Fic: Good hair, Roger/Rafa, NC 17
Sep. 12th, 2008 02:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
louiseluxSo, harking back to the beginning of August (am fast like a ninja), here's another fic snippet.
Title: Good Hair
Warnings: um, hair sex? Follicle abuse? *looks shifty*
Notes: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
buckle_berry, who left the prompt: roger/rafa, i keep on seeing people as a way out/if they've got good hair. Thanks to emungere for beta. ♥
Summary: Reading the press isn't always a good idea
Benito always tried to make him read the press, often in English, sometimes aloud. Benito was a bad evil person. There was a pile of newspapers and magazines sitting on the fold-down table in front of him. Benito had a blanket over his head, apparently asleep. Rafa dragged the top one towards him and opened it.
He cringed. That was a bad photo, a really bad photo. Roger looked perfect, obviously. That was not the problem. Roger was never the problem, except where he was the whole problem. Rafa let out a faint pained noise from between his teeth.
"What?" Carlos said, not looking up from his plastic tray of sushi.
"Nothing."
"No one winces over nothing, except freaks."
He angled the paper so that Carlos wouldn't be able to see what he was looking at. "Shut up."
Maria Sharapova was on the same flight as him, and there was some commotion happening about her hand luggage. Rafa slunk lower in his seat, behind his copy of the Times, thankful to be semi-invisible for a few hours.
He studied the photograph of himself and Roger. His own face was caught in sharp focus. He was staring at the little curls on the back of Roger Federer's head, down at the base of his neck.
Rafa didn't remember the moment at all, and he thought he should if he was going to let terrible expressions like that spread all over his face. He bit the inside of his lip till it hurt. He was looking at Roger like he was in love with him.
He studied his own face, not seeing how everyone thought he was handsome. With Roger, he could see easily how good-looking he was. His own face looked rough and too weird, mouth and nose too big, eyes buried deep, stupid hair that never did what Rafa wanted. He hadn't used to even pay attention to things that like. When had he begun?
He closed the paper and slapped it down on top of the pile, then rubbed at his aching eyes. He pressed his thumbs too hard into the sockets and saw blobs of white light.
He went about his life ogling Roger like a love-sick girl.
Rafa arranged the little complimentary blanket over his knees and closed his eyes. He heard the steward come by with the trolley, taking a long time. Someone with a soothing voice was talking about the hand luggage thing. Gradually, like night rolling down over him, the sounds of the cabin faded away.
He dreamed more vividly than he had for a long time, the kind of dream that came in technicolour and was faceted and detailed and real.
In his dream, he had his face pressed to Roger's hair. It was soft and warm and smelled good. He had his mouth clamped to the back of Roger's neck, just where hair ended and bare skin began. He could feel how hot Roger was when he ran his tongue over the skin there; hot and salty, heart racing, cock stiff. He knew that because his hand was pushed straight down the front of Roger's jeans.
Roger was warm in the circle of his arms, so warm and hard, making little breathless noises as Rafa rubbed his bare cock hard up against his back, against the hollow of his spine, further up as Roger sank to his knees, up to his neck and his hairline. He bent forwards a little, showing Rafa the wide stretch of his shoulders and the smooth column of his neck. The flushed dark shape of Rafa's erection stood out against it, the head kissing the small curls, leaving them wet.
"So soft," Rafa said, hardly feeling the words in his mouth. They were too quiet.
"Rafa. Rafa.
The angle was strange and it made him ache. He wanted this so much, but his hips wouldn't move, and he wanted to push. His balls were tight and hot, and there wasn't enough friction or pressure. Roger faded under his hands.
"No," he said. "Come back. Please."
"Rafa. Come on."
"Hnnnh?"
"Rafa."
He opened his eyes. Carlos was looking at him with a wry smile.
"You were making sounds. Happy dream?"
"No."
Rafa looked down to check that the blanket was covering him. Nothing could be seen. His erection was fading already. He hauled himself upright from where he'd slipped down. Benito was awake and had his face buried in a copy of The Monocle.
"We're coming into land," Carlos said. "All right?"
"Fine," Rafa said. "I'm fine."
He totally wasn't fine. His face was sweaty and he hardly dared think about what he'd just woken up from. He rubbed his face and made himself face it: he had sex dreams about a man he played tennis against.
He wondered how much Roger would hate him if he could see into Rafa's head. Not that he ever would, and Rafa wasn't going to say anything. He closed his eyes, feeling his stomach drop with the plane, remembering the look on his own face in that picture.
He wondered if Roger had known before Rafa himself. Roger was ahead of him in everything else; he'd probably figured this out too.
Title: Good Hair
Warnings: um, hair sex? Follicle abuse? *looks shifty*
Notes: This is for
buckle_berry, who left the prompt: roger/rafa, i keep on seeing people as a way out/if they've got good hair. Thanks to emungere for beta. ♥Summary: Reading the press isn't always a good idea
Benito always tried to make him read the press, often in English, sometimes aloud. Benito was a bad evil person. There was a pile of newspapers and magazines sitting on the fold-down table in front of him. Benito had a blanket over his head, apparently asleep. Rafa dragged the top one towards him and opened it.
He cringed. That was a bad photo, a really bad photo. Roger looked perfect, obviously. That was not the problem. Roger was never the problem, except where he was the whole problem. Rafa let out a faint pained noise from between his teeth.
"What?" Carlos said, not looking up from his plastic tray of sushi.
"Nothing."
"No one winces over nothing, except freaks."
He angled the paper so that Carlos wouldn't be able to see what he was looking at. "Shut up."
Maria Sharapova was on the same flight as him, and there was some commotion happening about her hand luggage. Rafa slunk lower in his seat, behind his copy of the Times, thankful to be semi-invisible for a few hours.
He studied the photograph of himself and Roger. His own face was caught in sharp focus. He was staring at the little curls on the back of Roger Federer's head, down at the base of his neck.
Rafa didn't remember the moment at all, and he thought he should if he was going to let terrible expressions like that spread all over his face. He bit the inside of his lip till it hurt. He was looking at Roger like he was in love with him.
He studied his own face, not seeing how everyone thought he was handsome. With Roger, he could see easily how good-looking he was. His own face looked rough and too weird, mouth and nose too big, eyes buried deep, stupid hair that never did what Rafa wanted. He hadn't used to even pay attention to things that like. When had he begun?
He closed the paper and slapped it down on top of the pile, then rubbed at his aching eyes. He pressed his thumbs too hard into the sockets and saw blobs of white light.
He went about his life ogling Roger like a love-sick girl.
Rafa arranged the little complimentary blanket over his knees and closed his eyes. He heard the steward come by with the trolley, taking a long time. Someone with a soothing voice was talking about the hand luggage thing. Gradually, like night rolling down over him, the sounds of the cabin faded away.
He dreamed more vividly than he had for a long time, the kind of dream that came in technicolour and was faceted and detailed and real.
In his dream, he had his face pressed to Roger's hair. It was soft and warm and smelled good. He had his mouth clamped to the back of Roger's neck, just where hair ended and bare skin began. He could feel how hot Roger was when he ran his tongue over the skin there; hot and salty, heart racing, cock stiff. He knew that because his hand was pushed straight down the front of Roger's jeans.
Roger was warm in the circle of his arms, so warm and hard, making little breathless noises as Rafa rubbed his bare cock hard up against his back, against the hollow of his spine, further up as Roger sank to his knees, up to his neck and his hairline. He bent forwards a little, showing Rafa the wide stretch of his shoulders and the smooth column of his neck. The flushed dark shape of Rafa's erection stood out against it, the head kissing the small curls, leaving them wet.
"So soft," Rafa said, hardly feeling the words in his mouth. They were too quiet.
"Rafa. Rafa.
The angle was strange and it made him ache. He wanted this so much, but his hips wouldn't move, and he wanted to push. His balls were tight and hot, and there wasn't enough friction or pressure. Roger faded under his hands.
"No," he said. "Come back. Please."
"Rafa. Come on."
"Hnnnh?"
"Rafa."
He opened his eyes. Carlos was looking at him with a wry smile.
"You were making sounds. Happy dream?"
"No."
Rafa looked down to check that the blanket was covering him. Nothing could be seen. His erection was fading already. He hauled himself upright from where he'd slipped down. Benito was awake and had his face buried in a copy of The Monocle.
"We're coming into land," Carlos said. "All right?"
"Fine," Rafa said. "I'm fine."
He totally wasn't fine. His face was sweaty and he hardly dared think about what he'd just woken up from. He rubbed his face and made himself face it: he had sex dreams about a man he played tennis against.
He wondered how much Roger would hate him if he could see into Rafa's head. Not that he ever would, and Rafa wasn't going to say anything. He closed his eyes, feeling his stomach drop with the plane, remembering the look on his own face in that picture.
He wondered if Roger had known before Rafa himself. Roger was ahead of him in everything else; he'd probably figured this out too.