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mariomandzho · 6 years ago

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PROTECTIVE DAD MARIO MANDŽUKIĆ DRABBLE.

DESCRIPTION: when mario’s son, marko, is bullied in school, mario becomes an overly protective dad who teaches his son how to fend for himself. some daddy mario fluff, sexy times with mario and his wife, and heartwarming friendship between mario and luka modrić.

word count: 4,326

as always, thank you to @vatreniworld for coaching me through this, giving me ideas, and always being so supportive about my fics and ideas. love you.

please like & reblog!

“I’m so sorry, miš.”

You dabbed a warm cloth over your son’s forehead, soothing the red scrape descending from his hairline. While he still refused to tell you where he got it from, it doesn’t take long for you to put two and two together after he’d taken a photograph of himself and his friend, Tommy, off the picture wall.

Marko glanced at you for a moment, his large blue eyes that he’d inherited from you on the verge of welling with tears, before he pushed away your hand and sat down in a huff. “No more,” he whispered gently.

You heard the garage doors open and silently cursed to yourself. Mario wouldn’t be happy – he was incredibly protective of your son and you knew that it would take him less than two seconds to figure out that Marko had been involved in a fight at school. “Daddy’s home,” you said to Marko, attempting to cheer him up, but his eyes did not stray from the floor. “Let’s go say hi.”

You lifted your five year old onto your hip and waltzed into the living room. The door swung open a moment later, and Mario, hauling groceries, called out, “I’m home!”

Marko instinctively buried his head into your shoulder, wincing only slightly as his scrape brushed against you. You made a mental note to apply Neosporin to it later, although you knew it would be an inevitable argument. “Hi, sweetie,” you said to Mario. “Need help with those?”

“No, no, I’ve got it,” Mario assured. He walked toward you, en route to the kitchen, his movements slowing as he neared you and eyed the red swell on his son’s forehead. “What happened?” He set the bags down and walked closer to Marko.

Marko squeezed his eyes shut, his nose turning pink with embarrassment. You knew that your son wanted to be strong for his dad; Mario was always trying to kick a ball with him, but all he wanted to do was construct legos and read about dinosaurs. Mario tried to engage with him, talk about cars and sports, but Marko’s interests were far from that. He was quiet, like his father, but other than that he was nothing like his father, and you feared that would drive a wedge between them when he was older. “Poor little guy fell on the playground,” you explained, gently patting Marko’s back, “Ms. Marić called me at work and so I picked him up early.”

“You fell?” Mario asked, bending down briefly to graze his lips against your cheek in greeting.

Marko nodded shyly, barely glancing at his father, before squeezing you and murmuring something indecipherable about being tired.

Mario looked at you, obviously searching for the right words to say, or the right thing to do. If Marko was more like him, it would be so much easier, and you could feel his eyes practically pleading. You smiled sympathetically at him and adjusted Marko on your waist.

“Why don’t you go put those away,” you gestured to the groceries, “and Marko and I will go run a bath? Hmm? Sound like fun?” Marko remained quiet. “It’ll be fun.”

Marko at last grumbled, “Okay.”

“Atta boy,” Mario declared proudly.

The next week passed by uneventfully. Mario was away in Turin for five days for a press conference, and Marko returned to school. When Mario was away, you employed a nanny (who Marko loved) to make his lunch and pick him up after classes, and this allowed you to work freely on a recent proposal your boss expected you to finish by the end of the quarter – which was a ridiculous suggestion, by the way, for the mom of a rambunctious five-year old and the wife of a football player. But, as all things, you made it work.

You were typing away at your desk when your phone chimed, and Marko’s nanny, Eliza, graced the screen. It was 3:10, which meant she had just picked your son up from classes and he was probably wanting to talk to you. As sure as rain, when you picked up the phone Marko was on the other end, babbling nonsense before he realized you picked up. “Mamica!”

“Hi, miš. How was school today? Any yellow cards? Any red?”

“No, none! I promise. We’re having a party tomorrow.”

“Oh, how exciting,” you commented, a beam forming on your lips. He sounded so happy. Rarely did he get so excited about things, that you immediately wished Mario was here to hear it, and your heart tightened in your chest. “Who’s it for?”

“Tommy’s birthday is tomorrow. He’s turning six before the rest of us. That means he will die before the rest of us.”

You gasped, chiding him in your best stern voice, “Marko Mandžukić. I don’t want to hear those words out of your mouth ever again. Are you listening to me? There will be serious consequences.”

How could you even begin to punish him? Turn off his National Geographic subscription? Refuse to let him read Web MD when his throat was sore?

“Yes, mamica.” Marko quieted for a moment before rattling on gleefully. “Ms. Marić said we need to bring cupcakes tomorrow for the party.”

You tapped your pen against your keyboard, thinking for a moment, wondering how you could possibly wedge baking into your jam packed schedule, and in last minute fashion. You would make it work; you had to. “Why don’t you ask Eliza to help you make some? I can pick up ingredients on my way home.”

“Eliza is making dinner, she says. She’s making duck.”

“Oh, wonderful! You know, that’s daddy’s favorite. You should call him to tell him that; he’d love to hear your voice while he’s away.”

“But, mamica,” Marko protested in all seriousness, “you know we can’t have duck. You know what they do with the ducks. They fatten the ducks with plastic tubes in their throat. It’s an abob–mini–nation!”

You could only stare blankly in response – how on Earth did he know all this? Surely Mario didn’t tell him. You would have to monitor what he was researching on the computer. And you’d have to tell Mario to stop using the word ‘abomination’ so liberally.

“The ducks have a liver disease called lipo–ma–tosis and can’t walk!”

“I–Marko,” you were still mustering up a response when your asshole-of-a-boss charged into your office, his brows raised in expectation. Suddenly, remembering the board meeting you were likely late to, you stood to your feet and shifted things around on your desk, feigning work. “Marko, honey, mamica has to run. I’ll see you tonight at six. Be nice to Eliza! I love you!”

The phone clicked off in response.

The kitchen counters were still covered in flour and sprinkles the next morning when you received a call from Marko’s teacher. Mario was expected home any minute, so you were cleaning haphazardly and hardly noticed your phone ringing. You raced after it, rummaging it out of your purse, and answered it breathlessly, “this is [y/n] Mandžukić, hello?”

“Hello Mrs. Mandžukić. It’s Elena Marić from your son’s school. I’m calling on behalf of an incident we had this morning – is this, is this an appropriate time? You sound... winded.”

“I’m sorry–yes. I’m cleaning. How can I help you, Ms. Marić? Is everything all right? Did Marko’s classmates enjoy the cupcakes we–he–made?”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s a complicated answer. Mrs. Mandžukić, are you aware of the issue between your son and Tommy?”

“Issue? I know they had a falling out last week, but, with all due respect, they’re five. I’m certain the issue has been brushed under the carpet by now.”

“Afraid not. There was a heated exchange and Tommy tried to swing at Marko today, after Marko implied that he was adopted. I think you should come and pick Marko up as soon as possible.”

Mario sat across from his son in the living room, silence descending between the pair. They shared the same lips, nose, and hair – but apart from that, there was nothing but blood linking them together. Mario was sitting partially hunched over, his hands folded in between his knees, heel bouncing nervously. His son, on the other hand, was sitting neatly – one knee crossed over the other, his hands cradled over his lap, lips slightly pursed and brows knitted.

There was one thing they shared: even at five, Marko’s look of concentration was exactly like his father’s.

Due to the argument that broke out between Marko and Tommy, it was advised that Marko remained home from school for the rest of the week out of remediation. His teacher would send over assignments and lessons electronically, but he wasn’t to return until Monday and that meant, since you had to work, that Mario would stay home with him. And he promised you that he would have a stern talking-to with Marko to resolve the issue.

“Tell me about what happened at school,” Mario began, opening the issue and praying there wasn’t a deeper one beneath. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body, but he didn’t always know how to access it – and his attempts to very rarely appealed to Marko.

Since birth, Marko had always been on the smaller side (in the thick of a heated dispute, Mario had even asked if you slept with Luka). He was shorter and more sensitive than kids his age, whereas Mario had been a ringleader; taller and more athletic than his age group. He’d inherited his father’s looks, save for his light eyes, but his height was all yours, and throughout his childhood he remained a tiny little mouse, hence the pet name. Perfect for cuddling, but it made him a prime target for bullying and–well–needless to say, Marko wasn’t like other boys at his school.

He struggled being a misfit, and struggled to find his place in his athletic, charismatic, and loud family.

Marko sniffed and turned his nose up, curiously, “Why?”

“Because,” Mario drew out, “when I get a call from Ms. Marić telling me you’re ‘antagonizing’ other students, it’s my job to get to the bottom of it.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Marko crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away. The reflection of the windows played in his stormy-gray eyes.

“Fine.” Mario leaned forward and tapped Marko’s knee, “What’s his name, then?”

He glanced up at his father with wide eyes. Surprised, and perhaps a little relieved, if he was being honest, that his father was so in touch with exactly what he was thinking. Marko knew he couldn’t hide it for long. “Tommy Erlić.”

“Tommy Erlić,” Mario repeated.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve been there.”

Impressionable shock crossed Marko’s features. “You’ve been to the Jurić Day School?”

“Um, no. Metaphorically. Son, you’re going to have to stand up to Tommy eventually. Is that how you got–this?” He pointed to the fading reminder of the scrape from last week.

He nodded slowly. “But what if I don’t want to? Mommy says not to fight.”

“Then he will kick your ass. Mommy doesn’t know what it’s like to be a boy, does she?”

He shook his head, his long brown hair shifting to the side. “He’s bigger than me and does karate,” Marko explained. “And he called me a bad word.”

Mario’s abdomen was in knots. He liked kids–most of the time, anyway–but he wasn’t above cursing out a six year old if they dared to hurt his son. He tried not to show it, but within him his tendencies to protect and to be concerned were flaring up, and he wondered who this son of a bitch’s parents were.

His brows descended over his dark eyes, “You don’t have to actually fight him. Intimidate him, make him think that you could fight him. If you’re the wild-card, the one who stands up for himself, no one will want to mess with you.”

“Really?” A small flicker of hope wove through Marko’s voice. That he could try.

“Really,” Mario said, his voice sincere. He was glad that Marko trusted him, glad that he’d gotten through, somehow. “Come here. Give your dad a hug and we’ll go out for lunch.”

“Maybe another time,” Marko murmured, again dejected.

Mario’s spirits fell at once.

“Hey, dad?”

They rose again, for a half-second.

“Yes, Marko?”

“Can we get a telescope for my birthday? One of those with the tripods and high-tech apertures?”

Marko’s interest went way over Mario’s head, although he attempted to show interest. Attempted, being the key word. “What for? Your birthday isn’t until May.”

“So… I can look at the stars?”

“Do you think you can make a missile to go to the moon?”

“Space exploration is strictly for professionals. Didn’t you hear about the Challenger? It blew up!”

Mario bit his lip. “I’ll talk to your mom about it, kid.”

“I think I’ll take Marko to school on Monday. I’ll pick him up after school and take him to my sister’s to play with their kids.”

You set your hairbrush down on the desk of your vanity and glanced at Mario in the mirror, your head canting to the side. You weren’t surprised necessarily, Mario loved his son, but he didn’t always take the initiative in parenting. He was currently sprawled out across the velveteen duvet spread over your bed – all long limbs and muscular torso – reading a magazine, his brown hair a disheveled mop on his head, wide eyed and bushy tailed after a week of not working.

Trying to conceal a smile from displaying too overly on your features, you nodded. “All right. I’ll text Eliza not to come then.”

“Good,” he mused absent mindedly. “I think we need to take him to the park more. Maybe that one near the training centre. You think he’d like that?”

“The park? As in, swing sets and slides? He might complain about ‘bacteria’, but, sure.”

“That’s true.” Mario pressed his mouth into a thin line, “It’s good for him to be active, maybe pet a dog.”

“What brought this on?” You rose to your feet and crawled onto the bed, sliding into the space next to him and reaching out to card a hand through his untamed hair. “He pets Leni plenty. Too much, by all accounts.”

“I don’t know.” Mario shrugged, “I want him to have a childhood like I did.” A beat of silence lapsed, and what you were both thinking remained unspoken, hanging in the air. A childhood like he had, without the war. “Open air, the beach, freedom, being with friends. I’ll teach him how to throw a football, and we’ll watch the Juventus game. He can’t be so worried about ‘bacteria’ all the time. You know, he told me he thinks he’s a hypochondriac. How does he know what that is?”

“That sounds really nice, Mario.” You smiled, squeezing his arm, “he’d love to spend more time with you.”

“Really?” Mario rose a brow, his voice undoubtedly hopeful.

“Really. He talks about you all the time – you’re his hero.”

“Does he wear my jersey?” He asked animatedly. “With our name on it?”

“All the time.” You nearly rolled your eyes at him, albeit playfully. He took pride in his son’s admiration of him, but Marko wearing his jersey obviously took the cake.

“He’s a good kid. I can’t imagine us–you and I–without him.” He pointed between the two of you.

“I’m glad you think so. He is, after all, our son and there’s no getting rid of him now.” You glanced at him wryly and he shot you a deadpanned look.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A tad bit.”

Mario rose on his elbows and caged you beneath him, nipping lightly at the pale skin of your shoulders. “Tell me if you think this, is funny…”

On Monday morning, Mario woke up early, made a pot of coffee, and gently stirred Marko awake to get ready for school. Marko groaned, furling his nose the same way you did when Mario woke you up on Sundays to kiss you goodbye, and Mario had to smile at the small similarity as he tugged the covers off his son and sent him to the bathroom to wash up. “And don’t think about falling asleep in there. I’m coming to check on you in five minutes,” Mario ordered, tapping the expensive watch secured on his wrist.

“Okay, dad,” Marko yawned irritatedly.

When Mario returned in five minutes, Marko was standing on his step stool, brushing his teeth in the mirror and humming a nursery rhyme to make sure he brushed for at least two minutes. An idea leaped into Mario’s head, and as ‘Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star’ came to an end he opened one of the drawers in Marko’s vanity and rummaged for a jar he knew he stowed in there a few months ago. When he located it–a fresh bottle of hair gel–he turned to his son and displayed it on his hand proudly.

“What’s that?” Marko asked nosily.

“Hair gel. Turn around and I’ll make your hair like dad’s.”

Marko glanced askant at Mario’s hair. It was always so spiky–and the gel made it… crunchy. He didn’t want his hair, that was soft and shiny, to look like that. But he simply shrugged compliantly and turned around so his dad could brush his hair upward, and secure it with at least twenty dime-sized globs of gel that smelled like mint and cough syrup.

When he finished, Marko gazed at his reflection in the mirror and his eyes widened in surprise–he looked exactly like Mario’s mini me, save for his eyes of course. And suddenly, all the times strangers had come up to them and said, ‘you look so alike!’, finally made sense.

Mario was satisfied with the results and grinned joyously, expecting praise. “Good? You like it?”

“I like it, dad,” Marko assured. “Maybe you could teach me how you do it?”

“Remember what I told you,” Mario said, crouching down on his knees to hand Marko his lunchbox. They were standing just outside of Marko’s school, and he was itching to rush inside and start on today’s science project, but not before his dad reminded him of the advice he’d given him last week. “You’re the wildcard, and this Tommy kid? He’s got nothing on you. No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo. Repeat after me.”

“No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo,” Marko reiterated in a tiny, timid voice.

Mario shook his head, unconvinced. “No. Give me more confidence. No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo.”

Marko gripped the lapels of his backpack and repeated after his dad, this time unflinchingly, “No one’s going to mess with a Mandžo.”

“Good boy.” Mario grinned and gave him a fatherly squeeze, “have a nice day at school. Be good. No yellow cards.”

Marko nodded, running into his dad's arms before the bell rang and he scurried into class with all the confidence in the world.

The minute Mario stepped onto the field, all the stress that had been mounting within him peeled right off like a bandaid and fell to the wayside.

Mario was ecstatic to be back with his national team, and the fading priorities in their own distinct clubs allowed them to gel together better than ever. Some might’ve thought that the enormity of their World Cup win meant they were nervous, anxious to override their own success, but that was far from the truth. They were a well-oiled machine, primed and geared to bring home the glory for Croatia.

The stress of work, family, the unsurety of their successes and losses, it all seemed to evaporate into thin air after his cleats grazed against the lush green beneath him as he joined his team mates in a sprint. The voices in his head cheered him on, coached him, and even frustrated him, but there was no denying he was right where he wanted to be. If only you and Marko where there to watch him.

“You seem happy, man.” Luka commented, joining Mandžo in a brisk jog.

“I am,” Mario echoed, “everything seems to be falling into place, you know? Work, family, all of us.”

“You’re lucky – most people would kill to have it figured out.”

“Figured out? No,” Mario chuckled, shaking his head. “We’re not like you and Vanja. You two are perfec–”

“And have the same issues as everyone else. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You and [Y/N] are doing a great job at this whole ‘adult’ thing.”

“It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

Zlatko blew his whistle, and Dejan called out to them, “get your head in the game, pičkice! You think we’re going to win if you two keep flirting like that? Get a room!”

“Why don’t you try fucking a woman before coming after me, hey, Lovren?” Mario shot, sprinting backward toward the field as he and Modrić dissolved into laughter.

Practice ensued for another hour and a half of taxing routine, occasionally interjected by Domo or Šime’s wild antics, as Dalić coached them through a series of drills that were progressively more invasive and difficult. Mario was wiping the sweat off his brow, the harsh Croatian sun beating down on his tanned skin, when Lana, one of the interns at the stadium, approached him apprehensively.

“Mr. Mandžukić?” She cleared her throat nervously.

Mario lowered the water bottle in his hand and rose a brow, wondering what she could want. “Yeah?”

“There’s someone here for you. They said it’s an emergency.”

“Who is it?”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“Marko? What are you doing here? Where’s your mother, is she all right?”

Marko was sitting in the reception room, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched.

“I found this little guy walking around in the parking lot,” Lana explained, “so I gave him some water and told him to wait in here for you.”

“Thank you, Lana. Could you give us a few minutes alone?”

“Of course. Take as long as you need. I have your wife on speed dial, should I call her?”

“N-no,” Marko managed to sputter out, his voice watery. “Please?”

Mario considered calling you for a split second before he waved away the offer.

Lana nodded and silently walked into the hallway that led to the interns’ offices.

Mario bended on one knee in front of Marko, placing his hand on his leg and glancing at his face. Though Marko was obviously hiding from him, he couldn’t conceal the bruise on his temple and the large split on his bottom lip. It took all Mario’s might not to let the rage bubbling inside of him to overspill and scare Marko, but his injuries had ‘Tommy’ written all over them.

“Marko, what’s going on? What happened? Tell me.”

His voice was devoid of any leniency. Although he was concerned for his son, he wanted to get to the bottom of things, and fast.

“Tommy,” Marko supplied, confirming his father’s suspicions. “I was at recess and did what you said. He was there. I started acting crazy.”

The knife lodged in Mario’s gut turned and ripped apart his insides. Had his advice hurt his own son? Guilt washed over him like a tidal wave, rendering him unable to speak or utter a single word. The sun illuminated Marko’s bruises and Mario felt a mere husk of the man he was.

“Miš, your face…” Mario grazed his fingertips against his son’s chin and lifted his face so that he could get a better look at the extent of his injuries. Although he made certain to be extremely gentle, Marko still let out a tiny hiss.

“He punched me and threw me into the pond and then smacked me again. He didn’t care that I was crazy. And then I got in trouble.”

“I’m going to call your mother. Your school is over a half hour away from here, how did you get here?”

“No, you can’t call her. She’ll get mad.”

“She’s not going to get mad at you, miš. You did nothing wrong. You did what I told you to do.” ‘I’m sorry’ rested on the tip of Mario’s tongue, although he bit down on the impulse, hard enough that he could taste blood invading his mouth.

Marko remained quiet for a beat. He then rolled up the sleeves of his jacket, revealing his cut up knuckles. Mario winced.

“I punched him back.” He sniffed and wiped at the moisture forming in his eyes. “Daddy, you have to take me home. Take me home, please.”

“Marko, why did you come here?” Mario tilted his head, gazing at his son, “why didn’t you call your mother?”

“Because I thought you would be proud of me.”

Unable to bear the hammering of his heart, Mario pulled his son into a tight hug. He wouldn’t let him go – never again. Marko molded to his figure, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his head into the crook of his father’s neck, content to be held. The cadence of his heart began to slow against Mario’s chest, and his eyes shut drowsily. He felt safe, protected. There was nothing more comforting than his father’s arms around him, ensnaring him into the warmest hug he’d ever received.

After a few minutes had passed, Mario stood up and offered his son his hand. Although Marko quickly slipped his smaller fingers into Mario’s, he glanced up at the man curiously, tentatively. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home. We’re going to get you cleaned up and put some ice on your lip.”

Marko nodded, slightly afraid of what his mother’s reaction would be, but overall trusting of his father. “Daddy, can I say hi to Uncle Luka first?”

“Of course you can.” He cocked his head toward the stadium, “let’s go, mini me.”

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#juventus fanfiction #croatia nt #croatia nt x reader #mario x reader #Mario Mandzukic #mf: mario mandzukic

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mariomandzho · 6 years ago

Note

Hey I love your blog, could I request number 27 or 28 for Mario x reader? xx

thanks so much! since i already did 28, here’s 27! this was a lot of fun to come up with so i hope you enjoy and i’m sorry again that it took so long.

prompt: “i never knew you could bend like that” / prompts can be found here, & feel free to request more hereword count: 1,893featuring: mario mandžukić x reader

warnings: none, but definitely a bit steamier than my other works! enjoy!

please like & reblog!

The balmy St. Tropez sun warmed your skin as you spread a towel across one of the lounge chairs flanking the pool outside of your private villa.

Your rooms overlooked the beach, and from this vantage point you could hear waves crashing against the shore, hear seagulls cawing in the breeze, and feel the wind blowing lightly against your pale skin. Though the beaches were usually packed with tourists and littered with vibrant umbrellas, only hotel guests were allowed on this private stretch of the French Riviera, allowing you to view the open ocean and granting you an exclusive access to the beautiful turquoise waters.

You drew a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, releasing a contented sigh as you lowered onto the lounge chair. The warmth of the pavement ran through the soles of your feet and up the length of your legs, making your limbs feel like jelly as you breathed in the salty breeze and exhaled a year’s worth of stress.

You couldn’t believe your summer vacation was already here. You planned for it months in advance, but after the hectic year you endured it almost didn’t feel real. You were promoted at work, which meant an increased workload, your parents made the terrible decision of moving into a retirement community, your sister was getting married, and the most surreal of all: your boyfriend and his team won silver at the World Cup. Had this all happened in the space of one year?

Lost in your thoughts, you hardly noticed when Mario opened and closed the sliding glass doors leading into the bedroom. He joined you outside, lowering onto the lounge next to you, and passed you one of the drinks in his hands. “What’s this?” You asked, gazing down at the icy white slush inside the cup, garnished with a cherry and a slice of pineapple.

“Something they had down at the cabana,” He explained, reaching out to clink his glass against yours. “Cheers, draga.”

You smiled brightly and echoed his words, “cheers, Mario. I can’t believe summer is already here.”

As Mario brought his Mimosa to his mouth and took a swig, you briefly gazed up and down his athletic form, drinking in every inch of him. His chest was bare and beautifully tanned, the reflection of the pool shimmering against his golden, tattooed skin. His arms were lean and muscled, elbows digging into well-sculpted and muscular thighs, partially concealed beneath a white towel haphazardly swung around his narrow waist. You found yourself licking your lips, and, as if following the trail of your gaze, Mario smirked at you.

You alleviated the sudden heat in your cheeks with a sip of the colada Mario brought you, enjoying the frosty pineapple and rum taste. You shook your head, trying to clear your head of just how cute he was with the slightest bit of stubble grazing his angular cheeks, wondering how it was possible for one person to be so adorable and at the same time incredibly sexy. You flopped back onto the lounge chair, throwing an arm over your eyes, exhaling loudly.

“Problems?”

You peeked out from under your arm at the sound of Mario’s masculine, baritone voice.

He reached over and pressed two fingers against your bare stomach, mouth twisting. His touch left a white imprint on your skin. “You’re on fire. You’ll burn if you don’t put sunblock on.” You continued to watch him, taking in the sight of his broad chest and toned stomach, knowing all too well how it felt to run your hands along it, when an idea sprang to you.

“Why don’t you help me put some on?” You asked sweetly, a look of innocence crossing your features.

Mario immediately stood to his feet and walked along the edge of the pool to look for the sunblock – his movements mirrored an excited teenage boy, gearing up to kiss his first girl.

You heard him curse under his breath when he couldn’t find the bottle, as eager to get his hands on you as you were with him. He slipped inside for a minute and returned with a scowl. When he finally located the half-empty bottle and walked back to you, you were sitting upright on the edge of the lounge chair, pulling your hair up into a misshapen knot. “Was something the matter, dragi?”

“I must’ve left the other bottle in the beach bag,” Mario replied easily, settling himself on the chair behind you. His thighs were caged around yours and his chest was near enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, and hear the rhythmic lull of his steady breathing. He was actively trying not to notice how alluring you looked in your little polka dot bikini. He’d always been a fan of those bikini bottoms that tied on the side, and found himself resisting the urge to reach over and untie yours, the thought of which was making his bathing suit uncomfortably tight.

Mario squirted a dollop of sunblock out of the tube and warmed it between his hands before placing his palms on your skin. The moment his hands touched your back, fingers gently massaging the lotion into you and leaving a burning sensation as they danced lightly against your skin, you had to bite your lip to keep from letting an appreciative hum escape your mouth.

His hands then migrated to your shoulders, which he expertly rubbed and dug his palms and thumb into. You couldn’t help but groan his name out, grinding each letter between your teeth. He cupped the back of your neck, drew your body flush against him and painted a kiss against your cheek, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your jaw down to your clavicle, before he pulled away and lathered the rest of the cream across your lithe arms.

He covered your waist, abdomen, and thighs in the ivory lotion, smoothed it into your skin, and left every nerve and every hair on your body standing on edge when he pulled away. You were breathless as he stood to his feet and wiped his hands off on the towel slung around his waist. Even though you were wearing sunglasses, Mario could tell that you were sending a dazed gaze in his direction.

You pulled your Aviators down your nose, “did you say something?”

He was still grinning wryly at you, pride mounting within his chest. “You’ll catch flies if you keep your mouth open like that,” Mario replied, reaching over and tapping your chin so that you’d shut your mouth. “What, you see something you like, draga?” Your pet name was used against you, causing you to scowl in annoyance.

Realizing he had caught you in the act, you stood up exasperatedly, huffing out of frustration. Embarrassed, your cheeks flamed a dark crimson color as blood rushed to the surface of your skin. “Whatever. I’m not talking to you.”

Mario settled onto the lounge chair and laid on his back, propping his head up against his arm. “You can try, but you’ll come back for attention in five minutes.”

Fine, you thought indignantly, I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine.

You softly hummed to yourself as you settled onto the lounge chair, allowing the soft breeze, salty air and the sound of the tide lapping against the sand to relax you. For the past few months, you had been using yoga classes as a method to cope with stress, and while you’d been meaning to show Mario what you learned and could accomplish, you never got around to it. So, you figured you’d show him now, while he was still being an ass.

Dangle the carrot, you coached yourself.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Mario was watching you slyly as you bent your left knee and hugged it to your chest, drawing your ankle to your right hip. You mirrored this action with your right leg until your limbs were folded into the ‘lotus pose.’ Mario followed the motions of your tanned, shapely legs, as you pinched your thumb and forefinger together and exhaled deeply, feeling his eyes burrowing holes into your body.

Revenge was best served silent, apparently.

“I never knew you could bend like that,” Mario breathed.

“Oh, this?” You feigned innocence, “this is nothing. Our instructor says I’ll have my knees behind my head in no time. I’m very flexible, you know.”

Mario grumbled something beneath his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

“What was that?” You asked.

“I thought you said you weren’t talking to me?”

“I’m not,” you taunted, “I was merely pointing out a fact.” You glanced over at him, your blue eyes raking over his suntanned skin, “I didn’t see you put any sunblock on yourself.”

“I must’ve forgot.” Mario remained rooted to the chair for a moment, before he urged himself to apply the sun block you insisted he use. Anytime he got even the slightest burn he had to hear you bitch, so over time he got into the habit of putting it on without an argument. He sat up, grabbing the tube off his towel and lathering it in between his hands. He could see you doing a poor job of hiding the fact that you were watching, and as he made a show out of rubbing his chest he smirked proudly.

“You forgot your back. And, before you say something, I’m not talking to you. I’m just letting you know.”

Mario rolled his dark eyes. “I didn’t forget my back, I can’t reach it. It won’t matter, I’ll lie on my back so it won’t get hit by the sun,” he countered, shrugging.

“Spoken like a true male. Move back.”

“What?”

“Move back so I can do your back and return to ignoring you,” you said impatiently, motioning for him to do as you asked. “I don’t want my boyfriend to look like a red and white candy cane.”

You squirted a fair amount of lotion onto your hands and ran it along the length of his spine, making sure that his shoulders and the back of his arms were covered. When you finished, you closed the cap satisfiedly and glanced appreciatively at your work of art. Mario released a deep breath, entreating you gently, “Draga.”

“– I’m officially not talking to you again.”

“Draga,” he repeatedly emphatically.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

Mario groaned and turned around, pulling you into his arms and grazing his mouth across your jawline. “Being an ass.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, his skin silky and lathered up in coconut-scented lotion. You cracked a half-smile, your blue eyes dancing across the few freckles scattered across his nose. “I thought you were mad at me,” he reasoned.

“I was, but you’re too cute to stay mad at.” Mario frowned at that, causing you to roll your head to the side out of confusion. “You don’t like it when I call you cute?”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured, hand reaching out to splay against your back. He fiddled with the strings of your bikini, furtively untying them, “but what I want to do to you, I don’t want you to find ‘cute.’ Have I mentioned that you’re hot when you’re angry at me?”

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tagging system.

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tagging system.@marilyn-mandzukic @iceandbone @collapse-the-stars @saraalexissanchez, @von-hammett, @ditezadarsko, @crazycroatianntfan, @letowolfie, @bestemmiedigigi, @chriss9561, @samwiltson, @roseszymczak, @arduango, @insecurities-broker, @blindlymadridista, @simplyandamazingx3, @vatreniworld, @living-lovren @why-wonder-if-theres-amore

#me writing steamy things.... who am i #juventus fanfiction #mario x reader #Mario Mandzukic #croatia nt x reader #anonymous #mf: mario mandzukic

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mariomandzho · 6 years ago

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28 with Mario :)

It took an embarrassingly long time to start and finish this fic and I’m not even sorry. Wait, yes I am. Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy –– as always, take my interpretation with a grain of salt because I am rusty as hell and writing is like pulling teeth right now.

PROMPT: ‘You’re like a giant cinnamon roll,’ starring Mario Mandzukic, Luka Modrić, Dejan Lovren, Šime Vrsaljko and Domagoj Vida.

The scent of sharp, citrus cologne wafted through the apartment and hung heavy in the air wherever you went. As you padded across the living room to the front entrance, you considered pinching the bridge of your nose to ward off the beginning pangs of a migraine caused by the pungent fragrance, calling out to Mario as you did so, “is it necessary to pour the entire bottle of cologne on yourself?”

“No,” he shot back at you assuredly, his voice deep and gravelly. “Just half.” You heard the bottle release another spritz and internally groaned as another knock sounded against the door.

Electing to ignore your juvenile boyfriend, you swung open the front door and beamed at the two men standing on the other side. Šime and Dejan were both waiting patiently in the hallway, donning their brightest smiles and ugliest Christmas (or non-denominational) sweaters – as per the request of your invitations. “Welcome, you two! We’re glad you could make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Dejan promised, a wry grin planted upon his unusually handsome profile. “Free booze and domaćica? Pfft.”

“And Mario wouldn’t let us,” Šime added.

You nodded cheerily – remembering how Mario had awkwardly (perhaps even shyly?) suggested the holiday party, and threatened to sucker-punch those who wouldn’t attend. You stepped aside so they could enter, “let me take your coats. Mario, come and be social, Dejo and Šime are here and they brought a gift!”

As you eyed the shiny bag, equipped with a bright red bow, dangling in Dejan’s fingers, Mario waltzed across the wooden floorboards and greeted his teammates with friendly shoves and their usual ‘locker room’ talk. “What is this, a super bowl party? Get over here,” Šime joked, pulling Mario into a warm yet cursory embrace. “You wouldn’t believe how many liquor stores were closed today–”

Mario snorted, “On a Sunday? Go figure–.”

“We drove around for half an hour before Dejan remembered he had something in the fridge. So, enjoy.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” you commented whole-heartedly, “I’ll go put this to chill in the kitchen. Make yourself comfortable, there’s eggnog in the living room and Dejan, would you be a doll and set up the radio for us?”

“Is the eggnog spiked?”

“Yes. And there’s wine, beer, and drinks in the portable fridge on the balcony!”

“Count me in.” He flicked his thumb over his shoulder and gestured for Šime to follow. Once they were out of ear shot, you heard Mario’s familiar footfalls behind you on your way to the kitchen.

You glanced behind you, watching as Mario folded his arms across his muscular figure and leaned against the granite island. There was something dark and slightly humorous in his eyes that unnerved you. “What?” You snapped.

“What, what?” His dark brows rose into his hairline, feigning innocence.

“You know what. Why are you giving me that look?” If you glanced quickly, you might’ve mistaken it for his bedroom look; but this, this was far more dangerous.

He simply smirked. Yes, this was uncharted territory. “You just gave Dejan and Šime full range of our alcohol and sent them to ‘fix’ the radio. Grave mistake, sweetheart. Get ready for your ears to bleed.”

You considered his words for a moment before you moved aside to set the wine Dejan brought in a chilled container. Mario had a point, even if it irked you to admit it. After a beat of silence passed, you released a girlish chime of laughter and leaned your hip against the countertop. It was only a matter of time before Croatian pop music began to rattle the walls, or worse, they would find the Ariana Grande album you stowed away for Mario’s nieces for Christmas. All in all, you only hoped whatever they played wasn’t pornographic. “What have I done?”

Mario shrugged as he fixed the last remaining buttons on his navy blue dress-shirt. “Only time will tell, but, I should probably rein them in.”

Your brow furrowed for a moment as you watched him meticulously slip a button through a linen hole. “Wait a minute – where’s your ugly Christmas sweater? I laid it out on the bed for you.”

“I saw it,” he admitted curtly. “But I didn’t like it.”

“So? It’s an ‘Ugly Christmas – or non-denominational – Sweater Party’! You can’t wear a button up.” Although you had to admit, he looked particularly sharp in it. The dress shirt hugged his athletic physique perfectly, and accentuated his broad shoulders. “Who cares if you look ridiculous in it? We all look ridiculous.”

He rose a cautionary brow. Mario obviously did not want to be lumped together with people who looked ‘ridiculous’ by choice. “I didn’t have any shoes to correspond with it.”

You rolled your eyes incredulously and held up a hand, “Come on. We’re getting you into that sweater if it’s the last thing I do.”

Mario whined your name as you moved to sweep past him, darting a hand out to grasp you by your arm. He tugged you closer, close enough that the scent of his cologne was again nauseating, but you yielded and softened against him, throwing your arms around his neck and granting his rosy-lips a quick peck. “You’ll look cute, I promise.”

“I don’t want to look cute,” He pouted.

You traced your fingertip along the edge of his mouth. It tickled him, and he curled his lip under his teeth. His cheeks were slightly red from the cold, and his gelled hair was wind-tossed. You were completely enamored by him. “That’s hard to believe when you look so adorable pouting. Please, for me?” His gaze shifted, and if it were possible you noticed the edge within him lessen; like a lion backing away from its prey, he audibly exhaled and silently agreed. As his amber-brown eyes sought yours, the doorbell rang and you sighed; the moment had ended sooner than it began. “Change. I’ll answer the door.”

Calling out a brief, ‘I’m coming!’, you pried open the door – smiling as you saw Luka and Domagoj outside. “Hi, you guys! Welcome. I love the sweater, Domo!”

“Thanks, [your name],” Domo grinned, running a hand through your hair and disheveling your straightened locks beyond repair.

Before you could utter a word of protest, Luka leaned forward and pecked both of your cheeks, smiling warmly toward you. “Thank you for having us. Don’t tell Mario, but Ivan had to take a rain-check. We brought gifts, though!”

“Oh, wonderful.” You attempted to fix the tangled mess that was your hair, but to little avail. “We’ll bring these to the kitchen. Might I ask, which Ivan…? Peri?”

“Raketa,” Luka explained.

“May he rest in peace,” you laughed.

“And I brought this for you from Casa de Domo,” Domo interrupted, pushing a punch bowl covered in plastic wrap into your arms. You struggled beneath the weight of the bowl before Mario suddenly came to your rescue and lifted it from your arms. “Made from scratch.”

“Thank you, honey,” you mumbled to Mario, to which he responded with a brisk grunt. “And thank you Domo.” Seeking to find the right words to thank him, you sputtered, “what–what is it, by chance? It smells…”

“Foul,” Mario muttered. To his credit, Domo hadn’t heard him.

“Strong,” you supplied instead.

Domo’s fair brows knitted over his eyes, as if the answer were obvious and the mysterious liquid within did not utterly appall you. “It’s a Fireball cinnamon roll cocktail. With a very special, secret ingredient.”

“Jesus Ch…” Mario cursed underneath his breath, until you reached out and pinched the back of his arm, causing his nose to screw up in distaste.

“Thank you, Domo, again. We really appreciate it. We’ll just put this in the fridge. Dejan and Šime are in the living room, supposedly setting up the music, and there’s drinks, snacks and my special eggnog somewhere.”

“Special?” Luka’s brow rose into his hairline.

“More alcohol than is safe to consume,” Mario supplied. “Straight from her grandmother’s recipe book.”

“Wonderful. We’ll make ourselves useful in the living room. Can I help you with anything?”

“Absolutely not!” You cried. “Our treat. Go, our house is yours and we want you to make yourself comfortable.”

Mario whistled and pointed at Domo, “not too comfortable. This isn’t the pig-stye you call bedroom.”

“It’s not that messy, asshole. And your mom didn’t seem to mind it last time she was there,” he added, flicking Mario the bird.

Once Luka and Domo had turned on their heel, you crooked your finger at Mario, indicating for him to follow you back into the kitchen before he could leap at Domo. “Can you go five minutes without being rude to our guests?”

“Rude? This–this is an abomination to alcohol. Why would anyone mix sweetness and spice?”

“It obviously meant a lot to him to have made it from scratch.” You peeled back the plastic wrap, expecting it to bubble like a cauldron, and gave the mixture a quick sniff. You immediately jumped backward, as if you’d been burned, and clamped your eyes shut as they began to water. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Mario’s brows pulled together out of concern. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a gentle squeeze, “what is it?”

“I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes. Literally.”

“Liar. It can’t be that bad.”

“You try it.”

Mario dipped a finger into the mysterious brew and sampled it. You watched as a smirk toyed upon your lips as he belched and coughed, sputtering as he set the punch bowl down. You knew it had to be bad; Mario had a higher tolerance for alcohol than most. “Holy shit. What is the secret ingredient, poison?”

You glanced at each other, both your eyes on the verge of watering and throats nearly burning, before busting out into laughter. You moved toward him and wrapped your arms around his shoulders again, smiling crookedly. “Can we even throw it out? Are we terrible hosts if we don’t serve it?”

“I think we’d be terrible hosts if we did serve it, and possibly accomplices to the crime,” He replied level-headedly. “Look, we’ll say you accidentally tripped and spilled it. Unless Domo wants to lick it off the floor, he’ll know it was a harmless accident.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You countered, “Why do I have to be the one that spills it? He’s your friend.”

“Because,” He murmured, running a hand through your hair, “you’re the clumsy one.” He squinted an eye, head canting to the side as he gestured to your hair, “by the way, what happened here?”

“Domo.” His name was more than enough explanation and Mario released a quiet, ‘aaah.’

Mario said gently, “I think it looks pretty. C’mon, let’s find that ugly sweater that I definitely didn’t toss down the trash chute. We’ll match.”

As you reached on your tiptoes to graze your mouth against his, a thought sprang to you, the citrus of his cologne invading your senses pleasantly – sweetness and spice. “You. You’re what happens when you mix sweetness and spice. You’re like a cinnamon roll, Mario.”

“A cinnamon roll? You’re comparing me to Domo’s abomination of a cocktail?”

You nodded. “I’m being serious!”

“As am I.”

“You’re like… those candies. You know, first they’re sour; then they’re sweet.”

A sly grin rounded the corners of his lips. “They’re only sweet when you suck on them, [your name].”

You rolled your eyes and whacked him playfully on the chest using a hand towel. “Gross. Shut up. And go, for the love of God, change! I’m going to be the good hostess and entertain our guests.”

Mario raked a hand through his hair and turned toward the exit, “Fine, but don’t blame me when Dejan suggests playing strip poker and no one is there to stop him.”

“Maybe I don’t want to stop him.”

You winked as he turned back around to shoot you a deadly glare.

Yes – this Holiday party would be one to remember, and it had only just begun.

@marilyn-mandzukic @iceandbone @collapse-the-stars @crazy-for-lovren @living-lovren @letowolfie

#mario mandzukic #croatia nt fic #croatia nt x reader #juventus fanfiction #iceandbone #mf: mario mandzukic

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mariomandzho · 6 years ago

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CROATIA NT BOYS AS TYPES OF ROMANTICS this totally started out as shit posting with @vatreniworld & is now actually a thing. feel free to expand as you like!

– Suba is the diehard romantic of the group. Arrives in tow with a dozen red roses and a full itinerary for the night, which probably includes an upscale Italian restaurant. He opens the door of his sleek black car for you, hums Frank Sinatra as he walks you to the door, and his hair is gelled back and his suits are always crisp and freshly pressed. He knows just what to say and can sweep any ingenue off her feet! Danijel “I’ll have your daughter home by 10” Subašić, honestly.

– Dalić is an extremely sensible romantic, and knows exactly what he wants. He isn’t a hard-nose, no-nonsense guy in his romantic life by any means, but he won’t jump into a relationship that he can’t see going the distance. He mainly looks for someone that he can talk to openly and unwind with.

– Šime keeps a gap between his personal and private life. Knowing that he can tend to be a goof ball, he at first attempts to keep his significant other away from his work and teammates, not wanting her to think that he isn’t dedicated or can’t be serious about a relationship. However, this quickly changes depending on the woman he is with; if she’s able to break down his walls of insecurity, he won’t hide anything from her and they’ll be as much best friends as they are soulmates. Someone with a sense of humor, but also a rational side, is essential. Road trips, museums, hiking and kayaking; they do everything together.

– Mario knows that women find him attractive and can be extremely charismatic. He’s flirtatious and doesn’t really consider the consequences of starting new relationships, even as previous ones are ending. He moves along in relationships easily, but rarely talks or publicizes his private life so most people, even those closest to him, don’t know who his current fling is. However, when he is dedicated to someone, he’ll be dedicated to her completely and his heart will be hers entirely. He won’t jump into commitment for just anyone, but once he finds the one he’ll be able to broach the idea of moving in together and taking the next steps in their relationship. Mario “Your Daughter Calls Me Daddy Too” Mandzukic.

– Luka is the most loving of the guys, tbh. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his partner and he’ll be extremely affectionate and touchy-feely with them. His love is more open than say, Mario or Šime, because he is genuinely proud of his relationship and the person he is with (he couldn’t be with someone who he didn’t feel proud of). His partner is the person who makes him happiest and the person he showers with tenderness – that said, he isn’t as willing to set down roots until he is confident that his partner is able to deal with his erratic schedule without it causing them grief.

– Domo is usually excited to be in relationships. He enjoys being with someone and being able to share special things with them–memories, inside jokes, which he’ll bring up often, and plans for the future. He acts like a giddy schoolboy when his partner is dressed up or sends good morning texts, genuinely happy about the fact that he is someone’s person. He’ll openly brag about his partner and talk about her all the time, and though his enthusiasm isn’t always well received by his team mates he isn’t afraid to go on and on about your vacation or the joke you made about his bedhead that morning.

– Dejan is smooth. That’s all I’ll say. He can flirt like a motherfucker and make his partner weak at the knees with his words. But, Dejan is better at creating an image of a relationship (champagne, flowers, chocolates, smooth-talking...) than he is at actually having a relationship, which is why they often fall through the cracks. However, when he finds the one, he’ll find himself completely at a loss for words, utterly entranced by them and unable to hide behind his outer layer. His phone is cluttered with photos of her, texts to her, and calls from her; he will be the first one to say ‘I love you’ even though he can hardly come to terms with why the different dynamic shakes him to his core, and leaves him wanting more.

– Lovre is an incredibly soft romantic and his affections bleed through in soft caresses, private whispers, and actions other people would hardly take notice of – always having his hand on the small of his partners’ back to guide them, standing behind them protectively, or cleaning up the living room before leaving their apartment, long before they ever wake up. Out of the blue, he’ll send his partners songs that remind him of them, and he delights in it when his partner returns his love in a similar way. If you want to know if Lovre is in love with someone, watch as he stands behind them – he’ll lean down to whisper in their ear, to make a comment or joke, and laugh huskily at their reply before his cheeks tinge with a blush.

#croatia nt #luka modric #Mario Mandzukic #sime vrsaljko #dejan lovren #mf: lovre kalinic #mf: dejan lovren #mf: domagoj vida #mf: luka modric #mf: mario mandzukic #mf: zlatko dalic #mf: danijel subasic #mf: sime vrsaljko

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mariomandzho · 6 years ago

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THE FINE LINE, PART TWO word count: 1,297

He can’t stand her. He drives her insane. The only other thing they have in common? They’re crazy about each other. / MANDZO AU: Mario falls in love with a reporter.

Natalia Pavlović is an American journalist currently documenting spots data and seeking to make a name for herself in the journalism industry. Enter Mario Mandžukić, who seems hellbent on stopping her from doing that.

AESTHETIC.

The beady-eyed reporter who had, moments ago, attempted to hit on her could only muster up enough strength to stare in bewilderment at Mario, like a deer caught in headlights.

And who could blame him?

Whether on or off the pitch, Mandžukić’s eyes could burrow holes in someone’s skull–or soul–and though he wasn’t staring at her, Natalia had to wince when the reporter cowered away, nearly feeling sorry for the poor sap. She was certain Mario could make even the strongest of men run away with their tails in between their legs, and she was no exception to the principle.

The reporter adjusted the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, drew in a deep breath (as if to make himself look larger than he actually was), and retreated like an army raising a white flag. He scrambled pathetically to get away from Mario’s hawklike gaze, but not before stuttering, “Didn’t realize. Won’t happen again.”

Natalia stood in stunned silence as the usually impassive soccer player stood next to her, towering above her, his features barely revealing a glimpse of the thoughts that brewed within apart from the slight crease of discontent forming in between his brows.

She glanced up at Mario, their proximity allowing her a rare look at his features–relaxed, yet hardened; stony, yet expressive all at once. He was even more handsome up close, she had to admit. He was very tall, and she wasn’t surprised at all that her co-workers fawned over his messy brown hair and dark, honey-colored eyes.

But she narrowed her eyes at him and flashed a disapproving leer, still harboring a hint of sympathy for the reporter. “I can fend for myself.”

He shrugged the broad width of his shoulders, obviously unmoved by her snappish remark. “Didn’t look like you were doing a great job at it,” he rasped, English flowing from his tongue perfectly.

“I was attempting to be polite. They do teach that where you’re from, yes?”

“I think the term you’re searching for is ‘thank-you’. In that case, you’re welcome.”

She muttered begrudgingly, “thank-you, I suppose.” A thought sprung to her, and she rose a brow curiously upon her forehead, “Aren’t you supposed to be in the VIP lounge?”

“There was a minor... disagreement,” he prevaricated, cocking his head to beckon her to follow him as he strolled toward the bar. Unable to say no, or understand why she couldn’t, Natalia followed blindly.

“Color me surprised.”

“What?”

“It’s an expression–it means, well, never mind. A disagreement with whom? And how minor?”

“Are you always this nosy?”

“Just on days that end with ‘y’. I am a reporter, you know.”

He chuckled at that, sidling up to a bar stool and pulling one out from under the countertop for her. She lifted herself onto her seat with some difficulty, pretending not to notice the smirk growing on his lips as he watched her nearly topple over, disregarding the sudden heat rushing to her cheeks.

“S-so,” Natalia managed to stammer out. She was a writer, why were words suddenly failing her now? “What does Đilkoš drink at a bar?”

Mario was quick to answer, “He doesn’t. He doesn’t exist. Mario, on the other hand, prefers a jack and coke.” Something over the curve of her shoulder caught his eye and he pointed unabashedly, “looks like your friend is back for blood. What’s his name?”

Natalia discreetly craned her neck to glance at the reporter sitting at the end of the bar, pointing to the margarita on the counter and then at her, as if to offer it. Natalia released a low-sounding groan, her teeth biting into her plump lower lip. “I have no idea. He looks like a... Willis. Doesn’t he? Curly hair, glasses, cleft chin?”

“Willis,” Mario said slowly as if sampling the name. He shook his head. “What a tool. Well, you know there is one way to get rid of him if he persists.”

Natalia swiveled back around to glance at the athlete, allowing a grin to grow on her features

Was he suggesting what she thought he was? Could this be her big break? How much would he divulge? Would it be a conflict of interest for her to be sitting at a bar with him? Was he even sober?

She retaliated, “Will you do an interview for me?”

“Will you sleep with me?” Mario’s voice was smooth and husky, spoken hushedly to maintain their privacy. Of course–he was the most private man known to earth.

Natalia’s cheeks instantly bloomed a deep scarlet. The nerve! “I can’t believe you’d ask that!” She practically squeaked, “this violates every rule of propriety–I hope you know that! I could have you reported for this!”

“You’re not on the job right now,” he shrugged nonchalantly, glancing down at the expensive watch latched onto his wrist, “it’s almost one a.m.”

She frowned, “work never sleeps.”

“Touché.”

“I don’t know what sort of woman you take me for, but I’d certainly never sleep with a man who can barely remember my name,” she pointed. “You haven’t even asked what I want to drink yet.” Natalia sniffed.

Groaning, Mario nearly rolled his eyes, “let me guess–some fruity drink that girl’s drink with ten thousand grams of sugar?”

“That would be incorrect. You have two more guesses.”

His eyes shifted toward her. This was a game to him, and if she knew anything from documenting his career, it was that there was nothing he loved more than a challenge. He never backed down from one–and he always played to win.

She’d have to keep that in mind.

“Vodka,” he suggested.

“Getting warmer.”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Natalia said in a sing-song voice, “I like mine dry, and don’t forget the lime wedge.”

“What a piece of work,” Mario muttered under his breath, “anything else I can get you, princess?”

She winked at him. “I’ll let you know when I think of something.”

Drumming her fingertips against the lacquered bartop, her blue eyes trained upon his profile as he ordered their drinks in effortless Italian. Out of all the guys she’d met at bars, he was unquestionably the most handsome.

A comfortable silence descended upon them as he pushed the glass of gin and tonic her way. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I meant for saving me from Willis. It can be a little difficult to break through in this industry with so many men–and so many men like him specifically. It’s a shame, really. All of us are so passionate about language, and he uses his degree to say things like ‘call me Mr. Right’.”

“He just wanted to get in your skirt.” Mario shrugged, an impish glint shining in his eyes, “I don’t know, I thought he was a catch. Maybe he’d be a good fuck.”

“Should I go back and ask?”

“Definitely. Let me know how it goes.”

As she was opening up her mouth to speak, Domagoj Vida sidled up behind Mario and tugged on his white linen dress shirt, attempting to pull him off his seat. “What are you drinking?”

Mario snapped, “Nothin–.”

Without awaiting a reply, Vida lifted Mario’s jack and coke and downed it in a single gulp. His face contorted in disgust, and his blond head gave a vehement shake as the acidic liquid traveled down his throat. “Fucking vile, tastes like radioactive piss, mate,” Vida garbled in his drunken stupor.

“It’s a jack and coke, you pussy. What do you want?”

“You,” Vida said, “don’t know why–but you’re missing the fucking rager upstairs. C’mon. Next thing you know Luka’s going to do shots off Dejan’s arse at this rate.”

Mario glanced at Natalia sympathetically.

“Go, have fun.”

“Another time?” He asked, with a slight measure of hope in his voice.

“Another time.”

PART ONE. PART TWO.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tagging system.

@marilyn-mandzukic @iceandbone @collapse-the-stars @saraalexissanchez, @von-hammett, @ditezadarsko, @crazycroatianntfan, @letowolfie, @abegaelle, @bestemmiedigigi, @chriss9561, @samwiltson, @roseszymczak, @arduango, @insecurities-broker, @blindlymadridista, @simplyandamazingx3, @vatreniworld, @living-lovren

#Mario Mandzukic #croatia nt #croatia nt x reader #juventus fanfiction #Mario Mandžukić #tfl #mf: mario mandzukic #mf: the fine line

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mariomandzho · 6 years ago

Text

THE FINE LINE, PART ONE word count: 1,891

He can’t stand her. He drives her insane. The only other thing they have in common? They’re crazy about each other. / MANDZO AU: Mario falls in love with a reporter.

AESTHETIC.

Most soccer players were perfect gentlemen off the field.

Despite their violent and volatile reputations, they hardly ever gave her a hard time while she was conducting interviews. She didn’t tend to pry into their personal lives and they seemed to respect her, most of the time. A few lighthearted, impersonal questions and they’d sprint away to celebrate – or sometimes mourn – with their fellow teammates.

Croatian soccer players always seemed particularly enthusiastic to answer her questions; jumping for the opportunity to speak out on how proud they were of their country and successes. Even their losses they took in stride, and Natalia thought their pride was honorable.

But Mario Mandžukić was a completely different story.

He was known in the industry for being brief and terse. If you wanted to know the secrets or the inside scoop about Croatia NT, you went to someone… well.. willing to talk. Mandžukić was downright rude half the time, although it was more annoying than offensive at this rate. His unwillingness was a common topic amongst reporters; most journalists either bombarded him, hoping for even a shred, or steered clear altogether. Natalia favoured the second approach after a few too many thorny encounters.

If he wasn’t completely ignoring her existence, Mario was cursing his opponents and refusing to comment on anything.

But he was interesting. And she wouldn’t mind picking at his brain for half an hour. And she wouldn’t mind knowing more about him. The world was itching to know more about Juventus’ forward, Croatia’s most controversial team member, and, without a doubt, their most prolific goalscorer.

They knew he had a temper, and a massive salary, but beyond that it was anyone’s guess and only sporadic social media posts could connect the dots.

So, Natalia made a promise to herself that by the end of the season she’d get him to open up. The life of a sportswriter was not all glitz and glamour, travel and free press conferences; it was grueling work and not something she particularly cared about. She didn’t want to continue to fight for scraps, or fight to write articles on subjects she was interested in.

She supposed it could be worse, she could be writing about her sex life (or lack thereof) or dating mechanisms for Cosmopolitan – but was it so wrong that she wanted to broach out?

She wanted to write about politics, inequality, gender-studies, law... anything!

It would all come down to him.

Mandžukić could very well be her passport into the corporate world of journalism. If she got him under her thumb, wrapped around her finger, she’d be able to write a stellar article about the mind of Croatia’s killer, and she’d finally be recognized.

Even if he was an asshole.

“Natalia? Are you listening to me?”

No more crashing on her friends’ couch. No more being forced to cover up to ten events on the same day, and she wouldn’t have to bust her butt to get a full-time gig, either.

She blinked herself back into reality and glanced at her co-worker, James.

Lost in her thoughts, she mouthed, “What?”

“I said, make sure you turn the volume up on your recorder, it was a little staticky last time. Must be all the equipment and whatnot.”

“Oh, right. Sorry about that. I must still be jet-legged. You almost ready?”

“Almost,” James replied with a slight shrug.

The banquet hall was teeming with familiar faces – they were familiar in the sense that Natalia had seen them before on television perhaps a hundred times, seen their faces plastered on city buses, Facebook walls and patriotic apparel, but she didn’t know them personally – unless she’d interviewed them before.

Soccer players milled in and out of the spacious hall whilst their public relations teams sang their praises and caterers doled out glasses of champagne and delectable hors d’oeuvre. Chandeliers glistened above, Frank Sinatra crooned from the speakers whilst an orchestra played quietly in the distance, and journalists rubbed elbows and forged ties.

Media representatives from over fifteen countries were in attendance and Natalia felt more than a little nervous at the prospect of being drowned out by all of them – she was young (and a woman) and the odds seemed stacked against her.

She sought out the easiest targets first; players, coaches and managers she knew would be willing to let a comment or two slip relating to the evening and their players’ season thus far. Mindless comments such as, “we’re glad to support charity whenever we can, and so and so is very passionate about philanthropy,” and, “what a year it’s been for the team!”

Nothing interesting per se, but, as she liked to call it, it was ‘writing fluff.’

After speaking with a representative from Mexico, Natalia flitted toward the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. She rarely drank on the job, but there was something about having a glass in hand that made a conversation seem more intimate. It allowed her subjects to open up to her as she interviewed them; almost as if they considered her a friend.

“Vermouth,” a warm voice requested beside her. “Please.”

She glanced upward, instantly recognizing Luka Modric’s striking profile and wind-tossed blond hair, sitting in artful disarray atop his aristocratic forehead.

“I did not take you for the herbal type.”

Croatia’s midfielder turned his blue gaze toward her and smiled unreservedly. He was one of those, those men who tried to keep a thumb over their private life but wore their heart on their sleeve. “And what did you peg me for?”

“That depends. Are you here for business or for pleasure?”

Modric chuckled at that, “I’ll tell you when I know. Luka Modric, but, I get the feeling you already knew that,” He remarked smoothly, offering her hand.

Natalia shook hands with the midfielder. “Natalia Pavlović.”

“Oh, you’re a Croat?”

She swallowed thickly, “my father is.”

“Well, its a pleasure, Ms. Pavlović. Are you…”

She tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. “A journalist, yes.”

“I couldn’t tell for a moment. Most reporters–they’re like vultures.” As if realizing what he had implied, Luka’s cheeks bloomed red and he shook his head meekly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure it’s a rewarding profession.”

“No offense taken. I completely agree, most of the time anyway. I don’t suppose this is an inappropriate time to ask if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Su–.”

“Luka,” a deeper-voice beckoned, sidling up to the captain and barely glancing at Natalia. It was Mario, of course. Who else would ignore her presence like a mouse? “Dalić wants you. Some dense reporter needs a statement or something of the sort and he wants to clear the air.” He rose his brow, gesturing with his pointer finger between the two, “am I interrupting something?”

“No! No, I mean, no,” Natalia shook her head.

“I’m definitely interrupting.”

“We’ll finish another time, Mr. Modric. A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Mandžukić.”

“We’ve met?”

“Three times,” she retorted.

“Natalia was just about to conduct an interview, can it wait?”

“Five minutes, please. I don’t want Dalić to shoot the messenger.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long at all. Walk with us?” Luka asked, cocking his head toward Mario.

Natalia nodded eagerly, a little too eagerly perhaps, and left her drink sitting on the bar top before she trotted behind the two men. Mario was taller than Luka, quite a bit taller, and though he was slender his muscles surged beneath his bespoke suit, tailored just so against his agile frame. She could see his tattoos peaking from beneath his golden cufflinks, and his dark hair was teased upward.

“Just don’t ask any empty-headed questions,” Mario snapped.

“I’ll try my best not to,” Natalia said darkly, “Luka, what does it mean to you to represent Croatia and Zadar?”

Mandžukić grimaced, grumbling in Croatian under his breath, “doesn’t follow basic orders, check.”

Clearly, he wasn’t aware that she could understand him as her American accent wrapped around her words.

“It’s a huge honor to represent your country anytime,” Luka pronounced diplomatically, “whether it’s the Presidents Cup or World Cup or as an amateur, even now, at the beginning of the season. It’s a chance to make our abilities known.”

“I’m sure it is. Have you been reading the expectations for the Croatia versus Spain game? Everyone is interested to know your thoughts on Sergio Ramos. Care to share?”

“He’s a formidable player. I won’t underestimate that. It’s dangerous to underestimate your opponents.”

“Ramos would be mindful to remember that.” Mario released a low-sounding chuckle as they exited the banquet and joined the rest of their team mates, including Zlatko Dalić who was dressed in his statement white dress shirt and black slacks, his hair gelled back and curling around his earlobes and collar.

Natalia bounded down the few steps leading toward the courtyard, nearly bumping into Mario as she did so.

“Thank you for your time,” she murmured to Luka, her voice muffled by the sound of the fountain bubbling, “I really appreciated it. And I’ll have to try the Vermouth next time, if you swear by herbals.”

“Why don’t you stick around? We’re almost done here and the after party admittedly is the highlight of the night.”

Natalia glanced in Mario’s direction, as if to gather his reaction, but he’d already slipped into the throng of Croatian players and was currently warding off a side-hug from Domagoj Vida, Croatia’s defender.

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she considered the offer, “you’re sure no one will object?”

Luka gave her a telltale look.

“No one?”

“You’ll be my plus-one.”

Music streamed through the speakers and iridescent lights lit up the hotel where the after party was being held. Two different tournaments were playing on massive screens, with an additional six plasma televisions displaying games from last week, whilst bartenders dished out rounds upon rounds of shots and bouncers monitored the gambling stakes.

Natalia entered the lobby sporting the outfit she wore to the banquet, a cream-lace cocktail dress that fell just above her knees and cinched at her waist.

She quickly became lost in the crowd, searching for a drink, or a dose of reality amidst all the opulence and pizzaz.

Nearly colliding into the back of one of Germany’s lesser-known players, Natalia was knocked onto her feet and given a sneer by the player. “On that note,” she muttered, straightening out her dress, thankful that he hadn’t spilled beer on her, “let the torture begin.”

“Sounds like fun,” a voice whispered behind her. “I’m new here. Can I have directions back to your place?”

Natalia spun on her heel and casted a horrified look toward the man who approached her. “I beg your pardon?”

Undaunted, he continued, “you’re lucky that bastard didn’t spill anything on your dress. It would look horrible at the dry cleaner’s, instead of on the floor next to my bed tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Reporter. But you can call me Mr. Right.”

“That may be so,” A new voice entered the mix, gripping Natalia by her elbow and causing her to gasp, “but, unfortunately, she’s with me.”

She would’ve been grateful to anyone for saving her from the clutches of hell, but it was him.

PART ONE. PART TWO.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tagging system. @iceandbone, @collapse-the-stars, @saraalexissanchez, @von-hammett, @ditezadarsko, @crazycroatianntfan, @letowolfie, @abegaelle, @bestemmiedigigi, @chriss9561, @samwiltson, @roseszymczak, @arduango, @insecurities-broker, @blindlymadridista, @simplyandamazingx3, @living-lovren

#Mario Mandzukic #croatia nt #croatia nt x reader #juventus fanfiction #Mario Mandžukić #tfl #mf: the fine line #mf: mario mandzukic

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mariomandzho · 6 years ago

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Mandzo x Luka - jealousy, tears and depression, yes I want to cry.

MANDZO/LUKA ANGST REQUESTword count:

and all I remember is your backwalking towards the airport, leaving us all in your past

The lingering feelings between them, at times, ache.

When they are sitting in the back of the bus, the windows frost with snow and their arms brush. Luka’s head against Mario’s shoulder sends waves of heat through their bodies.

He longs to nestle his chin in Luka’s blond hair, inhale the musky scent of amber that dominates his senses, and wrap his arms around him. They are powerless to the feelings that course between them, but they would never act on them. It would ruin their careers, their friendship – the effortless bond between their team. It could never be, not in broad daylight.

The first time they’re together, they’re drunk – urged by whiskey courage.

They slip away from the bar, coated in the dim lighting of the restaurant bathroom, and Luka has to stretch on his toes to brush his lips against Mario’s. Mario hardly reciprocates before he (quite literally) runs away, leaving Luka in a haze of confusion and regret.

Regret tastes like vodka on his tongue – but jealousy?

It tastes like blood, swirling inside his mouth, as he watches Mario grind with some American girl on the dance-floor before they escape to his car with a hand planted on her arse.

He receives a text at two A.M. that night.

Mandzo: I’m sorry.Mandzo: Forgive me?

But Luka knows, somewhere deep within his being, that Mario will never figure himself out enough to accept them.

They almost kiss, a lot.

They get close enough that Mario can feel Luka’s breath on his skin. Feel his lashes and eyes fluttering shut, forcing their hands to move along the other’s body to find their way in blind darkness.

Luka’s hand steadies itself on Mario’s hip, and like magnets they pull closer together, Mario tugging roughly on Luka’s shirt lapels, nothing in between them except the words they didn’t say.

Mario hisses with anticipation and Luka’s breath hitches. His head slants, his tongue swipes against his bottom-lip, mere centimeters away from touching.

There is a sense of urgency in the air, but it is lax and unhurried, like honey pouring from a jar.

The door swings open. They jump apart. Remove their hands like they’ve been burned, and Mario’s fingers card through his hair exasperatedly.

Almost. Is it better than never?

They are a cathedral of almost.

They formed a terrible, curious knack for confessing their feelings at the worst possible moment; like a bullet ricocheting a moment too soon, a final word spoken too late.

Mario is giddy. For perhaps a first in his life, he has figured out what he wants. He values his solitude, but he was meant to be a lover. Four letters; two syllables.

The answer is easy enough, but finding it nearly killed him.

“I want to tell you something.” His cheeks hurt, his scalp prickles, his abdomen ties itself in knots from smiling so hard. Had he ever beamed from ear to ear like a dizzy school boy? Had his own mother ever seen him so self-assured, so confident?

So full of hope?

“I have to tell you something, too.”

Luka is less enthusiastic, but still just as happy. He folds Mario’s hands into his own, smaller pair and guides him toward the bench. They wait a moment, the sound of their heartbeats pounding in unison filling the air.

Mandzu stutters, “I’m–you first.”

“No, no, you first.” Luka smiles, urges, “I think I’ll want to hear this.”

“Okay, if you insist. I took what you said to heart. I think I lov–”

I love you.

“I’m getting married.”

Silence descends upon them like a plague, gripping Mario and robbing him of his momentary happiness–of Luka. “Married? To who?”

“Vanja,” he explained. “I love her.”

“You love her?”

“Mario…”

“You don’t want this?”

“This? What is this? A few glances, an afterthought? You want what you can’t have, Mario. Always. It makes you a great soccer player, but you could never–.”

Mario clears his throat. “I think you’ve said enough.”

They shared a glance, caught each other’s gaze. Luka’s blue eyes, boring into him like a doe; Mario’s penetrating gaze, full of somber dejection. It was as if Luka was pleading with him, his soul on its hands and knees, silently, to act.

To act this once, in exchange for a lifetime of joy instead of longing.

To act this once, for a lifetime of happiness – instead of a game of not-knowing, not-knowing, and second guessing, in which there is no true winner.

But Mario remained quiet and averted his eyes.

Little did Luka know that this was his way of saying:

‘Please ask me just one more time. I’ll figure it out.’

One more.

One more chance.

Instead, he lifts to his feet, clasps Mario on his shoulder, and breezes away. He closes a door on a lifetime of what-ifs and lets it slam behind him.

They share a bed the first time they arrive in London for a game.

The hotel was booked full, but the concierge promised that there would be two king sized beds awaiting them in their room. When they arrive, downtrodden after a failed match, there was only a medium-sized mattress wedged between two bedside tables, a small note of gratitude perched on ornately displayed pillows.

Mario takes a cold shower. Luka paces incessantly, burning holes in the carpet and likely annoying the wits out of whoever was sleeping under them.

He wouldn’t mind being under Mar–no.

He holds his head in his hands and Mandzo pries them apart, kissing both of his palms as his hair, still wet from the shower, drips onto Luka’s nose. Mario cups his jaw, pries his chin backward, and glides his tongue along the corner of Luka’s mouth to collect the small droplet.

Every hair on Luka’s body stands on end. Every nerve is alert to Mario’s proximity and the white towel encircling his hips, dipping just below the V of his abdomen and the dark happy trail trailing beneath.

“We should–.”

“I can’t–.”

“–your fiancée. I’ll go.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe Luka didn’t want things to turn awkward. But he felt that he should say something, that this moment, above all the others – and there were several others – this moment was unique.

But the senseless coward he knew he was overcame him and he let Mario slip away as easily as he had allowed him to enter his boundaries.

Luka traces little circles on Mario’s hip, enjoying watching goose-bumps appear on the skin of his thighs as the pad of his fingertip swirls over sensitive skin. He whispers, “do you believe in love?”

“At first sight?” Mario echoes into the darkness.

“No, just love.”

He closes his hand over Luka’s, draws it up his bare chest, and lays it flush against where his heart is.

“We’ll see.”

Luka is the last person Mario tells. It is even easier to tell Dalić, the man he looked up to like a father, the only coach to ever truly believe in him, than to tell Luka.

His friend. His captain. The man who dominates every thought that passes his mind.

How could he ever? What could he say, what could move him, what would possibly convey all the words he’d longed to say since he first joined the team? Would words ever be enough?

He calls Luka at eleven pm, a glass of wine sitting to his right. As the phone dials, he has a sinking feeling that before he can ever say a word, Luka will know.

And he is right.

Mario’s knuckles rasp against the hotel door, and within a moment it swings open. Luka is standing there, his hair in artful disarray, the lines around his mouth more prominent, more striking than before. But there is a dispassionate glint to his eyes – a lack of hope that is, in his dearest Luka, as rare and as grave as a sunless day.

“I had to say goodbye,” Mario gestures between them, him and his broken parts and all of Luka’s glory, “in person.”

“You’re still here?”

“Where else would I be?”

“You won’t stay?”

Mario didn’t have to shake his head or utter a word, Luka knew. He was retiring.

“I don’t want to change anything with us–.”

“Us?” Luka laughed, but it was a humorless noise, and tinged with a terrible silence that cut at Mario’s heart. “I wish you had never told me. I wish you just left.”

Oh, how he wanted to beg for Mario to stay. It was never supposed to be him. Mario watched the tears pool in his beautiful eyes; a vision that would haunt him the rest of his life. But he never turned back.

Regret – it tasted like shit.

And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.

#Anonymous #i'm a bit rusty on angst but i hope this is okay!#Mario Mandzukic #luka modric #luka x mario #mf: mario mandzukic #mf: luka modric

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