Tangible Schizophrenia



Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Jens Lehmann/Freddie Ljungberg, implied other pairings
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is all made-up and fiction and has nothing to do with these people’s actual personal lives.
Notes: For louphoenix in thanks for translating services. Set in 2005.
Summary: Freddie messing around in the hotel bed. Jens pretends to be annoyed.


Jens has seen those old photos of Freddie, and he’s glad just based on those that he basically met Freddie after the other man had shaved his head. That stripe especially was ridiculous: a cute way to touch fans’ hearts, but still hideous. The clean scalp looks so much more streamlined and mature and…and well, it doesn’t tickle nearly as badly when Freddie’s bothering him. “I’m trying to read the paper here.”

Freddie’s somewhere beneath the bedsheets. His ass and shoulders occasionally hump up the blankets, but mostly he’s just this annoying, wriggling hump who’s been persistently shoving himself between Jens’ legs for the past ten minutes. “Why?” comes his muffled voice.

Because it’s useful for rolling up and whacking at horny teammates after they’ve cracked their skull into his knee for the tenth time. “I’ve got a sore thigh muscle. I’m supposed to be resting it.”

“I know, which is why the masseuse got to put his hands all over your legs while you were just wearing that little white towel and—ow! German! You ass!” The sheets suddenly heave up to reveal one irritated Fredrik Ljungberg, bane to defenders everywhere.

Of course, Jens is a goal-keeper, so he couldn’t care less. “I hope you weren’t drooling under there, like when the physios were taking care of my leg.”

Freddie grins and puts his hands on Jens’ knees. He taps his fingers up and down a four-centimeter stretch of Jens’ inner thighs, staring thoughtfully at them. Warm prickles start to run restlessly through Jens’ legs, making him uncomfortably shift around. “Why not? I would’ve liked to have been that masseuse.”

The paper’s also good for when Jens needs to drop his face into something and groan. “Well, for one thing, I don’t need Thierry trying to give me another talk about not making the younger players curious. Last time he giggled so much I thought he was going to pass out.”

“And then you’d have to explain to Le Bob that no, you weren’t actually kissing Titi. You were just trying to make sure our captain didn’t die,” Freddie snickers. His hands start crawling up Jens’ thighs. “Thierry worries too much. And always goes off with Robert too quick to catch the kids at it with each other. The other day I walked into the showers and caught Hleb and—”

Jens wrinkles his nose and tosses the paper to the side. “I don’t really want to know about that. It’s bad enough I always want to take a cleaning spray to the bus seats before I sit down, thanks to Fàbregas.”

“Well, what do you want to know about?” Freddie’s right hand has just slid up inside Jens’ boxers.

Jens grabs it and pushes it back down, raising one eyebrow at Freddie’s frustrated noise. “How good of a masseuse you are. If you’re going to stare at them like that, you might as well touch them.”

“Sometimes you do have decent ideas, German,” Freddie says, voice curling with amused lust. His fingers are already kneading their way back up, and this time Jens doesn’t protest.