I'm crazee, I'm crazee Gary Oldman...
Sep. 27th, 2004 01:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againI have to get that goddamn sentence out my head. It's driving me crazee.
Oh that was bad. *slaps wrist*
TREMBLE BEFORE TEH POWAH OF UNIVERSITY INTERNET! Mwahaha! Only took me what, two days and an hour or so of confusion to get set up? Admittedly didn't get the stuff for it until about three hours ago. So YAY! Am back with avengence! And... tennis fic.
Not Bounty yet. It's within an hour of being finished but it needs a good bashing with the editing stick to make it anything close to what I'd like it to be. -_- So![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
liroa15 I can finish it and post it unedited later tonight or I can finish it and edit it over the next few days and post it then? I don't mind. It's probably some perfectionist side kicking in going "OMGEDITTHEDAMNFICYOUFOOL!" but I still don't like it. >_< Oh and if you still want Federer icons I'll be very happy to make some - I find Roger easier to iconise than Andy for some reason.
But I DO come bearing fic. And once again, it's angsty!Andy POV. WHY DO I DO THIS? I love fluff. I really adore it. But have I written fluffy tennis slash this summer? Like smeg I have. *glares at the muses* Grow up! You're acting like teenagers!
But anyway... fic! And I've just realised this is probably the highest rated thing I've ever posted. So... if you have any remaining notions of me being a sweet, fluffy, innocent little girl... you'd better leave them right here. ;-)
~
Title: Justification
Rating: High R… probably more NC-17
Fandom: Tennis!slash
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer
Summary: Andy knows Roger has him trapped. Heavy angst warning - short, but definitely not sweet.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, not claiming this ever has, or ever will happen. Got it? Good.
Justification
Roger’s gorgeous when he’s being fucked.
To see him out on court with his mask of calm in place, you’d never think he’d make so much noise during sex. Moans; whimpers; tiny little sounds of pleasure that I’d call squeaks if I didn’t love them so much that describing them as something so mundane seems an insult. I have a private bet with myself that every time Roger lets me fuck him I’ll drag some new sound out. So far, I’ve never lost.
I bend my head to kiss his neck, running sharp teeth over smooth golden skin. Roger cries out and arcs up into me, helpless, mine. I can do anything to him when I have him pinned beneath me like this and he knows it; knows it every time I ask if I can fuck him; ask wordlessly with my mouth and my hands and the press of our bodies together in whatever hotel room we’re in that week. Knows it and still says yes in the way he responds to kisses and the way he lets me press him down into the bed with never a word of protest. I never ask anything of him apart from this; his permission to let me dominate occasionally, to control him through sex like the way he controls my tennis, my life. It’s all I want – an outsider might call it revenge but it goes deeper than that, to the level of basic, primal instinct. I submit to Roger on a daily basis because I have the memory of him pinned beneath me like this, crying out in English or German or an incoherent, babbling mixture of both as I, for these rare times only, have him under my control.
What you have to understand about Roger is that he’s not simply good, he’s unreal. With his talent comes modesty; with seriousness comes a dry sense of humour. He can work the media like a puppet on strings and always, always is generous to those he defeats. Grace and assurance gives him an aura of calm that hides a killer instinct. Looking at Roger is like looking into a mirror and seeing what you could be. A mirror that shows you all your faults in stark clarity; shows you what you’ve worked your life to be and never achieved. I think of it as looking at the sun; dazzlingly beautiful but deadly and I can’t stop, never ever can I stop. It may seem masochistic. Perhaps it is, a little. If I think about it too hard I’ll go crazy, or I may be already. I lost the ability to tell the difference when Roger first kissed me months ago.
It was at Wimbledon that he first slammed me back against the wall and pressed his mouth to mine; in my rented house that night he let me fuck him senseless in what I’ve always considered a tacit apology for shocking me. Andy Roddick and shocked aren’t words that usually appear in the same sentence but he surprised the shit out of me that day and why I didn’t end it there and then… well. I tell myself I must’ve been insane but at the same time I know I’m lying – I let Roger kiss me, ruin me, turn my life upside down, because he’s Roger Federer. If he asked someone who loved him to bring him the world, they’d turn themselves inside out trying to get it for him; if he asked me to bring him the world, I know I’d try until my heart burst. In my own, twisted way I do love him and Jesus, ten therapists, no, a hundred, could retire off us comfortably. Roger has something there are no words for – if I believed in religion I’d call it a soul, something that shines out and makes the rest of us seem drab and grey by comparison… but I’ve never had faith in God and with something so golden and beautiful writhing and trapped beneath me, I don’t need to. I have everything I ever could need right here - twisted, crazy, wrong, none of it matters.
I press a sharp kiss to Roger’s mouth and he moans with a breathy whimpering sound that makes me tremble and kiss him harder. None of it matters when I have this. When I’m in him, I’m untouchable. When I make him gasp and moan and cry out, I break the illusion that is Roger’s power. He’s just another human like us all and only I get to see it, to force it to the surface. In a way that makes me special. It makes me more than just a number two to his one; more than the player who wasn’t good enough to stay the best. It makes me more powerful than him. It makes me, for the briefest of moments when he comes, lips shaping my name and pleasure making him shiver, his equal. Never better but to be equal to someone like Roger, human as he is, is all I could ever hope for. It shocked me in the beginning and it still shocks me now – looking down through the haze of orgasm, seeing Roger tremble when I move even slightly - knowing he lets me do this shocks me. That he lets anyone touch him, taste him is incredible enough but that he chose me… it gives me a thrill of something like pride. Only I can leave teeth marks on that golden skin; only I can leave half-crescent nail marks in his shoulders to hold him down.
It makes me special. Important. Loving Roger means I’m more than just Andy Roddick, seeded second in the world. It means I’m Andy Roddick who was chosen by the best, even if no one knows it but us. For me loving Roger is entirely selfish but also entirely involuntary – if I tried to leave I know I’d fail. I need his brilliance to keep me alive; I breathe Roger’s approval like I breathe air. Sometime between Wimbledon and here I got addicted and the willpower to stop, to walk away – I don’t think I have it.
Sometimes I think about stopping. As I lie curled next to him, a possessive arm wrapped over my chest, I think about saying no. I construct the conversation piece by piece in my mind; what I’d say, where I’d say it, how he’d react. Occasionally I even get to the part where I stand up and walk away. Then I fall asleep and the next morning, waking up warm from his body heat, everything I’d planned to say scatters like ashes in the wind. I may have these brief moments when Roger is mine to do with as I please but I’m more trapped than he’ll ever be and this is a locked cell without a key. I’m Roger’s, he’s mine and the fairy tales never mention the disastrous end I can see looming up ahead of us. Nothing this crazy can last and it’s enough to make me consider leaving, just one more time. I even form the opening words in my mind, “Roger this has to stop…”
Then I turn onto my side, rest my head against his warm shoulder and wish myself asleep.
~ Fin ~
I'd talk about my shiny new university room and the flatmates who seem cool - one girl actually cooked for us all last night ^__^ - but I have an English talk to go to in 45 minutes and I need lunch before attempting the 15-20 minute walk. Back later.
Clo
Oh that was bad. *slaps wrist*
TREMBLE BEFORE TEH POWAH OF UNIVERSITY INTERNET! Mwahaha! Only took me what, two days and an hour or so of confusion to get set up? Admittedly didn't get the stuff for it until about three hours ago. So YAY! Am back with avengence! And... tennis fic.
Not Bounty yet. It's within an hour of being finished but it needs a good bashing with the editing stick to make it anything close to what I'd like it to be. -_- So
liroa15 I can finish it and post it unedited later tonight or I can finish it and edit it over the next few days and post it then? I don't mind. It's probably some perfectionist side kicking in going "OMGEDITTHEDAMNFICYOUFOOL!" but I still don't like it. >_< Oh and if you still want Federer icons I'll be very happy to make some - I find Roger easier to iconise than Andy for some reason.But I DO come bearing fic. And once again, it's angsty!Andy POV. WHY DO I DO THIS? I love fluff. I really adore it. But have I written fluffy tennis slash this summer? Like smeg I have. *glares at the muses* Grow up! You're acting like teenagers!
But anyway... fic! And I've just realised this is probably the highest rated thing I've ever posted. So... if you have any remaining notions of me being a sweet, fluffy, innocent little girl... you'd better leave them right here. ;-)
~
Title: Justification
Rating: High R… probably more NC-17
Fandom: Tennis!slash
Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer
Summary: Andy knows Roger has him trapped. Heavy angst warning - short, but definitely not sweet.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, not claiming this ever has, or ever will happen. Got it? Good.
Justification
Roger’s gorgeous when he’s being fucked.
To see him out on court with his mask of calm in place, you’d never think he’d make so much noise during sex. Moans; whimpers; tiny little sounds of pleasure that I’d call squeaks if I didn’t love them so much that describing them as something so mundane seems an insult. I have a private bet with myself that every time Roger lets me fuck him I’ll drag some new sound out. So far, I’ve never lost.
I bend my head to kiss his neck, running sharp teeth over smooth golden skin. Roger cries out and arcs up into me, helpless, mine. I can do anything to him when I have him pinned beneath me like this and he knows it; knows it every time I ask if I can fuck him; ask wordlessly with my mouth and my hands and the press of our bodies together in whatever hotel room we’re in that week. Knows it and still says yes in the way he responds to kisses and the way he lets me press him down into the bed with never a word of protest. I never ask anything of him apart from this; his permission to let me dominate occasionally, to control him through sex like the way he controls my tennis, my life. It’s all I want – an outsider might call it revenge but it goes deeper than that, to the level of basic, primal instinct. I submit to Roger on a daily basis because I have the memory of him pinned beneath me like this, crying out in English or German or an incoherent, babbling mixture of both as I, for these rare times only, have him under my control.
What you have to understand about Roger is that he’s not simply good, he’s unreal. With his talent comes modesty; with seriousness comes a dry sense of humour. He can work the media like a puppet on strings and always, always is generous to those he defeats. Grace and assurance gives him an aura of calm that hides a killer instinct. Looking at Roger is like looking into a mirror and seeing what you could be. A mirror that shows you all your faults in stark clarity; shows you what you’ve worked your life to be and never achieved. I think of it as looking at the sun; dazzlingly beautiful but deadly and I can’t stop, never ever can I stop. It may seem masochistic. Perhaps it is, a little. If I think about it too hard I’ll go crazy, or I may be already. I lost the ability to tell the difference when Roger first kissed me months ago.
It was at Wimbledon that he first slammed me back against the wall and pressed his mouth to mine; in my rented house that night he let me fuck him senseless in what I’ve always considered a tacit apology for shocking me. Andy Roddick and shocked aren’t words that usually appear in the same sentence but he surprised the shit out of me that day and why I didn’t end it there and then… well. I tell myself I must’ve been insane but at the same time I know I’m lying – I let Roger kiss me, ruin me, turn my life upside down, because he’s Roger Federer. If he asked someone who loved him to bring him the world, they’d turn themselves inside out trying to get it for him; if he asked me to bring him the world, I know I’d try until my heart burst. In my own, twisted way I do love him and Jesus, ten therapists, no, a hundred, could retire off us comfortably. Roger has something there are no words for – if I believed in religion I’d call it a soul, something that shines out and makes the rest of us seem drab and grey by comparison… but I’ve never had faith in God and with something so golden and beautiful writhing and trapped beneath me, I don’t need to. I have everything I ever could need right here - twisted, crazy, wrong, none of it matters.
I press a sharp kiss to Roger’s mouth and he moans with a breathy whimpering sound that makes me tremble and kiss him harder. None of it matters when I have this. When I’m in him, I’m untouchable. When I make him gasp and moan and cry out, I break the illusion that is Roger’s power. He’s just another human like us all and only I get to see it, to force it to the surface. In a way that makes me special. It makes me more than just a number two to his one; more than the player who wasn’t good enough to stay the best. It makes me more powerful than him. It makes me, for the briefest of moments when he comes, lips shaping my name and pleasure making him shiver, his equal. Never better but to be equal to someone like Roger, human as he is, is all I could ever hope for. It shocked me in the beginning and it still shocks me now – looking down through the haze of orgasm, seeing Roger tremble when I move even slightly - knowing he lets me do this shocks me. That he lets anyone touch him, taste him is incredible enough but that he chose me… it gives me a thrill of something like pride. Only I can leave teeth marks on that golden skin; only I can leave half-crescent nail marks in his shoulders to hold him down.
It makes me special. Important. Loving Roger means I’m more than just Andy Roddick, seeded second in the world. It means I’m Andy Roddick who was chosen by the best, even if no one knows it but us. For me loving Roger is entirely selfish but also entirely involuntary – if I tried to leave I know I’d fail. I need his brilliance to keep me alive; I breathe Roger’s approval like I breathe air. Sometime between Wimbledon and here I got addicted and the willpower to stop, to walk away – I don’t think I have it.
Sometimes I think about stopping. As I lie curled next to him, a possessive arm wrapped over my chest, I think about saying no. I construct the conversation piece by piece in my mind; what I’d say, where I’d say it, how he’d react. Occasionally I even get to the part where I stand up and walk away. Then I fall asleep and the next morning, waking up warm from his body heat, everything I’d planned to say scatters like ashes in the wind. I may have these brief moments when Roger is mine to do with as I please but I’m more trapped than he’ll ever be and this is a locked cell without a key. I’m Roger’s, he’s mine and the fairy tales never mention the disastrous end I can see looming up ahead of us. Nothing this crazy can last and it’s enough to make me consider leaving, just one more time. I even form the opening words in my mind, “Roger this has to stop…”
Then I turn onto my side, rest my head against his warm shoulder and wish myself asleep.
~ Fin ~
I'd talk about my shiny new university room and the flatmates who seem cool - one girl actually cooked for us all last night ^__^ - but I have an English talk to go to in 45 minutes and I need lunch before attempting the 15-20 minute walk. Back later.
Clo
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
YES!!!
Date: 2004-09-27 02:47 pm (UTC)And, you are an evil, evil person, you know that? This fic makes me want to cry at the same time it makes me happy. That is evil! And now I must go study my psych so I will try and respond later. In the mean time, look at my holiday pics, I command you!
Re: YES!!!
Date: 2004-09-28 04:19 am (UTC)I know - why I write so much angsty!Andy I have no idea because I *love* sweet, fluffy fic. *sighs* I think the muses are on too much sugar or something.
Yay! Holiday pics! *obdiently goes to look*
Re: YES!!!
Date: 2004-09-28 08:00 am (UTC)Re: YES!!!
Date: 2004-09-29 03:47 am (UTC)Re: YES!!!
Date: 2004-09-29 03:33 pm (UTC)