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Kaiser likes a challenge, but there's a special, perverse satisfaction in obliterating a weaker opponent; in making an obscene display of superiority for the whole world to see. He doesn’t mind being a villain for crushing the beloved underdog under his cleats: he was an underdog once and he clawed his way out of his misery, so he's more than earned his right to enjoy the sight from the very top.
The same way he's enjoying the sight underneath him right now –his captain and midfielder, flushed in all the right places: cheeks, nose, collarbones, the soft roundness of his inner thighs. Breathing shallow as they struggle to rip away every piece of clothing in their way.
“You were perfect on that pitch, Ness. You even scored a goal of your own,” he says, dragging his hands along the boy's sides, scratching at the hot skin under the t-shirt while he purrs.
He’d let the others talk to the press –about confidence and performance and all sorts of PR-approved bullshit– because he’d only have been able to laugh and flaunt; and because, under the blinding flashes of the cameras and the journalists’ blabbering, there were only Ness’s wine-red eyes staring at him across the room, burning with the same want he knew was in his own. Once back in the hotel, while their teammates got ready to hit the clubs and get absolutely wasted, the German golden duo was fighting the urge to push each other against the elevator walls with all-devouring hunger.
The restraint didn’t last too long.
As the elevator doors opened to the corridor that led to Kaiser’s room, they were already panting into each other’s mouths, barely aware of shutting the door behind them before Kaiser shoved Ness and the mattress gave way under their weight.
Now, they’re alone, the ringing and roaring of the stadium still buzzing in their ears but muffled like the gasps and moans they catch and swallow; a tangle of bare limbs and ruined patience, with Ness's fingers fisted in long blond hair, dragging the striker down. And Kaiser goes, on his own terms. Pins both of Ness’s wrists above his head –he’s still wearing the armband– and leans down to murmur against his exposed throat. On paper and before the press, Ness outranks him; wears the armband, does the whole leadership thing and he does it so, so well. Kaiser likes him best like this: the armband stays but everything else comes undone under his touch.
“What’s that, you want a reward?” he says. “But leading us to victory is your job, captain, and I still scored more than any of us.”
Ness doesn't answer with more than a shaky exhale. He’s got a World Cup win worth of pride riding on not yielding to Kaiser yet.
Much better. He’ll have to drag his well-deserved praise out of him.
“That one through the box. How many of them were marking me?”
Ness’s breath stutters as Kaiser finds the elastic band of his boxers and hooks a cruel finger on it, tugging, teasing. He shifts his hips against his, just enough to pull a beautiful sound out of him.
The ball had swung round, landing in front of Kaiser allowing him to send it flying into the net like he wanted to tear it. He’d run off and punched the air before his teammates could pile in with him to celebrate. The spike of adrenaline at recalling the scene surges in both of them at once, the high that came off the pitch with them and never burned down. Ness arches up hard against him, done putting up any sort of resistance. They’re both well past withholding.
“You were– ah,” Ness’s word catches when Kaiser drags teeth down the line of his throat, excruciatingly slow, finding the spot where his pulse is still going too fast from the pitch and lapping his tongue there. “–amazing, Kaiser. You always are…”
The blond player bites down on the supple skin and Ness’s whole body jerks under him, tearing a sound he'd be embarrassed by if either of them had the wherewithal left to be.
“I know,” Kaiser breathes into the mark he’s just left before climbing to find Ness’s mouth once more. There’s teeth clashing, lip biting, both of them breathing each other's air straight from their lungs because neither can spare a second to pull back to take their own; the scent of ninety-minutes’ worth of sweat, mixing upon contact and making them taste like salt and they love it –that they came off the pitch high on victory and burning, and brought it up here without even thinking of rinsing it off.
The last of their clothes is kicked off the edge of the bed, freeing their beaten muscles and fever-hot skin. At times they feel them threaten to cramp, but a kneading hand is always ready to take care of them. Kaiser can’t get enough of Ness’s thick thighs and calves, the way they go taut before he sends one of his surgical passes his way.
“You’re a genius. I got so turned on watching that corner kick… So hot.”
Ness’s voice breaks off into a moan as Kaiser finally, finally stops teasing the elastic and pushes past it, wrapping around Ness’s hard-on as a reward for all the praise spilling from his swollen lips.
“Do you want me to get you off?”
“Yes, please,” Ness’s voice rasps out and his eyes roll back as Kaiser sets a rough pace, up and down and gathering the precome beading at the tip with vicious swipes of his thumb.
“So needy for me, captain.”
“Please, Kaiser, I’m so close–”
Ice blue eyes stare down the trail of bruises their owner has left along Ness’s blushing neck and chest. He wants nothing more than to have him unravel, the captain of the national team begging into his shoulder after barely a minute of being touched by him. Kaiser doesn't slow or tease –he no longer has the patience for it–: he works him harder and relentless, and pulls back just enough to be able to see Ness’s expression as he comes hard in his palm.
Kaiser strokes him through every aftershock until Ness is shaking and oversensitive. Then he gives a last twist and unwraps his hand from his dick, leaving it painfully exposed to the cool air and Ness almost limp on the mattress. He also unpins his wrists, and Ness uses his freedom to grab at Kaiser’s hair and pull him down into a sloppy kiss that’s all tongue and his afterglow whimpering. Maddening.
"Greedy, greedy thing," Kaiser breathes, ragged, and he means it as a taunt but it comes out with a dreamy sigh. He's painfully hard himself, has been since the match, and the sight of Ness this ruined and already reaching for more snaps what little self-control he had left.
He digs his fingers into the flesh and forces their hips to meet, both leaking at the middle as they grind together and make a mess of the hotel’s formerly clean sheets.
“Don't–,” Ness shoves through it, the cramp and the ache and the bone-deep exhaustion. “Don't you dare go easy on me.”
“Bend over,” Kaiser commands, then, and Ness can’t see straight, can’t think through the haze of his lust. He reaches for a pillow and drags it under his stomach to present himself at the perfect angle for Kaiser’s fingers, slick without any need for the lube in his suitcase, to push past the tight rim of his entrance and begin to stretch him, wrecked and rushing it –neither of them are willing to drag the prep any longer than it’s needed.
“I’m ready,” Ness pants. “I was good, I deserve it, you said it yourself.”
“So good,” Kaiser hums in return. “Always where I need you the most. Such a perfect midfielder for me.”
Kaiser lines himself up against him and pushes in as slow as he can manage, which isn't very, not with Ness already pressing back against him, absolutely unwilling to wait. The burning stretch punches a groan out of both of them at once when the striker finally buries himself deep inside Ness.
“Ah–” he lets out shamelessly. “So damn tight…”
Ness can't form a proper reply. Instead he drops helplessly to his forearms and turns his face into the pillow, while Kaiser sets a pace that's rough from the very first stroke –they’ve had over ninety minutes of build up to it. Every time their eyes met on the pitch, out of breath, it’s this scene they’ve been picturing.
“Listen to you, falling apart. Come on, keep whimpering for me.”
A snap of his hips that makes Ness cry out. “God, Micha– you're– so good, you're always so–”
His words are losing their edges and dissolving into a litany of names and half-syllables, too far gone to finish a coherent thought. All he can do is whine and nod as Kaiser drinks it all in, every trembling sound, and gives it back by slamming even harder into him.
Ness can feel every contraction of Kaiser’s muscles pressed against his back, his whole length pulling out and then pounding back in, filling him up completely, like it always does. They might have done this hundreds of times at a hundred different hotels, empty changing rooms and cars. They've done it gentle and slow, frustrated and hurried, loving, angry, both, you name it, but there’s something special in the heat and the high after a good match that has their mouths watering and their nerves ablaze. At times like this, they want it rough and bruising; an outlet for all the pent-up ecstasy they’ve felt on the field and which they love bringing to the sheets and see it turn into this raw need that has the bedframe making loud thuds against the wall without a care in the world.
“Can’t… get enough of you.”
Ness’s praise mid-fuck goes straight to Kaiser’s groin.
The blond player fists his hand into Ness’s soft, wavy hair and pulls at it, bringing his head back so he can lean down and lick his tongue into his mouth, all while pressing on his arched back and thrusting even harder into him, with an increasingly erratic rhythm –and Ness’s body is pliant and hot around him, like he was made for Kaiser to fit in. He can feel his orgasm building quickly.
“You’ve taken me so well,” his voice drops lower, coarse. “Tell me where you want it, ‘Lexis.”
“In– inside.”
“If I do that, are you going to come again with me?”
Ness nods, eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah,” he hums. “I’m already– so close…”
Kaiser drives in hard enough to shove him up the mattress, and he can feel it coming for both of them now, that edge rushing up as fast as the blood rushing through their veins. His thighs and glutes spasm painfully with the cramp he'd been trying to fight off earlier now seizing them for real but he doesn't slow, he won't; he fucks through the burn of it because stopping is unthinkable and Ness is arching up into him and, looking into those teary pink eyes and that lovely, spit-wet mouth nibbling on the two fingers he’s brought up to it, Kaiser thinks this is the only audience he could ever want.
Ness’s second orgasm tears through him harder than the first, wrung-out as he is. He clenches around Kaiser, and that's what does it: he buries himself to the hilt one last time and spills deep inside of him, thick and hot with white soon oozing out from around where they’re joined.
They both pant heavily as Kaiser’s hips give a final few jerks and he brings his lips to bite at Ness’s neck before Ness reaches back with his hand and pulls him in for a kiss again, sloppy and euphoric –both melting like butter into it–, which lasts about a minute until Kaiser can no longer support his own weight over Ness and he lets his body roll to the side, collapsing onto the bed with a groan.
For a while there's nothing but the two of them breathing, wrecked, the ceiling fan turning uselessly overhead and the muffled thud of the bass from the terrace party Ness is glad they didn't bother attending. Kaiser's arm finds him without looking and drags him in close, sweat-slick and boneless, until Ness's back is flush to his chest and he can feel the other's heartbeat still hammering down. Then he lazily runs his mouth along Ness's shoulder, over the trail of bruises he put there, proud of his work, and his fingers trace idle lines down Ness's side, his hip, the soft of his stomach, and the boy with the messed up curly hair turns in his arms and chases his lips, asking for their attention again. Begging for his touch as eagerly as if he hasn’t just had a second orgasm fucked out of him.
In fact, he’s already sliding a thigh over Kaiser's; the heat between them simply refuses to cool down. Kaiser huffs a laugh.
“Again? You’re ruthless.”
“We won a World Cup match seven to one,” Ness says, like he’s explaining something to a child. “And you were the top scorer. Your captain wants to reward you too.”
He climbs on top of Kaiser, straddling his hips with his strong thighs (how does he even have the energy?) and coming down to tongue at the blue rose tattoo, the thorns, the flush nipple below and looks for the parts he should lap at carefully and the ones he’s allowed to bite to make him shiver, and Kaiser’s elated to let him. Being doted on and fawned over by Ness feels like the truest worship he’ll ever receive. Besides, it’s not like he’s surrendering control to his puppy, but merely accepting what he deserves. An emperor accepting his due tribute and nothing more, although his composure is nowhere to be found.
Ness drags his mouth lower, unhurried all the way down the map of the skin he knows so well –the dip of his ribs, the ‘V’ of his hips, all those places that make Kaiser's breath hitch despite himself when he hovers his fingers and lips over them. Kaiser swears, hips bucking up of their own accord, when he tongues tentatively at his renewed hard-on and tongues at it, his hands splayed over his abs and scratching his nails across them.
“Look who’s needy now,” Ness murmurs after getting a nice, dark moan from his striker before going up and crashing their mouths together again with the mixed taste of both on their tongues. Kaiser can stop pretending he's in charge of any of this; he’s already letting out sounds that are loud, wet and graceless against Ness. The headboard soon starts its complaint against the wall.
They have no clue what it’s like to be quiet and they're certainly not going to learn tonight, not with a trophy as good as won and the adrenaline still singing under their skin. They have a whole night ahead to celebrate properly and thoroughly.
Kaiser, breathless and sporting a smug, sharp grin, can’t help but pity the bastard next door.