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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Bondage.
Pairing: Jens Lehmann/Lukas Podolski/Bastian Schweinsteiger, Jensen Ackles/Michael Ballack
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Every word of this is fiction. I have no idea what these people get up to in their spare time, and boy, do I know it.
Notes: I a) don’t know the exact SPN filming/German team practice timeline, so I’m basically making up one, and b) am conveniently writing certain girlfriends out of the picture (*cough* from lack of information on them). I suppose you could say this takes place in a parallel universe to ours. Dedicated to hermine for all her help with research, translation, and inspiration.
Summary: Michael’s out showing Jensen the town, so Jens is stuck with baby-sitting duty.
***
Everyone and their brother say he’s too full of himself, too ambitious, too grasping. And maybe they’ve got a point, but Jens doesn’t think of himself being that egregious an offender. It’s true, he wants to be—and is--the number one goalie in Germany, but he’s never wanted to be captain, never wanted that armband and all the stupid off-pitch hassles that go with it; Ballack can have all that. It’s funny how Kahn barely complained about losing that, whereas he all but dug a bunker in response to Jens’ challenge.
Of course, right now Jens has a reasonably good idea why, seeing as for the past hour he’s been trying to round up Schweini and Poldi—still high off the Danke mass celebration, and way too intrigued by the superstitions those Americans had brought—before they destroy whatever the ghosts didn’t. Strictly speaking, it should be Balla’s job, and if he wasn’t around, Kahn’s, but Kahn has been closeted with the high command ever since the last game; rumor has it the old bastard is finally throwing in his gloves. And Michael? Micha’s off goofing around with that blond American jackass, probably bending him over the nearest flat surface.
--in a little-used room in the biggest library in town—
“Aachoo!”
Jensen ducks just in time, then straightens back up and glowers down at Michael, who at least has the good grace to look embarrassed even if his hands haven’t missed a beat in massaging Jensen’s thighs. “I thought we were trying to, y’know, keep it down?”
“It’s dusty in here,” Michael says. He’s lying flat out on the floor to keep the strain off his knee, which has come up to nudge Jensen in the back, sending him sliding along Michael’s thighs till he’s properly straddling the man. Michael hooks his index fingers into Jensen’s belt-loops and slowly swings his thumbs down, pressing in arcs towards Jensen’s dick. “I’m sorry?”
The edges of the world are starting to melt pleasantly, but Jensen’s not about to settle for that pitiful much. He puts his hands on Michael’s upper arms, ostensibly for balance but really ‘cause Michael has this tiny, tiny thing for being held down and he really looks good when his eyes go dazed like that. And he digs into the floor with his knees and shifts around, feeling the bulge in Michael’s pants grind into his ass and watching Michael’s expression alternate between frustrated and dizzy, and he snickers a little because Michael’s so thrown he lets Jensen see the grab coming. Not that Jensen fights when he gets pulled down and the other man sucks his lip into a hot mouth, rubbing it against big could-be-sharp teeth, and runs possessive hands over his ass.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Michael murmurs, mouthing messily along Jensen’s jaw. “I’ll make a nice apology, now does that fix your ego?”
Jensen was groaning for the first part, hissing for the second and now he throws as sharp an elbow as he can into Michael’s side. Which isn’t much of one, since his hand kind of is trapped between Michael’s arm and ribs, and Michael does have all that lean muscle flexing over said ribs, and…ah, fuck it. “I think me and my ego could settle—fuck, do that again—for that.”
---back at the hotel--
Two more days before the team officially breaks up for vacations and Jens is putting up with this shit. Barely. Klinsmann is busy so he’s the oldest authority figure nearby now, and somehow this has put him on the spot for keeping the terrible twosome in check. “Lukas! Get that off there!”
The bedsheet is whisked off the railing above him, but the sound of laughing and feet thundering away tell him his headache doesn’t have an end yet, his pride isn’t yet finished being trampled into the mud. He’s been reduced to yelling like an angry parent—which he has been on occasion, but he keeps his expectations for private and public life separate and what he most wants to be in public is a professional. Cool, never at a loss for words or actions, never ready to fucking rip out his hair and make those idiots choke on it.
As if there hasn’t been enough over the past few days, he thinks as he trudges up the stairs. Knocked out in the semifinals, then rampaging ghosts and the bittersweet taste of a third-place victory. How Lukas and Bastian can still find the energy and enthusiasm to be such careless dicks is beyond him. “Schweinsteiger? I’m going to make sure all the damage is billed to you.”
Jens climbs the last step and turns into the hallway. He doesn’t see either of the little bastards, though Frings does walk by, apparently on his way out with a bag on his shoulder. They nod politely at each other and Jens bites back his urge to ask the other man if Michael lets him watch. If he wants to watch Ballack and the American; it’s been going around their circle forever that Frings and Micha once upon a time had some kind of arrangement and sometimes Jens catches a trace of emotion on Torsten’s face that hints the man wouldn’t mind having it back.
Of course, Michael is just as focused and driven about his personal goals as Jens is—maybe he does a better job of making it sound nice and polished for the media—and he’s moved to Chelsea. He’ll be in England within the month, which to Jens says everything about the man’s priorities and where his German friends fall on them.
Damn it. It’s not that Jens feels offended or has a problem with it, because to him it makes perfect sense. But right now he’s pissed off that Balla’s fucking around and being less than a responsible captain when there’s so little time left till he can officially fuck around. “Poldi? Lukas, for God’s sake, can you just take a nap till we’re out of here?”
A flurry of footsteps fades away in the distance, but Jens has just reached a crossing of hall and isn’t quite sure in which direction that was. He slowly turns in place, looking for signs of Storm Schweinski. The problem is, every single hallway has spilled salt—at least, Jens hopes it’s spilled salt—or a pillow wedging open a window, or Playstation cables trailing in an octopus mess from some doorway.
After some thought, Jens turns around and goes back to his room, where he knows where the damn aspirin is. He can’t think straight right now. He figures once he’s numbed up his head a little, he’ll be closer to the mental level of the idiots he’s tracking and be able to find them faster.
Something about that thought strikes him as a little odd, but he doesn’t realize it till he’s about a step away from his own door and suddenly noticing the odd noises coming from within it. Oh, right. If he can’t think straight, then he’s already thinking like them. And since he was heading to his room…
That’s it. That’s fucking it. If those little jackasses are in his room, and are messing with his stuff, then they’re about to sorely regret it. Jens is exhausted and exasperated, and he doesn’t care if they’re going to be solid pieces of the national team’s backbone for the next decade—they’re dead. They’re dead and Balla can deal with the funeral arrangements.
He yanks open the door…and gets a flash of half-bared ass before Lukas whips up and around, nearly kneeing Bastian in the face in the process. The chairs and table have been shoved to the wall, the beds are likewise pushed as far out of the way as possible. They’ve got a clump of ugly, misshapen and mismatched candles on the dresser, and there’s chalk lines on the floor and sheets of paper with writing and bizarre sketches floating around the edges.
“Oh, hey, Jens. Listen, your room is the one closest to true north, so we were just—” Bastian starts.
They’re having sex in his room. Or they’re doing some kind of spell that that damned American tourist gave them. Either way, Jens is seeing the same shade of red. He opens his mouth. Both of their names are cramming to roar out of it, but as always, it’s impossible to nail one down before the other and he has a feeling that the final sound is just a garbled snarl.
He takes one step forward and puts all his fury in it, and then he takes another one, but anger isn’t so good for balancing, especially with how it makes him forget that dumbasses though they are, Lukas and Bastian are both great footballers. And a pair of devils, too.
Something hits Jens in the knees, driving straight into his extended one, then knocking sideways into his back knee. His momentum is already overwhelmingly forward. He does try to save himself by clawing at the wall, but he’s not near enough and so his nails just skid off as he nearly does a forward somersault. Instead his twist has him land hard on his side; his elbow slams down first and a shocking wave of pain jolts up it.
“Door! Get the door!” Bastian shouts. His voice slams into Jens’ ear just as he belly-flops over Jens, awkwardly pinning them to the ground.
The lock around Jens’ knees scrambles away, and a second later there’s a loud wham, followed by the much softer clicks of the lock. Jens is momentarily paralyzed by sheer disbelief. Have they lost their minds? “What the hell are you doing? Get off me!”
His right arm is partially free and after a wrench at it, he’s got enough mobility to shove at Bastian. He manages to push the man a few centimeters, though it’s only down his body. No matter; once his upper body is free, he’ll have enough leverage to flip the other man off and break his stupid neck.
To his credit, Bastian seems fully aware of the danger and gamely fights Jens every step of the way: crushing Jens’ left wrist to the ground, trying to knee Jens in the gut. The little prick is snickering—his eyes are big with more fear than excitement, but he’s still snickering. “Poldi! Get back here! He’s beating up my shins!”
“Never mind your shins because I’m going to kill you, you fucking little shit—” Jens snaps up his leg again to drive his toes deep into Bastian’s calf. It’s awkward, but it makes the other man grunt and loosen up so Jens can very nearly haul his torso upright. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“You curse a lot in private,” Bastian gasps. Then Jens’ knee crunches high up his thigh and his eyes pop enough to let Jens know just how close that was to the family jewels. Something Jens has never seen before in the other man flashes over Bastian’s face: for a moment, Schweini almost looks pissed off, and Schweinsteiger’s normally the fucking annoying yellow smiley-face of the team. “You need to relax.”
“I would be relaxed if you goddamned morons would grow brains,” Jens snaps back. He’s almost got all of his chest out from under Bastian and has just grabbed at a chair-leg for support when something latches onto his ankle. “I’m going to kill you.”
Lukas, who lets him yank back and then pulls with Jens’ kick, sending Jens sliding backwards. And Bastian’s not slow this time, but instead scrambles to blanket Jens with his weight. He neatly dodges Jens’ headbutt and intercepts Jens’ wrist when Jens tries to punch his shoulder, slamming that one down on the floor by the other one.
“But we’re teammates,” Lukas says in a tone of injured innocence. Just for that, he gets to watch Bastian get it and die second. “Schweini?”
“Under the bed! Hurry up!” Bastian ducks down to avoid Jens’ second headbutt, but this leaves him in a less-than-ideal position for keeping Jens’ hands on the floor. He’s younger but Jens has centimeters and muscle mass on him, and when Jens throws himself up, Bastian can’t keep Jens’ wrists from rising off the ground. He has to rear back up to make them go down, and that’s when Jens hammers his forehead into Bastian’s shoulder. “Uh,” Bastian painfully grunts. “Lukas!”
Jens twists his leg free of Bastian’s entangling feet and wildly throws it out. He connects with the wall, then immediately braces his heel against it and flings his weight sideways, trying to roll Bastian. And he nearly makes it, too; he can hear the panicked squeak in Bastian’s voice and he’s almost grinning himself when suddenly he’s spun back by a hard blow to his shoulder. Goddamn it, he’d forgotten about Lukas. “You fucking bastards—what the hell--”
Something cool and slick slides around his wrist. Disbelieving, Jens glances up and yes, that’s a computer cable Lukas is feverishly wrapping around his arms. He—they aren’t actually this stupid, are they?
They are. And Jens belatedly realizes that he’s been lying there and letting them do it. He snarls and yanks at his arms, pulling himself up so hard and so fast that his head collides with Lukas’ and they’re both reeling, stunned. But Jens keeps moving, twists beneath Bastian and gets in one solid blow to Bastian’s gut. Schweinsteiger falls off him and Jens is able to get onto his elbows; he digs those into the floor and tries to drag himself free before he finds out what idiotic—no, they’ve passed that point—insane idea these two have for him.
All the weight suddenly falls away and Jens, surging forward, gets caught off-guard again. He overshoots and nearly flops on his face, and while he’s recovering, Bastian’s scrambled up to yank the cord tight around his wrists and use it to haul his arms up. “It’s too slippery,” Bastian hisses as he knots the free end around the nearest bed-post. “Is it going to hold?”
Well, for the moment it is, though Jens is jerking his damnedest at it. The plastic’s warmed up from all the struggling and is cutting into his wrists; if he gets tendon damage from this, he’s going to rip these two apart. “You’d better hope so if you want to live. You’re going to hurt my fucking hands and—”
“It won’t hurt you if you stop fighting,” Lukas says as he drops himself onto Jens’ waist. Does he have grass for brains?
Jens’ shirt has flapped up during the whole mess, and now Lukas puts his palms flat on Jens’ belly and slides them straight up, right beneath the shirt and over Jens’ nipples. Apparently grass does make up his thinking apparatus. “Get the fuck off, you fucking shit. Do I look like a fucking gay-boy like you?”
“You say ‘fuck’ too much.” Bastian’s somewhere behind Lukas, out of sight. Then something pushes up between Jens’ legs, right into his crotch and it’s warm and Jens can make out a beaky nose nudging at his balls, sniffing at them through the fabric of his trousers, and and and—
What the hell is the matter with them?
The sheer shock is like ice-water in the face, making Jens’ mouth drop open even though he can’t even speak, can’t even make his tongue and lips move to form the right words. Above him, Lukas is there, slowly starting to grin, and then Lukas isn’t because Lukas is licking at Jens’ goddamn neck and his hands are running over Jens’ sides while Bastian keeps on rooting at Jens’ balls. He whuffs at them, then presses his mouth over the fabric till it’s wet and Jens can feel Bastian’s tongue wriggling around, like it’s looking for a hole or something and fuck, Jens is squirming. His fucking dick is starting to get up and shove Lukas in the ass, and Lukas just keeps doing things to Jens’ throat that continue to disable Jens’ vocal ability.
The phone rings. Jens jolts like someone’s shocked him with a taser. “Get off me.”
He sounds much, much less forceful than before; Bastian doesn’t even stop sucking at Jens’ balls and Lukas hesitates for just a second before his fingers are splaying over Jens’ stomach, sliding along the lines of the flexing muscle, rubbing down when Jens sucks in a breath and his belly hollows downwards. The rough fingertips tease him, tickle him and then soothe over his skin. The phone’s still ringing.
“Goddamn it, get off!” Jens hisses. He twists at his hands and only now realizes he’s had his fingers wrapped around the bedpost for the last few seconds. “I have to—”
Lukas lunges back up and wrestles with Jens for control of Jens’ mouth, while the hot mouth disappears from Jens’ groin. Bastian’s tousled head floats behind Lukas’ shoulders a moment later as he fumbles for the phone. “God, why is there always an interruption…”
Jens bites hard at Lukas’ lip, grinding his teeth down till blood seeps into their mouths. He struggles to turn his head sideways, but Lukas just slides with him like a trick rider dropping down the side of a horse, pressing hard with his mouth. He lets Jens chew on his lip, but keeps his tongue well back.
“Hello?” Bastian says. He sounds damnably breathless to Jens’ ear. “Oh, Micha. Yes, I’m in his room.”
Oh, fuck. What Ballack has to be thinking…what fucking Schweinsteiger might say, with that light in his eye as he settles back, one arm casually swinging over the end-table, to watch Jens writhe on the floor and Lukas grind against him, like Jens is going with it instead of being so goddamn pissed off he could happily bury these jackasses alive on the pitch. And the worst part is, Jens’ fucking prick hasn’t gone down at all. He’s twisting around trying to throw Podolski off and the sweat on his face is going cold and clammy from fear—fear, good God, and reducing him to that is a killing offense by itself—and his prick is jumping around in his trousers, loving the way Lukas’ muscled thigh rubs up against it.
“No, Jens is out.” Bastian grins as Lukas muffles a laugh against Jens’ mouth. He pulls up one knee, then lets it fall to the side as he unashamedly digs into his track-pants, shimmies them down so he can lazily pull out his cock. He gives it a couple pumps so its flushed color goes even redder, the head swelling like a ripe fruit. “Yes, we’re being good. We’re being very nice because you’re away and you’ve worked so hard, you really deserve time off without worrying about us. No, I’m not mocking you.”
“Little shitting pricks,” Jens mangles incoherently against Lukas’ lips. Lukas slides sideways, then suddenly comes back to sink his sharp teeth into Jens’ lip, and it hurts and Jens is trying to shake him off, but the man’s a tenacious fucking bastard. He hangs on and bites and bites till finally Jens has to let his head fall back. A whimper even coalesces in his throat, though he kills it before it gets anywhere near his mouth.
“Okay, we’ll tell him if we see him. Have fun, Micha,” Bastian says. Yes, have fun, because when Ballack got back he was going to be picking the pieces of his striker and midfielder out of the wall. “But not too much. Don’t wear anything out you might need later.”
Why Michael hasn’t killed them himself is an enduring mystery to Jens.
--in a car gingerly weaving through traffic--
Michael gives his cell an odd look as he flips it shut. He hooks his hand through the steering wheel to keep the car straight as he shoves the cell back in his pocket. “Schweini answered.”
“I thought you were calling Jens?” Jensen’s just finished his own call to Jared, making sure they were still okay for dinner. It’d taken a little longer than he’d expected because Jared had gotten or made a call to his girlfriend that hadn’t gone too well and had wanted to bitch to a sympathetic ear. Which all right, Jensen is willing to be, but he privately thinks half the problem is Jared over-analyzing the damn relationship; Jared just needs to go back to relaxing and to not think about it too much till they get home. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I’m not sure. At the very least, I think that means Jens is going to be in a bad mood when I get back,” Michael says. He slouches down and taps his fingers around the wheel, thinking. “I did trick him a little into saying he’d watch over everyone while we were out.”
Since Jensen was there for that, he knows that ‘trick him’ is Michael’s way of saying he let Jens’ ego push him into accepting and now Michael feels a little guilty. Frankly, whatever’s happening to Jens is something he had coming, in Jensen’s opinion. Guy’s an asshole, and that comes through even though he’s spoken maybe twice in English to Jensen. “You didn’t exactly hold a gun to his head. Besides, he’s just got to make sure nobody gets in trouble for a few hours—it’s not like he’s trying to get you guys through a championship run or anything.”
Michael nods and takes this into consideration, but he’s still slumping.
“Well…” Jensen starts in a measured tone, “If it’s that big a deal, I guess we could skip the part where I fuck your brains out and show you how nice it is to have some time where you don’t have to walk. Or sit.”
As an actor, he’s pretty proud of his delivery skills. As a regular guy concerned with getting to his next lay in one piece, he’s slightly concerned with how much Michael accidentally swerves the car. He’s learned enough German in the past few days to know that Michael’s cursing under his breath as he pulls the car back on the straight-and-narrow.
“On the other hand, if I go back now, I might walk into something my eyes will regret,” Michael says, only a little shaky. “Most of the time, interrupting whatever Bastian and Lukas are doing ends up worse than waiting for them to finish and then yelling at them.”
“Very sensible,” Jensen agrees. Shame? He has none.
--back in Jens’ room--
Bastian hangs up and Jens slumps against the floor, temporarily worn out. For a few more seconds, Lukas mauls his mouth, but then he presses too hard and Jens can’t even keep his lips stiff so Lukas’ tongue slips in, and then Lukas backs off. He scoots back down Jens’ chest so Jens can see his face. It’s flushed and framed with meandering sweat-tracks down the sides, and…
…“Looks like he chewed you up good, Lukas,” Bastian sniggers. He crawls over and flicks his finger at Lukas’ lower lip, swiping away the tiny bead of blood on it. Then he ducks in and kisses Lukas when the other man starts to complain.
Jens is already gasping for air from Lukas’ attempts to shut him up—more like the boy was trying to suffocate him, really—and every muscle of his body is shaking from exhaustion. The way he’s lying, he’s looking straight at them and he doesn’t have the energy to turn away. And maybe he doesn’t really want to, because frenetic and flaky though they are when they’re talking, when they’ve shut up like this, they’re close to beautiful.
After a moment, Bastian slides closer and straightens up so he can cup the underside of Lukas’ jaw in his hand. His thumb presses hard into the side of Lukas’ cheek so the flesh whitens, but that quickly goes away as Lukas’ mouth opens in a moan, as he tilts his head and there’s a flash of wet, vivid pink as their tongues slide around each other. Lukas’ eyes half-close in a blissful expression and he puts his hand on Bastian’s hip, knotting up the fabric of Bastian’s shirt in his fist. He pushes it up so Jens can see Bastian’s freckles spangle all over that flat stomach, then twists around, rocks half-off Jens so he can lean up against Bastian’s chest, groaning.
“God, I love your mouth,” Bastian mutters once they’ve slowly, slowly slid apart. The way he stares at Lukas, it’s like they’ve totally forgotten about the pissed-off man they’ve jumped and trapped on the floor. But then he turns and he grins at Jens, and there’s more than a little hint of challenge in it. “Hey, you know, I love his ass, too. So if you’re really that upset, we’ll let you go and leave now.”
Jens gapes for a couple seconds. He licks his lips and they feel so dry he rolls the bottom one in so he can briefly suck on it; Lukas flicks his gaze down to watch. “You two are fucking unbelievable.”
“But wasn’t he talking about killing us?” Lukas says, sounding like he’s pondering whether to put butter or jam on his toast. He absently shifts around so the firm curves of his ass flex around Jens’ erection, which is still fucking stuck in his trousers, unlike Bastian’s which is bumping Lukas’ knee. “I dunno, Schweini. It’s probably not a good idea. I mean, I don’t want to die, and especially not before I’m gonna get fucked.”
“That’s probably the most intelligent damn thing you’ve said all day,” Jens mutters. He’s still looking at Bastian’s prick for some reason, watching while Lukas reaches down and takes it in one hand, hefts it with obvious familiarity. His own cock is aching now, pushing hard against Lukas’ ass, and his tongue is practically hanging out of his mouth, it’s so dry.
Bastian cocks an eyebrow. “Which part? Not letting you go, or not wanting to die before you get a really, really good fuck in?”
“You,” Jens says with the last of his composure, “Are a mouthy little shit.”
Lukas gives Bastian’s cock one last pat before he turns back to fully face Jens, grinning. “Aw, man, it’s okay. We can hear you say ‘I love you’ even if you can’t actually say it.”
Then he’s bending down and goddamn it, Jens is already getting ready for it, but this time Lukas drops lower to suck on Jens’ nipple. And normally that’s not really a big one for Jens, but something about the way Lukas’ tongue-swirling mimics the rolling of his hips, the circular grind of his groin on Jens’ makes Jens’ spine start to melt from the base up.
Jens blurrily sees another blond head bobbing down over him and he’s arching almost before Bastian’s teeth scrape over his other nipple. Bastian is doing something to Lukas, too, that makes him damn near purr against Jens’ chest, and then that has to be Bastian’s hand pulling at Jens’ waistband because Lukas’ hands are sliding up Jens’ arms, working their fingers beneath the cable and rubbing nicely at Jens’ somewhat sore wrists. Eventually something softish and startlingly hot and a little damp drops to touch the top of Jens’ thigh where it blends into his torso and he jumps, bouncing the head of Lukas’ cock a bit.
Bastian’s intermittent on Jens’ nipple, having to keep getting off in order to finish getting off Lukas’ pants, to kick off his own, to finally get Jens’ trousers the fuck away from his dick, but Lukas is steady at his and the lopsidedness of it keeps making Jens try to roll sideways. But it’s a fucking relief to have his prick out in the open, getting some real friction against somebody’s belly, so he doesn’t waste his breath complaining about that.
What is unfair, though, is how Lukas and Bastian each are straddling one of his thighs and humping them, getting plenty of pressure and rasp, and he has to wait for one of them to remember to grab his cock, rub his balls. He bites the nearest one of them on the shoulder. “For God’s sake, get on it.”
“’ve got it,” Lukas mumbles, dragging his tongue up Jens’ chest and throat and over his jaw to stick it deep into Jens’ mouth. He pulls himself up and fumbles around beyond their heads, searching beneath the bed. Then he lets out a cry of triumph and passes something to Bastian, who moves down Jens’ leg without ever letting his cock stop grinding into it. “Mmmm…”
“Doesn’t taste so bitter, does he?” Bastian’s behind Lukas again and Lukas’ ass lifts, something oily drips onto Jens’ leg and Bastian sighs in complete contentment as Lukas lets out a short, harsh grunt. “I love your ass.”
Bitter? Jens isn’t bitter—just goddamned frustrated by the idiots who made up most of the world. If half of them at least had the sense to get out of the way when something better came along, he’d have an easier life.
“’s not—” Lukas accidentally bites Jens’ tongue as his hips jerk “—polite to think—when somebody’s—fucking your mouth.”
“You’re not fucking my mouth yet,” Jens starts to say, but Bastian grabs his ass and heaves it up and the tightest, hottest, silkiest ass slams down around his prick. Lukas rocks heavily forward and rams his lips into Jens, and then he really is fucking Jens in the mouth, shoving and driving deep with his tongue just like Jens’ cock is doing to his ass. Which is a great ass.
Bastian’s still got hold of Jens’ own buttocks and he’s squeezing them, casually groping them like Jens is some girl in a bar restroom stall. It’s mildly contemptuous, at least from Jens’ point of view, but for some reason Jens is letting his hips ride the other man’s grip, is letting his knees fall apart even as Bastian’s fingers start to insinuate themselves high behind Jens’ balls, playing deep into places that Jens hasn’t allowed anyone to get to in years. Maybe it’s because Lukas is bouncing, like he always moves, on Jens’ prick, and God, is that annoying any other time but here, it’s just perfect.
Lukas rolls his hips frantically, pumping up and down Jens’ cock, and isn’t so much kissing Jens now as smashing his open mouth over and over into Jens’ face, vaguely in the same area as Jens’ mouth. Jens is in the middle of thinking Lukas is going to lose it any moment now when suddenly the other man tips over so far his mouth is scrabbling at Jens’ ear instead and a big, blunt cock is replacing the fingers that had been demurely—relatively; it was pretty tentative for Bastian, at any rate—stretching Jens out and he wildly thrusts upward, nearly shouting into Lukas’ shoulder. His knees go wider, as if that’s any good; what he needs is his hips to split because Bastian’s not a braggart in that department, anyway, and Bastian’s grunting with his nails scratching deep into Jens’ thighs, jacking himself into Jens centimeter by centimeter.
A twist and a harsh sucked-in breath, and then Lukas drops flat against Jens, coming in waves of shudders. He’s whining into the carpet and his ass muscles are clamping madly around Jens’ cock as squiggly lines of wet stickiness squeeze out between their bellies. And now Bastian is finally in Jens, and he isn’t wasting a moment: just a re-grip on Jens’ hips before he starts fucking Jens, pounding so hard that Jens, even with Lukas’ weight on him, slides far enough back to bump the bedpost with his head.
Lukas finally finishes climaxing and just lies there, soft and boneless while his partner in crime fucks the lights out of Jens’ head. He rouses a bit to start licking lightly along Jens’ jaw, little kitten strokes, and Jens is groaning nonstop now, mind rattling every time Bastian drives in so fucking far Jens is incredibly glad goalies don’t have to do much running.
“Man, you haven’t come yet?” Lukas mutters. “Wow.”
Jens is ridiculously pleased—ridiculously, because what exactly does he have to prove to these two numbskulls? Except maybe that all right, they are good fucks, amazing fucks and would they just fucking pull his prick out from beneath Lukas and give it one good pull so he can goddamn come now? He won’t even kill them, he swears to God, if they would just, would just please let him fucking—
With a grunt, Lukas worms his hand down between them and his fingers just wrap around Jens’ cock as Bastian’s balls slam up against Jens’ ass and God. Finally. Thank you. God.
--in a different bedroom--
Jensen gratefully sinks against Michael’s back, fucked out and limp and in such a good place right now. He idly thinks that maybe he should roll over, take some pressure off Michael’s knee, which is still a bit iffy, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind and it’s so nice just lying here, cock shoved up into an incredible ass and head on a broad, lovely back. A little bit of sweat slides past him and he sticks out his tongue, lazily kisses up the trail as Michael groans something.
“That’s nice of you, but the whole infallible authority thing isn’t really my style,” Jensen mutters. He laughs a little at the confused sound Michael makes. “Well, you keep screaming the word enough, I think I’d learn what it means.”
Michael chuckles and says something else in German that makes Jensen flick his shoulderblade, snorting. Then he flexes a bit and Jensen reluctantly slides out, but as soon as he is, Michael’s turned around to nuzzle into his neck and they’re back on the bed again.
“You give tourists a good name,” Michael says, lipping at Jensen’s ear.
“Thanks.” Jensen’s got his hands on Michael’s waist, so he can feel when the silent laughter rolling through the man turns a little towards sour. He closes his eyes for a second, because damn, does he feel it too. But he’s no tragic character, and he’s got places to go, too. “You know, just keep my phone number. In case you’re ever in my area of the states and feel like returning the favor.”
After a moment, Michael tickles Jensen’s ear again with his tongue. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“Bitte schön,” Jensen says, and Michael snorts.
“Your accent needs work.” His hand reaches down and Jensen obligingly pushes up his hips.
--on the floor of Jens’ room--
“Still gonna kill us?” Bastian asks in between messy slurps. Lukas has gotten off of Jens’ prick and Bastian’s cleaning up his belly. Whitish smears decorate his cheeks and jaw.
Jens vaguely registers that the cable around his hands is loose from the sweat and movement—so loose he could pull his hands down, if he wanted. If his muscles weren’t so thoroughly wrung out that he can barely breathe, can’t even move as Lukas, half-curled between him and Bastian, industriously sucks the come off his belly and tickles a tongue between the hairs sloping over Jens’ groin. “I really should. You’re going to have those shit-eating faces for days, aren’t you?”
Bastian gets up and gives Lukas’ ass a fond pat. “Eh, well, you do look fucked out.” He drops his jaw in a laughing smirk. “Can you blame us?”
Lukas works his way further south, mouth running up against the base of Jens’ cock now. Aftershocks are still rippling down beneath Jens’ skin and he can’t help gasping, twisting a little. It genuinely hurts when his prick starts to rise and redden again. “Fucking cocky bastards. Of course I can.”
“Better make sure we deserve it then, Schweini,” Lukas says. He wraps his lips over the length of Jens’ prick—can’t quite make them meet on the other side—and runs his fingers through the hair around it.
Jens opens his mouth to protest and Bastian’s right there, kissing him sweet through the salt of their accumulated sweat, and Lukas is already moving down over Jens’ legs, one finger pressing up between them where it’s still fucking sore. God, he’s going to kill them. Later.
* * *
Out-take
Philipp dropped down on Bastian’s side of the couch with a puzzled expression on his face. “Hey.”
“Morning,” Bastian mumbled through his coffee. “Is Micha back yet? ‘cause I—”
Just then, Michael came in and nodded absently at all of them. He was limping—his knee was still bandaged, and wasn’t it nice to have a doctor-sanctioned excuse—but he made it look closer to floating than Bastian had ever seen. And he went out, still faintly smiling to himself.
Lukas grinned as he reflopped himself on the cushions. “We should invite Jensen to all our practices. If Balla got any more relaxed, he’d be high in the sky, like a kite. We’d have to tie a string around his ankle.”
Philipp flushed and tried to hide in his coffee. “…it’s nice to see Micha less stressed,” he manfully said. He looked like he was about to die of embarrassment. Then he frowned and glanced over at Bastian and Lukas. “But I wanted to ask you, did you know what’s up with Lehmann?”
Bastian did a very good job of looking blank, he thought. He shifted forward so Philipp couldn’t see Lukas nearly choking himself. “What’s the matter?”
“He--smiled at me. When he asked me to pass the sugar bowl a moment ago,” Philipp said in a mystified voice. “And—”
Just then, Jens wandered into the room; he wasn’t grinning dazedly, but he did seem a lot more laidback than usual. No obvious marks were visible on the parts of his body showing, which made Bastian pretty proud; he and Lukas knew exactly how much to press and bite without bruising. Jens looked around, then shrugged. “Good morning. If you see Huth, tell him I’m looking for him, all right?”
As soon as he was gone, Philipp bounced up and waved wildly in that direction. “See! See! He’s--nice. And…what’s so funny, Poldi? What’d you do to him?”
“Nothing,” Lukas snickered.
“Absolutely nothing,” Bastian agreed. He pulled at Philipp’s arm. “Come on, sit back down. You’re going to break something, you’re so wound up.”
“But…but what…what did you do?” Philipp stuttered. He did sit back down, but continued to look pretty anxious for the next few seconds. Then he slowly turned thoughtful. “And can you make sure it happens more often?”
Lukas and Bastian looked at each other, grinning. “Oh, probably.”
***