Ficlet: Joke's On You
Title: Joke's On You
Pairing: Rafa/Roger, Andy Murray (kind of implied Rafa/Andy, implied Rafa/Andy/Roger)
rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~750
Summary: Roger and Rafa aren't very careful. Or maybe Andy just got lucky.
Roger and Rafa aren't very careful. Or maybe Andy just got lucky. He only knows what he saw.
The shower was running and maybe they didn't hear him coming, the pad of his bare feet on the tile floor drowned out under the hiss of the spray - or maybe they were just too wrapped up in each other to notice. They weren't even tucked away in a closed shower stall, but out in the open, Roger pressing Rafa back against the bank of lockers with his body, belly-to-bare-belly together. Andy couldn't see their faces, but the lean lines of Roger's back were unmistakeable, with Rafa's tan long-fingered hand splayed low against the hollow, fingertips resting just above the waistband of Roger's track pants, and the other hand brushing through the damp curls at the nape of Roger's neck, gently cupping the curve of his skull. Roger had one hand curled possessively at Rafa's hip, the other raised up to trace the line of Rafa's jaw. They were obviously kissing. Andy stared, suspended between the urge to turn away and the paralysis of shocked fascination.
It wasn't like Andy hadn't joked about this sometimes - about the two of them together, because it was the easiest joke in the world given how Rafa was basically the number one member of the Federer fanclub, and then all those pictures of them with heads tipped close together after Wimbledon, or Roger with his watery smile and Rafa's arm slung protectively around his neck after the Australian Open. But all that was just a joke, born out of Andy's frustration at the Roger-and-Rafa show running the tour; it wasn't real - except that it was. Andy was looking at them, the easy intimacy of their bodies together and their slow kisses. There was a tender familiarity in Rafa's hand splayed across the small of Roger's back, anchoring them together. It wasn't a one-time frantic release of tension, the way Andy jerked off in the shower sometimes after a match because his body was strung taut as wire. Rafa was pressing gentle lingering kisses along the line of Roger's jaw and further, pressing his mouth against Roger's neck and down to the curve of his shoulder, and Andy realised with a jolt that in a moment Rafa was going to see him - and then their eyes met, Rafa's heavy-lidded, widening a little with recognition. Andy's heart thudded heavily, and his breath came sharp and shallow with tension and an uncomfortable dark undercurrent of arousal.
Rafa held Andy's gaze for a long moment, assessing. He didn't push Roger away, or make any movement that would let Roger know that they'd been caught. Andy swallowed thickly. What were they doing?
And then Rafa opened his mouth and grazed his teeth over the skin at Roger's shoulder, his eyes on Andy's all the time, dark and unblinking, and Andy felt it, felt the light scrape of Rafa's teeth, a shock of red-raw lust connecting in his gut blunt and heavy as a blow. The muscles of Roger's shoulders fluttered, and Andy imagined the taste of the bare skin, clean and slightly damp from the shower. Jesus.
Rafa trailed the hand that had been resting at the small of Roger's back upwards, tracing the curve of Roger's spine with his fingertips. Roger shivered and pressed closer to Rafa, and Andy's skin prickled, watching the impossibly slow progress of Rafa's hand against Roger's bare back - a movement both caress and gesture, meant as much for Andy as it was for Roger. Look, Rafa was saying, with his eyes and with the teasing press of his fingertips against Roger's bare skin. You want to see? Look. Andy couldn't look away.
Rafa trailed his fingertips between the blunt wings of Roger's shoulderblades and further, up to the nape of his neck where Rafa's other hand was still tangled in Roger's damp curls, tugging slightly in a way that made the hair shiver at the nape of Andy's neck. Rafa grazed his teeth again over the smooth skin, and then lifted his head just slightly, just enough that he could put one finger to his lips. Shh, don't tell. His eyes on Andy's were dark and knowing, and there was a curve to the slight smile he gave Andy behind the quieting finger that gave him a predatory look. Our little secret.
Pairing: Rafa/Roger, Andy Murray (kind of implied Rafa/Andy, implied Rafa/Andy/Roger)
rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~750
Summary: Roger and Rafa aren't very careful. Or maybe Andy just got lucky.
Roger and Rafa aren't very careful. Or maybe Andy just got lucky. He only knows what he saw.
The shower was running and maybe they didn't hear him coming, the pad of his bare feet on the tile floor drowned out under the hiss of the spray - or maybe they were just too wrapped up in each other to notice. They weren't even tucked away in a closed shower stall, but out in the open, Roger pressing Rafa back against the bank of lockers with his body, belly-to-bare-belly together. Andy couldn't see their faces, but the lean lines of Roger's back were unmistakeable, with Rafa's tan long-fingered hand splayed low against the hollow, fingertips resting just above the waistband of Roger's track pants, and the other hand brushing through the damp curls at the nape of Roger's neck, gently cupping the curve of his skull. Roger had one hand curled possessively at Rafa's hip, the other raised up to trace the line of Rafa's jaw. They were obviously kissing. Andy stared, suspended between the urge to turn away and the paralysis of shocked fascination.
It wasn't like Andy hadn't joked about this sometimes - about the two of them together, because it was the easiest joke in the world given how Rafa was basically the number one member of the Federer fanclub, and then all those pictures of them with heads tipped close together after Wimbledon, or Roger with his watery smile and Rafa's arm slung protectively around his neck after the Australian Open. But all that was just a joke, born out of Andy's frustration at the Roger-and-Rafa show running the tour; it wasn't real - except that it was. Andy was looking at them, the easy intimacy of their bodies together and their slow kisses. There was a tender familiarity in Rafa's hand splayed across the small of Roger's back, anchoring them together. It wasn't a one-time frantic release of tension, the way Andy jerked off in the shower sometimes after a match because his body was strung taut as wire. Rafa was pressing gentle lingering kisses along the line of Roger's jaw and further, pressing his mouth against Roger's neck and down to the curve of his shoulder, and Andy realised with a jolt that in a moment Rafa was going to see him - and then their eyes met, Rafa's heavy-lidded, widening a little with recognition. Andy's heart thudded heavily, and his breath came sharp and shallow with tension and an uncomfortable dark undercurrent of arousal.
Rafa held Andy's gaze for a long moment, assessing. He didn't push Roger away, or make any movement that would let Roger know that they'd been caught. Andy swallowed thickly. What were they doing?
And then Rafa opened his mouth and grazed his teeth over the skin at Roger's shoulder, his eyes on Andy's all the time, dark and unblinking, and Andy felt it, felt the light scrape of Rafa's teeth, a shock of red-raw lust connecting in his gut blunt and heavy as a blow. The muscles of Roger's shoulders fluttered, and Andy imagined the taste of the bare skin, clean and slightly damp from the shower. Jesus.
Rafa trailed the hand that had been resting at the small of Roger's back upwards, tracing the curve of Roger's spine with his fingertips. Roger shivered and pressed closer to Rafa, and Andy's skin prickled, watching the impossibly slow progress of Rafa's hand against Roger's bare back - a movement both caress and gesture, meant as much for Andy as it was for Roger. Look, Rafa was saying, with his eyes and with the teasing press of his fingertips against Roger's bare skin. You want to see? Look. Andy couldn't look away.
Rafa trailed his fingertips between the blunt wings of Roger's shoulderblades and further, up to the nape of his neck where Rafa's other hand was still tangled in Roger's damp curls, tugging slightly in a way that made the hair shiver at the nape of Andy's neck. Rafa grazed his teeth again over the smooth skin, and then lifted his head just slightly, just enough that he could put one finger to his lips. Shh, don't tell. His eyes on Andy's were dark and knowing, and there was a curve to the slight smile he gave Andy behind the quieting finger that gave him a predatory look. Our little secret.