Soccer/Football Imagines

Mesut Özil [~] Don't Leave Me

For alexstar26: Mesut Özil

Growing up in Glesenkirchen, Germany was something you would forever be thankful for. Because, had it not been for you growing up there, you never would have met the most amazing man ever, and you wouldn't get to call this man your husband. Of course, like every other kid growing up, there were skinned knees and bruises.

Except, yours weren't from the normal reasons of falling off your bike or tripping. Nope, they happened to be from bullies and your father. Your father was an uptight man, he didn't stand for anything out of place. Your mother got tired of it and ran away, starting over in Denmark, according to your father. So, when something with you was out of place, he'd immediately tell you and punish you for it. Kids at school made fun of you for the bruises and scratch marks.

All, that is, except for one boy. His name was Mesut Özil. At age five, he was a skinny, reserved kid who didn't talk much in school. The two of you were constantly picked on, him for his appearance and you for your bruises. You just took it, it was easier that way. Take a kick or two and then you'd be fine for the rest of the day. Ignore the insults and hold back the tears and they'd let you walk home in peace.

Mesut reacted differently. He was shy and reserved, but after he got wound up enough, he'd retaliate. You'd watch from afar until you finally summoned up the courage. Your skinned knees shaking, you lifted your library book and threw it straight into the back of the head bully's back. "Pick on someone your own size!" you shouted.

"What, like you, squirt?" the bully threatened, pushing you. You fell backwards, landing on your butt.

"Don't push her!" Mesut retaliated, pushing the bully away from you, shielding you with his own body. The bullies laughed at the two of you before stalking away. You stared down at your lap, too embarrassed to do much of anything else. "Here's your book." Looking up, you saw the familiar book in Mesut's outstretched hand.

"Thank you," you said quietly, allowing Mesut to help you stand up.

"I should be thanking you, you're the one that stood up for me first," Mesut smiled. Extending his hand once more, Mesut introduced himself. "My name's Mesut, Mesut Özil."

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N)," you stated, shaking his outstretched hand. The bell rang and Mesut ran off to grab his football the bullies had thrown into the bushes while you walked back to class. That night, as you walked home, you saw Mesut kicking a football around with a bunch of older kids in a fenced in lot. Mesut spotted you and waved. You waved back shyly before one of the other boys yelled at Mesut to pay attention.

Your father would always be up in his study when you got home, never knowing when you got home really. But, he always came down at precisely 5:00 to watch the evening news. So, you would just have to get home before then. You got into the habit of watching Mesut play with whom you learned to be his older brother and his brothers' friends. Mesut was younger and smaller but he was fast and he had a brilliant touch.

You'd do your homework for the next two years watching Mesut play. The two of you never acknowledged it, except for when he would walk you home from there every day. He got into youth leagues and you would sneak off to watch him at his games. He called you his biggest fan. Your father found out once and you showed up to school the next day with new bruises.

After that, your father would personally walk you to and from school until you turned ten. Then Mesut would walk you home again. You would run off to watch Mesut's games and be back in time for your father to not catch you. Then, before you knew it, you and Mesut were graduating high school. He was leaving for football, he was leaving you.

The night before he left, the two of you sat on the roof on your house, just staring out at the world. "What time does your train leave tomorrow?" you asked quietly.

"Ten in the morning," Mesut sighed. "I can sneak you into one of my bags, they'll never know the difference. I can take you away from this hell you're living in, (Y/N)."

"I'm leaving for university next month, I'll be fine," you assured Mesut, although you weren't entirely sure about the whole thing. You were majoring in Language, and were taking basically every language your college offered. You wanted to be a linguist. You already knew German and Mesut had taught you basic Turkish.

"We'll write to each other. Every Friday, you have to send a letter, no matter what. Deal?"

"Deal," you agreed. The next day, you watched your best friend board a train and disappear into the distance. You went to college and got your degree and certifications. But, every Friday, you would still write to Mesut. The mail would usually arrive Monday and you spent the rest of the week reading and rereading his words. Unknown to you, he was doing the exact same thing.

Finally, one day you could take the long distance anymore and you packed up your things. You had rented out a small apartment as you paid off your student loans, but money didn't mean anything to you at this point. Shoving everything you owned into your suitcases, you bought a ticket to Bremen, and boarded the train. You disembarked and following directions from bystanders, you found your way to Mesut's address. All of his letters in hand, you knocked on the door of his apartment. The door opened wide and there he was.

He stood there for a second, seemingly mesmerized with you, until he finally rushed forwards and enveloped you in a hug. You hugged back, afraid that if you let go of him, that this would all disappear and be a dream. You moved in with Mesut and you were able to work wherever you went, since, by the time the two of you left for Madrid, you were fluent in nearly eight languages.

In a small ceremony in Madrid, Spain, the two of you tied the knot with only thirty people as your witnesses. Through thick and thin, the two of you stayed by each other's side. All the bullies that had ever pushed either of you around were now gawking at the two of you. Your father never reappeared in your life, and you were happy that Mesut was the only man in your life. That is, until Özil Jr. popped out. But that's a different story.