[fic] dust [swimmerpf]
Aug. 16th, 2005 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bantha_fodderYeah, I wish I was kidding.
Look, I've always been a fan of swimmers. And thanks to recent picspams by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saava and bellanut, I've recently been getting back into it. And, uh, it turns out I wrote swimmer fic last year, and never posted it here.
So, I present a swimmer RPF. Ian Thorpe/Michael Phelps yeah SHUT IT I'M SORRY, OKAY?
title: dust
fandom: swimmer RPF
disclaimer: uh. this is totally made up. and also, if i ever achieve my goal of becoming a professional sportsperson, the existence of this fic may possibly make me incredibly uncomfortable. but you all totally have my permission to write fic about me then. *g*
I've made no edits to this fic. It's posted as is from the file on my computer. And was originally forspillingvelvet, I think, and then she made the icon I'm using in thanks.
18/08/2004 (written during the Olympics, and set there)
**
It’s not quite silent. Oh, comparatively; comparatively Sydney on the morning of the Mardi Gras is quiet, but the filters continue to whir, and the murmur from the city is a dull ache on his subconscious. But it’s a relief: after Sydney; after the village; after the race; after the media; to just sit in the glaring light and pretend it’s silence.
‘A little bit flat’ – honestly, what is he trying to pull? He’s fucking devastated, and not just over the loss. 0.13, and Grant’s refusing to talk to anyone – he’ll get over it, but not before punching a hole in a wall and getting pissed as a fucking newt.
But Ian’s not thinking of Grant, because thinking of Grant hurts too much. He’s not thinking of his mum and his dad, and all the people he let down in 1:44.18, and he’s definitely not thinking about what he’s going to have to put up with when he gets home; the number of times he’ll have to say “it was a bit disappointing” and look appropriately chagrined-yet-ready-to-bounce-back, and oh fuck what will he say to Kieran?
He’s so involved in focusing on nothing but the pool that he doesn’t hear a thing until a fucking jarring American voice twangs behind him. “Pondering my dust?” and Ian turns and there’s Phelps, just standing there, and thank fuck he’s not wearing the gold because if he was Ian would have decked him or something.
Ian puts his hands on the starting block he’s sitting on, and “no,” he shakes his head, turning it away. Phelps moves back into his vision.
“Would you feel better if I said sorry?”
Ian scowls. “No.” He resists the urge to add ‘fuck off,’ but he thinks it.
Ian’s uncomfortable enough without Phelps hovering beside him – the tracksuits just keep getting dorkier every time – and maintains a steady glare at the water, all too aware of Phelps’ breathing. Fucking Americans – can’t they be quiet?
“Well, I’m not sorry, anyway, so I s’pose there’s no real point.”
Ian turns at the touch but before he realises what’s happening, Phelps has one hand on the block between Ian’s thighs and the other grasping his shoulder, and Phelps is kissing him pushing into him exploring him and he is pulling away gasping.
Phelps looks at him, inscrutable. He leans forward and kisses Phelps and the dratted American kisses back, hard, like he means it.
Phelps touches him on the chest, and then gives him a push.
When his head rises above the water, Phelps is gone. The fucker. But Ian is feeling much better. He laughs, and pulls himself out. Maybe Grant has worked his anger out, and is ready for some company.
Look, I've always been a fan of swimmers. And thanks to recent picspams by
saava and bellanut, I've recently been getting back into it. And, uh, it turns out I wrote swimmer fic last year, and never posted it here.So, I present a swimmer RPF. Ian Thorpe/Michael Phelps yeah SHUT IT I'M SORRY, OKAY?
title: dust
fandom: swimmer RPF
disclaimer: uh. this is totally made up. and also, if i ever achieve my goal of becoming a professional sportsperson, the existence of this fic may possibly make me incredibly uncomfortable. but you all totally have my permission to write fic about me then. *g*
I've made no edits to this fic. It's posted as is from the file on my computer. And was originally for
spillingvelvet, I think, and then she made the icon I'm using in thanks.18/08/2004 (written during the Olympics, and set there)
**
It’s not quite silent. Oh, comparatively; comparatively Sydney on the morning of the Mardi Gras is quiet, but the filters continue to whir, and the murmur from the city is a dull ache on his subconscious. But it’s a relief: after Sydney; after the village; after the race; after the media; to just sit in the glaring light and pretend it’s silence.
‘A little bit flat’ – honestly, what is he trying to pull? He’s fucking devastated, and not just over the loss. 0.13, and Grant’s refusing to talk to anyone – he’ll get over it, but not before punching a hole in a wall and getting pissed as a fucking newt.
But Ian’s not thinking of Grant, because thinking of Grant hurts too much. He’s not thinking of his mum and his dad, and all the people he let down in 1:44.18, and he’s definitely not thinking about what he’s going to have to put up with when he gets home; the number of times he’ll have to say “it was a bit disappointing” and look appropriately chagrined-yet-ready-to-bounce-back, and oh fuck what will he say to Kieran?
He’s so involved in focusing on nothing but the pool that he doesn’t hear a thing until a fucking jarring American voice twangs behind him. “Pondering my dust?” and Ian turns and there’s Phelps, just standing there, and thank fuck he’s not wearing the gold because if he was Ian would have decked him or something.
Ian puts his hands on the starting block he’s sitting on, and “no,” he shakes his head, turning it away. Phelps moves back into his vision.
“Would you feel better if I said sorry?”
Ian scowls. “No.” He resists the urge to add ‘fuck off,’ but he thinks it.
Ian’s uncomfortable enough without Phelps hovering beside him – the tracksuits just keep getting dorkier every time – and maintains a steady glare at the water, all too aware of Phelps’ breathing. Fucking Americans – can’t they be quiet?
“Well, I’m not sorry, anyway, so I s’pose there’s no real point.”
Ian turns at the touch but before he realises what’s happening, Phelps has one hand on the block between Ian’s thighs and the other grasping his shoulder, and Phelps is kissing him pushing into him exploring him and he is pulling away gasping.
Phelps looks at him, inscrutable. He leans forward and kisses Phelps and the dratted American kisses back, hard, like he means it.
Phelps touches him on the chest, and then gives him a push.
When his head rises above the water, Phelps is gone. The fucker. But Ian is feeling much better. He laughs, and pulls himself out. Maybe Grant has worked his anger out, and is ready for some company.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 08:53 am (UTC)See, you instinctively loved me from the start without even knowing it!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 09:59 pm (UTC)OMG YOU HAVE JAMES IN AN ICON.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 09:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 10:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-17 05:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-17 05:30 am (UTC)That's pretty funny. Have you seen his diary or whatever from his time in China? And some of the pictures? He looks hilarious.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-18 05:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 10:00 am (UTC)say that ten times fast XD
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 10:01 pm (UTC)Or, I could not. *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 03:37 pm (UTC)Woo!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-16 10:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-17 06:53 pm (UTC)