It had to happen someday...
I'm gonna post some fic.
Me.
The sky will start falling any second now.
Title: Sun, Skin and Smile.
Author: er, me?
Rating: PG? PG-13?
Pairing: Rafa Nadal/Carlos Moyá
Disclaimer: Everything’s truth and I have the rafalos home-made porn videos to prove it! Ha, fooled you XP (come on)
Warnings: Erm, that Rafa doesn’t pout once in any of the three pieces? j/k :B
A/N: Written for the Pairing of the Month fic challenge at tennisslash. If you want them to happen in the same reality, then it's ok but they weren't written to fit into the same line or as a series, so if you think they don't fit together, that's ok as well.
My ass heart is owned by nastasie. Thank you for beta reading, for not throwing something at my head everytime I say that "this one really sucks" and you always make me feel proud of myself, which is not something I say to every girl, ya know? If you find any mistakes, the fault is of yours truly.
All of them are dedicated to Nastasie, but Skin is *specially* dedicated to amelieeowyn. My darling, if you're reading this, that one's for you with all my love.
Sun.
It’s not that he’s a sentimental child. He’s not. And it’s not that he’s got the soul of an artiste, sensitive and insightful and deep, because he wouldn’t really want to have it. Carlos sometimes speaks as if he had a soul like that, and he perfectly understands what Carlos says but thinks that most of the times he just complicates his own life with no purpose - and he’s let Carlos know it openly - but he understands that as well. Neurosis is so 21st century.
What he likes, though, is to appreciate the little things. He doesn’t give a significant meaning to the racket with which he won the Davis Cup. It’s just a racket, so he doesn’t know where it is right now and several people have gone into hysterics at him losing the One Racket. But he keeps the shirt Carlos wore last year in Bästad before he was defeated. It’s a regular black 100% cotton sleeveless, and Carlos didn’t even wear it at a match. But he was wearing it when they played beach football and he was wearing it when they laughed at everything like idiots and threw sand down each other’s shorts and had more than their fair share of horsing around and sand-burn and sunburn and mocking Robredo drooling over the Swedish babes. It was a remarkably cheerful day, blaringly bright and sunny and hot, one of those days that pass you by with you wanting to stop time and live in it for the rest of your natural life. He remembers the sunset catching them by surprise while they ran after the ball and Carlos taking advantage of his distraction to score a goal against him, and he couldn’t have cared less if he won or lost because he felt so full and so light, high on life and giddy and it was all tinged orange and it smelled like salt and sunscreen and sun-baked skin and carelessness.
Every time Rafa brings that shirt up to his nose and buries his face in it, he feels that ridiculous joy again. He can feel the hot air and the sand and the sea water stinging his eyes. He can hear Carlos laughing and feel his arm around his shoulder and hear his voice, low and free muttering in his ear. He can see the sweat on his sun-drenched skin and feel the rough scratch of his stubble marking his cheek and the touch of chapped lips caressing his face. And he can smell the sun.
Skin.
It’s rather unique, the way he touches.
He likes to touch everything, you found that out pretty early, before anything between you happened.
You prefer to watch - and you love to hear -, but he will put his hands on everything that sparks his curiosity. He will use the whole surface of his palm, the roughened skin of calluses and the soft pads of his fingers equally. Sometimes pressing down, just feeling, sometimes running steady hands slowly over things, or taking them between his fingers and memorizing their texture and shape.
You’ve seen him kneel on courts to run his palms on the carpet, or graze his fingers lightly over grass, just the tips, which is unusual for him, as is if it were something as sacred as forbidden, or grab at the clay to then rub his hands together, feeling the grains roll against his skin.
Sometimes you see the image of a warrior getting to know the terrain in which he will fight, forging an alliance with it, but most of the time you think it’s more like a lover’s touch, not so much wanting to memorize by tact what his beloved’s skin feels like, but knowing exactly what it feels like and just enjoying the act of perceiving it through touch, of remembering its crevices and its curves and the rhythm of its breath, of coming back to them over and over.
Those hands have captivated your love for observing things more times than you think is healthy, their movement as delicate and gracious as it is light and efficient, almost always out of place when compared to the body they’re joined to, quick and changing rapidly from brutal to clumsy to dominant to quietly self-restrained, an endless amount of untamed energy flowing right under the skin. There’s a point where body language and hand language meet, however, and that’s the beauty of seeing it happening at the same time, how they complement each other in an imperfectly elegant flow of powerful motion.
You will never get tired of seeing those hands explore the world through their touch; it’s as if his way of taking information is giving a caress in return. You sometimes feel like you’re the selfish one, just taking by looking at everything, devouring the beauty around you and not giving anything back, but as you see those veined hands moving over your skin, relentless, possessive, adoring, beautiful, you come to terms with the fact that you are a greedy selfish man who doesn’t need to repent from wanting his generous touch all to yourself.
Smile.
His smile looks different from this angle. It looks more relaxed, wider, placid, as if gravity assists his cheek muscles into pulling the corner of his lips wide and he didn’t have to make them work. Effortless. Sweet. It softens his face in a way you’ve never seen when not under these circumstances: him limp and supine below you, surrendered by own will, wrists slightly above his head, easily appeased under your hands, and eyes sparkling, both of you quiet and still, looking into each other’s faces, noses almost touching. Slanted golden light filtering through the curtains, almost flavouring the warm air around you.
“Not that I don’t love it, but the gap between your teeth isn’t that obvious from up here”
How anyone can make hearty laughter sound so lazy is beyond you, but Carlos manages.
I DEMAND comments and criticism *threatens*
Me.
The sky will start falling any second now.
Title: Sun, Skin and Smile.
Author: er, me?
Rating: PG? PG-13?
Pairing: Rafa Nadal/Carlos Moyá
Disclaimer: Everything’s truth and I have the rafalos home-made porn videos to prove it! Ha, fooled you XP (come on)
Warnings: Erm, that Rafa doesn’t pout once in any of the three pieces? j/k :B
A/N: Written for the Pairing of the Month fic challenge at tennisslash. If you want them to happen in the same reality, then it's ok but they weren't written to fit into the same line or as a series, so if you think they don't fit together, that's ok as well.
My ass heart is owned by nastasie. Thank you for beta reading, for not throwing something at my head everytime I say that "this one really sucks" and you always make me feel proud of myself, which is not something I say to every girl, ya know? If you find any mistakes, the fault is of yours truly.
All of them are dedicated to Nastasie, but Skin is *specially* dedicated to amelieeowyn. My darling, if you're reading this, that one's for you with all my love.
Sun.
It’s not that he’s a sentimental child. He’s not. And it’s not that he’s got the soul of an artiste, sensitive and insightful and deep, because he wouldn’t really want to have it. Carlos sometimes speaks as if he had a soul like that, and he perfectly understands what Carlos says but thinks that most of the times he just complicates his own life with no purpose - and he’s let Carlos know it openly - but he understands that as well. Neurosis is so 21st century.
What he likes, though, is to appreciate the little things. He doesn’t give a significant meaning to the racket with which he won the Davis Cup. It’s just a racket, so he doesn’t know where it is right now and several people have gone into hysterics at him losing the One Racket. But he keeps the shirt Carlos wore last year in Bästad before he was defeated. It’s a regular black 100% cotton sleeveless, and Carlos didn’t even wear it at a match. But he was wearing it when they played beach football and he was wearing it when they laughed at everything like idiots and threw sand down each other’s shorts and had more than their fair share of horsing around and sand-burn and sunburn and mocking Robredo drooling over the Swedish babes. It was a remarkably cheerful day, blaringly bright and sunny and hot, one of those days that pass you by with you wanting to stop time and live in it for the rest of your natural life. He remembers the sunset catching them by surprise while they ran after the ball and Carlos taking advantage of his distraction to score a goal against him, and he couldn’t have cared less if he won or lost because he felt so full and so light, high on life and giddy and it was all tinged orange and it smelled like salt and sunscreen and sun-baked skin and carelessness.
Every time Rafa brings that shirt up to his nose and buries his face in it, he feels that ridiculous joy again. He can feel the hot air and the sand and the sea water stinging his eyes. He can hear Carlos laughing and feel his arm around his shoulder and hear his voice, low and free muttering in his ear. He can see the sweat on his sun-drenched skin and feel the rough scratch of his stubble marking his cheek and the touch of chapped lips caressing his face. And he can smell the sun.
Skin.
It’s rather unique, the way he touches.
He likes to touch everything, you found that out pretty early, before anything between you happened.
You prefer to watch - and you love to hear -, but he will put his hands on everything that sparks his curiosity. He will use the whole surface of his palm, the roughened skin of calluses and the soft pads of his fingers equally. Sometimes pressing down, just feeling, sometimes running steady hands slowly over things, or taking them between his fingers and memorizing their texture and shape.
You’ve seen him kneel on courts to run his palms on the carpet, or graze his fingers lightly over grass, just the tips, which is unusual for him, as is if it were something as sacred as forbidden, or grab at the clay to then rub his hands together, feeling the grains roll against his skin.
Sometimes you see the image of a warrior getting to know the terrain in which he will fight, forging an alliance with it, but most of the time you think it’s more like a lover’s touch, not so much wanting to memorize by tact what his beloved’s skin feels like, but knowing exactly what it feels like and just enjoying the act of perceiving it through touch, of remembering its crevices and its curves and the rhythm of its breath, of coming back to them over and over.
Those hands have captivated your love for observing things more times than you think is healthy, their movement as delicate and gracious as it is light and efficient, almost always out of place when compared to the body they’re joined to, quick and changing rapidly from brutal to clumsy to dominant to quietly self-restrained, an endless amount of untamed energy flowing right under the skin. There’s a point where body language and hand language meet, however, and that’s the beauty of seeing it happening at the same time, how they complement each other in an imperfectly elegant flow of powerful motion.
You will never get tired of seeing those hands explore the world through their touch; it’s as if his way of taking information is giving a caress in return. You sometimes feel like you’re the selfish one, just taking by looking at everything, devouring the beauty around you and not giving anything back, but as you see those veined hands moving over your skin, relentless, possessive, adoring, beautiful, you come to terms with the fact that you are a greedy selfish man who doesn’t need to repent from wanting his generous touch all to yourself.
Smile.
His smile looks different from this angle. It looks more relaxed, wider, placid, as if gravity assists his cheek muscles into pulling the corner of his lips wide and he didn’t have to make them work. Effortless. Sweet. It softens his face in a way you’ve never seen when not under these circumstances: him limp and supine below you, surrendered by own will, wrists slightly above his head, easily appeased under your hands, and eyes sparkling, both of you quiet and still, looking into each other’s faces, noses almost touching. Slanted golden light filtering through the curtains, almost flavouring the warm air around you.
“Not that I don’t love it, but the gap between your teeth isn’t that obvious from up here”
How anyone can make hearty laughter sound so lazy is beyond you, but Carlos manages.
I DEMAND comments and criticism *threatens*