something in the difference
Title: Something in the Difference
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo / Mesut Özil
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,044
Summary: Mesut’s completely different from him in almost every way that he can think of, and Cristiano likes that about him.
A/N: For distira, who asked for tummy!fic for the Sant Jordi fic exchange.
Some mornings, Mesut shows up to practice at the same time as Cristiano-early, early, at least an hour before anyone else gets there-and Cristiano likes that.
“Your hair’s a mess,” Cristiano says as he’s lacing up his boots, because Mesut already knows that means hello, and good morning, and I missed you last night.
“What’s it matter?” Mesut asks. “It’s just going in a headband, anyways.” He strips off his shirt to throw on his training kit, and Cristiano doesn’t even bother to pretend that he’s not staring. Mesut’s body isn’t anything like his own; it’s smoother, more compact, and there’s something about that that Cristiano likes. Mesut’s completely different from him in almost every way that he can think of, and Cristiano likes that about him, too. “Besides, your hair’s a mess, too.”
Cristiano laughs, caught off guard by that, and he says, “Don’t even try me.”
Mesut just smiles back and pulls his shirt down over his torso.
The strangest part about it, Cristiano thinks, is not that he likes Mesut’s stomach so much, but that even months after everything starts and Cristiano’s learned everything that there is to learn about Mesut, Mesut still doesn’t even seem to realize it.
They’re done with practice, and the day turned out to be so hot out that Cristiano has to peel his shirt off his sweaty skin just to feel human again.
“You’d think Flo liked us enough to get air-conditioning or something,” Marcelo says. “But no.”
“He likes us enough,” Sergio quips, pushing his hair back from his face. “You’re just the deal breaker.” The locker room fills with a chorus of oohs, and sitting next to Cristiano on the bench, Mesut laughs.
Cristiano looks over, and Mesut’s not wearing a shirt. And there’s nothing new about that, not to Cristiano, not in this situation or in any other, but he takes a second to look anyways. Mesut’s cheeks are flushed, and his chest, and his hair is longer than Cristiano’s ever seen it, and then there’s his stomach, the way it expands and contracts with each breath, and how his skin folds as he rests his elbows on his knees.
Mesut catches him looking and shoots him a lopsided smile; Cristiano smiles back and then looks away. He wants to kiss Mesut and leave fingertip bruises on the sides of Mesut’s hips, and he wants to bite the smooth expanse of skin just underneath Mesut’s bellybutton, just because he can.
That night, Mesut comes over and helps cook dinner. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, and he looks so familiar in that moment that it makes Cristiano’s head spin.
“You can tell he’s anxious, you know?” Mesut says, heating up some red sauce in a saucepan on the stove. “Just by the way he runs practice.”
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “Wouldn’t you be too, though? I mean, we used to have ten points on them.”
“Don’t remind me,” Mesut says, and he pulls a face, turns up the heat on the burner.
“Doesn’t matter,” Cristiano says, and he tugs a bit on the hem of Mesut’s shirt. He’s going to say something, maybe joke that Madrid can’t lose with someone like Cristiano on their team, but instead he just pulls Mesut in, and he kisses Mesut, there in front of the stove, one hand under Mesut’s shirt and pressed flat against the skin of his stomach.
They drive to practice together, sometimes, if one of them spends the night, and no one says anything because they all catch rides with each other at some point, Alvaro and Raul, Pepe and Marcelo, Pipita and Sergio.
“New sunglasses?” Cristiano asks. He hasn’t seen them before, and Mesut looks good in them, a baseball hat backwards on his head and his window open.
“Yeah,” Mesut says. “Went shopping with Sergio the other day. He yelled at me over the garden wall until I said I’d go.”
Cristiano laughs because that’s easy to imagine, and then Mesut takes off his aviators, passes them to Cristiano at a red light so that Cristiano can put them on and see how he looks in the rearview mirror. Cristiano trades him his own sunglasses, and then they drive the rest of the way to Ciudad Real Madrid, Cristiano in Ray-Bans and Mesut in Armani.
“I like these,” Cristiano says. “I think they make me look good.”
“You think everything makes you look good,” Mesut says, and he rolls his eyes.
“Well, it does,” Cristiano says, and then he laughs at his own joke, partly because it’s a ridiculous thing to say, and partly because it’s true.
“You’re an idiot,” Mesut says, but he’s laughing too, and so Cristiano doesn’t mind.
After practice, a couple of them hit up the steam room, Pipita and Marcelo and Sami, Mesut and Cristiano. Practice is always hard, but Cristiano pushed himself even harder today, and so he just shuts his eyes as he rests his head back against the wall and let’s the heat relax his muscles, let’s the others dominate the conversation.
“It’s like that question,” Marcelo says. “If you were stranded on a desert island, what would you take with you?”
“A Fed-Ex package with a volleyball in it,” Pipita answers, even though Marcelo wasn’t really asking them.
Sami laughs a little at that and says, “Seriously? What?”
“You’ve never seen Cast Away?” Mesut asks, and Sami just shakes his head.
“You’ve been relegated to the castilla of my friendships,” Marcelo says. “That is embarrassing.”
“I’m devastated,” Sami deadpans, and then he jokes, “I’d just take Lena and a pack of condoms.”
“Condoms?” Marcelo practically shouts. “How long are you planning on surviving for?”
“Besides, Mesut’s the one who needs the condoms,” Pipita says, and that startles a laugh out of Mesut.
“What?” Mesut asks.
“Your stomach’s covered in hickies,” Pipita points out, and Cristiano opens his eyes at that one, looks over at Mesut, and it’s true; there are two hickies just to the left of Mesut’s bellybutton, and one on his opposite hip, peeking out from underneath his towel.
“Oh,” Mesut says, like he hadn’t even realized it. He rubs absently at them and the conversation changes, the others bored by Mesut’s non-reaction.
Mesut glances at Cristiano for a second, and Cristiano purposefully doesn’t look back; he doesn’t have anything to say about it.
Mesut doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the week, and Cristiano thinks that maybe that’s it, forgotten again. It doesn’t surprise him, to be honest, because Mesut lets the little things go easily so that he can spend his time focusing on the big things, the important things. Cristiano likes that; he thinks he’s like that, too.
They spend their free day doing not much of anything, just lounging around Mesut’s house and being lazy for once. They play some FIFA, too, but after a while it just makes Cristiano too mad, to be constantly losing, and so he tosses his controller down on the ground and refuses to start a new game.
They go swimming in the backyard. The water is cold, but it’s so hot out that Cristiano doesn’t mind, just closes his eyes and floats on his back until he bumps into Mesut or the wall, and then he pushes off, keeps floating.
“For a second I thought you were here to hang out with me,” Mesut says, and that makes Cristiano smile, just a little.
“No,” Cristiano says. “Your pool’s just better than mine,” and a second later, something hits him in the chest and then bounces into the water. Cristiano sits up, looks to Mesut to say something, but Mesut’s sitting on the side of the pool, just his feet in the water, and Cristiano gets distracted by all of his tan skin.
“Wasn’t me,” Mesut says, and he laughs a little, brushes his hair back before pointing at Sergio’s house. Cristiano turns to look behind him, and Sergio’s hanging halfway out his open window, eating a bunch of grapes, and when he sees Cristiano looking, he waves.
“Want another?” Sergio yells. It takes Cristiano a second to understand what he means, but once he does, all he can do is flick Sergio off. Sergio just throws another grape at him, and Mesut laughs.
That night, as Cristiano’s debating getting off of the couch to drive home, Mesut talks him into staying, into taking a shower with him.
“Alright,” Cristiano says, the second the words are out of Mesut’s mouth. “You’ve twisted my arm.”
“Good,” Mesut says, and he doesn’t laugh, but his eyes change somehow, and that’s got the same effect, when Cristiano looks at him.
They head upstairs, hands on each other the whole way, and they spend a good ten minutes in the doorway to Mesut’s bedroom, just kissing each other.
“Shower?” Mesut asks, pulling back a little.
“No, it’s okay,” Cristiano says. “I’m easy.” Mesut laughs at that, and it makes Cristiano laugh, too. He runs the pad of his thumb over the corner of Mesut’s mouth, and when he does, Mesut’s smile becomes smaller, but means so much more.
“I know,” Mesut says, his voice light. “I wasn’t seducing you; I just want to.”
“Oh,” Cristiano says, because he missed that one.
In the bathroom, they strip themselves off and don’t make a big show of it, because that’s not the point. Mesut turns on the water and they both climb in, and then he molds himself to Cristiano’s body, presses Cristiano against the cold tile, hips to hips, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Cristiano can feel Mesut’s whole body move as he breathes, and he likes that.
“What is it?” Mesut asks, and at first Cristiano doesn’t understand, because he’s half hard and Mesut’s rocking their hips together, distracting him. “Is it that I’m smaller than you?”
“No,” Cristiano says, understanding what’s going on. He bites Mesut’s neck just to hide a smile; he guesses that he counts as one of the big things, the important things.
“Then what is it?” Mesut asks. His cheeks are flushed-either from the water or from Cristiano, or both-and that flush travels down to the tops of his collarbones, to his chest.
“I just like your stomach,” Cristiano says, and he doesn’t even hide it, because he never felt the need to hide it, to hide what he wants.
“Oh,” Mesut says, and he pulls back a little, wraps his fingers around Cristiano’s cock, jerks him off a few times. “And what do you like about it?”
“Ah, fuck,” Cristiano says, his hips stuttering a little, and he lets his head fall back against the title just for a second before straightening up so he can look at Mesut again. “Everything. I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do,” Mesut says, and he twists his wrist, tightens his fingers around Cristiano’s cock.
And Cristiano doesn’t know why, but he just stands there against the tile and looks at Mesut, at his shoulders and his hair and the way he looks back at Cristiano, and he very purposefully doesn’t answer Mesut because it feels too much like Mesut thinks he's won the upper hand, and Cristiano hates to lose. He just stands there, and he’s getting close, so close to coming, but he doesn’t say anything, just touches Mesut back because Mesut is right there.
“Just tell me,” Mesut says a few minutes later, picking up where he left off, only this time his voice sounds different, uneven. “C’mon, Cris, just tell me.” And that-
“I don’t know,” Cristiano says, and it’s the truth. His hips stutter some more, and he says, “I don’t know, I just like that it’s different than mine.”
And he’s not even sure if that makes sense, because a part of what he really means is that he likes Mesut’s stomach because it’s Mesut’s, but that’s not all that he means, and he doesn’t know what else there is. Then a second later he’s coming and it stops mattering, because Mesut pulls back and Cristiano’s come gets all over him, his stomach and the side of his hip, and Cristiano is torn between staring at Mesut’s stomach or at the way his eyes crinkle at the outer corners.
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo / Mesut Özil
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,044
Summary: Mesut’s completely different from him in almost every way that he can think of, and Cristiano likes that about him.
A/N: For distira, who asked for tummy!fic for the Sant Jordi fic exchange.
Some mornings, Mesut shows up to practice at the same time as Cristiano-early, early, at least an hour before anyone else gets there-and Cristiano likes that.
“Your hair’s a mess,” Cristiano says as he’s lacing up his boots, because Mesut already knows that means hello, and good morning, and I missed you last night.
“What’s it matter?” Mesut asks. “It’s just going in a headband, anyways.” He strips off his shirt to throw on his training kit, and Cristiano doesn’t even bother to pretend that he’s not staring. Mesut’s body isn’t anything like his own; it’s smoother, more compact, and there’s something about that that Cristiano likes. Mesut’s completely different from him in almost every way that he can think of, and Cristiano likes that about him, too. “Besides, your hair’s a mess, too.”
Cristiano laughs, caught off guard by that, and he says, “Don’t even try me.”
Mesut just smiles back and pulls his shirt down over his torso.
The strangest part about it, Cristiano thinks, is not that he likes Mesut’s stomach so much, but that even months after everything starts and Cristiano’s learned everything that there is to learn about Mesut, Mesut still doesn’t even seem to realize it.
They’re done with practice, and the day turned out to be so hot out that Cristiano has to peel his shirt off his sweaty skin just to feel human again.
“You’d think Flo liked us enough to get air-conditioning or something,” Marcelo says. “But no.”
“He likes us enough,” Sergio quips, pushing his hair back from his face. “You’re just the deal breaker.” The locker room fills with a chorus of oohs, and sitting next to Cristiano on the bench, Mesut laughs.
Cristiano looks over, and Mesut’s not wearing a shirt. And there’s nothing new about that, not to Cristiano, not in this situation or in any other, but he takes a second to look anyways. Mesut’s cheeks are flushed, and his chest, and his hair is longer than Cristiano’s ever seen it, and then there’s his stomach, the way it expands and contracts with each breath, and how his skin folds as he rests his elbows on his knees.
Mesut catches him looking and shoots him a lopsided smile; Cristiano smiles back and then looks away. He wants to kiss Mesut and leave fingertip bruises on the sides of Mesut’s hips, and he wants to bite the smooth expanse of skin just underneath Mesut’s bellybutton, just because he can.
That night, Mesut comes over and helps cook dinner. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, and he looks so familiar in that moment that it makes Cristiano’s head spin.
“You can tell he’s anxious, you know?” Mesut says, heating up some red sauce in a saucepan on the stove. “Just by the way he runs practice.”
“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “Wouldn’t you be too, though? I mean, we used to have ten points on them.”
“Don’t remind me,” Mesut says, and he pulls a face, turns up the heat on the burner.
“Doesn’t matter,” Cristiano says, and he tugs a bit on the hem of Mesut’s shirt. He’s going to say something, maybe joke that Madrid can’t lose with someone like Cristiano on their team, but instead he just pulls Mesut in, and he kisses Mesut, there in front of the stove, one hand under Mesut’s shirt and pressed flat against the skin of his stomach.
They drive to practice together, sometimes, if one of them spends the night, and no one says anything because they all catch rides with each other at some point, Alvaro and Raul, Pepe and Marcelo, Pipita and Sergio.
“New sunglasses?” Cristiano asks. He hasn’t seen them before, and Mesut looks good in them, a baseball hat backwards on his head and his window open.
“Yeah,” Mesut says. “Went shopping with Sergio the other day. He yelled at me over the garden wall until I said I’d go.”
Cristiano laughs because that’s easy to imagine, and then Mesut takes off his aviators, passes them to Cristiano at a red light so that Cristiano can put them on and see how he looks in the rearview mirror. Cristiano trades him his own sunglasses, and then they drive the rest of the way to Ciudad Real Madrid, Cristiano in Ray-Bans and Mesut in Armani.
“I like these,” Cristiano says. “I think they make me look good.”
“You think everything makes you look good,” Mesut says, and he rolls his eyes.
“Well, it does,” Cristiano says, and then he laughs at his own joke, partly because it’s a ridiculous thing to say, and partly because it’s true.
“You’re an idiot,” Mesut says, but he’s laughing too, and so Cristiano doesn’t mind.
After practice, a couple of them hit up the steam room, Pipita and Marcelo and Sami, Mesut and Cristiano. Practice is always hard, but Cristiano pushed himself even harder today, and so he just shuts his eyes as he rests his head back against the wall and let’s the heat relax his muscles, let’s the others dominate the conversation.
“It’s like that question,” Marcelo says. “If you were stranded on a desert island, what would you take with you?”
“A Fed-Ex package with a volleyball in it,” Pipita answers, even though Marcelo wasn’t really asking them.
Sami laughs a little at that and says, “Seriously? What?”
“You’ve never seen Cast Away?” Mesut asks, and Sami just shakes his head.
“You’ve been relegated to the castilla of my friendships,” Marcelo says. “That is embarrassing.”
“I’m devastated,” Sami deadpans, and then he jokes, “I’d just take Lena and a pack of condoms.”
“Condoms?” Marcelo practically shouts. “How long are you planning on surviving for?”
“Besides, Mesut’s the one who needs the condoms,” Pipita says, and that startles a laugh out of Mesut.
“What?” Mesut asks.
“Your stomach’s covered in hickies,” Pipita points out, and Cristiano opens his eyes at that one, looks over at Mesut, and it’s true; there are two hickies just to the left of Mesut’s bellybutton, and one on his opposite hip, peeking out from underneath his towel.
“Oh,” Mesut says, like he hadn’t even realized it. He rubs absently at them and the conversation changes, the others bored by Mesut’s non-reaction.
Mesut glances at Cristiano for a second, and Cristiano purposefully doesn’t look back; he doesn’t have anything to say about it.
Mesut doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the week, and Cristiano thinks that maybe that’s it, forgotten again. It doesn’t surprise him, to be honest, because Mesut lets the little things go easily so that he can spend his time focusing on the big things, the important things. Cristiano likes that; he thinks he’s like that, too.
They spend their free day doing not much of anything, just lounging around Mesut’s house and being lazy for once. They play some FIFA, too, but after a while it just makes Cristiano too mad, to be constantly losing, and so he tosses his controller down on the ground and refuses to start a new game.
They go swimming in the backyard. The water is cold, but it’s so hot out that Cristiano doesn’t mind, just closes his eyes and floats on his back until he bumps into Mesut or the wall, and then he pushes off, keeps floating.
“For a second I thought you were here to hang out with me,” Mesut says, and that makes Cristiano smile, just a little.
“No,” Cristiano says. “Your pool’s just better than mine,” and a second later, something hits him in the chest and then bounces into the water. Cristiano sits up, looks to Mesut to say something, but Mesut’s sitting on the side of the pool, just his feet in the water, and Cristiano gets distracted by all of his tan skin.
“Wasn’t me,” Mesut says, and he laughs a little, brushes his hair back before pointing at Sergio’s house. Cristiano turns to look behind him, and Sergio’s hanging halfway out his open window, eating a bunch of grapes, and when he sees Cristiano looking, he waves.
“Want another?” Sergio yells. It takes Cristiano a second to understand what he means, but once he does, all he can do is flick Sergio off. Sergio just throws another grape at him, and Mesut laughs.
That night, as Cristiano’s debating getting off of the couch to drive home, Mesut talks him into staying, into taking a shower with him.
“Alright,” Cristiano says, the second the words are out of Mesut’s mouth. “You’ve twisted my arm.”
“Good,” Mesut says, and he doesn’t laugh, but his eyes change somehow, and that’s got the same effect, when Cristiano looks at him.
They head upstairs, hands on each other the whole way, and they spend a good ten minutes in the doorway to Mesut’s bedroom, just kissing each other.
“Shower?” Mesut asks, pulling back a little.
“No, it’s okay,” Cristiano says. “I’m easy.” Mesut laughs at that, and it makes Cristiano laugh, too. He runs the pad of his thumb over the corner of Mesut’s mouth, and when he does, Mesut’s smile becomes smaller, but means so much more.
“I know,” Mesut says, his voice light. “I wasn’t seducing you; I just want to.”
“Oh,” Cristiano says, because he missed that one.
In the bathroom, they strip themselves off and don’t make a big show of it, because that’s not the point. Mesut turns on the water and they both climb in, and then he molds himself to Cristiano’s body, presses Cristiano against the cold tile, hips to hips, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Cristiano can feel Mesut’s whole body move as he breathes, and he likes that.
“What is it?” Mesut asks, and at first Cristiano doesn’t understand, because he’s half hard and Mesut’s rocking their hips together, distracting him. “Is it that I’m smaller than you?”
“No,” Cristiano says, understanding what’s going on. He bites Mesut’s neck just to hide a smile; he guesses that he counts as one of the big things, the important things.
“Then what is it?” Mesut asks. His cheeks are flushed-either from the water or from Cristiano, or both-and that flush travels down to the tops of his collarbones, to his chest.
“I just like your stomach,” Cristiano says, and he doesn’t even hide it, because he never felt the need to hide it, to hide what he wants.
“Oh,” Mesut says, and he pulls back a little, wraps his fingers around Cristiano’s cock, jerks him off a few times. “And what do you like about it?”
“Ah, fuck,” Cristiano says, his hips stuttering a little, and he lets his head fall back against the title just for a second before straightening up so he can look at Mesut again. “Everything. I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do,” Mesut says, and he twists his wrist, tightens his fingers around Cristiano’s cock.
And Cristiano doesn’t know why, but he just stands there against the tile and looks at Mesut, at his shoulders and his hair and the way he looks back at Cristiano, and he very purposefully doesn’t answer Mesut because it feels too much like Mesut thinks he's won the upper hand, and Cristiano hates to lose. He just stands there, and he’s getting close, so close to coming, but he doesn’t say anything, just touches Mesut back because Mesut is right there.
“Just tell me,” Mesut says a few minutes later, picking up where he left off, only this time his voice sounds different, uneven. “C’mon, Cris, just tell me.” And that-
“I don’t know,” Cristiano says, and it’s the truth. His hips stutter some more, and he says, “I don’t know, I just like that it’s different than mine.”
And he’s not even sure if that makes sense, because a part of what he really means is that he likes Mesut’s stomach because it’s Mesut’s, but that’s not all that he means, and he doesn’t know what else there is. Then a second later he’s coming and it stops mattering, because Mesut pulls back and Cristiano’s come gets all over him, his stomach and the side of his hip, and Cristiano is torn between staring at Mesut’s stomach or at the way his eyes crinkle at the outer corners.