Evoution in Two Parts
Fredrik Ljungberg/Olof Mellberg, R.
I.
Upon their first meeting, he realised they’d never be friends.
National call-ups were always another lesson in political diplomacy. On good days they exchanged curt responses and perfect passes on the pitch and on bad days publicly came to blows, verbally and physically.
What was not public was what happened after each fight, behind closed doors.
They stand in silence, glaring at each other with seething resentment until, coupled with the stifling Portuguese summer, it all proves too much for the hotel room.
He shoves Freddie out of the way and, infuriated, not thinking straight, Freddie grabs him, pulls him into bruising, biting kiss that ends fifteen minutes later, with him biting his fist, moaning out loud, Olof behind, thrusting hard into him, trousers pooled round their ankles until he comes all over his hand and Olof, swearing, scratching, comes inside him.
The nature of their relationship off the pitch did not lessen their attitude toward each other on the pitch; as far as they were both concerned, their actions were just those of two people in pursuit of pure and much needed sexual release.
The water pounds their back in the showers after Trinidad and Tobago and all that that implied. He growls, grinding his groin against Freddie’s growing erection. “You fucking think it was easier from back there?”
Freddie only has a brief window of time before his brain begins to shut down and basic instincts take over, but when Olof roughly takes him, all he can manage is a barely coherent, “Fuck you.”
But he had begun to notice some changes at the advent of the season, and though he had no desire to analyse the situation further, it was comforting, as cliché as that sounded, something he knew he could rely on.
Their legs entwined beneath the sheets, Olof still trying to catch his breath, he turns to Freddie, “you have the armband because you will serve us far better than I ever did.”
Friends they are not, but he knows something has irrevocably changed between them.
II.
He realises there is something more to this when he finds himself naked on Ljungan’s sofa, head thrown back, hands trying to find purchase as the owner’s mouth around his cock, and two fingers in him, brushing past that spot that makes him see stars and swallow back noises that were unfit for a captain-well, ex-captain-of a football team.
If he’s honest with himself, and he’s often not-in regards to this, it wasn’t his state of sexual abandon in a colleague’s London flat that was slightly worrisome, but the fact that it was during the summer hiatus. The break he normally spent with family in their summer home in Skåne, not in the heart of England with a man he’s had more than a few public spats with.
He’s never been difficult but certain personalities tend to bring the worst out of him. One of the aforementioned ‘certain personalities’ is definitely the press-friendly Arsenal midfielder frequently masquerading as an oiled-up underwear model.
The very same person who has his palm on the small of his back, as Olof tells him off for being a fucking tease, the one who’s bending Olof’s knee as he slowly enters him. The one slowly bringing his world in and out of focus by the rhythm of his firm hand around Olof’s cock.
And when it’s all over and they’re tangled between the sheets and Olof doesn’t think about leaving, it signifies far more than they would both care to admit.
Note:
For 2007 footballslash Summer OTP fic exchange.
I.
Upon their first meeting, he realised they’d never be friends.
National call-ups were always another lesson in political diplomacy. On good days they exchanged curt responses and perfect passes on the pitch and on bad days publicly came to blows, verbally and physically.
What was not public was what happened after each fight, behind closed doors.
They stand in silence, glaring at each other with seething resentment until, coupled with the stifling Portuguese summer, it all proves too much for the hotel room.
He shoves Freddie out of the way and, infuriated, not thinking straight, Freddie grabs him, pulls him into bruising, biting kiss that ends fifteen minutes later, with him biting his fist, moaning out loud, Olof behind, thrusting hard into him, trousers pooled round their ankles until he comes all over his hand and Olof, swearing, scratching, comes inside him.
The nature of their relationship off the pitch did not lessen their attitude toward each other on the pitch; as far as they were both concerned, their actions were just those of two people in pursuit of pure and much needed sexual release.
The water pounds their back in the showers after Trinidad and Tobago and all that that implied. He growls, grinding his groin against Freddie’s growing erection. “You fucking think it was easier from back there?”
Freddie only has a brief window of time before his brain begins to shut down and basic instincts take over, but when Olof roughly takes him, all he can manage is a barely coherent, “Fuck you.”
But he had begun to notice some changes at the advent of the season, and though he had no desire to analyse the situation further, it was comforting, as cliché as that sounded, something he knew he could rely on.
Their legs entwined beneath the sheets, Olof still trying to catch his breath, he turns to Freddie, “you have the armband because you will serve us far better than I ever did.”
Friends they are not, but he knows something has irrevocably changed between them.
II.
He realises there is something more to this when he finds himself naked on Ljungan’s sofa, head thrown back, hands trying to find purchase as the owner’s mouth around his cock, and two fingers in him, brushing past that spot that makes him see stars and swallow back noises that were unfit for a captain-well, ex-captain-of a football team.
If he’s honest with himself, and he’s often not-in regards to this, it wasn’t his state of sexual abandon in a colleague’s London flat that was slightly worrisome, but the fact that it was during the summer hiatus. The break he normally spent with family in their summer home in Skåne, not in the heart of England with a man he’s had more than a few public spats with.
He’s never been difficult but certain personalities tend to bring the worst out of him. One of the aforementioned ‘certain personalities’ is definitely the press-friendly Arsenal midfielder frequently masquerading as an oiled-up underwear model.
The very same person who has his palm on the small of his back, as Olof tells him off for being a fucking tease, the one who’s bending Olof’s knee as he slowly enters him. The one slowly bringing his world in and out of focus by the rhythm of his firm hand around Olof’s cock.
And when it’s all over and they’re tangled between the sheets and Olof doesn’t think about leaving, it signifies far more than they would both care to admit.
Note:
For 2007 footballslash Summer OTP fic exchange.