If you can dream it, someone has written dirty fanfiction about it. There's sexy fanfiction about everything imaginable — from Thomas the Tank Engine to RENT to Rainbow Brite. Years ago, I followed a blog called World Cup Sexual Frustration, which alternated between posting pictures of soccer players, which is what drew me in the first place, and posting elaborate, graphic, hilariously bad fanfiction about sexual encounters with one or more internationally famous footballers, which is why I kept coming back (one particularly memorable piece detailed one daring flight attendant's orgy with the entire Spanish soccer team at 30,000 feet. One situation where it was okay for soccer players to use their hands! Cue canned 90's sitcom WOOOOO noise!). It should come as no surprise, then, that the XXX (heh) Olympic games, and specifically Olympic swimming, have inspired the pens and libidos of thousands of lusty fans who would just love to watch Olympic swimmers screw each others' brains out. If you've ever morbidly wondered what sorts of depraved thoughts lurk in the pool of the human mind, there's no time like the present to dive in to the world of the awesomely awful, and awfully awesome world of Olympic swimming and diving fanfiction. It might just be the next Fifty Shades of Grey.
In The Lies They Say, follow the journey of Ryan Lochte as he breaks free from the clutches of his evil, angry dad, helped by one very special 19-time Olympic medalist.
"Stop whining." Steven raises his hand to slap Ryan again, but the slap never comes. There's another hand, a familiar hand, wrapped tightly around Steven's wrist, holding it back. Steven's other hand lets go of Ryan and Ryan struggles to stay standing, pressing against the lockers and watching in shock as Michael turns Steven around to face him. Michael looks angrier, scarier, much more dangerous than Steven has ever looked.
"Don't," Michael speaks, low and slow, enunciating every word. "Lay another hand on him."
"Phelps." Steven nods, trying to pull his wrist out of Michael's grip, but Michael doesn't let go. "This is between me and my son."
"You have no right to call him that."
"Stay out of this."
"No."
Eventually, Mike Edward Cullens the evil elder Lochte from the locker room, and soon the two are making sweet, sweet, locker room sex. Complete with postcoital expressions of love.
Ryan stops. His whole world is spinning and he holds out a hand to keep himself steady. Michael is there, instantly, grabbing his hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing the center of his palm with so much tenderness that Ryan can't find the words to argue.
"Yeah," Michael smiles. "I love you. I have, for a very long time."
"You can't." Ryan shakes his head. "You're wonderful and I'm- I'm not. I'm not worth it."
Michael gives him a sad little smile. "You're worth it, Ry. You're worth everything, and it's killing me that you don't see that." He takes Ryan in his arms again and Ryan goes, half-willingly and half because he's too confused to fight it. "I can't believe I never saw it before," Michael whispers, shaking his head against Ryan's. "I'm sorry I didn't stop this before now. I'm sorry."
And they lived fappily ever after.
Just to break things up a little from the fictional Lochte/Phelps lovefest, here's a selection of fictional stories about Tom Daley. The British diver is a chiseled teen with a hairless boy band face and a heartstring-strumming backstory. Naturally, everyone wants to fuck his fictional doppelganger. A sexy girl diver named Jacqueline does.
And lo and behold, in front of us was none other than Tom Daley. Oh wow. Now I fully understood why someone would have wet dreams over this guy. We had men in the South African diving team but damn no one came close, Tom is fit. I couldn't help but let my eyes trail over the contours of his body. His broad shoulders, strong arms and defined abdomen made me feel excruciatingly uncomfortable standing in front of him in my swimsuit. And I loved showing off my body. Hell I'd be naked like 75% of the time if I could. But that was beside the point-after trailing my eyes over the rest of him and I mean the rest of him, I quickly averted my attention to his face.
He had warm pools of dark brown eyes and an arrogant smirk was etched on his face. He had short, cropped hair that would be perfect for running your hand through when he would-"Do you like what you see, love?" He said.
In this bit of fanfiction called "Surface Cracks," Daley dives his way into the hearts of multiple members of British boy One Direction, another popular subject of fanfiction:
With all the people having imagination sex with him, it's a wonder poor Tom Daley has time to do any actual diving.
When he got back with the rest of the team, nothing had changed, except the thunder was a tad bit softer. Harry began to smother his hands with chalk dust when all chatter ceased. Liam turned away, his face bright red, and Zayn began laughing. Louis wolf-whistled. "What's so funny you gu-" he stopped mid-question as he spun around, seeing a fully nude Tom in front of him. He clapped a hand over his mouth, a whole world of emotions flooding through him.Tom grinned and playfully winked at him. "Like what you see?" he teased as he rotated fully around.
Fiction Tom, you little minx.
In Paint, Ryan and Michael are a nesting gay couple in the middle of gut rehabbing their home.
Michael smiled and said, "Yes I did, but I think I missed a spot..."
Ryan looked around and saw no problems, the room looked perfect. "Where did you miss a spot? Ryan asked.
Michael kicked over the paint can and said, "There."
Ryan's jaw dropped as the paint got all over the old sheets that Michael had put on the floor and Michael leaned in for a kiss.
Ryan kissed him as Michael pinned him to the ground and said, "I just wanna do you in the paint..."
Ryan smiled and said, "Maybe I do like this surprise..."
Ryan rolled over so he was on top of Michael. Ryan kissed him and rubbed his hands in the paint and stroked Michael's face.
Michael rolled Ryan back over and rubbed paint into Ryan's hair, as he caught his boyfriend in a kiss.
Hope that paint was nontoxic, or at least washable, because I can't imagine the agony of trying to scrub dried paint off a scrotum.
At first, Michael's like, ugh this guy, and then they sort of start becoming friends. Ryan is a rock n' roll free spirit with a 'tude and Michael's a nose-to-the-grindstone nerdy swimming star. A match made in fanfic heaven.
The next morning in class Ryan's rolling a skateboard under his feet. He's in the same chair he picked yesterday, and Michael's not about to break from tradition by sitting somewhere else, so he takes his usual place too, which now apparently comes with a bonus Ryan Lochte on the side.
It's still too early to know exactly how he feels about that.
Today Ryan's wearing a t-shirt that says does your face hurt? cuz it's killing me and he looks at Michael seriously when he sits down and says, "Skateboard," like he's talking to a grade-schooler.
"Shut up," says Michael again.
Ryan grins hugely. "Don't be like that, baby. If you're nice I might even teach you how to use it," he says.
"I'm always nice," says Michael. "I don't really want to skate though."
"Then shit, man, I don't know if we can be friends anymore." Ryan shakes his head.
"We're friends?" says Michael. He means it to come out kind of…scathing, but mostly it just sounds curious.
"Jeah," says Ryan, nudging the board across the aisle and under Michael's desk.
But soon, their relationship turns blow jobby. The word "dick" appears 19 times. "Cock" appears 5 times. It's not for kids.
London Olympic swimming fanfiction seems to focus on what sort of depraved things people's imaginations have made Ryan Lochte do, but before London, it seems like Michael Phelps was the preferred muse of the slash writer. In Michael Phelps, Bedhopper, the most decorated Olympian in history plays Donkey Kong with former US teammate Aaron Piersol — SEXY Donkey Kong.
Michael pops a boner and simultaneously makes Donkey Kong jump off a cliff. "Dude! That was just sad!" Aaron laughs in his ear, reaching over Michael's shoulder to grab for the game. Michael holds it away from him, laughing half at the fun, and half in embarrassment. Aaron takes this as a challenge, and pushes up on his knees to reach further. And then they're wrestling for it. Aaron climbs up on Michael's back, and he's bigger than Michael, heavier, taller, and stronger. His arms are also longer. He grabs the game, tugging it out of Michael's hands.
Here's the gist of And the Whole World's Just a Little Oyster: Ryan Lochte beats Michael Phelps at swimming, and then they start flirting, apparently as foreplay to really brutal sex..
"I beat you, you know," Ryan says, playfully shoving Michael toward the starting block. His hair's beginning to dry and his medal dangles away from his chest as he leans over Michael's back to his ear. He can see the glint of gold bobbing against Michael's spine, and he thinks, dude, this may be the most fucking awesome thing I've ever seen.
"For once," Michael counters, already shimmying out of his workout bottoms and boxers.
Ryan snorts. "Once is all it takes, bro. I think I've earned a piece of this," he says, slapping Michael's ass and admiring the red handprint it leaves behind. "And where better than the place it all went down?" He nips Michael's ear, hard.
Things escalate quickly.
"Whatever," Ryan murmurs cheerfully, pressing his mouth hard between Michael's shoulder blades and trying to pretend it's not a kiss, just something two guys high on a victory do to each other to blow off some steam.
The medal drags against Michael's back, and Ryan can tell he's got a pained expression at being beaten. "Can't you take that fucking thing off, dude?" Michael protests, but they both know that it's enough of a concession that Ryan isn't nipping down his spine with a fucking American flag grill right now. Ryan doesn't answer, just holds Michael apart with his hands and drags the pointed tip of his tongue across Michael's hole.
Shortly thereafter, sex is had. You can read about it if you want, but, I'm warning you that reading it feels sort of like the first time I saw a very detailed white out drawing of an erect penis on the back of a bus seat.
Ryan pulls his own pants back up and turns Michael around to face him. "Good to go, dude?" he asks, one hand on Michael's cheek, directing his face back to Ryan when Michael flinches away from the gold medal shining brightly against his tanned chest.
"Wait until the four hundred, asshole," Michael says, mustering up a shaky smile.
Oy.
Michael pokes his rib. There's a spot he knows is ticklish, and Ryan slaps at his hand. "The winningest, that's who."
"I know, I got to hear you fangirl over talking to Obama for like an hour." Ryan's moving up his neck now, his body shifting so that he's almost on top of Michael's own. "I think you should take off your clothes."
"Uh-huh," Michael agrees, ignoring the Obama comment (because it was awesome, and whatever, Ryan's just jealous that Obama called the gymnasts and not him). "Sounds like a good idea."
"Fo shizz," Ryan responds.
For shizz indeed.
In Taper, Michael and Nathan both have crushes on Ryan. The waters of love are far from smooth sailing! Choppy seas ahead! Things are about to get wet! Another water-related double entendre!
But Nathan Adrian is in France, restless, and seriously jonesing for a teammate. There is one person he knows he can talk to about this and luckily for Nathan, he's just down the hall.
The door is cracked so Nathan pushes it open only to pull it closed almost immediately. Seared on his retinas is the image of Ryan sitting on Michael's lap on one of the tiny European beds doing something … untoward. Without thinking he shouts through the door, "You're ruining your taper!" and then slaps his hand over his mouth. He's going to always be considered the goody-two-shoes of the National Team if he keeps this up.
The noise inside the room sounds like a pissed off Michael Phelps and a highly amused Ryan Lochte, so Nathan is only half-surprised when the handle on the door turns in his grip and is pulled open.
He is 100% surprised to see Michael in the doorway, though he is snarling. "What the fuck."
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