Tangible Schizophrenia



Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17 many times over. Some bondage.
Pairing: Van Persie/Lehmann, Frings/Ballack, Henry/Pirès, Savage/Ferdinand and Savage/Gamst Pedersen. Implied Kaká/Maldini.
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: This is absolutely fiction and not real and I don’t know these people at all. Any resemblance to any real-life record company is completely accidental.
Notes: Torsten’s suit is from here (thanks, koba_sama). Title from the Indigo Girls song.
Summary: How many suits can you ruin in one night?


The door muffled Torsten’s voice, but not so much that his annoyance didn’t come through. “I hate ties. This one doesn’t even…you know what, Lehmann said suit. He didn’t say ‘suit and tie.’ So forget it.”

“Are you sure you aren’t going to get in trouble?” Michael asked. Personally, he wasn’t so fond of ties either, and the one he’d dug out for this occasion was too tight, but whenever he tried to loosen it, it’d bunch oddly at the top. His dress shoes didn’t fit either. He couldn’t remember when he’d bought them, which probably was why.

“I’m the accountant. I keep the government auditors off his back. I’m the last person he wants to have mad at him.” A knock for warning, and then Torsten pushed open the door and came out, still yanking at the sides of his coat.

It had pinstripes. The shirt was some color between red and pink that worked spectacularly on Torsten. That was about as far as Michael got.

“I don’t think I’ve worn this since I first started working at FC, and that was something like two pop-music revolutions ago. Which I guess explains the color…I can’t believe I spent money on this.” Torsten irritably flipped at his suit-jacket’s tails, then jammed his hands in his jacket-pockets and glowered at the bathroom mirror. He tipped his head down so his front locks feathered into his eyes. “I should’ve left the haircut till later, too. That damn hairdresser took out all the high-lights and then talked so much we didn’t have time to put them back in. God, I can’t wait to get home and get all of this off.”

“I agree,” Michael blurted out.

After a confused pause, Torsten slowly turned to look at Michael. He took in Michael’s rising blush and inability to stop staring, the corners of his mouth slowly creeping back and up. “Well, I guess you like it.”

Michael fidgeted. Then he took his fingers out of his pocket when he realized that rubbing them around that close to his prick was kind of…well, unnecessary, for one thing. Torsten looked sleek and elegant and every time Michael tried to say so, his mouth went Saharan-dry. He waved his hands around a little, like an idiot, and then finally had the idea of turning his head away. “Um…we only fooled around at the office once this week, right?”

“That time after lunch in the…oh, my God, Micha. Did you really buy into that public-sex-twice-a-week limit Timo made up?” Torsten said, snickering a little. “You know Hildebrand, he—”

“Shut up,” Michael snapped, face flaming. His knee hit the ground a little harder than he expected and he grabbed onto the sink-edge and Torsten’s thigh for balance. “Unless you don’t want me to blow you.”

The muscles in Michael’s hand abruptly tensed up, and there was a sharp hitch in breath above his head. He tried not to think too much about it, since if he did, he’d just get stuck staring at Torsten again and get embarrassed and then they’d never get anywhere. Of course, it was embarrassing just to know that he got things done a lot faster when he was annoyed than when he was taking them seriously, but…his fingers slipped into the fly he’d undone while distracted by all that thinking, tugging down Torsten’s underwear, and then he was touching bare skin that was flushing warm.

He was already leaning forward when Torsten’s fingers slid into his hair. He was starting to notice what he was actually doing now, and so he misjudged his timing and lifted Torsten’s cock into his mouth too quickly, having to back off almost immediately to keep from choking. Though Torsten still groaned, his nails snapping into Michael’s scalp; Michael stopped with the tip of the cock still in his mouth and ran his tongue over it, then dug his hand hard into the front of Torsten’s thigh to keep the other man from bucking too far forward.

Torsten cursed, his fingers restlessly tightening and loosening on Michael’s head. He twisted a little as Michael slowly eased more of his prick in, sucking it down a little bit at a time, the movement trying to get ahead of what Michael wanted to do. So Michael got a bigger handful of Torsten’s thigh, the fabric crumpling in his hand and it gleamed sharply, like a beetle’s back, but it was silky to touch like the flesh slipping over Michael’s tongue. He got a little bit preoccupied with feeling it, his fingers drifting upward to compare it to the soft skin of Torsten’s inner thigh, and suddenly something had bumped the back of his throat and he gulped in surprise.

The hand in Michael’s hair yanked hard so he had to tip forward; he let go of the counter and his arm came around and well, Torsten’s ass was there so his hand ended up on it. The tip of Torsten’s prick scraped the roof of Michael’s mouth, then slammed further back and he swallowed again, and then a third time, and then suddenly they were deep into it and never mind distractions since he was plenty distracted by the taste of Torsten and the way Torsten’s rumbling moans made his ass shake against Michael’s palm, like the other man was going to collapse, and it was just amazing that Michael could do that. Make him lose his cool like that, go damp and sweaty and shivering, and the best suit in the world couldn’t hide the sudden fragility of the man wearing it. Or how easily Michael could make that shatter, if he wanted. And he wanted, all right.

“Holy God,” Torsten stammered several moments later.

Michael gingerly leaned back, catching Torsten’s softening cock in his hand as it fell out of his mouth and tucking it back into the other man’s trousers. “I think I wrinkled you.”

Torsten switched to holding onto Michael’s shoulder, staring down like he didn’t know exactly what Michael was. But…he looked like he liked it. “Well, I’d love to return the favor. And it’s hard to tell since your suit’s black, but I think you might…”

“Please do,” Michael grinned. Then he frowned. “But weren’t we already late?”

“Oh, to hell with that. Jens isn’t going to be on time either—Raúl sent me a bill earlier today for Robin’s last appointment, so that means Robin’s ribs are all healed now,” Torsten snorted, dropping down in front of Michael.

* * *

Robin jerked his legs up in the air, then kicked out to try and scoot himself further onto the desk so the edge wasn’t grinding into his ass. Jens’ legs were in the way so he couldn’t get any leverage against the floor and he sure as hell wasn’t going to use his hands when they still had Jens’ tie and half the buttons on Jens’ shirt to undo. Even if he probably looked like he was playing air-bicycle.

Jens grunted, his teeth deep in Robin’s lower lip and his tongue sliding around behind them, probing the flesh swelling up under their sharp edges. His hand grazed up Robin’s thigh, then grabbed tight as he shoved them up; what was probably his knee hit the side of the desk with a shuddering thump. He gouged his nails into Robin’s thighs, raking hard downwards as if he could peel off Robin’s jeans that way. Too bad he couldn’t, because that would’ve made it—Robin cursed and left off the last shirt-button to squeeze one hand down and yank down his fly. And while he was at it, he rocked his knuckles against the strained front of Jens’ trousers. “Knew you weren’t going to schedule some meeting. You really, really missed fucking me.”

It came out a little garbled, seeing as Jens was still on his bottom lip. And then Jens, practical and efficient even during sex, simply shifted up about three centimeters to smash over Robin’s whole mouth. His weight suddenly sagged on top of Robin, trapping Robin’s hand between their pricks and pressing the little metal teeth of Robin’s fly-zipper into his cock, catching hairs and skin and fuck, that hurt. Robin twisted and banged at Jens’ back with his free hand, and Jens finally did lift up. But only so he could put in his hand and rip down Robin’s jeans so fast the heat of the friction-burns rising up afterward made Robin gasp, and then Jens’ fingers were probing back between Robin’s legs and Jens’ tongue was so damn far down his throat it might as well have—

“Jens? Jens! Robin, stop kissing him for a moment—it’s Thierry and I wouldn’t interrupt unless it was—”

--son of a bitch.

“—very impor—Jens!” Thierry chirped as Jens, shirt draggling out of his trousers and scowl firmly in place, pulled open the door. Good thing that was in the way, because much as Robin liked Thierry, he was about ready to pitch a stapler at him. “Jens, I’m very sorry and—Robin? I apologize to you, too—but Lampard’s in jail and Terry’s in the hospital. They got into some sort of brawl with another English band and Terry’s wrenched his back.”

Robin let his head fall back on the desk. His jeans were uncomfortably bunched around the middle of his thighs and he had spit drying on his mouth, and: “Fuck!”

The door creaked. When he mustered up the energy to bother looking, both Jens and Thierry had come far enough into the room to be staring oddly at him. And in Thierry’s case, carefully not staring below his waist. He rolled his eyes and put his head down again.

“It isn’t over them, it’s over what I just know Jens is about to—”

“Robin, pull your jeans up and get off my desk,” Jens said. His voice was as good as a bucket of ice-water. Right on cue.

Then he went back out, talking in low, serious whispers with Thierry. After a couple more moments of staring at the ceiling and mentally cursing all idiot Englishmen to hell, Robin did do that. He spent a minute in Jens’ private toilet making himself decent enough to go out, just so he wouldn’t get yelled at for that, and then he slipped out. Not that Jens was even looking in his direction: Jens and Thierry were busy trying to straighten out his suit for some urgent meeting they now had to have. Fucking Lampard and fucking Terry, and fuck, Robin wanted to hurt them. Except they were off-limits.

Well…he could think of somebody who wasn’t. Of course, Savage was known for insisting on being called ‘Welsh,’ but whatever, he was close enough. Also on Robin’s shit-list and from the same island.

It took about two minutes to track Savage down, and that was just because Robin needed to get a drink from the nearest water fountain. He didn’t even have to get onto a computer; Savage was ridiculously habitual and his schedule for the whole month had taken Robin a minute to memorize. Whereas Robin had a feed on Jens’ that updated every five minutes and sometimes was still off.

Getting everything ready took a little bit longer, since first Robin had to make sure Jens wasn’t going to need Senderos. But nope, Odonkor was still handling most of the boardroom stuff, and it looked like they’d called in Pirès so they had his paralegal to run errands too. So Robin phoned Senderos, and like usual, Senderos caught on before Robin had to start talking in awkward implications and coded language and said he had some free time.

After telling him what to do, Robin went home and gingerly picked through the formal section of his wardrobe till he’d found a suit that he didn’t think would hamper him too much. It was black and he just put on the usual white dress shirt beneath, since he wasn’t looking to make an entrance. He debated about the tie, finally deciding he’d pass better with it, and then gritted his teeth and put on dress shoes. A quick look in the mirror told him he looked like an uncomfortable, gawky teenager on the way to boarding school, but that would be in his favor.

He checked the time, then got on his way.

About five seconds after he’d stepped into the bar where Savage was spending his after-work downtime, he wished he hadn’t hurried so much. The dinginess and the tackiness Robin could take—actually, it reminded him rather pleasantly of Amsterdam—but it was a British expatriate place and every single damn person made that as obvious as daylight. All the conversation was about how they missed this or that from Britain, and what was wrong with continental Europe, and they were all loud and overbearing and annoyingly touchy. If it’d been a nightclub and there’d been bouncers to keep the ugly ones out, Robin could’ve taken that, but it wasn’t and having complete strangers nearly spill their beer on him, then slap him on the shoulder and say, “No harm done, yeah?” was almost not worth it.

Thankfully, Savage made up for it. Robin had seen photos of him and picked him out right away, bunched up with a group of MU agents in the back. None of them had seen Robin yet, or if they had, didn’t know who he was, so he edged round and gradually got up to them. He took a seat in a dark corner, fended off two waitresses who had the wrong idea about their chances, and watched as Savage got into a bit of an argument with Rio Ferdinand. He couldn’t hear what they’d been saying, but he hadn’t missed the way Rio had jerked his knee away from Savage’s under-the-table feel.

Savage seemed to be a bit drunk, and eventually opted for calling Rio a cunt loud enough for the whole back half to hear and stomping off. Which was when Robin sent him a drink. After waiting a minute, Robin sidled up next to the man. “That was rude of him.”

“Because he’s a fucking cunt…hey, you’ve got an accent,” Savage slurred. Though he still tossed back his beer before he made an attempt at squinting at Robin. “You sound Dutch.”

“I am Dutch.” Robin kept one eye on the MU table and one eye on the front door…and of all people, Freddie Ljungberg suddenly walked in. Things became a lot clearer when he deliberately crossed in front of the MU people and Rio, who’d been about to spot Robin, shifted to watch him instead. “What, that a problem?”

Enough drinks had gone down Savage’s throat for him to be swaying on the barstool, but flashes of intelligence still cropped up from time to time in his eyes. He leaned forward, staring hard at Robin…but then he just shook his head, laughing. Still smiling, he looked pointedly over his shoulder. “Nah, well, never bothered to try that before. But guess I have been wondering what’s it about you Dutchmen. Those horsefaces of yours mean anything about cock size, or what? Well, no, it’d have to be arse-size, wouldn’t it? Fucking Lehmann…”

“Hey, fags, your bar’s down the street!” some idiot said. The crowd was a pretty mixed one and nobody hollered support so he quickly faded away, but not before Freddie had noticed Robin and Savage. He frowned, slowed, and then turned to make a beeline for them. Which meant that Rio also looked their way, and…and judging from the way Rio abruptly tried to jump up from behind a table and about five good-sized men, he knew who Robin was. But…ah, just on time. Two cops were talking to the bouncers, and they’d just pointed at Savage.

Who flashed the loudmouth two fingers, then turned back to Robin. “God, this place sucks tonight. You know anywhere free of gits like that?”

“Well, I do, but once you walked in I couldn’t say it was git-free,” Robin said as he got off his stool. He’d purposefully picked his spot to be near the corner of the bar, so there wasn’t a stool on his other side and he could get easily away. “And about the Dutch thing…you can grow out your hair all you like, but looking like a girl’s not going to make you a better fuck.”

It took a second for all of that to sink into Savage; Robin used the breather to catch Freddie’s eye, then jerk his head towards the police. Freddie’s eyes narrowed, but he stopped where he was.

In the meantime, Savage finally came up with a reaction: slack-open mouth and bulging eyes. “What—who the fuck do you—”

“Just because Jens didn’t fuck you doesn’t mean you get to fuck with him,” Robin quietly said. He started backing up, timing it so an incoming waitress passed in front of him so Savage couldn’t lunge right away.

Savage blinked, visibly thought hard, and then sucked in a breath as his face started to redden in rage. He slowly put a fist down against the bar and began to get up. “You fucking wank—

“Robert William Savage?” Cop one read from a notepad while cop two snapped his hand over Savage’s wrist, pinning it to the bar. “You’re under arrest for aggravated assault, bribery and intimidation. Please don’t make a scene, sir.”

And the shocked look on Savage’s face made up for the irritating people, for Robin not getting fucked after six weeks of waiting, for Robin getting his ribs cracked in the first place. It was just beautiful. And then Savage turned around to start arguing with the cops, who were rapidly losing patience, and he knocked over somebody else’s drink so it got all over his tie, and God, Robin really loved his work sometimes.

“What’s going on?” Ljungberg had sloped up as Robin had slipped backwards, and now he neatly turned to stay with Robin as they moved away from the definite scene Savage was making.

“Savage just got nailed for beating up a couple DJs who wouldn’t favor MU records. Or anyway, so say the videotapes. And it’s really him on it. At least for the parts where he’s walking into the studio.” Even though it was Ljungberg, Robin felt good enough to grin anyway. “Amazing what you can do just by moving around some time-stamps.”

The other man looked at him for a few seconds, expression unreadable. In the background, Savage was being forcefully hauled out of the bar, and it seemed like everybody and their brother were shouting abuse. They didn’t know what was going on, but like typical drunks, they didn’t mind the chance to get in on the kicking.

“Will it stick?” Freddie finally said.

Robin shrugged. “I’m not the lawyer. But it’s not coming back on us, and it’s going to take Savage out for a while, anyway.”

Ljungberg pursed his lips, then shrugged. He looked at Robin with clear, cool eyes that didn’t have much liking in them, but he didn’t seem to be itching to go at any excuse, like he was most of the time. “Good. That’ll make Jens happy.”

“Yeah, it will,” Robin replied. “He’ll—shit!”

Freddie didn’t waste time looking at Robin; he whirled around and intercepted Rio Ferdinand’s hand before the other man could grab him. Ferdinand, on the other hand, was obviously angry. He did look like he wanted a word before he started swinging, but he’d forgotten to pass the news on to his friends: Vidic came swooping down at Ljungberg’s left, and on the right, Phil Neville tried to swing around to throw a haymaker at Robin’s head.

Robin ducked and rammed a shoulder into Neville’s belly, but danced back out before they could really engage. Not that he would mind whacking these jackasses’ heads in, but he’d just gotten the okay on his ribs and he wasn’t about to risk ending up back in Raúl’s examining room before he got properly fucked. And…and Ljungberg was plowing into Ferdinand now, looking like he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Half his collar had been ripped off and he had a huge bruise swelling above his left eye, but the moment he saw an opening, he went for it.

The other objection was that Jens had said no getting directly into it with MU, and this definitely qualified as directly. With a sigh, Robin kicked a chair at Vidic, tripped Neville to keep him on the floor, and then hooked Ljungberg’s arm the next time the other man reared back from an exchange with Ferdinand. “Freddie! Jens said—”

At first Robin thought he’d have to duck Ljungberg’s punch, but then Ljungberg swiveled and dodged Ferdinand’s attack, letting the other man stumble into a table. “Fuck,” he muttered in a disappointed tone. “Do we have to stop?”

That was…he just…sounded so crushed. Right then was about the closest Robin came to—and probably would ever come to—liking Ljungberg.

Vidic came barreling back before things got mushy; Robin side-stepped and then yanked on Vidic’s wrist to help him crash into the bar. “Yes. Now—”

Bastard. Much as Ferdinand might look like an overgrown, sleepy mutt, he could get himself around fast enough when he wanted to. His fist grazed past Robin’s ear, but his back-elbow caught Robin near the left eye and left Robin stumbling around, dizzy with a burst of pain right there. Robin grabbed onto something to steady himself, then gingerly touched the spot and came away with blood—he heard the wheeze and whirled to throw his own elbow into Neville’s temple. That asshole finally went down for a good long while.

Then Vidic tried a rush, but he couldn’t seem to decide whether Robin or Ljungberg was the target and his moment of hesitation let Robin shove him over a chair. He snagged Robin’s sleeve as he went down and nearly pulled Robin with him, but luckily, the sleeve gave first: it ripped half-off before Vidic lost his grip on it. Jens had bought the damn suit, so Robin didn’t really care—he grabbed a bottle off the bar and turned around to find Ljungberg and Ferdinand grappling with each other. After taking careful aim, he smacked Ferdinand with the bottle.

Rio had one hell of a thick skull and didn’t go down, but he was stunned long enough for Robin to haul Ljungberg away by the back of the jacket. The two of them stumbled outside—Ljungberg passed the bouncer a wad of cash as he went by—and down the street before ducking into a side-alley.

“That was fun,” Ljungberg said, panting and grinning maniacally. He absently swiped at a cut on the side of his hand. “I’m going to call that self-defense. You?”

“Sure, why not? Ferdinand was still standing and Vidic was, too. Sort of,” Robin snorted. He pulled down his shirt-sleeve to get his cuff over his hand, then pressed that to the cut above his eyebrow. “We need to leave now, though.”

Ljungberg jerked his head sharply around, like he’d forgotten who he was with. He probably had; his eyes iced over immediately and his jaw tightened. Then he glanced out at the street. “I know that place. That money’ll do the bouncers and bartender and everyone else was too damn drunk, but…”

“I’ve had a tap into their security system for months. Just need to get back.” The blood soaked right through so Robin had to wad up more of his sleeve. It wasn’t a bad cut, but head wounds always bled like hell.

“My car’s this way,” Ljungberg said. He glanced at Robin again, then started off at a clip just slightly too fast for Robin to follow without hurrying.

Some truce. But at least it was one, and now Thierry would stop bugging Robin. And anyway, he now knew a couple more of Ljungberg’s weaknesses, so he figured he was set in any case.

* * *

“Darts. I just don’t understand it. You throw little pointy feathers at a board, and most of the time you miss.” Thierry mimed the throwing motion once before letting his hand fall limply back on his knee. He sighed and slumped further down on the couch, staring at the ceiling light. “Why is this worth arguing over? Why do I have to make bail for one stupid punker and need to find a chiropractor for the other?”

“I think Gerrard can be reasoned with,” Bobby said, sensibly ignoring Thierry’s complaints. He lifted his legal pad so he could turn to a fresh page, then began taking notes again. “Kuyt seemed angrier, but both of them were very concerned about their concert in Liverpool. I don’t think they’d want the delay of legal proceedings.”

So on the one hand, they had a reasonable chance of keeping things quiet, or at least turning it into good publicity for the Chels. On the other hand, it was a good thing Thierry had allocated so much money to the legal expenses portion of the budget. “This record is going to have to go platinum in the first month to make Jens happy.”

The scratching of Bobby’s pen briefly stopped. He patted Thierry’s knee. “I thought he was about to go down and chew out Lampard himself.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t.” Thierry turned his head to meet Bobby’s startled expression. “It’s not unheard of. Ask Ronaldo—Jens sent him packing into rehab on the tail-end of a screaming lecture.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ve heard it from my friends in Legal—I just didn’t believe it,” Bobby said, shaking his head. He touched the capped end of his pen to his mouth, critically reviewing something on the pad, before slowly crossing it out.

Considering he’d come back into the office on twenty minutes’ notice, he looked remarkably unruffled. He’d loosened his tie, but its knot was still crisp and the wings of his collar stood up in perfect folds. In contrast, Thierry had been in the same suit since eight in the morning and honestly felt as if he’d been living in it for a few days.

Feeling a little bit awkward, he idly glanced down at their feet. Then he took a second look. A tickling sensation in his throat quickly bloomed into a giggle that he desperately tried to suppress, but it sneaked out anyway. He quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m—I’m so sorry…”

“Hmm?” Bobby looked up, then down. Then he tipped his left foot to look better. “Oh…damn,” he sighed. “I was dressing too fast to turn on the light.”

“Socks aren’t too bad,” Thierry snickered. He took a deep breath and tried to hold it, but the laughter trapped in his chest continued to make his shoulders shake. He shifted to get his weight off a numbing thigh and one unexpectedly hard shake made him lose his balance; he grabbed the top of the couch and Bobby slipped one hand under his shoulder, and between the two of them, Thierry at least didn’t smash his nose into Bobby’s notepad.

But he was tipped too far to sit back up right away. He wavered for a moment, but then Bobby’s fingers curled around his shoulder and Thierry gave in to temptation and just eased himself the rest of the way down, laying his head on Bobby’s stomach and thigh. Bobby’s hand rubbed across Thierry’s back before cupping over the opposite shoulder, warm and soothing to tensed muscles.

“How is—” Bobby started. A knock on the door interrupted him, and then Kaká stuck his head in the door so Bobby shifted focus. “Did he go home?”

“Hargreaves came to pick Lampard up, and he promised that they’d stay out of sight till the settlement meeting. The doctors still want to keep Terry overnight,” Kaká said. His eyes had widened at the sight of them, but after that he’d swallowed any comments and moved his gaze back to Bobby’s face. “Was there anything else?”

Bobby pressed a little with his hand when Thierry started to rise. He half-turned to stick his notepad in his briefcase. “No, you can go home now. Be in early tomorrow, though—we’ll have to beat their lawyers in to the police station.”

Kaká nodded and carefully closed the door again. Thierry settled back down, looking curiously up at Bobby, who continued to gaze at the door. “He’s attempting to court Paolo Maldini. And I use ‘court’ very seriously. You know Maldini, don’t know?”

“Well enough to find that an odd couple,” Thierry said.

“Well, maybe it’ll turn out all right. Kaká’s inexperienced, but he has a good head on his shoulders.” Though Bobby sounded as if he was reserving his enthusiasm for that possibility. He shrugged helplessly and looked down at Thierry. “Is Jens going out of town again?”

Thierry blinked, not seeing where that had come from. “No, not till February at least. Not as far as I know. Why—oh. Oh, well…I’m just very tired. But it should get better—Robin’s better, and he can take the edge off Jens’ moods. It’s just been a long six weeks.”

His neck was hurting from the way he had to crane around to look Bobby in the eye, so he finally did the practical thing and turned so he was lying on his back. He raised his arm and checked his watch, then put his arm back and used the sofa to help himself up into a sitting position.

“I think—” he began, and then Bobby casually dropped an arm around his waist and kissed him. To do his sense of professional duty credit, he protested for a few seconds. Then it became obvious that it wasn’t an argument he was winning, so he stopped and kissed back, sliding his arm around Bobby’s neck. It was getting himself into a position of more leverage, he told himself.

“Well, I didn’t mind the chance to see you tonight after all,” Bobby murmured, nibbling lightly. His arm loosened and drooped, then came up beneath Thierry’s suit-jacket to tighten around Thierry’s body, his hand trailing onto Thierry’s hip.

Thierry smiled and shifted closer, pushing his fingers between Bobby’s collar and neck. He slipped his thumb around and worked it into the tie-knot, then undid that in a quick twist of the wrist so he could cup Bobby’s jaw and throat. “I said we had to go downtown and make bail. You didn’t know—”

“That I’d end up with you on my lap?” Nip. Warm, quick lick at the injured spot on Thierry’s lip while long tapered fingers stroked tingling circles over Thierry’s head, down the back of his neck and then ran inside his collar so he shivered. “No, but hope springs eternal.”

“I’m not on your lap,” Thierry loftily said. He twisted to avoid Bobby’s immediate attempt to tickle him, then lifted himself up and straddled the other man before really thinking about it. “Now I am.”

He stopped there, next words stuck fast in his throat. Bobby’s eyes had darkened and gone molten, his hands temporarily still on Thierry. They’d lifted a little as well so they were barely touching Thierry, but he could feel how much they were trembling with the effort. He ducked his head—a hot flush had been pooling at the base of his throat, but right then it rushed into his face—then lifted it with a very inappropriate giggle. Though it wasn’t the same kind of nerves as had been affecting him before.

Bobby’s lips twitched a few times. He looked hard and deep into Thierry’s face, then turned his head. “If you don’t…”

Thierry absently pulled his hand from Bobby’s neck to press his knuckles to his mouth. He kept them there for a second, then reached out to fiddle with Bobby’s collar. Then he wrapped his fingers in one of the wings and pulled while moving down. This kiss wasn’t fooling around.

The hot, dizzy feeling in his head flowed downwards into his legs, making them restless but at the same time, slow to respond to him. In all honesty, he was fairly distracted by the taste of Bobby’s mouth, the way it could go so unexpectedly from hard and bruising to soft, silky and caressing. He was getting needles and pins from knees to waist and he knew he should move, but it was just so good how he was.

Then Bobby reached up between Thierry’s jacket and shirt and caught the top of the jacket, twisting and tugging till Thierry finally dropped his arms back to let the sleeves slide off, and in the process they did shift against each other. And this was new: this pressing of bodies so that Thierry’s rising erection met another one so they both groaned at the same time. He yanked his arm back around in surprise at the electric feel of it, grabbing onto Bobby’s shoulder for support, and his jacket went flying somewhere and was promptly forgotten.

He plucked at Bobby’s shirt with his free hand, feeling the heat of the other man’s body and getting almost incredulously frustrated with not being able to get under the fabric to it. His fingers finally hit a button—buttons, yes, damn--and got around it just as Bobby wrapped his hands around the outside of Thierry’s legs and pressed them up; his grip curved when he reached the buttocks and when women did that Thierry couldn’t help but find it a little funny, a little out-of-place, but Bobby grabbing his ass wasn’t really a joke. It was pushing him down and against the other man, his cock now stiff and swollen in the confines of his trousers, and feeling the promise of Bobby’s prick pressing next to it.

Thierry panicked a little bit there, still not—he slid sideways, so they were grinding into each other’s thighs instead, and picked clumsily at the shirt-buttons till he could push the two sides of the shirt apart. And then yes, he cursed when his hand hit cotton. Of course Bobby would wear something beneath, but…Thierry curled his fingers up beneath the hem and finally got his palm against the smooth flat muscle of Bobby’s belly. This was familiar. Familiar and better; his hand felt the shivers going through the other man and passed them down till he was shaking.

“Shhh, no, shhh,” Bobby was murmuring over and over, his mouth sliding across Thierry’s mouth and jaw and over his throat. He stroked one hand up and down Thierry’s back as if soothing a cat, and eventually Thierry did get himself more in control. He sighed and pressed his cheek to Bobby’s, absently wondering where Bobby’s other hand was, and then it suddenly was lying against his belly, folded over his belt-buckle. “Titi?”

Thierry couldn’t get his mouth around ‘Bobby.’ He said “Robert” instead, and his voice sounded so thick and heavy he almost didn’t recognize it. He rubbed his thumb around Bobby’s belly-button, then pushed his hand up and back, letting his weight fall forward. Bobby hissed, apparently as stunned as Thierry was by the effect of the sudden pressure on Thierry’s cock. But then he was moving, kissing Thierry while making their trousers no longer barriers, and Thierry gratefully left it up to his hands. Literally: they pulled Thierry out of his trousers and then out of his boxers, and though he was running his hands over Bobby’s stomach and sides and even hipbones, he couldn’t work up the nerve to go lower.

He gasped when Bobby’s fingers went around his cock, twisting so he almost pulled it away. Bobby wrapped an arm around Thierry’s back again and pulled him down, kissing him like the purpose was to give him breath, and when Bobby’s hand slid down the length of his prick, slow and experimental, Thierry pressed forward. He shifted and nudged and bumped into Bobby’s prick along the way, and the way Bobby’s head suddenly lolled—Thierry did it again, then absently reached down when he felt their pricks slip away from each other. He realized where his hand was a moment later, but Bobby had already enfolded it with his fingers and—and—and Thierry sagged, mouth drifting almost off of Bobby’s, and felt himself completely relax into it. It really was too glorious to resist, in the end.

The sticky drying-to-itchy part was twice as bad, he found out, but he couldn’t work up too much annoyance over it. It was late; they could sneak into the men’s toilet easily enough.

“I feel like I’ve turned sixteen again,” Thierry lazily laughed, head tucked against Bobby’s shoulder. He held onto the edge of the sofa while Bobby hauled them around so they could lie down, their entangled legs dangling over one end, then happily settled back on top of the other man. Now that he’d finally gotten it over with, he honestly had to say he liked…well, touching Bobby’s cock. It’d gone limp and Bobby had dragged his hand away to smear all over Thierry’s back, but Thierry still had his fingers loosely encircling it and was curiously rubbing it with his thumb.

“Not a bad feeling, is it?” Bobby seemed to be asking the ceiling. The corners of his mouth turned up when Thierry kissed one of them. Then he frowned slightly and tipped his head to look down. “Titi, not to discourage you or anything, but I am over thirty…”

“I know, I know.” Thierry stretched his fingers and just grazed Bobby’s balls with their tips. They tensed—not right away, but they did.

The other man shifted a bit uncomfortably, then pushed at Thierry’s shoulder. “…and if you want to test my back that much, then I have to insist on a bed.”

Residual nervousness made Thierry pause there. He saw Bobby glance at him and shook his head. “No, it’s…well, yes, a bed.”

“Whenever you’d like,” Bobby said, looking straight at him. Then Bobby put his head back down. “For that, anyway. I’m not in a hurry. But honestly, the bed sounds good for other reasons…”

“…it does. But—damn it, I can’t go home yet,” Thierry sighed. He looked at his watch again. “I don’t think I’ve ever resented Premier night duty so much.”

* * *

Jens was not in a good mood. The Chels were getting into potentially complicated legal trouble just as FC was trying to launch them. Kahn had been temporarily bent back, but it wouldn’t be long before he was going after Jens again. Ferguson would be stirring up trouble again as well…and where the hell was everybody? David was around and Senderos had phoned with a good reason why he’d be late and a time to expect him, but Thierry was missing, Freddie was missing, Frings and Ballack were missing—did Jens need to tear strips out of his own team now?

Somebody was calling his name. He turned around and was instantly confronted with a full bottle of Cristal. It was on a tray and headed away from him, but for a moment he was sorely tempted. Then he turned the rest of the way to look at David. “What.”

David didn’t miss the flat tone and hunched his shoulders, apparently trying to look as small as possible. “Um, Jens, there’s something you need to…”

He pointed towards the backrooms and that was all Jens needed. Behind him David tried to follow, but for some reason the other man seemed to be having trouble getting through the crowd. They certainly were staying out of Jens’ way.

Only one door was open, so Jens took a wild guess and went in, ignoring whatever David was trying to tell him.

“…watch it!” Freddie hissed, batting at Senderos’ hand. Then he snatched the wad of cotton from the other man and pressed it up against his swollen left brow. His suit was in tatters around the collar and lapels, and his hand was bandaged as well. The knuckles peeking out of the wraps were all scabby and red.

Robin was behind him and Senderos, sitting on top of a couch. He’d started out wearing a black suit and white shirt, but he’d more or less lost one jacket-sleeve. The tails of his shirt were out and flapping to show several centimeters of belly because he’d lost buttons. He had a mangled black tie in one hand and blood was liberally smeared from the left side of his ripped collar down towards his ribs. He’d tidied himself up a little—his face was clean, with two butterfly bandages already stretched across the cut over his eye—but he still looked like a delinquent schoolboy.

He spotted Jens before the other two did, though Senderos was a close second. His eyes widened and his hands jerked off his lap to grab at the couch-top. “Look, it was completely self-defense. We did just what we had to in order to get out of there.”

Freddie blinked at him, then turned around just as Senderos sidled out the door. Considering his size, Senderos could be remarkably invisible when he wanted to.

“Jens,” Freddie said. He grimaced and shifted the wad against his eye. “I ran into Ferdinand and a few others at a bar. Was just in time to watch Robbie Savage get arrested for…what was it, intimidation and bribery?”

“And aggravated assault,” Robin muttered, head ducked. He darted wary looks at Jens.

Shrug from Freddie. He didn’t bother explaining why Robin had been there and it didn’t have much to do with him knowing that Jens would already know. “Ferdinand didn’t like it much, and for some reason blamed us. I’m sorry I’m late, but after we got out of that mess, I drove us straight here.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t want you out on the floor,” Jens said. He let enough acid into his voice to make Freddie looked abashed. Yes, Freddie was his friend and he understood that the other man had quirks, but stupidity wasn’t an allowable one. “Fredrik, if I say no fighting with Ferdinand, that includes wandering in front of him till one of his idiot friends takes the bait. Don’t give me excuses.”

Freddie opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he jerked his chin down. His voice dropped as well. “Sorry.”

“You can take care of any legal repercussions. I don’t want Thierry’s time eaten up fixing your mistake.” Speaking of, Jens thought he heard Thierry’s voice in the hall and stepped slightly to the side so he could see. A moment later, David did indeed bring Thierry by…and Thierry was wearing the spare suit he kept in his closet. He made an apologetic face and Jens was so bemused by the idea of Thierry and Pirès, of all people, having sex at the office that he just waved those two on. “And you’d better have left them in worse shape.”

After a moment, Freddie nodded with a very small grin on his face. He’d spotted Thierry as well and hurried out after them. Jens strolled after him to close and lock the door, then turned.

“He showed up on his own, I swear. And I’m the one who tried to keep us out of it, but he’s…he’s a little mental, you know? He wanted a piece of Ferdinand—” Robin was babbling.

Jens walked over, yanked him up by the arms and rammed him back against the wall, slamming his mouth down on Robin’s while the other man was still trying to talk. He flicked the end of Robin’s belt out of the buckle, jerked that out and let it drop, then ripped open Robin’s fly and shoved down the trousers to mid-thigh. Robin arched, gasping against Jens’ mouth, his foot unconsciously lifting to scrape at the side of Jens’ leg. When it came down, Jens slapped his shoe on top of the toes and hauled on Robin’s thigh till he felt the foot slide out; he twisted on his heel to pin down the toe of Robin’s sock and get that yanked off, too. Then he did the same to the other foot.

“Ow! I could’ve—” Robin mumbled.

“Too slow.” Jens bit down on Robin’s lower lip so the mumble changed to a whimper. He shifted his hands over the rumpled folds of Robin’s trousers, then gripped tight and heaved the other man out of those and up against the wall.

Robin groaned, nails clawing down Jens’ back, pulling out individual threads from suit-jacket and snapping them. He was…he was getting blood on Jens. Irritated, Jens backed off. When Robin tried to follow, he put his palm to the center of Robin’s chest and shoved him back; Robin’s head whipped up and he stared dazedly at Jens. He didn’t move as Jens grabbed his tie, which was tangled around his hand, and looped it tight around his wrists before knotting it off. Then Jens took one step sideways to flick open a nearby cabinet and take out the bottle of olive oil he spotted; he knocked out a salt-shaker and it rolled on the carpet. He stepped over it back to Robin, slicked up his fingers, and then pushed them beneath Robin’s legs while he ducked his head into the circle of Robin’s arms.

Right about then Robin came back to life, moaning and taking snaps at Jens’ jaw before following up with sloppy, lingering wet kisses. He hissed when Jens took away the fingers, and he hadn’t finished when Jens lifted him again, biting into Robin’s neck, and fucked him high and hard till Jens thought he could taste his own prick in Robin’s mouth.

Robin came with a scream that was well-muffled in Jens’ mouth, elbows driving down on Jens’ shoulders and legs squeezing Jens’ waist like a backbreaking vise. He hitched himself two or three times so hard that Jens thought the wall might have cracked behind him, then went limp and boneless.

Jens hadn’t had enough yet, but he was coming off a long day. He carefully slid them down till they were sitting. Or anyway, he was sitting and Robin was sprawled over him, whining and twitching whenever Jens moved.

“…Christ, you’re still hard…” Robin whimpered. He shuddered, fingers weakly scratching between Jens’ shoulderblades, when Jens reached between them to wipe off some of Robin’s come. “Was…was this supposed to be discouragement? I…it…didn’t work.”

“What, about Savage? I said you could take care of him, and I already know Freddie’s got something going on in his head. I’m looking into it.” Jens cleaned his fingers on Robin’s suit-jacket, then pushed his hand back between them. He hooked his index and middle finger into the top of Robin’s shirt, then yanked swiftly downward to pop off the remaining buttons. Then he pulled at various stressed parts and tears till he’d gotten the suit-jacket ripped off. “Your timing, though…is this always how you react to no sex? You go out and start something?”

Robin squirmed, his ass muscles flexing around Jens’ prick, till Jens had dropped the remains of the jacket to the side. His cock was beginning to stiffen again, its tip slowly dragging up along Jens’ stomach. “Well…yes.”

“That was an expensive suit,” Jens added, nodding towards the scraps. He glanced at himself and noticed that more blood had gotten smeared from Robin onto his clothes. “And this one cost even more.”

“Your bank account’s stuffed. Just take an afternoon off with Thierry and update your ward—ah—” The rest was in Dutch and filthy and stuttered through as Robin shifted and pulled at his wrists, trying to get away from the finger Jens was tracing over his ass where it was stretched around Jens’ cock. He’d sit up a little and then his eyes would roll back a bit and he’d collapse down, only to start the cycle again. “Bastard.”

Jens arched an eyebrow, letting his finger drift down Robin’s inner thigh and then up to tease at his balls. “Why were you in a suit?”

“…because Savage says interesting things when he’s drunk and I wanted to check on one thing?” Hissing, Robin got his arms further over Jens’ shoulders and shoved down on them, rising so he could demandingly push his prick into Jens’ stomach. He curved his head around to lick along the edge of Jens’ ear. “He and Ferdinand had a spat and I thought he might leave. Sent him a drink and…and he tried to pick me up. Unbelievable.”

“He what?” Not that Jens was concerned about Savage in that situation; Robin could, however, go too far when he thought something was funny.

He put his hands on Robin’s hips and shoved down hard, forcing Robin to spread his legs wider to accommodate. The other man’s hissing took on a desperate wavering and he draped himself closer to Jens, sucking and laving appealingly at Jens’ jaw and throat. “I wasn’t going to. I just wanted to get close enough to find out if he really—and not even me, you know. He wanted you to fuck him. Probably still does.” Laugh. “He was complaining to me about me. Because you’ll wait six weeks and four days to fuck my brains out, but I bet you didn’t know—”

“I knew. I knew and I knew when it wasn’t helping me anymore,” Jens muttered. He pulled his hands around and brushed his fingertips up the length of Robin’s cock, lifting them every time Robin moved. The licking at his ear was replaced with biting. “Fucking Savage would’ve just made him lazy. Fucking you actually seems to make you work harder.”

“Funny. Since—God—not like it makes it easier to walk,” Robin said. He sank his teeth into Jens’ ear again, and only loosened up when Jens leaned forward to put Robin’s back against the wall. He tensed up in anticipation, but Jens just petted his thighs and belly, occasionally with a tweak at his nipples, and finally he slumped with a disappointed sigh.

That was when Jens dug his nails into Robin’s hips, braced his feet against the floor, and fucked the other man till he came himself, world exploding white and then coming back into focus on Robin’s face. Robin ripped threads out of Jens’ suit-jacket before sagging into a sticky, contented mess, his mouth soft and sweet against Jen’s lips.

Six weeks, three days and eleven hours, actually. And cheap at the price of two suits, plus not having to pay out to fix the mayhem Savage caused in the computer network. Definitely one of the better deals Jens had made lately.

* * *

All in all, it’d been a lousy night. That much Robbie remembered before the nausea caught up with him and he had to go running for the loo. He barely got to the toilet in time before it all came up in a greenish nasty mess. With chunks floating in—he scraped his hair out of the way and had another go at it.

Some of his hair fell back into his face and instantly got gunked up, turning into dripping thick clumps that smelled like…like…well, dog shit. And besides that, Robbie also smelled cigarette smoke, and since neither he nor Rio smoked…that meant he hadn’t made it home after storming away from Gary Neville. Not that that was home—fine, MU had sprang for bail for him, but they could’ve fucking let him know in the first place he was actually up against somebody at FC who knew what they were doing. Fucking Dutch. Anybody who had orange as a national color had something wrong with them, and not just in the eyes.

Robbie waited a couple seconds to make sure nothing else was coming up before he moved to the sink and washed up as best he could. The backs of his teeth had gotten hit with a lot of stomach acid and were sensitive and gritty-feeling, and the taste in his mouth was only marginally better after he’d gargled some tap-water. Plumbing here wasn’t too good either.

He raked the hair out of his eyes, and since it was wet this time it stayed put. He was still wearing part of his suit…and this was a tiny bathroom. Neatly-kept but on the dingy side, and it was the kind of dingy that was ingrained in the place like a bloodstain on wood. Cheap hotel.

After a moment of staring in the mirror, Robbie put down the toilet cover and then sat on top of it, angling his right leg to avoid a sharp chip in the edge. He squinted around, slowly becoming aware of his pounding hang-over headache, and tried to look for aspirin. Remember what else had happened last night. Both.

…Rio had been an arse. He liked pulling the possessive act but he didn’t put the energy into actually making it real or anything. Which was fine—Robbie wasn’t really interested in settling down like that, and anyway he wanted to get fucked when he wanted to be fucked, not when Rio wanted to. If Ferdinand went elsewhere when Robbie needed to be mobile, then Robbie had no issues with that. What he did, however, have issues with was Rio fucking coming out with him and the lads and fucking acting like they were going to have a good long roll later, and then telling Robbie that sorry, mate, old friend’s coming in and the wanker’s got priority.

Come to think of it, Van der Sar was a Dutch name too. So that was three out of three for Dutch and fucking up Robbie’s life, and maths never been his best subject but he thought that was a pretty telling statistic. He…he was hearing groans and mutters from the next room.

Well, Robbie’s arse didn’t hurt. And if he’d found himself a lay after the whole disaster, then good on him. He got up and had a look.

Spiky blond hair. Looked skinny enough beneath the blanket, and the feet sticking out at the other end were bony and thin and had black stuff beneath the toenails. Then the man rolled over and Robbie’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit, Gamst?”

Jesus,” Morten groaned, yanking his head down. He smushed his hands over it and curled up. “Savage, you cunt, you are still too loud. Aspirin’s in the…”

Robbie was already bending down to poke about beneath the bed for Morten’s duffel. He shook out a couple paracetomol from the bottle he found in it and dry-swallowed them, then passed a few to Morten. “Didn’t know you were in town, else I would’ve phoned you direct.”

The painkillers must’ve kicked in fast for Morten, since he rolled over grinning lazily, his bad mood apparently forgotten. Then again, he’d always been a pretty sunny one. “Instead of running into me in a club, and then trying to have me in the alley when I’ve a room only five minutes away?”

“Well, we did make it back anyway.” Damn. Now Robbie wished he could remember that part instead of the shitty bits before it. Gamst always had been fun, if a bit weird with his hobbies. Him and fishing, something about his roots…Robbie just didn’t get that. “How’ve you been?”

“Ah, all right. I was in town for a concert—” Morten wasn’t dumb and didn’t miss Robbie’s wince. He folded his arms under his chin and peered up at Robbie, smile going a bit…not nasty, really, but on the pleased side. He’d been one of the few who’d been a bit down about Robbie leaving to work for FC, more depressed about it than happy for Robbie. “Eh? Your big job not working out?”

Robbie sat on the edge of the bed and affectionately ruffled the other man’s hair, then drew his fingers back through it to rub against some fresh bite-marks along the hairline. “Switched to MU a while ago, actually. Thinking about quitting that too, though. I’m working with another bunch of stuck-up pricks—”

“Savage!” shouted somebody from the hall. Pause, and then a sharp, clattering bang. That had to be the front door ripping off its hinges.

Morten immediately started up, reaching to throw back the blankets, but Robbie waved the other man down as he got up and walked towards the front. “And that’s one of them.”

Rio was just stepping over the fallen door, missing a coat and tie and with his sleeves rolled up like he was about to plunge into work. Like hell he was. “Savage, you fucking arse, you do not--”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Robbie yawned. He stayed slightly out of lunging range and leaned against the wall. “While we’re on the topic, you get around to bending your friend over?”

“No.” Flared nostrils. Last week Rio had shaved his head, so now that made him look somewhat more threatening. The cornrows had hid some of his angles, but now they cut out razor-sharp at the air. “No, you Welsh shite, I had to tell him he’d have to catch his flight out without a meet-up because I was too busy banging up potential witnesses to keep your useless arse out of jail.”

Robbie rolled his eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Absolutely shattered.”

The door just about leaped from Rio’s kick and went skidding over to crack in a good half a meter of the drywall, which did make Robbie take a step back. He still wasn’t about to take Rio’s bullshit, but he didn’t want Morten to get hit too badly with a room charge. “Are you honestly telling me you went off like that because you were jealous?” Rio said, eyes big and eyebrows arched. “You bloody idiot, what—”

He stopped there, gaze shooting past Robbie’s shoulder, and Robbie was wincing even before he’d glanced back to see Morten standing there. Bloody idiot, all right. “Rio, that bastard Dutchman Lehmann’s fucking now faked the evidence. One of the cops tried to scare a confession out of me—he said there were tapes of me walking in and beating the shit out of some DJ and you know I didn’t do that. You did that. Only times I went in with you was to plant taps while you were doing…oh, fuck. That fucking Dutch arse probably has those compromised. Now I’ve got to start from scratch.”

Rio didn’t seem to be listening. Instead he was staring at Morten with an odd, not quite readable look on his face, and Morten was glowering as best he could, but since he couldn’t place Rio’s expression either, that was undercut by his uncertainty.

“What? I have old friends too,” Robbie finally snapped. He started to add something insulting about Van der Sar, but then happened to start noticing how Rio actually looked, now that he wasn’t so busy trying to watch for which fist Rio would throw his way first. “What happened to you? Did you run into one who could actually fight back?”

“Huh? No. Didn’t you see Ljungberg come in with Lehmann’s boyfriend—who you were trying to take home, you drunken pissant?” Rio snorted. He shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled up to Robbie, apparently calming down. “He got in the way when I was trying to get over and talk to the cops taking you away…by the way, you didn’t fucking help there with your swearing.”

Ljungberg? Robbie had missed an FC-MU fight? Son of a bitch--he irritably rubbed at a bruise on his cheekbone that said cops had left. “Hey, I’m not pissed now. Unless you mean the way the Americans mean it.”

“Yeah?” Rio raised his eyebrow. Then he suddenly had Robbie by the arms and had slammed him up against the—walls didn’t have bony elbows and knees.

Morten swore and tried to reach around Robbie, but all he did was wake up bruises and sore spots Robbie would’ve rather had stayed quiet, and so it ended up Robbie was trying to make him stop as much as Rio was. More, actually—Rio had his leg shoved between Robbie’s and was sliding it up and down, grinding into Robbie’s prick. And that part of Robbie wasn’t quite up to speed and was getting into it.

“If you’d been less pissed, I might’ve gotten round to the part where I was going to invite you along,” Rio muttered, breath ghosting as softly along Robbie’s jaw as his hands were clamping hard on Robbie’s wrists, bending them back. “But no, you got embarrassing and of course I wasn’t going to then.”

“I’m always embarrassing,” Robbie snapped. He tried to get his knee up, but instead kicked Morten by accident, and hard enough so that the other man crumpled a bit, his chin hitting Robbie’s shoulder. Robbie muttered an apology, but halfway through interrupted himself with a groan as Rio bit into a bruise on his throat. “Get off, you cunt.”

“You’re a lippy Welsh git.” Rio wriggled a hand between them and shoved it down Robbie’s trousers. A minute later Robbie realized that meant he had a hand free, but he was trying so hard not to turn into a wobbly-kneed girl that he couldn’t do much with it, and it ended up squeezing Morten’s thigh.

Morten had gone dead silent, his fingers digging in on either side of Robbie’s waist, and Robbie noticed his other hand was loose and it was his arm that was blocked: Rio was reaching round to do something to Gamst. “Fuck, Rio, get off of him. He’s not your friend. And anyway, you’re not in a fucking position to ask for an introduction. You should be telling me why I don’t hop back to England with him, tell all this label shite to stuff itself. It’s fucking tedious.”

“It fucked you right up the arse last night,” Rio said, voice dropped to a low rumble. He worked his fingers around to get a bit of pulling, even though his hand and Robbie’s prick were still trapped in Robbie’s trousers. “You’re not going to walk away from that. You’re just hung-over…give you a day and you’ll be storming in wanting to know when I can stuff Lehmann for you. Besides, Ferguson’s giving you a week’s paid vacation while the boys straighten out your case. It’s like you say, Fergie won’t be all that upset.”

“A week?” Robbie repeated. “No hairdryer?”

“No, that’s for me.” A brief flash of dread went over Rio’s face. Possibly the first Robbie had ever seen on him. “I let you get on the video.”

That was currently a little beyond Robbie’s abilities to hack, though he’d been looking into it. He just never had had much interest in fucking around with video; the only reasons people did it was because they liked watching or because they saw blackmail money in it, and it’d always been easier to just crack a couple bank systems.

“But anyway…” Rio shifted, leaning on his leg, and Robbie bit his lip and Morten half-suppressed a moan, his cock starting to rise into Robbie’s backside “…who is your friend?”

Robbie blinked, then looked at Rio. “It’s the blond hair, isn’t it? You’ve got the worst fixations—fuck!” He slowly hissed out a breath as Rio removed his thumbnail from the tip of Robbie’s prick. “Morten, this is Rio Ferdinand, a gigantic arse. Rio, this is Morten. Hurt him and I really will leave. I’m not into selling out my friends.”

“Thanks,” Morten finally whispered, his lips grazing Robbie’s ear. Then he sucked in a breath as Rio pushed Robbie aside. A glimpse of wide eyes, and then Rio was methodically working over every bit of Morten’s mouth and Robbie had a close-up view and…and it wasn’t a bad idea so far. Just looking at it.

“Well, wasn’t interested in doing any more bashing today,” Rio said, drifting back. His hand brushed over Morten’s bare chest as he did, pointing Robbie’s eye towards one very red, abused-looking nipple. He noticed and threaded his fingers into Robbie’s hair, then tugged Robbie towards it. “Come on, Savage. I’ve got two hours to get to know your friend before I’ve got to go see Fergie.”

Robbie caught Morten’s eye as he moved down and was a bit relieved to see lust in it. He put his hands on Morten’s hips for balance as Rio moved back in for another go at Morten’s mouth. “Get out of there fast enough and I might still be at your flat.” He grinned at the way Rio’s hand tightened in his hair. “Well, I’m on vacation. Don’t think I’m going to stay cooped up for all of it, do—”

Rio shoved Robbie’s face into Morten’s chest, and after a moment, Morten reached out to help keep Robbie there. Last night had been terrible, but the morning was showing distinct signs of improvement. And Robbie was, if nothing else, an optimist. At least till the next hang-over.


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