Tangible Schizophrenia



Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: Philipp Lahm/Timo Hildebrand, Torsten Frings/Michael Ballack, implied Bastian Schweinsteiger/Lukas Podolski/Christoph Metzelder
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: Oh, God, this totally never happened. I’m making it up. My imagination is a happy place, let me say, but it makes me no money.
Notes: Set during the Strenesse photo-shoot. In reality, they probably wouldn’t get to keep even one outfit, but I’m stretching things a little. Also, I’m assuming that Philipp was at the same shoot as everybody else even though I can’t find photos of him (okay, maybe I’m stretching a lot). For luthien82 as a thank-you for all the help.
Summary: Philipp likes the Suit. Also, a side of hot German captain action and off-screen Schweinski mayhem.


“All right, I’m here, now why did you want to meet in the closet, Ph—ummph!” And thud as Timo’s back hits the door.

He’s just barely finished the shoot. They’d told him he got to pick one of the outfits he’d tried on to keep, and he’d went with the suit because he had still been wearing it. And well, also because the one time he’d managed to get a glimpse of Philipp during the whole shoot, the other man had flicked his eyes up and down the suit and Timo had had to loosen his collar. That should’ve been a warning sign.

Philipp’s hands are everywhere. They’re patting down Timo’s sides, sliding smooth and firm up beneath the coat, making the silky shirt fabric shiver against his skin. They’re yanking at his belt and grinding down between his legs so his prick is suddenly, painfully hard in less time it takes for Phil to mash his lips against Timo’s mouth. One of his hands hooks around the back of Timo’s head and hauls that further down so his tongue, hot and slippery, can lick out Timo’s brains through his mouth.

Timo’s…basically flattened. He’s really glad he has the door, and he’s also making a vague note to himself—Phil likes white suits—and trying to catch up. But he puts his hands on Phil’s shoulders and Philipp is pulling his shirt out of his waistband by the handful. He wraps his arm around Philipp’s back and Philipp arches, his knee skittering up the side of Timo’s leg and then locking in, pressing hard and pointed till Timo kind of gets the message and tries to scoot down the door. Except well, that’s hard when Philipp has his hand down Timo’s trousers, which are going to need something like three ironings to get rid of all the wrinkles, and is shifting his fingers around over Timo’s prick.

“God,” Timo says when he gets a chance.

“Like the clothes,” Phil mumbles, attacking Timo’s neck with the kind of focus and energy he usually saves for runs at the goal. He mouths his way hard up, then goes down in a long, lazy, wriggling lick with the flat of his tongue. The entire side of Timo’s head melts.

The closet’s got brooms neatly hung up along the wall, but otherwise it’s empty. Thank God, because maneuvering that’s any more complicated than falling over sideways and squirming on his back till he hits the wall to his left is way, way beyond Timo right now. He slides his hands up and down Phil’s back, then squeezes the man’s ass, and that finally distracts Philipp long enough for Timo to get braced and everything.

“What? It’s nice.” Timo nibbles along the edge of Philipp’s right ear. He pulls his left hand around, hooking up the bottom of Phil’s shirt in an attempt to get that off, but Philipp’s lunged at him again and oh, God, what did Philipp just do with his hand and Timo’s cock? It feels like all of Timo’s bones have suddenly liquefied, and he just wishes he had more so it could keep on going.

Philipp snorts and rips at Timo’s shirt, and Timo belatedly reaches up to help the other man, or more like slow him down, because if this is what this set of clothes does, then it’d be a very, very great shame if they ruined them and never got a chance to repeat this. They aren’t talking anymore because Philipp’s sucking on Timo’s tongue. Hard. Bobbing his head so it slides almost all the way out, then pushing back till their lips smash together. The nice dress slacks are too damned tight and forget the shirt: Timo shoves Phil’s hands back down there.

And they slide over the bulge of Timo’s erection, only instead of letting that out, they keep on going to cup his buttocks, and Phil sprawls forward at the same time so his thigh or his hip ends up keeping the pressure on Timo’s cock. He’s hanging off Timo’s lower lip now, using his teeth to stretch it and Timo is moaning, trying to yank at the other man but only managing to hike Phil’s shirt up to show lots of pale back, smooth blank skin that he can’t help imagining with red-purple mouth-shaped bruises and ah, okay, he’s going to die here. At least he’ll already be dressed for it, though white might be kind of an odd—

--oh, oh, thank you, Phil’s hands are in front again and tackling Timo’s fly, and Timo at least gets his hands on Phil’s back, feeling the heat and the fast liquid shift of muscle. He presses down, digging in with his knuckles, and Philipp mewls a little, open-mouthed nuzzling at the base of Timo’s throat. His teeth scrape across the hollow between the collarbones and Timo feels an electric shiver go through him.

“Are you keeping this one?” Phil gasps, snaking his way back up Timo. His hand is wrapped around Timo’s prick and his body whips in perfect curves, mesmerizing Timo and what was the question? Philipp signals his annoyance by kissing Timo till he sees stars, and that probably is a backfire, because Timo kisses back and clutches at the backs of Phil’s thighs.

So suddenly Phil’s hand stops, and it’s like ice-water, like the worst nastiest shock and Timo actually whines. He does manage to make a face at Phil’s faint smirk. “Well, yes, but lucky choice since I don’t think they’ll take it ba—”

Philipp ducks and shoves his head into the crook of Timo’s neck, his hand gliding up and down Timo’s cock in one firm, deliriously good pump. Stops again. Lifts off, but it comes back before Timo’s halfway through his complaint, and it’s cold and sticky with something so Timo yelps, but then Philipp rubs the heel of his other hand into Timo’s right nipple, and by the time Timo’s really noticing anything again, the fingers on his prick have warmed back up.

“Hair-gel,” Phil mutters.

The lubrication’s appreciated. Very appreciated; Timo bucks up into Philipp’s hand and rubs his fingers across the back of Philipp’s leg and down his inner thigh. “Could’ve just swiped your hand through my hair for that.”

They’d put loads in there, way more than Timo ever used, and tiny jars and bottles of other gunk…and Phil’s laughing, snorting and wheezing in between little scorching cat-licks at Timo’s neck. But his hand’s still going. And Timo kind of feels bad, since with all his groping he still hasn’t managed to get to Phil’s cock yet, but what seems like a shiver at first starts in him, and by the time he realizes it’s not, it’s already caught him up and he’s digging his fingers into Phil’s shoulder, yanking it forward so he can muffle his shout in it.

“Hey.” A tad scolding, but Philipp just adjusts for Timo’s new inability to do much besides woozily stare at the walls and slides over to curl up to Timo’s left side. He undoes his fly, then twists his trousers down to midway around his hips with a nonchalantly sensuous motion that dries out Timo’s mouth.

He stares at the point of Philipp’s hipbone as Phil takes his wrist, and it’s only when the startlingly hot, damp tip of Phil’s prick grazes the back of his hand that Timo jerks back into things. He dips down to kiss Phil in apology, closing his hand around the other man’s cock at the same time, and—

--the door bursts open. Both of them freeze; Timo’s knees jerk up a few centimeters like that’s really going to hide the half-buttoned shirt or his splattered thighs or the trousers bunched around his knees.

Not that Michael and Torsten are looking, though. At least, Timo can see that it’s Balla’s back, but since Michael’s a fairly large man—though nicely proportioned—he completely blocks out whoever’s grabbing the right side of his ass and the back of his head and from the sound of things, trying to tongue-bath the back of his tonsils. Which Timo is guessing is Torsten, because frankly…well, it’s interesting to see who stares at who in the showers.

Michael stumbles, knocks Timo’s foot with his heel; Timo belatedly pulls in his legs, but Michael’s already swung around, and yes, it’s Torsten. Who’s got one hand on Michael’s chest, all wound up in the sweater Michael has on, and is clearly directing things. Sort of. Torsten’s got his eyes closed the whole time, apparently intent on whatever he’s digging out of Michael’s mouth. With Michael it varies, but when his eyes are open, they’re on the door behind the two.

He makes a couple half-hearted attempts to reach out and bang it shut again, but since he doesn’t want to let go of Torsten, that’s pretty hard. So finally Torsten seems to get tired of Michael’s preoccupation and just swings them around, using Michael to shut the door. Sensible man.

Of course, then Michael can see Timo and Phil, and they’re still so frozen that Timo hasn’t even let go of Phil’s prick yet. Balla’s eyes bloom wide and he makes a lot of muffled gargly noises till Torsten gets off his mouth. Which is accompanied by an actual wet pop, and Timo has to duck really fast to stop himself from snickering.

“I thought this was empty!” Michael says.

“Um, no.” Phil’s bright red. “Sorry.”

Apparently Michael loses his brains when Torsten’s got one hand up his shirt. “Oh. Oh…damn.”

“Who is…” Torsten twists to look over his shoulder. He blinks, then sighs and looks more annoyed than anything else. “God, couldn’t any of you wait till we got back to the hotel?”

All right, they’re his elders, but still. Timo makes a gesture towards them with his free hand. “Like you?”

Michael’s still pretty out of it and just looks embarrassed; Torsten rolls his eyes. His hand is starting to move around, pushing up Michael’s sweater so everyone can see how the sweat’s soaking into the white shirt under it. “Bastian and Lukas took Metze into the only other damn closet around here.”

“Metze? I didn’t think he…” Trailing off, Philipp slides further down the wall like he’s trying to sink into the floor. It’s probably not so much the gossip—which Philipp loves, even if he insists on pretending he doesn’t—as the fact that they’re watching Torsten turn back and unashamedly nuzzle the side of Michael’s neck.

“I don’t think he is. Then again, I don’t think Poldi and Schweini count as gay or anything. They’re more like an ongoing fit of insanity.” Timo tilts his head so he can see if Michael’s deepening blush goes past his shirt-collar. Occasionally Michael makes an attempt to pull Torsten back, but he’s rapidly weakening. Well, if Frings is okay with it…Timo starts running his hand up and down Phil’s cock again. Which hasn’t exactly drooped any during the whole business. “I wonder if we’ll have to carry Christoph out of there.”

Philipp jerks and has to put his hand between Timo’s legs for balance. He pauses, then looks reproachfully up at Timo.

“What? Micha’s hot,” Timo can’t help but say. “I know you agree.”

Torsten’s sucking at Michael’s mouth now and his hands appear to be working in a frenzy just below Michael’s waistband, but Michael manages to spare the effort to give them a sarcastic thumbs-up. Then his hand falls back against Torsten’s ass. He jerks and his feet skid apart a little bit, then deliberately slide farther. When Torsten twists, Timo gets flashes of Michael’s bare hips on either side of him.

After a moment, Phil whuffs out the last of his annoyance into Timo’s neck and settles back against Timo, his hips moving in easy time with the stroking of Timo’s hand. He’s still blushing, because Timo can feel the heat against his throat and shoulder, but Phil’s avidly watching as after Michael’s trousers drop down around his ankles, Torsten steps over them and smoothes his hands up and down Michael’s thighs a few times, then curls them around the back. Michael hisses, jerks a few times, and then his feet slide even wider before the trousers wound around them force him to stop.

“Oh,” Philipp says in a small, breathy voice. He jerks faster against Timo. “Oooooh…”

Torsten’s head slips down to Michael’s neck as he suddenly hauls up Michael’s left thigh to hang aslant over his right leg; Michael grabs the other man’s shoulders and briefly hikes himself up the door, then drops down with a throaty deep noise. His eyes are rolling into the back of his head, and his mouth keeps falling slackly open.

Oh.” And Philipp comes, shaking like a leaf all the way through and then after so Timo pulls the other man up tight against him, a little concerned. After a few seconds, Phil slumps comfortably against him; Timo shifts awkwardly around as his second erection starts to get to him.

“Fuck,” Michael suddenly grunts. His voice has gone raspy and thick so it skitters across the back of Timo’s neck. “Fuck, fuck, Torsten, fuck.”

Which Torsten is enthusiastically doing till the door-hinges creak, and Timo has to admit, he’s pretty impressed with that door. It’s not rattling very much despite everything.

“Mmmmmm.” Philipp lazily presses his face into the side of Timo’s jaw. Then he bites it, and at the same time, his hand settles back around Timo’s cock so Timo can’t really do anything to do. “Balla’s hot, huh?”

“Yeah. But he’s probably all sorts of trouble, you know…he looks high-maintenance. Needs lots of blow-drying and cleaning and oiling-up since he’s older. Definitely not my type.” The last couple words come out a bit clipped and rushed, since that tight, heated tension is beginning to spread through Timo again. He wills himself to relax into Phil’s touch, but it’s getting harder and harder by the second. “Besides, I like short blonds who root for Stuttgart occasionally.”

That gets him another bite and then a long, soft suck at the same spot. Also, Torsten stops mauling Michael, who’s seriously about to puddle all over him, long enough to mumble something about good because Timo’s a goalie and goalies are idiots when it comes to appreciating midfielders anyway. Then he has to turn back because Michael’s coming and probably is going to break Torsten’s shoulders in the middle of that.

Well, Frings can think that if he wants, but even goddamn Michael Ballack is going to get screamed at if he can’t keep the ball up front. And Timo’s just going to sit here and for once be glad he doesn’t have that job yet, because that means he can shatter into Phil’s hands while Michael stares blearily in his direction and not feel a particle of shame about it.

“Torsten,” Michael says about a minute later. He has to take a breath before he can go on. “How am I supposed to lead the team if you molest me in front of them?”

“Me? I’m not the only one doing the molesting. Who was rubbing up against me every time we had a clothes-change?” Torsten gives Michael’s sweater a possessive stroke with the back of his hand, since his fingers and palm are visibly sticky. Looks and smells like they stole the hair-gel, too. “You’re keeping these, right?”

Michael blinks a couple times. Philipp grins into Timo’s neck. Timo snorts and catches Michael’s eye. “I know a good dry-cleaning service, if that helps. You know, in the spirit of team unity.”

“Hildebrand,” Michael starts, then changes his mind. He gives up on the scolding and just sighs instead. “Just give me less trouble than Bastian and Lukas, all right?”

“Of course. I don’t drag random teammates into closets. I mean, they’d be dumb enough to haul in Jens, since Strenesse put him in that suit,” Timo says.

He’s joking, but all four of them stare at each other for a second. Then there’s a mad scramble to get cleaned up and out in time to avert the apocalypse.