(no subject)
Title - Sloth
Rating - NC17
Pairing - Daniel Agger/Martin Skrtel (my new ‘thing’)
Disclaimer - Never happened. Possibly never will. Probably never will.
Summary - Part 6 of 7
Too early, too soon, Daniel sleeps.
He looks comfortable and comforted; almost sweet, in repose. Gone is the sneer. Gone is the domineering personality.
Gone is the quick-wit that sometimes cuts too deep to be funny and leaves Martin bleeding internally.
Gone is the superiority; the attitude that suggests how much ‘better’ he is.
Whilst the words are often inciting the silence is nice. It’s nice to be back early, nice to be able to rest after a day of travelling and a night of team meetings and bonding. He spent an hour before retiring with Riise playing pool and losing.
Martin always loses against Riise, inferior on the green felt as he is regarded as superior on the pitch - a superior defender, a superior player yet, leave him with four balls and a black to down and he’ll always come up struggling.
They shook on it.
Martin vowed to beat him, next time and, when John waved a lazy hand in his direction to brush him off he didn’t protest too much. Martin’s strength has always been that he knows his limits.
His weakness is that he doesn’t know his limits with Agger; doesn’t know where he stands, at all.
His weakness is that he doesn’t want to know, is happy to take each act of love (lust) and violence as it comes - each moment of seduction and pain, of teacher, of pupil.
He's learning a lot.
On the pitch, nobody touches him, and Daniel praises him for that. Off the pitch, he comes back to him every single night and asks, do you want a piece of me?
He says it without words.
Martin knows.
Every night, Martin takes that piece hungrily as it's offered, devours it in one bite as Daniel takes more from him than he is often willing to give. Every night, Denmark defeats Slovakia as Slovakia holds up that white flag; waits for the red squares to be painted upon it.
The teacher sleeps, now, breathing quietly in the darkness and the pupil, tired as he is, strives not to wake him.
Martin stands by the floor to ceiling mirror and begins to undress slowly, slowly, so as not to wake his sleeping partner, first the shoes then the socks, then shorts, peeling them over his limbs and dropping them gently to the floor. He takes off his shirt, casting that downwards also, shed, discarded beside him. It’s not laziness that dictates that he leave them where they are.
It’s not sloth, but care.
He’s careful; careful not to wake the sleeping demon; wary of rousing the stupefied monster.
Smiling, he thinks, he doesn’t want to wake the baby, wants to kiss it goodnight and stroke its head; wants to patronise it as it so often patronises him yet his paternal instinct does not stretch so far as to endanger his own life. The baby would not wake up and scream; it would wake up and snap his head off for daring to treat it like the child that it so often acts as.
Instead, he climbs in slowly, quietly.
He mouths “Goodnight, God bless” to the still figure beside him yet the sigh is born dead, the whispered words choked before they’re brought to life.
Daniel moves, not faster than light or sound but faster than his demeanour suggested he could. His legs spring him into action, those vast, strong thighs and calves that flicker with the movement, that ripple beneath the surface of his skin.
His arms flex, his hands grasping and grabbing, burning skin as they come into contact with it.
Martin stutters.
Stammers.
Falls back and those hands, those hands that had formed barriers, they push at Daniel’s chest with an intensity that wasn’t there before yet he doesn’t dislodge the man; doesn’t remove him. He remains attached, leech-like, to his skin.
“Hey…” Martin says, a universal exclamation of shock that crosses any language barrier there is. His eyes reflect shock, electric blue sparking into life in darkness. “What’s this for?”
He’d thought Daniel sleeping.
He’d thought him unconscious; dead to the world at 10pm.
He’d thought him lazy…
“Hey, what? Hey, hello? Hey, how are you? Hey, don’t touch me? Hey, get your hands of me? Hey what, Martin? What’s this for? Why don’t you tell me?”
“I-I thought you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I waited for you. I got myself all wound up for nothing. Where were you?”
Where were you but here, where you should be?
Since Martin arrived, Daniel has been of the misinformed view that he owns him.
“I never asked you to wait up,” Martin chokes, without answering. The hand on his jaw forces his gaze yet he wouldn’t look away, even now. “It’s still early. I didn’t know you were tired. I didn't expect you'd be asleep when I got back."
Daniel can appear half asleep yet he is forever alert, a man on edge who sleeps with his eyes half open, expectant, primed for action.
This is action.
This is action, from inaction.
This is activity from sloth and Martin, his eternal-prey, is caught off-guard once more.
There is movement; movement between them.
There is heat, and cold.
“I had to touch myself,” Agger complains. “My hand instead of yours. My fingers on my own cock, and look. Look at me. I got nowhere. I'm still hard. Can you feel that?”
Can he? He pretends not, but he can feel that erection pressing against his thigh.
He can feel that physical exhibition of lust bruising him as it must be bruising itself.
Martin's lips part.
He exhales a sigh, yet no words come out.
Sometimes, the teacher makes the pupil feel so powerful. So capable.
A-star for performance and preparation, because Daniel's this worked up at just the thought of him.
"I," he starts, leaning forward, nervously clearing his thought, "I-want..."
“Is this what you want?” Daniel asks, disallowing the continuation of words as he twists his fingers into Martin's skin, as he leans forward, as he breathes hot-fire down Martin’s ear, so close that the young man can feel the tension; the hot poker between them - the tantric seduction that’s like a ghost between them.
Martin licks his lips; leans forward and daringly licks Daniel’s, too.
He trembles, only slightly.
He's learned.
Agger smiles; tastes Martin’s saliva, sweet, thick with unvoiced lust.
He’s asking for it.
“You want to fuck me? Or, were you too idle to learn the word for that?”
The touch hurts, a Chinese Burn deep within as the skin on his chest twists between Daniel's fingers.
"Were you just too lazy to learn how to ask?"
Martin professes that he doesn’t understand, hands up in supplication, “I surrender” written all over his face. He doesn’t understand; doesn’t get how the lounging tiger, so lazy in the sunlight, can suddenly snap to attention. He doesn’t understand the concept of the basking shark; he that lies in wait at the bottom of the ocean until its prey puts a foot wrong.
Daniel shakes his head.
"Try again."
All he did was get into bed.
All he did was say goodnight…yet the floodgates are open, now, and there’s no turning back.
There’s a lesson to be learned and a thrill to be sought and, if it takes six simple words to accomplish that then he won’t be too lethargic to utter them.
He moves his hand down between them.
He maintains eye contact throughout, knowing that to lose it is to lose.
Try again.
He won’t lose.
He strokes idly over Daniel’s cock before delving, deep, grasping, hard. He takes pleasure in the gasp he draws out of the three-days-older man.
His smile, it isn’t lazy. This is no half-hearted upturning of lips, nor is it a grin. Somewhere in between. A smirk, perhaps, dirty and wanton.
“I want you,” he says, with added inflection to his normally sedate voice, “to fuck me.”
There.
Was that so hard?
Was that so difficult?
Did that strain you too much?
Daniel smiles.
"There," he says.
There.
Martin doesn't understand the meaning, yet doesn't care, because the look of dare has gone, now, the challenge has been met.
He's home, now.
He's back.
In not so many words, he's apologised, and now it's time to call it quits; to fall into Daniel's arms and hope for the best.
Daniel gives in to the request yet, as he pushes Martin down onto his stomach and inches his legs apart he realises he's too tired for dominance; too languid for hour after hour of strenuous exercise so close to a game.
This is a game he has already won so so, why run the extra lap?
He lies down behind him, wraps his arms around a strong body just to still it; uses saliva on his hands to lubricate himself and just gently rocks against him.
Inside of him.
Within him.
"How's this?" he asks, twisting his fingers only when Martin doesn't respond.
"Good," he says, finally, when he feels as if his skin might bruise. "It's good, Daniel."
It's good to be dragged in, thrown against the wall and then pulled downwards for a gentle fuck.
It's good to be rewarded for the effort put into asking for what one wants.
It's good to be Daniel's...
"You just lie there," Daniel whispers. "Enjoy this while it lasts..."
It won't last for long.
Martin barely moves, too comfortable, to allow Daniel to do the work. He barely breathes as that spit-slick cock strokes him inside; as Daniel strokes him outside.
It won't always be this way.
It won't always be so comfortable, yet the pupil enjoys it for the quiet time that he rarely gets to see.
The recess.
The lazy hour.
Afterwards, Martin falls into a contented, exhausted sleep just after Daniel does. For awhile, before, he watches him sleep; comforts him to know that even the most predatory men are vulnerable, sometimes.
Even they need their rest, perhaps not with a finger or thumb to their lips but with their head to a pillow.
Goodnight, he whispers, for a second time this evening.
This time, the shark remains sleeping.
(*)
He opens his eyes to morning; to light shining in from between grey-white clouds. Instead of feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders he feels an arm, another across his chest, a painted arm; painted, like his own and he wonders, what do these words express?
A morning prayer?
A curse?
Do they say, wake me or leave me be?
Do they say, I want you, or, you’re nothing to me?
He feels breath on the side of his face, a body close to his own and, if he listens closely, he can hear his own heartbeat pulsing in his chest.
He turns over.
He runs his eyes over the implausibly beautiful face of his imperfect lover, teacher, too tired to touch but ready to look and he commits it all to memory - every line, every blemish, every spot where the razor missed, every lash, every bone, every shape and every plane.
He closes his eyes; returns to the sleep.
Returns to dreams.
Lazy.
Somnolent.
Indolent.
Sloth.
Also, bit of a spam
http://community.livejournal.com/footballslash/1494559.html
Rating - NC17
Pairing - Daniel Agger/Martin Skrtel (my new ‘thing’)
Disclaimer - Never happened. Possibly never will. Probably never will.
Summary - Part 6 of 7
Too early, too soon, Daniel sleeps.
He looks comfortable and comforted; almost sweet, in repose. Gone is the sneer. Gone is the domineering personality.
Gone is the quick-wit that sometimes cuts too deep to be funny and leaves Martin bleeding internally.
Gone is the superiority; the attitude that suggests how much ‘better’ he is.
Whilst the words are often inciting the silence is nice. It’s nice to be back early, nice to be able to rest after a day of travelling and a night of team meetings and bonding. He spent an hour before retiring with Riise playing pool and losing.
Martin always loses against Riise, inferior on the green felt as he is regarded as superior on the pitch - a superior defender, a superior player yet, leave him with four balls and a black to down and he’ll always come up struggling.
They shook on it.
Martin vowed to beat him, next time and, when John waved a lazy hand in his direction to brush him off he didn’t protest too much. Martin’s strength has always been that he knows his limits.
His weakness is that he doesn’t know his limits with Agger; doesn’t know where he stands, at all.
His weakness is that he doesn’t want to know, is happy to take each act of love (lust) and violence as it comes - each moment of seduction and pain, of teacher, of pupil.
He's learning a lot.
On the pitch, nobody touches him, and Daniel praises him for that. Off the pitch, he comes back to him every single night and asks, do you want a piece of me?
He says it without words.
Martin knows.
Every night, Martin takes that piece hungrily as it's offered, devours it in one bite as Daniel takes more from him than he is often willing to give. Every night, Denmark defeats Slovakia as Slovakia holds up that white flag; waits for the red squares to be painted upon it.
The teacher sleeps, now, breathing quietly in the darkness and the pupil, tired as he is, strives not to wake him.
Martin stands by the floor to ceiling mirror and begins to undress slowly, slowly, so as not to wake his sleeping partner, first the shoes then the socks, then shorts, peeling them over his limbs and dropping them gently to the floor. He takes off his shirt, casting that downwards also, shed, discarded beside him. It’s not laziness that dictates that he leave them where they are.
It’s not sloth, but care.
He’s careful; careful not to wake the sleeping demon; wary of rousing the stupefied monster.
Smiling, he thinks, he doesn’t want to wake the baby, wants to kiss it goodnight and stroke its head; wants to patronise it as it so often patronises him yet his paternal instinct does not stretch so far as to endanger his own life. The baby would not wake up and scream; it would wake up and snap his head off for daring to treat it like the child that it so often acts as.
Instead, he climbs in slowly, quietly.
He mouths “Goodnight, God bless” to the still figure beside him yet the sigh is born dead, the whispered words choked before they’re brought to life.
Daniel moves, not faster than light or sound but faster than his demeanour suggested he could. His legs spring him into action, those vast, strong thighs and calves that flicker with the movement, that ripple beneath the surface of his skin.
His arms flex, his hands grasping and grabbing, burning skin as they come into contact with it.
Martin stutters.
Stammers.
Falls back and those hands, those hands that had formed barriers, they push at Daniel’s chest with an intensity that wasn’t there before yet he doesn’t dislodge the man; doesn’t remove him. He remains attached, leech-like, to his skin.
“Hey…” Martin says, a universal exclamation of shock that crosses any language barrier there is. His eyes reflect shock, electric blue sparking into life in darkness. “What’s this for?”
He’d thought Daniel sleeping.
He’d thought him unconscious; dead to the world at 10pm.
He’d thought him lazy…
“Hey, what? Hey, hello? Hey, how are you? Hey, don’t touch me? Hey, get your hands of me? Hey what, Martin? What’s this for? Why don’t you tell me?”
“I-I thought you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I waited for you. I got myself all wound up for nothing. Where were you?”
Where were you but here, where you should be?
Since Martin arrived, Daniel has been of the misinformed view that he owns him.
“I never asked you to wait up,” Martin chokes, without answering. The hand on his jaw forces his gaze yet he wouldn’t look away, even now. “It’s still early. I didn’t know you were tired. I didn't expect you'd be asleep when I got back."
Daniel can appear half asleep yet he is forever alert, a man on edge who sleeps with his eyes half open, expectant, primed for action.
This is action.
This is action, from inaction.
This is activity from sloth and Martin, his eternal-prey, is caught off-guard once more.
There is movement; movement between them.
There is heat, and cold.
“I had to touch myself,” Agger complains. “My hand instead of yours. My fingers on my own cock, and look. Look at me. I got nowhere. I'm still hard. Can you feel that?”
Can he? He pretends not, but he can feel that erection pressing against his thigh.
He can feel that physical exhibition of lust bruising him as it must be bruising itself.
Martin's lips part.
He exhales a sigh, yet no words come out.
Sometimes, the teacher makes the pupil feel so powerful. So capable.
A-star for performance and preparation, because Daniel's this worked up at just the thought of him.
"I," he starts, leaning forward, nervously clearing his thought, "I-want..."
“Is this what you want?” Daniel asks, disallowing the continuation of words as he twists his fingers into Martin's skin, as he leans forward, as he breathes hot-fire down Martin’s ear, so close that the young man can feel the tension; the hot poker between them - the tantric seduction that’s like a ghost between them.
Martin licks his lips; leans forward and daringly licks Daniel’s, too.
He trembles, only slightly.
He's learned.
Agger smiles; tastes Martin’s saliva, sweet, thick with unvoiced lust.
He’s asking for it.
“You want to fuck me? Or, were you too idle to learn the word for that?”
The touch hurts, a Chinese Burn deep within as the skin on his chest twists between Daniel's fingers.
"Were you just too lazy to learn how to ask?"
Martin professes that he doesn’t understand, hands up in supplication, “I surrender” written all over his face. He doesn’t understand; doesn’t get how the lounging tiger, so lazy in the sunlight, can suddenly snap to attention. He doesn’t understand the concept of the basking shark; he that lies in wait at the bottom of the ocean until its prey puts a foot wrong.
Daniel shakes his head.
"Try again."
All he did was get into bed.
All he did was say goodnight…yet the floodgates are open, now, and there’s no turning back.
There’s a lesson to be learned and a thrill to be sought and, if it takes six simple words to accomplish that then he won’t be too lethargic to utter them.
He moves his hand down between them.
He maintains eye contact throughout, knowing that to lose it is to lose.
Try again.
He won’t lose.
He strokes idly over Daniel’s cock before delving, deep, grasping, hard. He takes pleasure in the gasp he draws out of the three-days-older man.
His smile, it isn’t lazy. This is no half-hearted upturning of lips, nor is it a grin. Somewhere in between. A smirk, perhaps, dirty and wanton.
“I want you,” he says, with added inflection to his normally sedate voice, “to fuck me.”
There.
Was that so hard?
Was that so difficult?
Did that strain you too much?
Daniel smiles.
"There," he says.
There.
Martin doesn't understand the meaning, yet doesn't care, because the look of dare has gone, now, the challenge has been met.
He's home, now.
He's back.
In not so many words, he's apologised, and now it's time to call it quits; to fall into Daniel's arms and hope for the best.
Daniel gives in to the request yet, as he pushes Martin down onto his stomach and inches his legs apart he realises he's too tired for dominance; too languid for hour after hour of strenuous exercise so close to a game.
This is a game he has already won so so, why run the extra lap?
He lies down behind him, wraps his arms around a strong body just to still it; uses saliva on his hands to lubricate himself and just gently rocks against him.
Inside of him.
Within him.
"How's this?" he asks, twisting his fingers only when Martin doesn't respond.
"Good," he says, finally, when he feels as if his skin might bruise. "It's good, Daniel."
It's good to be dragged in, thrown against the wall and then pulled downwards for a gentle fuck.
It's good to be rewarded for the effort put into asking for what one wants.
It's good to be Daniel's...
"You just lie there," Daniel whispers. "Enjoy this while it lasts..."
It won't last for long.
Martin barely moves, too comfortable, to allow Daniel to do the work. He barely breathes as that spit-slick cock strokes him inside; as Daniel strokes him outside.
It won't always be this way.
It won't always be so comfortable, yet the pupil enjoys it for the quiet time that he rarely gets to see.
The recess.
The lazy hour.
Afterwards, Martin falls into a contented, exhausted sleep just after Daniel does. For awhile, before, he watches him sleep; comforts him to know that even the most predatory men are vulnerable, sometimes.
Even they need their rest, perhaps not with a finger or thumb to their lips but with their head to a pillow.
Goodnight, he whispers, for a second time this evening.
This time, the shark remains sleeping.
(*)
He opens his eyes to morning; to light shining in from between grey-white clouds. Instead of feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders he feels an arm, another across his chest, a painted arm; painted, like his own and he wonders, what do these words express?
A morning prayer?
A curse?
Do they say, wake me or leave me be?
Do they say, I want you, or, you’re nothing to me?
He feels breath on the side of his face, a body close to his own and, if he listens closely, he can hear his own heartbeat pulsing in his chest.
He turns over.
He runs his eyes over the implausibly beautiful face of his imperfect lover, teacher, too tired to touch but ready to look and he commits it all to memory - every line, every blemish, every spot where the razor missed, every lash, every bone, every shape and every plane.
He closes his eyes; returns to the sleep.
Returns to dreams.
Lazy.
Somnolent.
Indolent.
Sloth.
Also, bit of a spam
http://community.livejournal.com/footballslash/1494559.html