Tennis rps fic - Round of 16, Roger/Rafa
Jul. 1st, 2010 01:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
louiseluxI wrote fic! It seems like ages since I posted anything. Checking in the calender, it's actually been four months, although I've been writing on and off for most of that time. I need to finish more things, clearly.
Anyway, this is a little something I wrote with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
buckle_berry, just because we could. It's also posted at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fedal_slash.
Title: Round of 16
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating: NC 17
Warnings: PWP, infidelity
Summary: Roger and Rafa and illicit sex in the locker room.
In the locker room afterwards, Paul-Henri is nowhere to be seen. Instead there is Roger, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, clean and fresh.
"Hey," Roger says, sounding as casual as he always does, like he's only stopping by for a chat. It's only his eyes that say anything different.
Thrumming with post-match adrenaline, Rafa lets his bags drop to the floor and walks Roger straight back into the wall before kissing him, pressing Roger's mouth open with his own, eating up the sharp little moan that comes out. Rafa just pushes his hands straight up under Roger's shirt, not waiting, stroking up over his ribs, feeling the muscles there flex as Roger has to find his balance.
Roger tries to unzip Rafa's jacket, but Rafa presses their bodies together and Roger gives up. He is half-hard already from the match and he's getting harder. He doesn't think about how Roger has managed to be here -- doesn't care, right now. He wants Roger naked, stripped bare of even the simple clothes he has on. He wants to see the place where the skin on Roger's thigh goes from dark to light; he wants to press his mouth there and paint his tongue over it. He licks at Roger's mouth and Roger licks back, eager.
"Hey," Rafa says, slipping his fingers into the little gap between the waistband of Roger's jeans and his skin, playing them along the line of soft skin. It's warm there and it feels so illicit, so not-allowed. Rough hair brushes against the tips of his fingers. He presses his cock against Roger's hard thigh, grinding up rudely, seeing Roger's eyelids flutter. "Take your clothes off."
Roger doesn't. Instead he pushes Rafa's shorts and underwear down around his thighs and skims his palms almost delicately over Rafa's ass, before pulling him in so they are tight, mouth to mouth, chest to chest. They stay still like that, just breathing, Roger clutching at him now, kneading his flesh. He tastes of mouthwash, faintly antispetic. Rafa's aware of his own body, sweat-stained and grubby. Grass and dust cling to his legs.
"You look great," Roger whispers, moving his mouth down across Rafa's chin to his neck. His cock is a thick line in his jeans, sloping left across the top of his thigh. He can't help but push hard against Roger's body as Roger sucks at his neck, nipping and biting. Rafa feels hot everywhere, sweat dripping down his back from his still-wet hair.
"Take them off," Rafa says in a rush, "take them off." His voice betrays everything about how desperate he feels, and Roger groans as he pulls himself back like he can't stand it. Rafa strips -- everything, clothes littered at his feet -- and looks up in time to see Roger, naked from the waist up, pulling his shirt over his head. His body is perfect, absolutely perfect, hard and taut and white and tan, and they lock eyes. "You," Rafa says, and his voice is trembling, and then he cups Roger's face in one hand and kisses him, hard.
Roger makes the most erotic sounds when they kiss; small moans that are full of need and impatience. Listening to them always makes Rafa wonder how badly Roger has been waiting for this chance to see him, if he wants it like Rafa wants it: all the time. He's making them now as he awkwardly struggles out of his jeans, as Rafa kisses him. Then he's naked and pressed against Rafa. Rafa wraps his arms around him and Roger does the same. There's so much to feel; hard warm skin against his, soft handfuls of Roger's hair in his palms, Roger's fingers digging into his hips, the wet rub of his cock on Rafa's stomach, the hot length of it pressing right there, oh, against his own. The sharp scent of his own sweat rises in the heat between them, mixed with whatever light aftershave Roger is wearing. "God," Roger moans. He breaks away from Rafa's mouth and gazes at him, eyes dark and moving from Rafa's eyes down to his lips, back and forth. Then he looks down at their bodies.
"Will you suck me off?" Roger asks. He's always pretty direct.
Rafa nods.
They kiss for a minute more. Rafa can feel how quickly Roger is breathing, his chest, pressed against Rafa's own, rising and falling. It is incredible to Rafa that any of this can happen. He had watched Roger's match earlier, taping the handles of his racquets, quietly focused on Roger moving around the TV screen in the locker room. It is the same Roger, the one he watched as a kid, the one he was too shy to speak to when he he first came onto the tour. Now this Roger is hot under his hands, and when Rafa watches him play tennis, he thinks about the way he moves when he fucks, the way he looks when he comes. Rafa has lost his mind, and he doesn't think about wives or children or girlfriends or tennis when he slides to his knees. He pushes his mouth over Roger's cock, wet and heavy at the head, the velvet skin of Roger's shaft, and listens to Roger's soft moan above him, feels Roger's hands in his hair.
"God, Rafa," Roger groans, and then words spill out of his mouth in German. He sounds like he's in pain and Rafa wonders how close he is, if he's as close to the edge as Rafa feels. Rafa places one hand on the cool tile of the wall, the other on Roger's hip, and doesn't touch himself. He risks a look up. Roger's face is shadowed, his eyebrows like dark wings slanting up. His mouth is soft and open and the hands in Rafa's damp hair are gentle, almost protective as he guides Rafa's mouth onto him. Rafa's cock feels massive between his own thighs. His balls are so tight. He could come at just one touch, or a single word. He forces his mouth down further, letting Roger fill his mouth deep, letting him push in a little too far. Roger likes that, it makes him make a lost, aching sound, but his hands stay so gentle. Rafa's thighs should ache from the match, his blisters should be throbbing, but nothing hurts. He can't think of anything but the next minute and Roger.
"Rafa," Roger says suddenly, urgently. When he looks up, Roger is gazing down at him, eyes dark. Rafa pulls his mouth off Roger's cock and pushes his forehead against Roger's hip, mouth open against warm flesh, concentrating on breathing. Roger's hands are still gentle in his hair, fingertips trailing his scalp. When he looks up again, Roger makes a soft sound.
"Where?" Rafa asks and Roger's tongue flicks over his lower lip. He reaches down to help Rafa to his feet; Rafa is a little unsteady and they stand for a minute, Roger kissing softly at his mouth. Then he takes Rafa by the hand and leads him through the narrow corridor of benches to the shower room at the back. They had started this in here. Roger had called him "Rafael" and he'd been quiet, gentle. It had been months before Rafa had realised quite how hard Roger had been working that day to keep himself in check. In the cubicle, Roger leans his back against the wall and pulls Rafa into him, taking Rafa's weight. He touches Rafa slowly, definite hands smoothing over the planes of his chest and the taut muscle of his stomach as Rafa shudders and struggles for breath. When he reaches Rafa's thighs, his heavy cock, Roger pulls Rafa's head into his own and whispers to him as he strokes him. Rafa thinks he understands some of what Roger says, fragments of phrases you pick up in a multilingual locker room, but there is a reason Roger talks to him in German and he doesn't ask, just lets it wash over him, breathing the scent of Roger's skin. Roger's voice is so soft, even when it's catching on the rough sounds of his language. He kisses Rafa between words, one hand wrapped tight and hot around Rafa's cock, the other still smoothing over his skin.
It's warmer in here, and damper. If someone came in they wouldn't just stumble across them fucking. No one ever does seem to find them though. Rafa smiles, and Roger kisses it instantly, nuzzling at him. Rafa's aware of how his sweat is still rolling down his back, how overheated his skin is, of how Roger seems to want to map all of his body with that one hand.
"Roger," he says, shakily. He bumps his forehead against Roger's, hard bone under their skin. "Oh, Rog... "
He thinks he understands the Swiss-German words for some things: 'tennis' 'glutes' 'football' and 'lunch' and he thinks he also understands 'gorgeous' and 'beautiful' and 'fuck' and 'love' -- he's almost sure. He cries out as Roger squeezes and strokes him faster, pressing his face to Roger's neck. He tries to last as long as he can, but the match and the situation make it all too much. It has been weeks since he's had Roger this way and Rafa feels himself fall into Roger as he comes in long hot stripes all over Roger's chest and stomach. It clings in droplets in the dark hair there. His face is buried in the place between Roger's neck and shoulder, and he stays there as Roger touches himself, rocking them both a little with the movement of his arm. Rafa has one hand trapped between their bodies but with the other he draws circles on Roger's thigh and when Roger's breath shortens, he tips his head up so that he can close his teeth gently around the lobe of Roger's ear.
"Oh god, oh my god," Roger whispers as he comes, a hot, wet mess between their bodies that makes Rafa's cock twitch in spite of himself, that makes him want to fuck. He growls low in his throat and Roger lets his head fall back against the wall, laughing, breathless.
"You need to move," Roger says after a few moments, pushing at him weakly. Rafa moves back, slumping onto the bench opposite. Roger lands beside him, thigh pressed to Rafa's thigh. His skin glistens with sweat and he looks flushed, nothing like how he appears on a tennis court. It seems impossible that they might play each other soon. "How are you feeling?" he asks, turning his head against the wall to look at Rafa.
"Tired," Rafa says, but post-orgasm his limbs feel soft and malleable.
"Shower," Roger says, and Rafa leans his head against Roger's shoulder.
"Now you tell me what to do? Toni will not like this." Roger laughs again and they sit quietly for a minute, Rafa draping a hand over Roger's stomach. Their dicks are wilting. Rafa always wonders why this part doesn't feel as ridiculous as it should.
"I'm practising late tomorrow," Roger says eventually and Rafa sits up to look at him.
"Good," he says, and Roger smiles at him. "Wait for me afterwards?" Rafa asks and Roger nods.
"Always." They lean in for another kiss. Roger has one hand against Rafa's face and when they break apart, he leaves it there for a minute, looking at Rafa so seriously Rafa worries that he's about to say something bad. But then he smiles again. "Congratulations for the match. I thought you played terrific, you know?"
Rafa shrugs, silencing any voice inside that might be thrilled that Roger Federer thought he played well. "Need to play better for make final, no?"
Roger leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "You'll do it," he says confidently.
Rafa slides a hand along Roger's jaw. Yes, he thinks. He just might.
Anyway, this is a little something I wrote with
buckle_berry, just because we could. It's also posted at fedal_slash. Title: Round of 16
Pairing: Roger/Rafa
Rating: NC 17
Warnings: PWP, infidelity
Summary: Roger and Rafa and illicit sex in the locker room.
In the locker room afterwards, Paul-Henri is nowhere to be seen. Instead there is Roger, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, clean and fresh.
"Hey," Roger says, sounding as casual as he always does, like he's only stopping by for a chat. It's only his eyes that say anything different.
Thrumming with post-match adrenaline, Rafa lets his bags drop to the floor and walks Roger straight back into the wall before kissing him, pressing Roger's mouth open with his own, eating up the sharp little moan that comes out. Rafa just pushes his hands straight up under Roger's shirt, not waiting, stroking up over his ribs, feeling the muscles there flex as Roger has to find his balance.
Roger tries to unzip Rafa's jacket, but Rafa presses their bodies together and Roger gives up. He is half-hard already from the match and he's getting harder. He doesn't think about how Roger has managed to be here -- doesn't care, right now. He wants Roger naked, stripped bare of even the simple clothes he has on. He wants to see the place where the skin on Roger's thigh goes from dark to light; he wants to press his mouth there and paint his tongue over it. He licks at Roger's mouth and Roger licks back, eager.
"Hey," Rafa says, slipping his fingers into the little gap between the waistband of Roger's jeans and his skin, playing them along the line of soft skin. It's warm there and it feels so illicit, so not-allowed. Rough hair brushes against the tips of his fingers. He presses his cock against Roger's hard thigh, grinding up rudely, seeing Roger's eyelids flutter. "Take your clothes off."
Roger doesn't. Instead he pushes Rafa's shorts and underwear down around his thighs and skims his palms almost delicately over Rafa's ass, before pulling him in so they are tight, mouth to mouth, chest to chest. They stay still like that, just breathing, Roger clutching at him now, kneading his flesh. He tastes of mouthwash, faintly antispetic. Rafa's aware of his own body, sweat-stained and grubby. Grass and dust cling to his legs.
"You look great," Roger whispers, moving his mouth down across Rafa's chin to his neck. His cock is a thick line in his jeans, sloping left across the top of his thigh. He can't help but push hard against Roger's body as Roger sucks at his neck, nipping and biting. Rafa feels hot everywhere, sweat dripping down his back from his still-wet hair.
"Take them off," Rafa says in a rush, "take them off." His voice betrays everything about how desperate he feels, and Roger groans as he pulls himself back like he can't stand it. Rafa strips -- everything, clothes littered at his feet -- and looks up in time to see Roger, naked from the waist up, pulling his shirt over his head. His body is perfect, absolutely perfect, hard and taut and white and tan, and they lock eyes. "You," Rafa says, and his voice is trembling, and then he cups Roger's face in one hand and kisses him, hard.
Roger makes the most erotic sounds when they kiss; small moans that are full of need and impatience. Listening to them always makes Rafa wonder how badly Roger has been waiting for this chance to see him, if he wants it like Rafa wants it: all the time. He's making them now as he awkwardly struggles out of his jeans, as Rafa kisses him. Then he's naked and pressed against Rafa. Rafa wraps his arms around him and Roger does the same. There's so much to feel; hard warm skin against his, soft handfuls of Roger's hair in his palms, Roger's fingers digging into his hips, the wet rub of his cock on Rafa's stomach, the hot length of it pressing right there, oh, against his own. The sharp scent of his own sweat rises in the heat between them, mixed with whatever light aftershave Roger is wearing. "God," Roger moans. He breaks away from Rafa's mouth and gazes at him, eyes dark and moving from Rafa's eyes down to his lips, back and forth. Then he looks down at their bodies.
"Will you suck me off?" Roger asks. He's always pretty direct.
Rafa nods.
They kiss for a minute more. Rafa can feel how quickly Roger is breathing, his chest, pressed against Rafa's own, rising and falling. It is incredible to Rafa that any of this can happen. He had watched Roger's match earlier, taping the handles of his racquets, quietly focused on Roger moving around the TV screen in the locker room. It is the same Roger, the one he watched as a kid, the one he was too shy to speak to when he he first came onto the tour. Now this Roger is hot under his hands, and when Rafa watches him play tennis, he thinks about the way he moves when he fucks, the way he looks when he comes. Rafa has lost his mind, and he doesn't think about wives or children or girlfriends or tennis when he slides to his knees. He pushes his mouth over Roger's cock, wet and heavy at the head, the velvet skin of Roger's shaft, and listens to Roger's soft moan above him, feels Roger's hands in his hair.
"God, Rafa," Roger groans, and then words spill out of his mouth in German. He sounds like he's in pain and Rafa wonders how close he is, if he's as close to the edge as Rafa feels. Rafa places one hand on the cool tile of the wall, the other on Roger's hip, and doesn't touch himself. He risks a look up. Roger's face is shadowed, his eyebrows like dark wings slanting up. His mouth is soft and open and the hands in Rafa's damp hair are gentle, almost protective as he guides Rafa's mouth onto him. Rafa's cock feels massive between his own thighs. His balls are so tight. He could come at just one touch, or a single word. He forces his mouth down further, letting Roger fill his mouth deep, letting him push in a little too far. Roger likes that, it makes him make a lost, aching sound, but his hands stay so gentle. Rafa's thighs should ache from the match, his blisters should be throbbing, but nothing hurts. He can't think of anything but the next minute and Roger.
"Rafa," Roger says suddenly, urgently. When he looks up, Roger is gazing down at him, eyes dark. Rafa pulls his mouth off Roger's cock and pushes his forehead against Roger's hip, mouth open against warm flesh, concentrating on breathing. Roger's hands are still gentle in his hair, fingertips trailing his scalp. When he looks up again, Roger makes a soft sound.
"Where?" Rafa asks and Roger's tongue flicks over his lower lip. He reaches down to help Rafa to his feet; Rafa is a little unsteady and they stand for a minute, Roger kissing softly at his mouth. Then he takes Rafa by the hand and leads him through the narrow corridor of benches to the shower room at the back. They had started this in here. Roger had called him "Rafael" and he'd been quiet, gentle. It had been months before Rafa had realised quite how hard Roger had been working that day to keep himself in check. In the cubicle, Roger leans his back against the wall and pulls Rafa into him, taking Rafa's weight. He touches Rafa slowly, definite hands smoothing over the planes of his chest and the taut muscle of his stomach as Rafa shudders and struggles for breath. When he reaches Rafa's thighs, his heavy cock, Roger pulls Rafa's head into his own and whispers to him as he strokes him. Rafa thinks he understands some of what Roger says, fragments of phrases you pick up in a multilingual locker room, but there is a reason Roger talks to him in German and he doesn't ask, just lets it wash over him, breathing the scent of Roger's skin. Roger's voice is so soft, even when it's catching on the rough sounds of his language. He kisses Rafa between words, one hand wrapped tight and hot around Rafa's cock, the other still smoothing over his skin.
It's warmer in here, and damper. If someone came in they wouldn't just stumble across them fucking. No one ever does seem to find them though. Rafa smiles, and Roger kisses it instantly, nuzzling at him. Rafa's aware of how his sweat is still rolling down his back, how overheated his skin is, of how Roger seems to want to map all of his body with that one hand.
"Roger," he says, shakily. He bumps his forehead against Roger's, hard bone under their skin. "Oh, Rog... "
He thinks he understands the Swiss-German words for some things: 'tennis' 'glutes' 'football' and 'lunch' and he thinks he also understands 'gorgeous' and 'beautiful' and 'fuck' and 'love' -- he's almost sure. He cries out as Roger squeezes and strokes him faster, pressing his face to Roger's neck. He tries to last as long as he can, but the match and the situation make it all too much. It has been weeks since he's had Roger this way and Rafa feels himself fall into Roger as he comes in long hot stripes all over Roger's chest and stomach. It clings in droplets in the dark hair there. His face is buried in the place between Roger's neck and shoulder, and he stays there as Roger touches himself, rocking them both a little with the movement of his arm. Rafa has one hand trapped between their bodies but with the other he draws circles on Roger's thigh and when Roger's breath shortens, he tips his head up so that he can close his teeth gently around the lobe of Roger's ear.
"Oh god, oh my god," Roger whispers as he comes, a hot, wet mess between their bodies that makes Rafa's cock twitch in spite of himself, that makes him want to fuck. He growls low in his throat and Roger lets his head fall back against the wall, laughing, breathless.
"You need to move," Roger says after a few moments, pushing at him weakly. Rafa moves back, slumping onto the bench opposite. Roger lands beside him, thigh pressed to Rafa's thigh. His skin glistens with sweat and he looks flushed, nothing like how he appears on a tennis court. It seems impossible that they might play each other soon. "How are you feeling?" he asks, turning his head against the wall to look at Rafa.
"Tired," Rafa says, but post-orgasm his limbs feel soft and malleable.
"Shower," Roger says, and Rafa leans his head against Roger's shoulder.
"Now you tell me what to do? Toni will not like this." Roger laughs again and they sit quietly for a minute, Rafa draping a hand over Roger's stomach. Their dicks are wilting. Rafa always wonders why this part doesn't feel as ridiculous as it should.
"I'm practising late tomorrow," Roger says eventually and Rafa sits up to look at him.
"Good," he says, and Roger smiles at him. "Wait for me afterwards?" Rafa asks and Roger nods.
"Always." They lean in for another kiss. Roger has one hand against Rafa's face and when they break apart, he leaves it there for a minute, looking at Rafa so seriously Rafa worries that he's about to say something bad. But then he smiles again. "Congratulations for the match. I thought you played terrific, you know?"
Rafa shrugs, silencing any voice inside that might be thrilled that Roger Federer thought he played well. "Need to play better for make final, no?"
Roger leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "You'll do it," he says confidently.
Rafa slides a hand along Roger's jaw. Yes, he thinks. He just might.