
“If you give me a good reason.” Miroslav peers around the corner of the showers, he’s ready and waiting, fully dressed with arms folded over his chest. Impatient, Lukas shuts off his shower without rinsing all the soap from his hair and is suddenly face to face with Miroslav.
“I’ll give you several.” He pushes the older man down the short hallway back to the locker room in order to change.
“It’s quite frustrating, yeah?” Bastian nearly jumps out of his skin when Philipp is suddenly standing right beside him.
Naked.
Philipp.
Naked.
Philipp is naked and soapy. Philipp is naked and soapy and within reach. Bastian takes a deep breath, tries to mask it and focus on the words that are coming out of Philipp’s mouth.
“Remember all the hushed conversations at Bayern?” Naked and smiling, Philipp continues gesturing to the two strikers as they disappear down the short corridor. “I have no idea what they could possibly be talking about. I just hope they aren’t saying anything about us.” He laughs, turning to wash away the layer of soapsuds he’s built up on his shoulders and chest.
“Why?” Bastian’s back goes rigid with the possible scenarios in which Lukas might have said something to Philipp. Yes he asked his friend for help but specifically requested for him to not be that bluntly about the whole operation. “Why would they talk about us? What do you mean?” He instantly forgets how one should clean ones body and simply stands under the hot spray.
“I mean, why else would they be speaking in Polish unless they didn’t want us to know what they were saying.” Philipp finishes showering, grabbing his towel. “And the only reason they wouldn’t want us to know is if they are talking about us.” He waits for Bastian to finish, leaning against the cool tiled wall.
“Yeah,” Bastian replies slowly as he switches off his own shower.
“Maybe they’re Polish spies.” It’s a great moment when Philipp jokes with Bastian. He loves the man’s sense of humour and he instantly feels more at ease. The twisted knots of anxiety loosen as he remembers the way he used to act around Philipp, before he became attracted to him. They laugh together as they walk back into the busy locker room. It’s louder than before but all Bastian can hear is the discord of Polish issuing forth from Lukas’ mouth as the striker pulls on a T-shirt.
“Can we fuck in the shower sometime?” Lukas glances down at Miroslav seated on the bench.
“We do that all the time.” A funny expression crosses Miroslav’s face as Bastian starts pulling on his warm ups. He glances over at Philipp who rolls his eyes but simply shrugs, giving up on the pair.
“No, I mean in the showers after a match.” The young man worries his lower lip as he jams the rest of his stuff into his duffle bag. “Like in a bad porno.”
“I wish I could kiss you right now.” Miroslav’s voice is low and twisted with all too apparent sadness. He stares down at his hands folded together in his lap. A gentle hand from Lukas runs through Miroslav’s wet hair, messing it up into a faux hawk.
“Same.” It’s a single word but a rough one that Bastian will never know the full meaning of even if he remembers to look it up online. Lukas swings the heavy bag over his shoulder. “Re-”
“Oh my god.” Bastian throws up his hands effectively cutting Lukas off before he can continue. “Really? Still?” He fumbles with the zipper of his hoodie, yanking it all the way up in jerky, anxious movements. Lukas gives him a sheepish look, tugging at Miroslav’s collar, silently requesting the man to stand up.
“Come on.” Philipp is beside him, touching the small of Bastian’s back, guiding him toward the exit. “Let’s get dinner while they continue eye-fucking each other.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Bastian replies, shouldering his bag and rewinding the dark scarf around his neck.
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski, Bastian Schweinsteiger/Philipp Lahm
Summary: German locker room after the match against Azerbaijan. Miro just wants to get laid, Lukas likes to tease, Bastian can't stand secret conversations in Polish and Philipp takes charge.
Rating: PG-13/R
Disclaimer: Don't know them, but it'd be lovely if I did.
AN: Had a bit too much Spaten at Oktoberfest so I'm de-anon-ing.
Secret Polish Family Recipes
The boys pour into the locker room, pulling off their kits as epinephrine and hot blood courses through their veins. Everyone is chatting and laughing as they strip down, some head straight for the showers while others absorb the moment for just a little bit longer. A 6-1 victory feels pretty nice, granted it was against Azerbaijan, but nonetheless with only a few matches to qualify every goal counts. Muller is practically vibrating with excitement as he blazes past Lukas in order to pounce on Holger as they are the last to enter the room. Lukas plunks down onto the long bench beside Bastian. He glances over and follows his best friend’s gaze to the opposite side of the room. They both watch quietly as Philipp makes a beeline for the team trainer, weaving between much taller sweaty bodies—probably going to ask about Per.
“What’s up, Basti?” Lukas nudges him in the side as he looks over with a wide, knowing grin. Immediately, Bastian’s eyes flick away from Philipp and up to see the smirk on Lukas’ face. The midfielder folds in on himself, back curving as elbows press against his thighs. A faint flush creeps up the back of his neck and Lukas barely bites back a laugh—it’s a rare sight to see Bastian blushing these days.
“Same old, same old.” He runs a hand down the side of his face before anxiously tearing at the athletic tape wrapped around his wrists. The tape falls to the floor between his feet, curled and sweaty.
“Ok, Basti, it’s been months.” Lukas sighs, slinging an arm around Bastian’s shoulders and pulling him close. He gives his friend a squeeze before slouching back against the frame of his locker. “We talked about this on the bus. Just go ask him to dinner or something.” Palm flat, Lukas thumps Bastian on the wide expanse of his naked back. It echoes throughout the room and Philipp glances over at the two. The man rolls his eyes but a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Bastian ducks his head down as his face heats up once more. “You know, be casual,” Lukas continues, voice trailing off as his bright eyes become fixed upon the doorway to the showers.
“Lukas, he just got married.” Bastian stares at Lukas as if he’s suddenly gone crazy, speaking in a frantic, hushed whisper.
“So.” Lukas shrugs distractedly as his focus is instantly drawn to the low-slung towel wrapped around the narrow hips of a dripping wet Miroslav. The older man strolls in from the showers, walking over to his locker directly across from the infamous duo. Lukas lifts his chin, nodding toward Miroslav as he slips into Polish. “You coming over tonight?” He keeps his voice even, speaking as if he’s asking Miroslav about how well he thought they worked together on the pitch.
“Who’s topping?” Miroslav calls back as he searches through his track bag for a clean pair of boxer briefs. Lukas can’t stop the grin from growing wider; his partner never misses a beat. After a few seconds, Miroslav finds his underwear and starts to slip them on beneath his towel.
“Don’t.” Miroslav drops the garment and without pause stuffs it back into the bag before fishing out his warm ups. Following Lukas instructions, he pulls them on instead. “You’re on my field now, Mirek.” Lukas keeps his voice nonchalant, only edged out along the rim with aggressive suggestions that causes Miroslav to stand a bit straighter and he towel dries his hair. Bastian stares at his friend; his face is the picture of complete and utter perplexity.
“You guys can stop anytime now.” He gently shoves Lukas in the side as he starts to toe off his boots. Anxious, Bastian checks to see if Philipp has finished speaking with the trainer. The two are still deep in conversation and Bastian does not care for the deep crease between Philipp’s brows. He’s been waiting so patiently for their captain to start undressing beside him. “I’m sure trash talking everyone else can happen later.” It was all planned out on the bus with Lukas’ help, the best way to ensure that his locker was alongside Philipp’s—but now it was doing him no good.
“Sorry Bastian.” Miroslav glances over his shoulder from under the towel with a small conciliatory smile before answering Lukas in Polish once again. “True, but I’ve already scored twice on it tonight. I win.” The towel hangs around Miroslav’s neck as he angles his body toward his partner. Wide, deceptively innocent eyes lock with Lukas’. “I top.” Bastian scoots away from his friend unsure what exactly is transpiring between the two men but knowing that he definitely does not want to get in the middle of it.
“You scored thanks to whose fine ass?” Lukas counters, sliding forward to the edge of the bench—giving away his engagement in the conversation.
“Alright, Lukaz,” Miroslav chuckles, hanging up his towel before turning around to face Lukas. Slipping on a clean undershirt, he continues speaking in that same light, easy tone. “But I expect a lot of personal attention first.” He grins and Lukas is sure the older man never had that particular facial expression in his repertoire before he came along to show him exactly how to grin like an idiot. Bastian sighs dramatically, frustrated in every way possible as Miroslav cross the room to stand in front of the two younger men. He grabs Lukas face in one hand, as if to chastise him. Lukas represses the shiver than runs up his spine, staring up intently at his partner. “Put that pretty mouth to good use.” Miroslav steps away, looking down at Bastian. “I told him to stop.”
“Thanks, Miro.” Bastian gives Miroslav a half smile while Lukas stands to be eye to eye with the older man. The midfielder remains seated, totally ignoring the tension between the two while he strips off his socks and shorts. He tosses the lot, grabbing Lukas’ socks as well, in to the centre of the room to be cleaned.
“Yeah, thanks Miro.” Playfully, Lukas shoves the older man in the chest, his thumb brushing over a nipple to tweak it.
“Little shit.” Miroslav cuffs him gently on the back of the head before turning back to finish changing.
Mesut and Sami return from the showers, attempting to speak to one another in a broken Spanish-German hybrid. They start changing side-by-side, trying to name every article of clothing in Spanish. Seeing their chance, Lukas and Bastian grab their towels and hurry to the showers.
“Can you stay the night?” Lukas shouts to Miroslav over the spray of water.
“What do you guys even talk about that is so top secret?” Bastian muses aloud, wiping away a bit of soap that gets in his eyes.
“Secret Polish family recipes.” Lukas glances over with a wicked grin he knows Bastian will miss thanks to the stinging suds. Blindly, Bastian takes a swing at Lukas and ends up whacking him on the shoulder blade.
“If you give me a good reason.” Miroslav peers around the corner of the showers, he’s ready and waiting, fully dressed with arms folded over his chest. Impatient, Lukas shuts off his shower without rinsing all the soap from his hair and is suddenly face to face with Miroslav.
“I’ll give you several.” He pushes the older man down the short hallway back to the locker room in order to change.
“It’s quite frustrating, yeah?” Bastian nearly jumps out of his skin when Philipp is suddenly standing right beside him.
Naked.
Philipp.
Naked.
Philipp is naked and soapy. Philipp is naked and soapy and within reach. Bastian takes a deep breath, tries to mask it and focus on the words that are coming out of Philipp’s mouth.
“Remember all the hushed conversations at Bayern?” Naked and smiling, Philipp continues gesturing to the two strikers as they disappear down the short corridor. “I have no idea what they could possibly be talking about. I just hope they aren’t saying anything about us.” He laughs, turning to wash away the layer of soapsuds he’s built up on his shoulders and chest.
“Why?” Bastian’s back goes rigid with the possible scenarios in which Lukas might have said something to Philipp. Yes he asked his friend for help but specifically requested for him to not be that bluntly about the whole operation. “Why would they talk about us? What do you mean?” He instantly forgets how one should clean ones body and simply stands under the hot spray.
“I mean, why else would they be speaking in Polish unless they didn’t want us to know what they were saying.” Philipp finishes showering, grabbing his towel. “And the only reason they wouldn’t want us to know is if they are talking about us.” He waits for Bastian to finish, leaning against the cool tiled wall.
“Yeah,” Bastian replies slowly as he switches off his own shower.
“Maybe they’re Polish spies.” It’s a great moment when Philipp jokes with Bastian. He loves the man’s sense of humour and he instantly feels more at ease. The twisted knots of anxiety loosen as he remembers the way he used to act around Philipp, before he became attracted to him. They laugh together as they walk back into the busy locker room. It’s louder than before but all Bastian can hear is the discord of Polish issuing forth from Lukas’ mouth as the striker pulls on a T-shirt.
“Can we fuck in the shower sometime?” Lukas glances down at Miroslav seated on the bench.
“We do that all the time.” A funny expression crosses Miroslav’s face as Bastian starts pulling on his warm ups. He glances over at Philipp who rolls his eyes but simply shrugs, giving up on the pair.
“No, I mean in the showers after a match.” The young man worries his lower lip as he jams the rest of his stuff into his duffle bag. “Like in a bad porno.”
“I wish I could kiss you right now.” Miroslav’s voice is low and twisted with all too apparent sadness. He stares down at his hands folded together in his lap. A gentle hand from Lukas runs through Miroslav’s wet hair, messing it up into a faux hawk.
“Same.” It’s a single word but a rough one that Bastian will never know the full meaning of even if he remembers to look it up online. Lukas swings the heavy bag over his shoulder. “Re-”
“Oh my god.” Bastian throws up his hands effectively cutting Lukas off before he can continue. “Really? Still?” He fumbles with the zipper of his hoodie, yanking it all the way up in jerky, anxious movements. Lukas gives him a sheepish look, tugging at Miroslav’s collar, silently requesting the man to stand up.
“Come on.” Philipp is beside him, touching the small of Bastian’s back, guiding him toward the exit. “Let’s get dinner while they continue eye-fucking each other.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Bastian replies, shouldering his bag and rewinding the dark scarf around his neck.
