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Entry tags:
Tennis rps fic: The beauty of it - Rafa/Roger, NC 17
Fandom: tennis rps
Title: The beauty of it
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating/warnings: not worksafe, explicit m/m
Notes: thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
buckle_berry and emungere for inspiration, untangling my sentences and patiently correcting my comma-blindness. This story is quite possibly part of a longer story that I have not got round to writing yet. It's set currently, where they are in relationships with Mirka and Xisca.
Summary: they've agreed they aren't going to this any more, but they are unable to stop
They've agreed they aren't going to do this any more. But when they get close to each other, like tonight in this hotel that has too many secret corners and useful, empty little cupboard rooms, it's as if Roger is drunk. He can't think clearly. Rafa backs up to the wall besides two broken chairs, and Roger follows, kicking the door closed behind them. The air is dusty and Rafa pauses, eyes fixed on infinity, hand raised to his nose, and then sneezes.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and then he gives Roger a bashful smile.
The idea of not touching Rafa seems ridiculous when he looks so good, and he smells so good, and Roger just wants him so much.
"Do you need my handkerchief?" Roger asks.
"No, is fine," Rafa says.
It's a little awkward in this tiny room where they could only possibly be for one reason. The only light source is a bare bulb, and the low wattage makes Rafa glow like he's in candlelight, and he's watching Roger. Roger moves to him, and they press themselves together and they kiss. Everything about Rafa gets to him. His hair, his skin, the hard curves of his body under Roger's hands, the way he pushes his hips forward in little unconscious thrusts, like he wants to fuck, here, now. The button on his trousers falls magically apart at Roger's slight touch.
Roger hooks both hands into Rafa's waistband and shoves his trousers down, so that Rafa's body is exposed from hip to thigh. Roger closes his eyes at the needy, desperate sound that this elicits. He stares at Rafa's heavily muscled thighs, much paler at the top, the dark patch of hair, and Rafa's erection, half raised and swelling more under Roger's gaze. Rafa wants this just as much; it's the worst, most exciting thing.
"Kiss me," Rafa asks.
His mouth is wet and swollen, lips sliding against Roger's, his tongue pushing in deep, one hand yanking at Roger's belt and zip, fumbling blind.
"Come on," Rafa mutters, as he drags too hard at Roger's trousers. He gets Roger's underwear down and the shock of his touch after so long makes Roger gasp into his mouth.
Rafa clings and leans and twines around him like he craves the contact. Roger has noticed this before. Rafa's hands are shivery and light on Roger's skin, skimming over Roger's stomach and hips, the tops of his thighs, finally closing around his cock, one at the base, one above it, enclosing it in damp warmth, stroking and squeezing. God, he knows what he's doing. He's licking at Roger's mouth, and it's all Roger can do to cling to his shoulders.
Rafa spreads his legs, bracing against the wall so that Roger can lean. Rafa is too beautiful, too carelessly erotic in everything he does. Roger touches him in return, tracing the underside of his shaft, touching the head where it's wet and sticky, smooth and hot. He wants it in his mouth, in the back of his throat, filling him.
"Yeah, oh god, yeah," Rafa says, even before Roger starts to drop to his knees. He can't read minds, even though it seems that way sometimes. Instead, he can read the minute movements of Roger's body. He's too clever, Roger thinks, pressing his face briefly to Rafa's neck. He's really a bit scary.
Rafa lets go of his cock, but he hooks a hand at the back of Roger's neck and pulls him close for another kiss. It's wet and messy and deep, and they both moan, sharing it.
"I think about this," Rafa says, then bites his lip and looks almost scared. His gaze is unbearably soft and intense, utterly focused on Roger. A laugh, under his breath, mocking himself. "A lot. When I am alone."
Roger brushes his thumb over Rafa's cheekbone and says, because he wants to jack Rafa up, get him hotter, make him remember this: "You think about me sucking you off? My mouth?"
It works, because Rafa groans between his teeth and pushes at Roger's shoulders, down. Roger guides it in as soon as he's close enough, taking it deep as he can. Rafa moans again, lower, hotter, and whatever door is between them and the outside world, it's really never going to be enough for a sound like that. Rafa's taste floods his mouth; sharp, bitter, the almost rank taste of pre come. He smells clean but still musky; pure sex. It gets to Roger that Rafa always smells like this, if only you could get close enough, get his panties down, get him hard and fucking your mouth.
Looking up, mouth full, he sees Rafa looking down, and when their eyes meet Rafa tips his head back, lips parted, his face smoothing into ecstasy. The hard flesh in Roger's mouth jerks, spilling thin fluid onto his tongue, and then Rafa is looking down again, staring. He cups Roger's face with both hands, framing it. Roger moves, sucking, licking, sliding his mouth up and down until he aches, but he's not going to stop. The knowledge that they're not supposed to be doing this flares up inside him. He doesn't want to stop; that's the problem.
Rafa slides the pad of a thumb over Roger's eyebrow, across his damp eyelashes, down his nose, across his upper lip. He pushes it in alongside his cock, and they both stop, breathing hard. Roger reaches up and wraps his hand around the base and strokes. He's got a hand on himself too, and he knows Rafa can see that. His jaw aches, and his ankles are stiffening, toes pressed uncomfortably inside his smart leather shoes. He spreads his knees as wide as his pushed-down trousers will allow, jerking himself off and Rafa off at the same time, jerking Rafa into his mouth.
"Oh god, you," Rafa says, and then his hips are arcing forwards. The head of his cock pushes down at Roger's tongue, slick and heavy, and he floods Roger's mouth in three hard jerks. His breathing is out of control, low and harsh. Roger catches it all and swallows.
It distracts him from his own orgasm long enough that Rafa is softening in his mouth, slipping out, and then is almost half bent over him, caressing his hair and kissing his face. Everything is Rafa: taste, smell, touch, sound. Everything.
Rafa half-crushes him, hands sliding protectively over Roger's back. A moan escapes Roger's throat just as the sharp pleasure gets too intense. He presses his face to Rafa's hip, needing bare skin under his mouth.
"Yeah, yeah," Rafa whispers in his ear, clinging on, holding him, and Roger gasps and tenses, thigh muscles locking tight. He comes over his own hand, listening to Rafa's voice.
He's dizzy, too hot, sweating, and he realises after some time has passed that Rafa has slid down to his level—they are in a tangled messy heap against the wall—and his head is pressed against Rafa's shoulder. Rafa strokes his hair, fingers combing from his temple to his neck. He runs a finger along the curve of Roger's ear, and the gesture, more than anything else, brings home what's just happened.
It’s been six months since they agreed this was a bad thing to be doing. It hasn't been six months since they last did it. Roger pushes back the cuff of Rafa's shirt where it's obscuring his watch. His head feels too heavy to even move. His dick is still hanging out, and so is Rafa's. He can see the pink soft head of it when he looks down. It's too intimate abruptly, in this little room, with the dim lightbulb and the air thick with the smell of semen.
"Yeah," Rafa sighs. He shifts under Roger, like his legs are going numb. "We gotta go."
Roger keeps thinking there must be a solution - there's always a solution to things, in Roger's experience. But he keeps thinking and coming up with nothing. This thing with Rafa-- it's not convenient or tidy or even controllable. The part that scares Roger the most is that he still wants it. He breathes in once more, deep, smelling Rafa's aftershave and his skin and hair and breath, then he sits back on his heels and tucks himself in while Rafa does the same. There's come on the floor and over Roger's hand, but Rafa pulls out a paper napkin from his pocket.
"We use this," Rafa says, and begins to dab.
"We made a mess, didn't we?" Roger says, with a faint laugh. He's shaky, like his blood sugar is low. It probably is; sex does that.
"You okay?" Rafa asks. "Roger?" He sounds like he really cares a lot.
"Fine. Really, fine."
They pull each other up. Rafa rubs at his thighs with a rueful smile, and their eyes lock for a second too long.
"Rafa... " But there isn't anything to say, and they both know it.
Rafa takes his hand and squeezes it, then drops it. "You leave first," he says. "I wait."
"I'll see you in a couple of weeks." It's a meaningless thing to say; Roger knows his calendar exactly, and knows when Rafa's going to be there. So does Rafa.
Rafa pushes a hand through his hair and rubs at his face. "Yeah. But do not worry."
He gives Roger an intense stare, as if he can will it. This mess they've got into, it's not even Roger's biggest problem at the moment.
"No, I won't worry."
He could fret and plan and wonder about what will happen when he sees Rafa again, but there's hardly any point. It's out of their control.
Title: The beauty of it
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating/warnings: not worksafe, explicit m/m
Notes: thanks to
buckle_berry and emungere for inspiration, untangling my sentences and patiently correcting my comma-blindness. This story is quite possibly part of a longer story that I have not got round to writing yet. It's set currently, where they are in relationships with Mirka and Xisca.Summary: they've agreed they aren't going to this any more, but they are unable to stop
They've agreed they aren't going to do this any more. But when they get close to each other, like tonight in this hotel that has too many secret corners and useful, empty little cupboard rooms, it's as if Roger is drunk. He can't think clearly. Rafa backs up to the wall besides two broken chairs, and Roger follows, kicking the door closed behind them. The air is dusty and Rafa pauses, eyes fixed on infinity, hand raised to his nose, and then sneezes.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and then he gives Roger a bashful smile.
The idea of not touching Rafa seems ridiculous when he looks so good, and he smells so good, and Roger just wants him so much.
"Do you need my handkerchief?" Roger asks.
"No, is fine," Rafa says.
It's a little awkward in this tiny room where they could only possibly be for one reason. The only light source is a bare bulb, and the low wattage makes Rafa glow like he's in candlelight, and he's watching Roger. Roger moves to him, and they press themselves together and they kiss. Everything about Rafa gets to him. His hair, his skin, the hard curves of his body under Roger's hands, the way he pushes his hips forward in little unconscious thrusts, like he wants to fuck, here, now. The button on his trousers falls magically apart at Roger's slight touch.
Roger hooks both hands into Rafa's waistband and shoves his trousers down, so that Rafa's body is exposed from hip to thigh. Roger closes his eyes at the needy, desperate sound that this elicits. He stares at Rafa's heavily muscled thighs, much paler at the top, the dark patch of hair, and Rafa's erection, half raised and swelling more under Roger's gaze. Rafa wants this just as much; it's the worst, most exciting thing.
"Kiss me," Rafa asks.
His mouth is wet and swollen, lips sliding against Roger's, his tongue pushing in deep, one hand yanking at Roger's belt and zip, fumbling blind.
"Come on," Rafa mutters, as he drags too hard at Roger's trousers. He gets Roger's underwear down and the shock of his touch after so long makes Roger gasp into his mouth.
Rafa clings and leans and twines around him like he craves the contact. Roger has noticed this before. Rafa's hands are shivery and light on Roger's skin, skimming over Roger's stomach and hips, the tops of his thighs, finally closing around his cock, one at the base, one above it, enclosing it in damp warmth, stroking and squeezing. God, he knows what he's doing. He's licking at Roger's mouth, and it's all Roger can do to cling to his shoulders.
Rafa spreads his legs, bracing against the wall so that Roger can lean. Rafa is too beautiful, too carelessly erotic in everything he does. Roger touches him in return, tracing the underside of his shaft, touching the head where it's wet and sticky, smooth and hot. He wants it in his mouth, in the back of his throat, filling him.
"Yeah, oh god, yeah," Rafa says, even before Roger starts to drop to his knees. He can't read minds, even though it seems that way sometimes. Instead, he can read the minute movements of Roger's body. He's too clever, Roger thinks, pressing his face briefly to Rafa's neck. He's really a bit scary.
Rafa lets go of his cock, but he hooks a hand at the back of Roger's neck and pulls him close for another kiss. It's wet and messy and deep, and they both moan, sharing it.
"I think about this," Rafa says, then bites his lip and looks almost scared. His gaze is unbearably soft and intense, utterly focused on Roger. A laugh, under his breath, mocking himself. "A lot. When I am alone."
Roger brushes his thumb over Rafa's cheekbone and says, because he wants to jack Rafa up, get him hotter, make him remember this: "You think about me sucking you off? My mouth?"
It works, because Rafa groans between his teeth and pushes at Roger's shoulders, down. Roger guides it in as soon as he's close enough, taking it deep as he can. Rafa moans again, lower, hotter, and whatever door is between them and the outside world, it's really never going to be enough for a sound like that. Rafa's taste floods his mouth; sharp, bitter, the almost rank taste of pre come. He smells clean but still musky; pure sex. It gets to Roger that Rafa always smells like this, if only you could get close enough, get his panties down, get him hard and fucking your mouth.
Looking up, mouth full, he sees Rafa looking down, and when their eyes meet Rafa tips his head back, lips parted, his face smoothing into ecstasy. The hard flesh in Roger's mouth jerks, spilling thin fluid onto his tongue, and then Rafa is looking down again, staring. He cups Roger's face with both hands, framing it. Roger moves, sucking, licking, sliding his mouth up and down until he aches, but he's not going to stop. The knowledge that they're not supposed to be doing this flares up inside him. He doesn't want to stop; that's the problem.
Rafa slides the pad of a thumb over Roger's eyebrow, across his damp eyelashes, down his nose, across his upper lip. He pushes it in alongside his cock, and they both stop, breathing hard. Roger reaches up and wraps his hand around the base and strokes. He's got a hand on himself too, and he knows Rafa can see that. His jaw aches, and his ankles are stiffening, toes pressed uncomfortably inside his smart leather shoes. He spreads his knees as wide as his pushed-down trousers will allow, jerking himself off and Rafa off at the same time, jerking Rafa into his mouth.
"Oh god, you," Rafa says, and then his hips are arcing forwards. The head of his cock pushes down at Roger's tongue, slick and heavy, and he floods Roger's mouth in three hard jerks. His breathing is out of control, low and harsh. Roger catches it all and swallows.
It distracts him from his own orgasm long enough that Rafa is softening in his mouth, slipping out, and then is almost half bent over him, caressing his hair and kissing his face. Everything is Rafa: taste, smell, touch, sound. Everything.
Rafa half-crushes him, hands sliding protectively over Roger's back. A moan escapes Roger's throat just as the sharp pleasure gets too intense. He presses his face to Rafa's hip, needing bare skin under his mouth.
"Yeah, yeah," Rafa whispers in his ear, clinging on, holding him, and Roger gasps and tenses, thigh muscles locking tight. He comes over his own hand, listening to Rafa's voice.
He's dizzy, too hot, sweating, and he realises after some time has passed that Rafa has slid down to his level—they are in a tangled messy heap against the wall—and his head is pressed against Rafa's shoulder. Rafa strokes his hair, fingers combing from his temple to his neck. He runs a finger along the curve of Roger's ear, and the gesture, more than anything else, brings home what's just happened.
It’s been six months since they agreed this was a bad thing to be doing. It hasn't been six months since they last did it. Roger pushes back the cuff of Rafa's shirt where it's obscuring his watch. His head feels too heavy to even move. His dick is still hanging out, and so is Rafa's. He can see the pink soft head of it when he looks down. It's too intimate abruptly, in this little room, with the dim lightbulb and the air thick with the smell of semen.
"Yeah," Rafa sighs. He shifts under Roger, like his legs are going numb. "We gotta go."
Roger keeps thinking there must be a solution - there's always a solution to things, in Roger's experience. But he keeps thinking and coming up with nothing. This thing with Rafa-- it's not convenient or tidy or even controllable. The part that scares Roger the most is that he still wants it. He breathes in once more, deep, smelling Rafa's aftershave and his skin and hair and breath, then he sits back on his heels and tucks himself in while Rafa does the same. There's come on the floor and over Roger's hand, but Rafa pulls out a paper napkin from his pocket.
"We use this," Rafa says, and begins to dab.
"We made a mess, didn't we?" Roger says, with a faint laugh. He's shaky, like his blood sugar is low. It probably is; sex does that.
"You okay?" Rafa asks. "Roger?" He sounds like he really cares a lot.
"Fine. Really, fine."
They pull each other up. Rafa rubs at his thighs with a rueful smile, and their eyes lock for a second too long.
"Rafa... " But there isn't anything to say, and they both know it.
Rafa takes his hand and squeezes it, then drops it. "You leave first," he says. "I wait."
"I'll see you in a couple of weeks." It's a meaningless thing to say; Roger knows his calendar exactly, and knows when Rafa's going to be there. So does Rafa.
Rafa pushes a hand through his hair and rubs at his face. "Yeah. But do not worry."
He gives Roger an intense stare, as if he can will it. This mess they've got into, it's not even Roger's biggest problem at the moment.
"No, I won't worry."
He could fret and plan and wonder about what will happen when he sees Rafa again, but there's hardly any point. It's out of their control.
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