fanfiction
Fandom: Lazytown
Pairings: hinted-at Sportacus/Stephanie; implied Sportacus/Robbie
Rating: NC-17, not for explicit sex (there isn’t any), but because the implied pairing may disturb some readers.
Disclaimer: Lazytown and its inhabitants do not belong to me.
Dedication: for my darling Anne Laurie
They danced together, every day. She was slim and lithe and graceful, with a child’s effortless co-ordination and a bubbly energy all her own. Stephanie, at eight, was too young to feel self-conscious or clumsy, and it wasn’t in her to be shy. He hoped, fervently, that she’d reach adulthood with all that self-assurance and enthusiasm intact.
He shared the joy of sport and dance with her, but his body was capable of much more. He ran, jumped, turned cartwheels and backflips, and through it all his body was a powerhouse of strength and energy, like a well-muscled animal, but he kept his animal self firmly leashed. He throbbed with barely restrained energy, conscious at every moment of the slender girl beside him.
Her eyes lit up every time he appeared; her whole face brightened at the sight of him. He wasn’t just a hero: he was her hero. He would never do anything to harm her, never. And so he waited. He knew she was entirely innocent of his desires, because she still looked at him sweetly and trustingly, with no shadow of doubt or fear. She didn’t know, and couldn’t be allowed to know, how hard it was not to reach for her.
She felt no such qualms. She was entirely comfortable touching him. He carried the searing memories of a thousand feather-light touches, impulsive hugs, and innocent cuddles. It was delicious agony to allow, and to return, her affectionate gestures, while being careful, always, not to let her climb into his lap, or rub up against him at inopportune moments. She couldn’t be allowed to discover the rock-hard erection he sported for her. She was too young. But she didn’t know that she was too young, and so Sportacus had to do the knowing for both of them. He was an adult, and a hero, and all that that implied: upright and honourable and trustworthy. It was the loneliest job in the world, but he had the strength to endure that solitude. For her sake.
At night, in the safe isolation of his ship, he allowed himself to dream of her. He allowed himself, even, the fantasy of how it would be if she bounced into his gleaming white bedroom, perched on the side of his bed, and asked him for what he so badly wanted to give her. The fantasy was safe as long as it remained, for the next eight or ten years, only a fantasy.
In the meantime, the reality was a series of slightly-sordid couplings with the lethargic Robbie Rotten, who made up in imagination - and costumes - what he lacked in energy. Fucking Robbie, though, was never more than momentarily satisfying. He couldn’t have what he really wanted, not yet.
But at least they could share the joy of the dance.
Pairings: hinted-at Sportacus/Stephanie; implied Sportacus/Robbie
Rating: NC-17, not for explicit sex (there isn’t any), but because the implied pairing may disturb some readers.
Disclaimer: Lazytown and its inhabitants do not belong to me.
Dedication: for my darling Anne Laurie
They danced together, every day. She was slim and lithe and graceful, with a child’s effortless co-ordination and a bubbly energy all her own. Stephanie, at eight, was too young to feel self-conscious or clumsy, and it wasn’t in her to be shy. He hoped, fervently, that she’d reach adulthood with all that self-assurance and enthusiasm intact.
He shared the joy of sport and dance with her, but his body was capable of much more. He ran, jumped, turned cartwheels and backflips, and through it all his body was a powerhouse of strength and energy, like a well-muscled animal, but he kept his animal self firmly leashed. He throbbed with barely restrained energy, conscious at every moment of the slender girl beside him.
Her eyes lit up every time he appeared; her whole face brightened at the sight of him. He wasn’t just a hero: he was her hero. He would never do anything to harm her, never. And so he waited. He knew she was entirely innocent of his desires, because she still looked at him sweetly and trustingly, with no shadow of doubt or fear. She didn’t know, and couldn’t be allowed to know, how hard it was not to reach for her.
She felt no such qualms. She was entirely comfortable touching him. He carried the searing memories of a thousand feather-light touches, impulsive hugs, and innocent cuddles. It was delicious agony to allow, and to return, her affectionate gestures, while being careful, always, not to let her climb into his lap, or rub up against him at inopportune moments. She couldn’t be allowed to discover the rock-hard erection he sported for her. She was too young. But she didn’t know that she was too young, and so Sportacus had to do the knowing for both of them. He was an adult, and a hero, and all that that implied: upright and honourable and trustworthy. It was the loneliest job in the world, but he had the strength to endure that solitude. For her sake.
At night, in the safe isolation of his ship, he allowed himself to dream of her. He allowed himself, even, the fantasy of how it would be if she bounced into his gleaming white bedroom, perched on the side of his bed, and asked him for what he so badly wanted to give her. The fantasy was safe as long as it remained, for the next eight or ten years, only a fantasy.
In the meantime, the reality was a series of slightly-sordid couplings with the lethargic Robbie Rotten, who made up in imagination - and costumes - what he lacked in energy. Fucking Robbie, though, was never more than momentarily satisfying. He couldn’t have what he really wanted, not yet.
But at least they could share the joy of the dance.