Chapter 5: Wall Fuck
The chill morning air solidified in Vanja’s lungs. Granit Xhaka’s voice, colder and heavier than the Munich dawn, cut through the fragile peace she’d carried from Manuel’s arms. Recognition was a physical blow, stealing her breath, freezing her mid-stride. She hadn't seen him in years, not since he’d shattered her teenage heart and trust with a cruelty that felt childish then but now radiated a dangerous, adult menace. He leaned against the Mercedes G-Wagon, a predator draped in expensive fabric, his gaze raking over her training gear and messy ponytail. That slow, humorless smile was a blade.
"Vanja," he rumbled again, the name sounding like ownership. "Cocky little sprinter all grown up."
Panic flared, white-hot and primal. Olympic focus. Gold. Manuel’s promise. Granit’s sudden presence threatened to unravel it all. She forced her spine straight, met his assessing stare with her own. "Granit," she managed, her voice thankfully steady, betraying none of the ice spreading through her veins. "What do you want?"
His dark eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps surprised by the lack of cowering. "Just admiring the view," he drawled, pushing off the car and taking a step towards her. The movement was casual, but carried weight. "Heard whispers. The golden girl training here. Couldn't resist seeing if the hype matched the...reality." His gaze deliberately slid down her body again, lingering. "Seems it does."
Revulsion twisted inside her. This wasn't the boy she’d known. This was hardened ambition personified. "The hype is about my running," she stated flatly, shifting her weight, ready to bolt. "Which I need to get back to."
He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "Running? Always running, Vanja. From what, I wonder?" He took another step, closing the distance. Too close. She could smell expensive cologne mixed with something sharper, like gunmetal. "Or perhaps," his voice dropped, intimate and threatening, "towards something? Something... illicit? A certain goalkeeper, perhaps?"
Her blood ran cold. He knew. How? Had he followed her? Watched? The carefully constructed secrecy, the fragile truce with Manuel... exposed by this ghost from her past. "You don't know what you're talking about," she snapped, her knuckles whitening as she clenched her fists.
"Don't I?" He tilted his head, his smile widening, revealing perfect, predatory teeth. "Munich’s a small world for those who matter, little sprinter. Eyes everywhere." He reached out, not touching her, but his finger traced a line in the air near her cheekbone. "Be careful where you sprint. Some paths have traps. Some prizes... aren't meant for girls like you."
The implied threat hung heavy. To her career? To Manuel? To her Olympic dream? Fury warred with fear, a dangerous cocktail. She couldn't engage. Couldn't let him derail her now. "Fuck off, Granit," she spat, the obscenity sharp and final. Before he could react, she pivoted on the ball of her foot, the explosive power of her sprint-start launching her down the quiet street. She didn't look back, pouring every ounce of training, every scrap of fear-fueled adrenaline into her legs. Escape. Train. Focus. Gold. The mantra became a drumbeat against the echo of his chilling words.
The next weeks were forged in fire. Vanja channeled the encounter with Granit – the fear, the fury, the violation – into her training. It became rocket fuel for her ruthless discipline. Every stride on the track was an act of defiance. Every punishing weight session a shield against his insidious presence. She became a machine, honed and silent, her usual disarming kindness buried beneath an obsidian focus. Coaches murmured about her terrifying intensity. Teammates gave her space.
Manuel respected the pact. "Gold first." He was a distant anchor. Brief, encrypted messages. A glimpse of him across the Olympic Village cafeteria, his nod a silent acknowledgment that thrummed with shared secrets and restrained longing. He watched her preliminary heats from the shadows of the stands, a towering, anonymous figure in a hoodie. Seeing him there, honoring the boundary, was a flicker of warmth in her icy resolve. Granit’s shadow lingered, a toxic whisper at the edge of her consciousness, but she locked it down, compartmentalizing ruthlessly. Nothing existed but the track. The start line. The finish line. The time.
The Olympic Stadium roared. A living, breathing beast of steel and light and pure, undiluted adrenaline. The scent of sun-baked track, deep heat cream, and the electric tang of collective hope choked the air. Vanja stood in Lane 4 for the 100m final. The culmination. Her body vibrated like a plucked wire. The previous golds – the 200m, the 4x100m relay anchor leg, both with new World Records etched beside her name – were mere preludes. This was the blue riband. The fastest Woman Alive.
She tuned out the thunderous chants. Tuned out the faces blurring in the stands. Her world narrowed to the burgundy track beneath her spikes, the feel of her fingertips brushing the Tartan surface, the rhythmic power gathering in her coiled hamstrings and quads. Only the faintest tremor betrayed her – not fear, but the sheer, volcanic pressure of potential about to detonate.
Set.
Muscles locked. Breath held. Heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
BANG!
The gunshot was swallowed instantly by the stadium's roar. Vanja exploded from the blocks like a missile leaving its silo. Pure, unthinking power. Her opening drive phase was inhuman, knees pistoning, arms driving like furious pistons. She was instantly ahead. Not just leading, but devouring the track. The world dissolved into a tunnel of noise and wind resistance tearing at her skin. Tunnel vision locked onto the finish line tape, shimmering like a mirage 100 meters away.
Midway, the power shifted. Raw drive transformed into terrifying, fluid speed. She floated. Every fiber, every neuron, was tuned to maximal velocity. The other runners, world-class champions all, were flickering shapes in her periphery, falling away as if anchored. The final meters weren't a race, but a coronation. Her form was poetry written in muscle and tendon – head still, arms pumping in perfect synchronicity, legs scissoring with impossible efficiency.
She hit the line leaning, a fraction ahead of her own ghostly world-record pace projected on the giant screens. The electronic clock flashed: 09:50. A new World Record. By a staggering margin.
Silence. A heartbeat of pure disbelief from the crowd. Then, an earth-shattering wave of sound crashed over her. Vanja stumbled slightly, the kinetic energy dissipating, replaced by overwhelming sensation. Tears blurred her vision before she even registered them. She’d done it. Three golds. Three World Records. The fastest.
Someone thrust the german flag into her hands – a vibrant red,black, and yellow shield. Instinct took over. She didn’t do a victory lap. She scanned the roaring sea of faces frantically, her eyes raking the VIP section near the finish line. And there he was. Standing tall amidst the chaos, no hoodie now. Manuel Neuer, face alight with a fierce, unguarded pride that stole her breath anew.
Forgetting everything – the cameras, the protocols, – Vanja sprinted again. Not for time, but for him. She hurdled a small barrier, ignored startled officials, and ran straight into the crowd section. Spectators parted like the Red Sea before the charging goddess of speed. She crashed into Manuel’s space, the scent of his familiar cologne cutting through the stadium smells.
"Manuel!" The word was breathless, triumphant, a sob and a laugh tangled together.
Before he could speak, she unfurled the flag in a fluid, triumphant arc. She flung one end over his broad shoulders and wrapped the other tightly around herself, pulling him close. The fabric enveloped them both, a vibrant cocoon shielding them momentarily from the screaming thousands, from the watching world. Under the flag, pressed against his chest, smelling the wool and his skin, she felt safe. Victorious. Hers.
She lifted her face, her green eyes swimming with tears of pure, exhausted joy, locking onto his. "Public enough?" she whispered, the roar outside muffled, intimate.
He didn't answer with words. He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound of pure delight and relief that vibrated through her. "Fuck yes," he breathed against her lips. Then he kissed her. Not a tentative peck, but a deep, claiming, joyous press of lips, sealing her victory, their promise, their defiance of secrecy. It was fierce and tender all at once, tasting of salt and triumph. Cameras exploded in flashes around their flag-shrouded embrace, but they were an island.
She broke the kiss, breathless, grinning up at him, the flag still binding them together. "Good," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion and playful challenge. "Now you have to propose to me at the Champions League final." She arched an eyebrow, a ghost of her old humor resurfacing. "At least."
Manuel threw his head back and laughed again, the sound rich and unburdened. He tightened his arms around her waist under the flag, pulling her flush against him. His eyes, crinkled with laughter, held hers with absolute certainty. "Deal, Goldilocks," he growled, the nickname affectionate, possessive. "Only if Bayern wins." He dipped his head, his lips brushing her ear, his voice dropping to a husky murmur meant only for her. "And after tonight... after that run... I'd propose on live TV even if we lost." He kissed her temple, a promise sealed.
Vanja buried her face in his chest for a fleeting second, laughing softly into the fabric of his shirt, the weight of three gold medals and three world records somehow lighter than the fierce, protective warmth of his arms. The roar of the stadium was a distant thunder. Inside their shared flag, under the blinding lights, the "after Munich" had begun. Together.Exposed. Blazing. The world could crash in now. She felt ready.
The roar of the stadium felt muffled now, replaced by the chaotic symphony of shouted questions and clicking cameras in the cramped press conference room. Vanja sat flanked by her coach and the head of the German Athletics Federation, the weight of three gold medals cool and heavy against her chest. She answered questions about splits, training regimens, and the surreal feeling of rewriting the record books, her voice steady but tinged with exhaustion. Manuel sat near the back, a silent, imposing presence. Every so often, her gaze flickered to him, catching the proud glint in his eyes, the small, almost imperceptible nod he gave when she deftly handled a particularly probing question about her sudden public romance.
"Vanja," a journalist called out, shifting focus, "the embrace with Manuel Neuer was... unexpected and very public. Care to comment?" A ripple went through the room. She took a deliberate sip of water, her green eyes meeting the reporter's.
"He's been a good friend," she started, the understatement drawing a few knowing chuckles. "A tremendous support since I arrived in Munich. Sharing that moment..." She paused, letting a genuine smile touch her lips as she glanced back at Manuel. "...felt right. After everything." She kept it simple, dignified, letting the image of the flag-shrouded kiss speak volumes. Manuel’s faint smirk in the back was answer enough.
Afterwards, navigating the backstage corridors was its own gauntlet. Vanja was swept into a whirlwind of official photos and brief congratulations from federation bigwigs. Manuel waited patiently, leaning against a concrete pillar near the athlete exit, watching the controlled chaos swirl around her. His teammates found him first. Thomas Müller materialized, slinging an arm around Manuel's shoulders with a wide, cheeky grin.
"Neuuer! You sly old dog!" Müller crowed, voice echoing slightly in the tunnel. "Fastest woman on the planet, eh? Been holding out on us! How the hell did you manage that?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Joshua Kimmich joined, shaking his head with mock solemnity. "Three world records, Manuel. Three. And she runs straight to you. Forget clean sheets, that’s the real miracle today." He punched Manuel lightly on the arm. "Seriously, man, congratulations. She’s incredible."
Manuel just grinned, accepting the backslaps and ribbing. "Took some patience," he admitted, his eyes tracking Vanja as she finally extricated herself, walking towards them, a small, tired smile on her face as she heard the tail end. The medals gleamed under the fluorescent lights. "Worth every second."
Dino stepped forward then, the team's veteran physio and unofficial guardian, his expression uncharacteristically stern beneath his bushy eyebrows. He waited until the younger players had dispersed, clapping Manuel on the back one last time. He placed a firm hand on Manuel’s bicep, drawing him slightly aside as Vanja approached. His voice was low, gravelly, missing its usual warmth.
"Manuel," Dino said, his gaze intense. "That girl... what she just did out there? Historic. Fragile too, right now, whether she shows it or not." He glanced at Vanja, who stopped a few feet away, sensing the shift. "This," Dino gestured between Manuel and Vanja, "isn't just gossip fodder anymore. It's global news. Her focus needs to stay razor-sharp. She’s got targets on her back now – from rivals, from the media, from every fucking corner." He locked eyes with Manuel. "You protect that focus, Mann. You shield her from the bullshit. Or you answer to me. Understood?"
Manuel met Dino's gaze without flinching, the easy grin gone, replaced by a quiet intensity Vanja recognized from the pitch. "Understood, Dino," he said, his voice firm. "Completely." Dino held the look for a beat longer, then gave a single, curt nod, his expression softening minutely as he turned to Vanja.
"Magnificent, Mädchen," he said, his voice rough with genuine emotion. "Simply magnificent. Now go. Rest. Celebrate. You’ve earned it." He squeezed her shoulder briefly before melting back into the stadium’s underbelly.
Manuel’s apartment was an oasis of quiet luxury after the sensory overload. Vanja kicked off her spikes by the door, the simple act feeling decadent. The air still held a faint trace of his cologne and coffee. She wandered into the spacious living area, the three gold medals clinking softly against each other. Exhaustion warred with a buzzing, restless energy thrumming just beneath her skin. The world record, the roar, the kiss, Dino’s warning – it all crashed over her again. She leaned against the cool glass of the balcony door, looking out at the Munich skyline, lit by the lingering Olympic glow.
Manuel came up behind her, silent as a shadow. His hands settled on her hips, warm and solid through the thin fabric of her Team Germany tracksuit top. He didn't speak, just pressed his lips to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. A shiver, deep and primal, rolled through her. She leaned back against him, feeling the hard wall of his chest, the evidence of his own arousal pressing insistently against her lower back. The tension of the day, the scrutiny, the sheer magnitude of what she’d achieved, fused into a single, burning point of need.
"Fuck, Vanja," he murmured against her skin, his voice thick. "Watching you today... seeing you own that track..." His hands slid up, cupping her breasts through her top and sports bra, thumbs finding her nipples already hardened into tight peaks. She gasped, arching back into him. "You looked like a fucking goddess. Untouchable. And then you ran to me."
She turned in his arms, her hands immediately going to the waistband of his trousers, fumbling with the button and zip. Her green eyes blazed up at him, stripped of Olympic composure, raw with hunger. "I need you, Manuel," she breathed, her voice husky. "Now. Hard. Before I explode." She shoved his trousers and briefs down over his hips in one rough motion, freeing his cock, already fully erect, thick and flushed and demanding. She wrapped her hand around the hot length of him, squeezing firmly, a groan tearing from his throat.
He didn't hesitate. He spun her around, pressing her front against the cool glass. The city lights blurred below. His hands were under her tracksuit top, pushing it up, dragging her sports bra up roughly until her breasts were free. One large hand squeezed a breast possessively while the other yanked her tracksuit bottoms and underwear down to her knees. The cool air hit her exposed skin, followed instantly by the searing heat of his body pressed flush against her back. His cock slid through the slickness already gathering between her thighs, bumping against her clit, making her whimper.
"Fuck, you're already so wet for me," he growled, his breath hot on her ear. "Dripping for it after conquering the world, huh?" He didn't tease. He guided the broad head of his cock to her entrance, slick with her arousal. "Tell me you want it."
"Yes!" she gasped, pushing her hips back against him desperately. "Fuck me, Manuel! Please! Need it! Need you inside me, now!"
With a guttural groan, he drove into her with one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight, grasping heat. The sudden, delicious stretch stole her breath. She cried out, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth glass. He held himself deep for a moment, both of them panting, savoring the agonizingly perfect connection. Then he pulled back almost all the way, the drag exquisite friction, before slamming home again. And again. Setting a relentless, punishing pace against the glass.
His grip on her hip was bruising, holding her steady as he fucked her with deep, hard strokes. The glass vibrated faintly with each powerful impact of his hips against her ass. His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers tangling in the damp curls at the apex of her thighs before finding her swollen clit. He rubbed tight, urgent circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves, perfectly timed with his thrusts.
"Oh God! Ja! Genau da!" she moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder. Every nerve ending was on fire. The stretch of him filling her, the rough pad of his finger on her clit, the sheer, dominating force of his body taking hers – it was overwhelming. The pressure built impossibly fast, a supernova gathering in her core. "Manuel! I'm... I'm gonna...!"
"Come," he commanded, his voice ragged, his thrusts growing even harder, faster. "Come on my cock, Vanja. Let go. Show me how the fastest woman alive comes."
His words, the relentless rhythm of his hips, the skilled pressure on her clit – it shattered her. Her orgasm detonated, a blinding wave of pure, convulsing ecstasy that tore through her. Her inner muscles clenched violently around his cock, milking him as she cried out, a wordless scream muffled against the glass. Her legs threatened to buckle, but he held her upright, driving into her through the rippling contractions, prolonging the intense pleasure until it bordered on pain.
Feeling her clench around him, hearing her desperate cries, was his undoing. With a final, savage thrust, burying himself as deep as possible, he roared her name, his release erupting inside her in hot, pulsing jets. He held himself there, shuddering, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, as the last waves of his climax pulsed through him, filling her with wet heat.
They slumped against the glass, slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The cool surface felt grounding against Vanja's flushed cheek. Manuel’s softening cock slipped out of her, followed by a trickle of their mixed release down her inner thigh. He turned her gently, pulling her against his chest. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her sweat-damp hair, murmuring praises in a mix of German and broken Serbian. She clung to him, her body humming with aftershocks, the weight of the medals forgotten against the solid, reassuring reality of him. The world outside the glass continued to glow, but here, tangled together in the aftermath, nothing else mattered. The Champions League final felt a lifetime away, yet the promise hung between them, warm and certain.