louiselux | Tennis rps fic: Turn the page, Roger/Rafa, NC 17

Title: Turn the page
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Warnings: explicit m/m
Notes:

emungere = beta of much awesomeness. This story was sparked off by the reports that Rafa was unhappy with the results of his photo shoot for New York magazine. I was curious about why.

Rafa's jaw is mulish, and his brows are pulled down into a sulk.

"Look at them," he's saying. "Look."

The photographer has caught something, it's true. Rafa looks older; more solid and serious. Not as pretty, more dangerous. It's possible to see what he'll look like in ten years time.

"They look good," Roger says. "Very—intense."

"I look like—maybe thinking I better than everyone."

"You look confident."

"No. Too… naked."

Roger touches the corner of one. He thinks he knows what Rafa means. It's not just about the lack of clothes. "Well—"

"You want yourself in pictures like that?" Rafa says, pulling a ridiculous angry face and jabbing at the page. "Roger?"

He's very direct. The better Roger gets to know him, the more he sees this. Sometimes his honesty is like a slap to the face. Early on, he told Roger that he doesn't want to see Roger when there's a chance they'll be found out. When Rafa does see him, Roger never stays dressed for very long. Rafa loves to strip him, to do it himself, shoving Roger's hands away.

So far, Rafa has kept two pairs of his underwear and a shirt. He won't give them back. He doesn't leave bite marks or scratches or lovebites, but he goes wild— moans and whispered, tangled-up words and groping fingers—when Roger goes down on him and takes a mouthful of come, and swallows it. It's because he's inside Roger, some part of him remaining there when Roger leaves him. He said that once, and then he clammed right up.

The hotel room is so well decorated, with plump armchairs and walls in a purple-red, a dark polished floor and a pale glass lamp that spills gold light on Rafa's skin.

Roger perches on the arm of one of the chairs. They look at each other for a long, stretched out moment. Roger can see in Rafa's eyes that he wants sex, that Roger could ask and Rafa would get all shaky and hard in ten seconds, the way he does.

"I don't want people seeing," Rafa says, more quietly, and with eyes that have grown wider and scared. Roger wants to hug him.

"Seeing?"

"Like—they can see in here." He taps his chest with his fingertips, like someone would tap a wall to check for a hollow space.

"People look at you—us—all day long," Roger says, and Rafa makes a small sound of discontent. "It's the way things are. I know it's kind of horrible."

They're not really alone. Roger has ostensibly come by for a brief chat about some ATP stuff on his way back to the airport. Rafa's two friends-- not tennis players, people he's never met before-- have gone out to find coffee and cakes. Rafa fiddles with the edge of one of the photos, like he wants to rip it in half.

"I hate them."

"But you look good in them."

Rafa takes his shirt off so fast that Roger doesn't even have time to blink; it's straight up and over his head and then dropped to the floor in a small mossy green pile. Rafa shakes his hair back like someone is actually waiting with a camera to capture this. He paces about and poses with light from the lamp all over his stomach, catching the hair trailing up and giving it a bright gold glint. His jeans sit low. Just under the waistband, the top of his underwear clings to his body. He pulls a hand down over his chest.

"You like?" he asks. "Roger?" The 'g' is all soft. He lowers his chin and looks up through his lashes. He knows how good he looks, there's no doubt.

Roger stands, because sitting feels strange, and he has to be nearer to Rafa. "Rafa—"

"For you, I can do this," Rafa says, and he reaches out and catches Roger's wrist in a crushing grip. "You want to—pin me up?"

Rafa's mouth is open and waiting. He tastes of something sweet and orangey. Roger cups the angle of his jaw and feels it move as they kiss, as Rafa opens up wide to let Roger push in with his tongue. He wants to push in with something else, and he calculates the odds of Rafa wanting that. Sometimes he does; sometimes he likes to beg for it.

He licks over Rafa's teeth, and Rafa moans against him and clings, his fingers curling tight into Roger's shirt like Rafa is some old fashioned heroine in a movie. He's leaning so heavily on Roger that Roger is actually propping him up. He's full of small surprises in this way; the things he likes and how he wants them.

Roger puts both arms around him and holds him close, glad for the warm weight of him and how he smells of freshly washed hair. His skin is smooth, his curves so taut and firm that they feel like warm stone. Rafa sighs and moans, and his curled fingers unclasp and move down between their bodies.

Rafa eases closer, drawing Roger's thigh to press between his legs. He grinds against it, hips moving in a fluid wave like a dance. He's unzipping himself as they kiss, moving, working his jeans and underwear down enough so that his cock falls out and lies straight up against Roger's shirt. It's hot and he can smell the sharp scent from it as Rafa sucks meaningfully at his tongue and watches him from right up close.

"Yeah?" he whispers, and trails his tongue against Roger's top lip, kissing up over it, over his cheek and nose, anywhere. He's put his hands on Roger's hips and is holding him tight. "Suck me? Yeah?"

Roger hasn't said no one single time. "Now?" he says. "What about them?"

Rafa's eyes are almost black, but they're wide and pleading. He makes a sound through clenched teeth, and Roger drags his own shirt from his jeans and pulls it over his head. Rafa's cock is on his bared stomach now.

"Roger. I told them to leave us alone. They went. So, maybe they guess why."

This is new, Roger thinks, closing his eyes. It's a change, Rafa not being careful.

He goes to his knees with Rafa's hands on his shoulders. Rafa's fingertips are gentle where they rest. They trail up into his hair, pushing through to the scalp. Rafa is trembling from adrenaline, and his breaths are shaky too. Roger looks up at the solid sculpted planes of his chest and arms and face.

It does hurt, doing this, and in all sorts of ways, and he wonders what Rafa sees in his eyes, that makes him touch Roger's face with such gentle fingers.

"I didn't expect this tonight," Roger says. "God, Rafa. I didn't—"

"Is okay. You still-- want?"

"Yes." He winds his fingers into Rafa's jeans, and he laughs at the exact moment Rafa bends down and kisses him.

Rafa's tongue is wet against his. He pulls away and straightens, and Roger dips his head and runs his tongue the length of Rafa's cock, just breathing and tasting. He pushes Rafa's jeans down until they pool around his ankles and he has skin and muscle quivering under his hands. He sucks hard, as well as he can do it.

"Oh," Rafa says. "Oh, God. Yeah. Yeah." He wants to fuck and thrust; Roger can feel the energy in him. Rafa's hands are clamping down tight. His breath hisses in and out, and he's barely giving Roger room to move, not letting him back off. Roger licks down along the length, right down to nuzzle at the base, cups his balls and holds them in his palm, slides his lips slowly down, as far as he can, further than is comfortable. The carpet isn't good on his knees and he's half aware of the creeping fear that someone will walk in. It doesn't stop him; nothing has stopped him yet. He feels the heat of his own breath, reflected back from Rafa's skin. Rafa's hips jerk and he lets out a rough breath.

"Inside you," Rafa whispers, and when Roger looks up, Rafa is staring down. "Please. Now."

He comes with a series of pained little groans, pumping into Roger's mouth. Roger swallows some, can't deal with the rest. He presses his sticky face to Rafa's hip and licks, stroking himself to get off. Rafa is still shaking, and is clutching at his neck and shoulder like Roger might suddenly decide to get up and leave unless Rafa keeps him there. He curls right over, hand tight on the back of Roger's neck, then they're mouth to mouth.

"Roger," Rafa says. "Roger." His hair tumbles across his face in a tangled mess. His lips are wet. "Do it harder," he says, and his lips purse as he talks, like he's kissing the air. He makes a choked up noise, watching. "Your hands…"

Roger's muscles tense so hard, but he hardly feels it over the sharp rush of orgasm. He cries into Rafa's mouth, and Rafa says things he doesn't understand, and kisses him again and again. Now Rafa is holding him up.

Ten minutes later, they are cleaned up and dressed and are lying on the bed together, face to face. Rafa's eyes are very clear and direct. He has one arm snaked under Roger's neck and one hand flat on Roger's chest.

"Still don't like them."

"I think you look gorgeous," Roger says. That makes Rafa dip his head, and he winds closer and presses his face to Roger's shoulder.

They lie quite still for a while, knee to knee on the bed, fully dressed and with the rest of the world put on hold. The only movement is their breathing and the slow strokes of his hand over Rafa's hair. It would be easy to fall asleep like this, but they don't have the luxury. He has to leave. Over by the small table, some of the pictures of Rafa have slithered to the floor.

The images make Roger uneasy too. They show something intimate and true. Maybe that's why Rafa doesn't like them. Exposure isn't welcome, especially not right now. He wonders what Rafa's friends must be thinking, then tells himself to stop.

He pulls Rafa closer and holds him for as long as he can before he has to leave.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

chomiji

Mmmm, what a way to start the day ... !

From:

the Iberio-Swiss divide

Tennis rps fic: Turn the page, Roger/Rafa, NC 17

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