[ new fic - crush britney/madonna ]
Sep. 12th, 2003 11:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymCrush. Britney/Madonna. R-ish. Just a little ficlet I wrote out, trying to get my head into the idea of writing.
Disclaimerish thing: Not true, all pretend, just a lot of pretty in my head.
for halo, because I said I'd write this at some point
You've had a crush on Madonna since you can remember.
Posters on your wall, CDs in your stereo. You didn't always know what crush meant, and even after you did, when you were older and understood things, you didn't really understand. You just knew you liked the way she made you feel. The things she made you feel.
You loved her music, the way it vibrated deep inside you; touching things, sparking heat and energy, and left your legs trembling and your belly tight and hot. You masturbated for the first time to her music; touching yourself gently at first, fingers tracing over smooth skin, fingertips slicked with droplets of moisture. When the music picked up, you matched it, 'Like a Virgin' slithering down inside you, sliding along your nerve endings. You didn't really know what an orgasm was, just knew that the throbbing beat of the song matched the one curling through you, and you flopped onto your belly, fingers rubbing frantically over slick, hot skin while you moaned into your pillow.
When they ask you, years later, to sing that song in a tribute with her, your legs shake all over again, your belly hot and tight with anticipation.
She's so beautiful, power radiating from her with every precise step, each synchronized movement. You want to run your fingers through her hair and hold her close; you want kneel in front of her and beg; you want to give everything you are in exchange for the chance to be whatever she wants.
You envy Christina the slow caressing removal of her garter, and ask her later if it turns her on. She slants those dark eyes at you and smiles, slow and seductive, and you're reminded that Christina's been a crush of yours sometimes, too. She tells you she's gone back to the hotel wet and throbbing after each rehearsal. You think of your hotel room, strains of music swelling and dipping, your thighs trembling while you stroke and tease yourself to orgasm, imagining Madonna kneeling between your legs, licking you clean, and nod.
It's easy to drop to your knees, to assume a submissive pose, and you don't have to fake your excitement when she touches you, draws you up. Madonna's mouth is gorgeous, lips soft and warm, and her kiss tastes like candy and sugar and strawberry gloss. Her tongue is slick, teasing, and you want to hold the moment, expand it, draw it out, but it's over quickly, just a blink in time. The imprint of her body against yours during a quick grind fades just as quickly, but you have your memory.
Backstage afterward you hug Madonna and Christina and Missy then head down the hallway toward the cluster of small dressing rooms. You ache, you're so turned on, and you want to close your eyes and think of candy-flavored kisses and the bump-and-grind of Madonna beside you, fingers teasing over your thigh. You want to lean back in a chair and pretend you're kneeling, mouth open and ready. You want to close your eyes and touch yourself and imagine you're touching her, moisture slick against your fingers, musk and salt against your tongue.
You blink your eyes open when soft heat touches your mouth, and look up into Madonna's eyes. Her smile reminds you of a slice of summer sun filled with promises of sex. You answer with one of your own, letting her see everything you want shining in your eyes. When she follows you into the small room you can't suppress your shiver.
A crush is often unrequited and unreturned.
You're pretty sure this one isn't.
~fin~
Disclaimerish thing: Not true, all pretend, just a lot of pretty in my head.
for halo, because I said I'd write this at some point
You've had a crush on Madonna since you can remember.
Posters on your wall, CDs in your stereo. You didn't always know what crush meant, and even after you did, when you were older and understood things, you didn't really understand. You just knew you liked the way she made you feel. The things she made you feel.
You loved her music, the way it vibrated deep inside you; touching things, sparking heat and energy, and left your legs trembling and your belly tight and hot. You masturbated for the first time to her music; touching yourself gently at first, fingers tracing over smooth skin, fingertips slicked with droplets of moisture. When the music picked up, you matched it, 'Like a Virgin' slithering down inside you, sliding along your nerve endings. You didn't really know what an orgasm was, just knew that the throbbing beat of the song matched the one curling through you, and you flopped onto your belly, fingers rubbing frantically over slick, hot skin while you moaned into your pillow.
When they ask you, years later, to sing that song in a tribute with her, your legs shake all over again, your belly hot and tight with anticipation.
She's so beautiful, power radiating from her with every precise step, each synchronized movement. You want to run your fingers through her hair and hold her close; you want kneel in front of her and beg; you want to give everything you are in exchange for the chance to be whatever she wants.
You envy Christina the slow caressing removal of her garter, and ask her later if it turns her on. She slants those dark eyes at you and smiles, slow and seductive, and you're reminded that Christina's been a crush of yours sometimes, too. She tells you she's gone back to the hotel wet and throbbing after each rehearsal. You think of your hotel room, strains of music swelling and dipping, your thighs trembling while you stroke and tease yourself to orgasm, imagining Madonna kneeling between your legs, licking you clean, and nod.
It's easy to drop to your knees, to assume a submissive pose, and you don't have to fake your excitement when she touches you, draws you up. Madonna's mouth is gorgeous, lips soft and warm, and her kiss tastes like candy and sugar and strawberry gloss. Her tongue is slick, teasing, and you want to hold the moment, expand it, draw it out, but it's over quickly, just a blink in time. The imprint of her body against yours during a quick grind fades just as quickly, but you have your memory.
Backstage afterward you hug Madonna and Christina and Missy then head down the hallway toward the cluster of small dressing rooms. You ache, you're so turned on, and you want to close your eyes and think of candy-flavored kisses and the bump-and-grind of Madonna beside you, fingers teasing over your thigh. You want to lean back in a chair and pretend you're kneeling, mouth open and ready. You want to close your eyes and touch yourself and imagine you're touching her, moisture slick against your fingers, musk and salt against your tongue.
You blink your eyes open when soft heat touches your mouth, and look up into Madonna's eyes. Her smile reminds you of a slice of summer sun filled with promises of sex. You answer with one of your own, letting her see everything you want shining in your eyes. When she follows you into the small room you can't suppress your shiver.
A crush is often unrequited and unreturned.
You're pretty sure this one isn't.
~fin~
