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Dec. 9th, 2018 09:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againIn that light, I have very little to actually say (I'm supposed to be writing right now hah hah) except that we did Team English House Christmas for the second year running yesterday and it was so nice to have an entire day of quiet movies (The Christmas Prince: The Royal Wedding is terrible oh my god; how can these people NOT ACT TO THIS EXTENT and yet we still watched the entire thing and made Housemate #3 who hadn't even seen The Christmas Prince watch it too, much to his confusion) and good food and presents. Housemate #3 bought me a combined birthday/Xmas present after getting me something I already owned for my birthday originally and having to return it) so, unexpectedly, he got me Pokemon Let's Go: Eevee. I'm limiting how much I'm allowed to play when I haven't finished Breath of the Wild or half the things I'm writing, but so far it's disconcertingly like going back in time to play Pokemon Red/Blue again and just as bizarrely addictive. I love my Eevee (Evi) but I'm already wary of running out of pokeballs with the sheer number of pokemon running around. It's great that you can sort of avoid the wild pokemon if you decide you need to get somewhere in a hurry though; that's a great upgrade from the original games. I'm already impatient to start catching Charmanders and Vulpix so I can get me my Charizards and Ninetails (Ninetailses? Ninetailsi?) again.
Having a full time job is very inconvenient when I just want to play Pokemon Let's Go: Eevee. I mean, being able to afford to eat is pretty nice but I could do with each day being twice as long. Work is also... A Thing right now. I don't know. I might know more tomorrow how stressful the next few months might be or it might drag out and, I don't know. It'd be easier overall to win the lottery or inherit a trust fund tomorrow so I can quit to write full time and play Pokemon without guilt, basically.
But I can't. So instead, and in the name of adding to the Dreamwidth Resurgence, have a tennis fic snippet. I wrote this a few months back thinking I'd carry on and make it a Christmas fic surprise but that's looking less likely the closer we get to Christmas (oh god I am so completely not organised this year) so have a snippet anyway. Sascha/Roger with background Andy/Novak; overall the entire fic plan has Sascha/Dominic, Sascha/Roger, Sascha/Novak, (are you sensing a theme?) with a variety of other pairings because I thought months ago 'what if the big four players took the top four next-gen/up and coming players away for a Christmas "training session" every year, only it was actually an excuse to play a mini round-robin competition where the winners got to consensually sleep with the losers in a glorious week of fun times for all with surprise Meaningful Feelings because those are the best kind, and then this happened. Maybe one day I'll finish it.
There’s been plenty of times in Sascha’s life when he’s thought, I have no idea how I ended up here. Every match where he’s been down two sets to love and facing break point, even though he was serving out of the park. During that photoshoot where the photographer said ‘Okay, unbutton your shirt and give me a suggestive look, like you’re thinking about asking the camera out on a dirty weekend’, oblivious to Sascha’s mother choking on her coffee right behind him while Sascha stared down at his own chest and tried not to catch fire from the heat of his blush.
That’s just tennis, the nature of an individual sport and sponsors who think secondhand embarrassment sells just because some focus group somewhere ticked a box. He’s aware enough of his many privileges to appreciate that sometimes they put him in situations that are objectively implausible or ridiculous; he’s relaxed enough as a person to mostly roll with it.
Bent over on his hands and knees on thousand-thread count sheets with three of Roger Federer’s fingers stretching him methodically open until he’s whimpering helpless curses on every intake of breath — he might finally have tripped into more than he can handle.
‘You okay there Alex?’ Novak asks. He’s on the overstuffed sofa in the corner of Roger’s hotel suite bedroom, shirt unbuttoned and eyes half-lidded, smile licking lazily around his mouth. Andy’s sitting behind him, thighs bracketing Novak’s and one hand pressed flat, possessive, to Novak’s chest beneath his once-crisp white shirt. ‘He add that third finger, your eyes cross.’
‘I’m good,’ Sascha gasps, sound thin and hiccuped in a way that’s hardly convincing. Roger’s fingers pause in their steady rhythm, holding pressed inside to the second knuckle with the slick of lube, the stretch still burning almost past the point of pleasure.
‘You sure you’re okay, Sascha?’
It’s the first thing he’s said since Sascha walked into the suite, hands tucked into his pockets to hide their shaking. Roger had smiled at him, same media-polished ease as always, gestured to the bed and said, ‘Strip, kneel face down. Don’t touch yourself, don’t come until I say,’ and arousal hit Sascha so hard he almost went lightheaded.
He had been alert enough to notice Novak laughing from across the room when he half-fell onto the mattress though, made sure his shirt caught the Serb in the face when he yanked it over his head and threw it. When Novak startled to splutter something indignant, Andy had stuffed a corner of the shirt in his mouth and grinned something like approval at Sascha, before mouthing what looked like pay up at a rueful Rafa slouched against the opposite wall.
Sascha had thought about asking — had they bet he wouldn’t show up, the indignity of his honour being doubted setting light a spark of anger, something could seethe to resentment if he let it— but by then he’d been down to boxers and aware of four sets of eyes intent on him, on his hardening cock as he slid the underwear off, annoyingly shy of his flush sweeping downward and convincing his shaking hand to toss the boxers away anyway.
He’d met Roger’s gaze as he knelt there, naked and on display in the Swiss’ bed and seen the blink, the way Roger’s infamous calm wavered just briefly at the sight — enough to say that Roger’s into this, into Sascha. It’d been enough of a confidence boost for Sascha to make a show of it as he turned, slow stretch and wriggle of his hips, folding himself onto hands and elbows with his ass in the air.
So it’s not as if he’s going to back out now. The time for that was hours ago, on the indoor court with their avid audience of six and sweat slicking his shirt to his back despite the bite of winter to the air, disappointment dragging at his feet as he walked to the net. Roger’s smile had been only slightly apologetic when he said, ‘So, you know the rules? My room at eight, no later.’
Sascha doesn’t back out of promises. Especially not when he had the chance to be the one with his fingers (and everything else) in Roger and lost it.
Now, stretched out and desperate and so hard he can barely gasp in each breath, he presses his forehead to his white-knuckled grip on the sheets and moans.
‘Don’t stop, please Roger-‘
‘Dios mío,’ he hears Rafa mutter from across the room. When Sascha sneaks a dizzy look sideways through the hair falling over his face, the Spaniard’s shifting uncomfortably in the chair he’d dragged in from the dining table of the suite, legs spread. He’s already sweating, although he’s gripping the sides of the chair rather than himself; they’re all taking the no touching rule way more seriously than Sascha expected. ‘Roger, he say he fine. No worry so much.’
Roger’s fingers shift slightly, sparking a bloom of heat up Sascha’s spine but he doesn’t pick up the rhythm again, unflappable when he says, ‘I believe I ask Sascha if he’s okay. None of your names are Sascha.’
‘Neither’s his,’ Novak mutters. Craning his neck to look round, maybe to beg— Roger can’t back down now, not with Sascha’s entire body quivering on the brink of immolation; jerking off alone in his room isn’t going to cut it —Sascha catches Roger’s smile going fixed in a way that suggests Novak’s going to find his practice times inconveniently rearranged at every tournament for the next six months.
‘Sascha,’ Roger says, meeting his dazed look and enunciating very carefully in German, the only language they alone share of anyone in the room, he adds, ‘You need me to go slow or to stop, just say. Understand?’
It’s getting hard to form words in any language but it’s sweet of Roger to check — if somewhat too late to be any use when Sascha’s already buck naked and over halfway to coming around the Swiss’ serving hand — so he tries:
‘Mir geht es gut, ich verspreche es, bitte, bitte Roger,’ he gasps, voice almost worn to a thread by desperation, by the coiling heat building in the pit of his stomach at Roger’s approving smile and flex of his fingers, mercilessly seeking the sweet spot until Sascha makes an embarrassing whimpering sound, arcs his back to keep from coming before he’s told.
‘Good boy,’ Roger says, in English — for their audience, fuck, Sascha had almost forgotten — and the warm approval in it scrapes another helpless broken sound between Sascha’s clenched teeth. ‘You are so very beautiful,’ Roger continues, voice soft, his fingers anything but. He’s not even sweating, shirt unbuttoned halfway but otherwise fully dressed as he mercilessly takes Sascha apart with just his hands. He’s still got his fucking suit jacket on. ‘Beautiful here, like this, and on court also. Sometimes you hit a backhand and all I can think is how much I want to do this, you know?’
Well now he knows, and is never going to be able to unknow which means his backhand is fucked forever. There’s only so many excuses he can make to hold a towel casually in front of his shorts on court.
Somewhere to his left there’s a groan and a muttered curse; it’s Andy, which means that Novak’s decided to break the no touching rule. Sascha doesn’t care — they’re not allowed to touch him, not tonight — but Roger’s other hand, the one steady on his hip, goes tight for an instant in annoyance. When he slides his fingers out, Sascha can’t swallow a whimper of protest.
Roger rubs a hand across the dip of his back, slick with sweat, soothing. ‘Only a minute, liebchen. Breathe.’
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Date: 2018-12-10 07:07 am (UTC)Eevee is ridiculously cute. And it's amazing to see all these old locations from Red version in these graphics, and to hear the remastered soundtrack!
I was very distressed by the rival at first - 'wait, where's my spiky-haired dick rival? why is this guy being nice? it's not the same without the rival saying he'll smell me later' - and I was ecstatic when Blue showed up in Pewter City.
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Date: 2018-12-11 07:36 pm (UTC)I'm very glad my housemate knew me well enough to go for Eevee over Pikachu; I love her riding around on top of my head. It is a little odd to walk into all the same towns as in Red... but they look like towns, not the idea of towns sketched as basic line drawings. I wonder if NPCs are ever given AI how they'll feel about being upgraded from tiny black pixels into rounded people in full colour.
I named my weirdly-friendly-rival-in-Pallet-Town Gary for anime nostalgia, expecting him to be the worst, and then he gave me Pokeballs! And helpful tips! Then Blue appeared and I was briefly afraid I'd end up with two Garys, Nice Gary and The Actual Actual Worst Gary before they introduced him as Blue and I was relieved. It wouldn't be a Pokemon game without someone showing up occasionally to smugface at me until I have to get better just to prove them wrong.
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Date: 2018-12-11 07:52 pm (UTC)I imagine at least one of them will just be thinking 'oh, man, you can see my comfy shorts so much better now, this is great.'
I have absolutely no regrets about my rival-naming decisions:
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Date: 2018-12-11 08:02 pm (UTC)