[FF] Body Contact (2/2)

[letox2]

Pascal was a liar. He hated consequences. At least those consequences that went farther than bruises and blood and pain. That’s why he loved handball. Because you could hurt and get hurt, but you never really have to suffer consequences - it’s all part of the game. You get away with it and you can accept that. When he is faced with real consequences which surpass injuries that eventually heal, Pascal likes to pretty much avoid them. Real fights are not his thing and when he has them he insists on a solution. That’s what makes him so good at arguments. But some day everyone will make a mistake and it can change everything or just something. And change has the potential to make things complicated and Pascal likes his life to go easy on him. So he is also very good at ignoring, avoiding and glossing over things until he himself believes that it never happened.

That had made him so good at pretending that he never let Oliver fuck him out of pure youthful frustration a few years ago and liked every second of it.

Though Pascal eventually successfully forgot it, his body remembers. Remembers how Oliver’s broad chest felt pressed to his back, remembers the rough fingertips stroking his flanks without any hint of the typical female softness of all his former girlfriends and oh - how he remembers the sharp teeth sinking perfectly into the skin of his neck and leaving red marks for days to come.

Before Pascal can stop himself a deep moan escaped his mouth and his eyes flew open - when did they close? - as soon as he feels Oliver already half hard pressing against his thigh.

»Is this what you were aiming for, hm?« It was not really a question and there was no real need for Pascal to answer it and still he breathed out an enthralled »Yes!«

It was the curse of getting always embarrassingly honest as soon as he was aroused. (Former girlfriends liked to joke about that, others complained, because the truth isn’t always pretty.)

»Should I still let go?« Again highly rhetorical and it made Pascal’s heart beat faster and more frantically in his chest.

»No!«

And that was that. Something made just ‘click’ in that moment and shifted into something right.

Oliver let go of his arms to put his hands to a far better use. The rough white edges of the tape scratched over his skin, already sensitive and raw from the hot water pattering down on them in a steady rhythm, with beautiful agony. Oliver  spent only a few seconds skating with his big hands over Pascal’s skin, leaving small red paths behind them, before he hits for the gold as if to proof an important point.

»Oh, fuck, oh, fuck…« Pascal is in general a talker (not in a dirty way) during sex and therefore a whole mess of gibberish nonsense as soon as Oliver closed his capable hand around his already very interested dick without any unnecessary mumbo-jumbo, just pure manly pragmatism and the advantage of being in possession of a cock himself.  And Oliver was freaking amazing at that, with the right balance of gripping too strong and driving Pascal mad within a view seconds.

It certainly had the wanted effect, because Pascal’s first reaction was to snap his hips forward and to clutch at the silver shower pole just for the sake of grabbing something in some false security.

And how exactly did they get here again? First Pascal was trying to get a little bit too brutally through Oliver’s defense during the training and then Heiner was pissed and then they talked in the shower and now he finds himself in almost the same spot as two years ago. How did they get here? Did he even care?

Oliver was like a heat radiating wall behind him, all solid muscles and strength and maybe Pascal would feel claustrophobic, pressed between the defense chief and the solid tiles, if his vision wasn’t swimming right before his eyes and if Oliver wasn’t twisting his wrist in just the right way, stroking his steadily hardening cock with just the perfect rhythm.

»First acting like a cocky ass, all tough actions…but look at you now.« Oliver licked a hot trail down his neck, over his pulse and burned a sore path with his stubble down. What he was doing with his mouth stood in such a harsh contrast to how roughly he was jerking Pascal off that it made his skin crawl.

Subconsciously it drove Pascal against the firm solid form of Oliver behind him, made him lean his head against the strong shoulder and breath in the well-known smell of fresh, clean skin, fully reduced to Oliver and just pure Oliver. Musky and raw and adding up to the sheer presence of Oliver Roggisch and his ridiculous masculinity that made you feel like a stupid boy in his presence.

»Shut up. I’m not your whore.« Pascal managed without much conviction behind it. Especially because his actions spoke another language as he moved his hips, so he could feel Oliver’s cock press against his ass. A victorious smile formed on his lips, without him really noticing, as soon as he heard Oliver groan in his ear.

»We’ll see.« Was the only reply Pascal got and a dark promise lay in those few words. A promise, Pascal knew Oliver was very, very, very capable of keeping. »And now keep quiet.«

Pascal wanted to shoot him a short dirty look over his shoulder and bite out a very witty comment on that to defend his own virtue, but before he could really formulate a sentence in his head (and it needed embarrassingly long for him to arrange the words in his brain, with being sidetracked by Oliver doing that thing with his thumb) he was distracted, all muscles tensing and all senses called to full attention, as sure fingers worked their way tentatively between the cheeks of his ass and pushing in without any warning at all.

Where did Oliver learn all that? How could Oliver just push two fingers in - which hurt and felt like too much and still not enough - and roam back there and hit the spot (which made it pretty difficult to keep quiet with stars dancing before your eyes and your spine just melting and your hand slipping on the pole and all that jazz) like he fucking owned Pascal’s ass? - Which Oliver, maybe, kind of did - considering he was the only men ever exploring that territory and handling it like a pro with fingers that could cause so much pain and destruction but can be on the other hand so insanely skilful and filigree.

So it felt like a wonder that the only sound escaping him was a strangled gasp, half swallowed down by a sure bite in his own bottom lip. He didn’t even realize how his right hand just abandoned the stupid, slippery shower pole and grabbed for Oliver’s wrist - muscles moving beneath his fingers and pulse beating fast, faster than Pascal would have thought and it felt alive and irrationally safer to hold onto that.

Also he kind of loved (but would probably deny it later along with a lot of other stuff, like his prostate being one of the most amazing things in the world, right after his cock and the apple pie of his mother) how he couldn’t close his hand almost twice around Oliver’s wrist, how his index finger barely touched his thumb.

Marginal Pascal noticed how Oliver’s strangely sentimental kisses and bites in his neck and shoulder, got a desperate sting to them, the more Oliver stretched Pascal open and finger fucked him so, so thoroughly until it was really only a mess of blasphemous nonsense tripping from Pascal’s tongue in hushed whispers.

Because somewhere, out there, on the corridor, were their team mates, only separated by one unlocked door and one glass door, waiting for the bus. It wouldn’t be unlikely for one of them to have forgotten something in the locker room and get back to grab it or to hear very suspicious noises and gatecrash into the shower to scream “Someone is knocking one off!” And then they would be surprised by the life long trauma of seeing their captain - sounding suspiciously like a restrained two-bit whore - doing unspeakable things with their defense chief. It would be nasty, Pascal could almost hear Dominik screaming “My eyes! My eyes! Someone burn them out!” (Thinking about it, maybe that would be worth it…)

But Pascal just did not care. All he cared for was the heat rolling over him and that the water of the shower, though turned on warm, felt by now cold on his skin and made him shiver pathetically. All he cared for was that somehow the knot in his stomach was getting loose, the tension flushed down with the water into the drain and his thoughts, being the last days, the last week, on a constant loop of ‘You can’t do it, you fail, the whole team fails’ just vanishing.

Like Oliver was putting together some pieces or something and welding everything seamlessly together again to make breathing and playing easy again. Oliver was good at that, at holding things together, at keeping something working and intact, like protecting and coming into the game when things are being on the rocks and just handling it. Like he puts Pascal on ease, when the match is going shitty and Haaß cannot hold the defense, Oliver just stands up, folds his jacket and goes to save the day.

But the last games, there haven’t been really much left to save and maybe Pascal got it in this moment. He got it.

So he loosened his grip around Oliver’s wrist and followed the strong length of his arm, to the thick neck and burrowed his fingers in the wet, insanely soft sandy blond strands and then he pushed so Oliver’s teeth sank deeper into his skin and maybe drew blood. »C’mon. C’mon!« Just a deep growl, breathed out between gritted teeth and forcefully closed eyes and before Pascal knew, Oliver’s fingers were replaced with something definitely bigger and thicker and better.

Oliver was not playing it nice, not all vanilla and tender and ‘Darling, I’ll go easy and slow with you!’, he was giving Pascal none of that bullshit, because sweet love making was not what Pascal wanted to provoke. Instead he pushed as far in as possible and made Pascal brace his forearm against the wall to prevent his head making acquaintance with it once again.

»You probably never planned on letting a guy fuck you, did you?« Oliver sounded amused, but his breath was heavy, every word with dragged vowels, while he stroked over the contours of their lord and savior on the cross. And Pascal laughed at that, cannot do anything but, because that’s exactly the same thing Oliver already said two years ago. And the answer was ‘No’, he never planned anything like that.

Pascal planned on having a little fun on the field and a Big Tasty in a Swedish McDonald together with Mimi, Mini and Jogi just in spite of all their wealth coaches who preached about the right food and vitamins and stuff Pascal couldn’t even pronounce and then watch some DVDs to get his mind off the upcoming game against Iceland. Well, he could still do this but with a sore ass and the zipper of his tracksuit pulled up under his chin. That were his plans for today and about his plans in general - Pascal planned on being a super hero when he was five, Pascal planned on being an office communication administrator with a nice wife when he was seventeen and Pascal planned on being the best handball player like totally ever when he was twenty, but he certainly never planned or even considered Oliver Roggisch.

And now Oliver just didn’t move and Pascal couldn’t see his face, didn’t know what he was doing back there, aside from the obvious of course, he could only feel Oliver’s hot breath brushing over his skin and his stubble scratching his cheek. »Move or I might resort to violence.«

In that moment Pascal didn’t have to see Oliver, to know that he was wearing one of his trademark grins he was always giving away so freely.

And then Oliver was doing something like magic to his body, because even though it kind of hurt, even though it felt like Pascal couldn’t really take it - the itch was gone, completely gone and replaced by the crazy frenzy of lust and the need to crawl out of your skin, because it was just too much and the best thing you felt for too many weeks. Or Pascal could turn around and tackle Oliver to the ground and then- who knows? Just do something even more inappropriate and filthy. Because right now he could do anything.

It was better than any motivational speech, better than their private masseuse beating the shit out of every rebelling muscle and Pascal closed his eyes and savored the feeling, bottled it up in tiny rations to live from it.

Oliver’s rhythm was steady and vigorous, perfect to take apart and reduce Pascal to a moaning, trembling mess with shaking knees and only able to push back, push onto Oliver and take him as deep as he possibly could. His fingers stroked almost franticly through Oliver’s hair, twirled the strands around his fingers and held onto them as if they could keep him upright.

The sound - everything -in the shower narrowed down to the mixture of Oliver’s low, appreciating hums - that tickled Pascal’s ear and made him tremble in their feral nuance - the cascading water, and the sound of their naked skin just clashing, slipping perfectly together every time Pascal met him halfway. And this could go one forever and ever, Oliver fucking him studiously against the cold shower wall and Pascal loving and taking it. Because they both needed it. Badly. And maybe this time Pascal wouldn’t act like the most stupid jerk in the whole universe just because it would make his life complicated. Maybe this time he would spend some time thinking what that exactly meant and not feel sick and ridiculous as soon as he thought about…feelings and stuff.

So Pascal urged Oliver on until he was fucking him with guttural, earnest, uncontrollable grunts until-

Until Oliver just stopped moving, just froze fully in him and suddenly pressed one big, rough hand - still with the stupid tape around every finger - over his mouth to muffle the frustrated, irritated gasp, leaving Pascal. And that just made Pascal even more irritated and made him throw a really nasty, ugly look over his shoulder, where he could just make out Oliver’s tense jaw and pursed lips. Impatiently he writhed beneath Oliver and pushed back with one shoulder, because no, he did not want to play any stupid fucking games anymore, because yes, he had been working on a glamorous orgasm and Oliver could please go on or screw him-fucking-self-

»Hey, Pommes, Heiner just came out and looked pretty dark and broody. What did he say to you?«

Pascal was sure that his eyes got comically wide and he stopped immediately in the process of biting hard in Oliver’s hand. In some moments, Pascal just cannot believe that this is actually real life and even more shockingly his life. That can’t be his life, because he prided himself with being blessed with an incredible amount of luck. It just cannot be his life.

He pressed his hand so hard against the tiles that his knuckles turn white, just to restrain himself. His fingers almost slipped on the wet surface of the shower wall. Panic almost - almost - overpowered the burning passion in his stomach.

»Will you answer?« Oliver murmured in an unidentifiable tone, but the deep vibration of pure bass just melts Pascal’s brain and bones into a little puddle of goo. Well, Pascal would gladly answer, really he would, but he’s not so sure what will come out of his mouth. Because, hey, let’s face it, he was standing under the shower with Oliver’s hard cock balls deep inside his ass and that was by far the last position he would like be in while talking to his team mate, especially of all people Mimi. Because he really would have liked to keep their friendship and the respect they had for each other.

But then Oliver was slowly pulling out and that was just wrong and seemed even worse, so Pascal grabbed for Oliver’s thanks to a Spanish bastard bruised hip and rammed his fingernails in and almost smirked as Oliver choked on a yelp. As payback for this bitch move Pascal was almost driven through the wall with a harsh snap of the hip, which was not bad at all, quite the opposite. Only the still strong hand over his mouth saved him a few seconds longer from the biggest embarrassment of his life.

»Pascal? Are you crying in there? Was it that bad? Should I get your little teddy? It can’t be that bad - or can it?« And for a few minutes Pascal felt really sorry for Mimi, because the tiny playmaker sounded really worried as if Heiner would throw Pascal from the team, just because he once acted like a stupid boy during the training. And if Pascal didn’t answer him very soon, he would probably just come look in the shower. There were not too many possible ways to react now without it ending badly.

So Pascal pulled himself together as good as he possibly could, exhaled and inhaled, before he pushed Oliver’s hand from his mouth. Still his heart beat frantically in his chest.

»No. It was not that bad. He just used the opportunity to talk about general problems and I think we’ll need to have a little team chat this evening.« He was the fucking king, the master of all masters because he actually managed to sound moderately calm and just the slightest hint of bored, a perfect combination to talk with a friend while showering, and the rushing of water helped to cover the rest.

“Yeah, I think we’re going to need that. Even if it’s just for a little bit motivation and team spirit - apropos team spirit. Is Olli with you?”

Well, let’s say that Oliver was not as much with him, as actually in him, but let’s not get too anal (unlucky word choice) about that, who was he to complain? “Uhm…” Pascal slowly began and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the cool tiles in the pathetic hope that this could maybe distract him from how he was achingly hard and his knees felt like pudding, ready to fold underneath him if it wasn’t for Oliver - never anything but attentive in all the right moments - holding him up with a strong arm around his hips.

Subject, verb, object. He could build sentences; he was a little talker since he figured out how to speak. “No, no he is not here. Don’t know where he went.” Somehow this sounded better than admitting Oliver was with him here.

“I really don’t know what you were thinking. If you wanted to break your leg or something, we could have arranged that, you know?”

Why the fuck did that sound as if Mimi was beginning to make himself comfortable in the locker room. Had he no other friends to hang out with? What about his nice mate Dominik. Mini was sure as hell very lonely and unhappy without his best friend. “But Olli looked pretty pissed, have you tried talking to him?”

And it was just getting better and better. He would have grinned in this moment, maybe even laughed, because the irony in this whole thing was spectacular, but his brain was to strongly caught in a steady mantra of ‘Go, oh fuck, oh fuck, go, please, go, go, go’ which had a nice rhythm to it, all in all. And he really would have started to think, that this all, this spontaneous shower sex thing had been an awful idea, if Oliver was not keeping so quiet even though Pascal still bored his nails deeper and deeper into his hips. And well, if the thrill of danger wasn’t kind of fitting to the whole damn situation.

“Yes, we talked, don’t worry, Mimi. Mom and Dad won’t get divorced.” It was a wonder that even though breathing felt like the most impossible thing to do right now, words still managed to come out even though the reply sounded half assed even in his own ears. He didn’t really think about what he said until he heard Oliver’s low chuckle and the hand was back in just the right moment to swallow the moan slipping out. Because Oliver just had to slightly move his hips and give his cock an amused squeeze, when Pascal could not be held responsible for the things he was saying. Every little movement let his body tingle, every little patch of skin over sensitive and restrained. Mimi should really, please, just leave or Pascal was on the sure way to embarrassing himself. Not in the way of being exposed, but more like coming in Oliver’s hand just from their skin touching, and the overwhelming feeling of Oliver in him like he belonged there and his fist loosely around his leaking cock. It was like standing on the edge of the cliff and not being able to jump. Though you know the fall will be amazing but there’s no one there to just push you over.

“Oh then I’m glad, because I would’ve gone with daddy and leave you alone.” Mimi sounded really far to easy and amused and Pascal, with only a low percentage of his brain working, could not even pretend to understand his Swabian gibberish. Could he not just learn how to speak proper German?  “But you’re lucky. Take your time. I think the grudge of the bus followed us to Sweden. And, Pommes, if you want to talk. I know it can be tough sometimes.” And then Mimi was actually finally leaving.

“I’m coming soon. Thank you.” And those two words were again so ridiculously ambivalent and sounded so exaggerated grateful, that Pascal laughed roughly when the door finally closed again. Relief washed over him and made him giddy with excitement.

Though eventually he might look back at that moment and realize how damn lucky he was.

The consequences would have been a tough call. Mimi would never talk to reporters about that - God forbid, the thought was just horrible - but Mimi would have known and then he would have asked Pascal about it and Pascal was not really sure he could answer him right now. But he could think about the possibilities, about the levity - about the recklessness - another time. A better time. After the World Championships or something. Right now, he was just high on his luck and grinned like a fool and bit with overzealousness in Oliver’s neck.

“Oh fuck, Pascal.”

Surprise would probably describe the feeling - that all of the sudden flooded his stomach, every fiber of him - best, when he heard his name. It was nothing special but in the low vowels, curled around the ‘a’s, there was something Pascal didn’t know how to really describe, because he never heard it before and it made him squirm and maybe also blush the tiniest bit if Pascal was a man that blushed, which he sure as hell wasn’t. But he liked the sound of it. Like his name was supposed to sound like that.

He barely registered that his chest was now meeting the wall completely and that it was cold and nasty and not at all sexy to be so close to chemically, disinfectioned tiles. Something else was pretty much holding his full attention.

Maybe the angle was awkward and maybe he would feel a cramp in his neck for the next days and maybe that would be why he would run into an Icelandic player, but suddenly Oliver was kissing him and it was…kind of fucking glorious and lit up Pascal’s whole body.

Pascal never had been a big fan of kissing or at least he didn’t care about it all that much. He did it because the chicks loved it and it made them feel loved and cherished and all that jazz. Or involved in his game, when they could give him a kiss for good luck. He was pretty good at it and just executed them like a shot at the goal.

But of course Oliver had to proof him wrong again. As he always did, as he did from the first day when Pascal thought he met the biggest asshole in handball and instead learned that he got to know the friendliest one. Oliver kissed like he did everything - with the calmness of the deep ocean and intensity and the clear invitation for a challenge. And Pascal took it, took all of it, licked in Oliver’s mouth and fought his tongue. It was not the prettiest thing in the world - their teeth clicking and his lip at some point bleeding but it strangled the last air out of his lungs and he did not care, he did not care.

Though he swallowed a lot of water his senses reduced to Oliver’s taste on his lips, while their rhythm turned into something slow and savouring. Their hips moved perfectly in sync, with every slick and slide Oliver brushed his prostate almost tenderly, fished every sigh from Pascal’s lips directly.

Enraptured in the kiss (was it their first kiss?) Pascal almost - almost - didn’t notice how with his orgasm tackled him playfully from behind and surprised him with a blinding, breath taking intensity that his mouth fell slack against Oliver’s lips and his eyes just shut.

And that just was it. Perfect in how every muscle of him tensed up and than just let go, like a wave crushing in your neck and sweeping you away. This was the kind of climax you still feel in your fingers and toes days later and after which you just want to curl in a tiny ball and purr for a while. Which was, of course ridiculous, but nobody could hear Pascal’s thoughts anyway and Oliver was still stroking and fucking him through the last pulses of pleasure and what the hell did he care?!

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks passed just by while Pascal soared in a blissful post-coital high, realizing distantly when Oliver pressed his lips to his temple and came deep, warm and sticky in him.

The shower was still raining down on them, but became gradually colder and colder.

“Are you going to pretend this never happened?” Oliver’s voice sounded like he was speaking through cotton and Pascal didn’t even dignify him with a reproachful look, but he dignified him with a lazy bump against his shoulder. Pascal just needed a few minutes more to talk and think again. It’s amazing how fast Oliver can sound so composed again.

“I don’t think I have to answer bitchy questions.” Or at least he hoped that this was coming out of his mouth. He was no pro in after sex talk, especially not in after sex talk for the second time with the defense chief of your team. But whatever came in the end out of his mouth, it seemed like it had been the wrong thing, as Oliver pulled out of him and left him trembling, wet and with the task to hold his own body weight up, back.

Jesus Christ, was now the time to talk about feelings? Pascal knew that besides his really badass side, Oliver also had the sensitive, Koi-loving side and that he was never afraid to face problems, even though they might be emotional problems.

Maybe it was time to be a grown-up man and a sensible captain.

And this grown-up, sensible captain thought, that it might be the best thing to follow Oliver quietly out of the shower after scrubbing all evidence off (and out) of his body. That it might be the best thing to pack away his stuff and dirty tricot and rub his short hair dry and finally slip into his nice, white tracksuit. That it might be the best thing to avert Oliver’s eyes and just follow him out of the locker room, pretending nothing ever happened between them.

Or it might be the best thing to show Oliver what sort of nifty little defense tricks he had learned over the years, because it really had pissed him off to always get shooed off the field as soon as the attack waves from the opposing team started.

The metal of the lockers moaned in protest, because getting the full weight of two gigantic men shoved against them was not nice, and Pascal claws the lapels of Oliver’s tracksuit. The kiss that followed resembled more a violent quick attack than anything else, before Pascal drew back with a crocked grin.

“Maybe we can work something out.” He sounded probably like a total idiot. “To kick some asses together.” He definitely sounded like an excited, high idiot. Oliver’s laugh was worth it.