Fic: Warm-up [PG-13]
Title: Warm-up
Author: Jae Kayelle
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No profits made from it.
Rating: PG13
Word count: 1299
Summary: Roger thinks he needs every edge he can find to beat Rafa.
AN: Not meant to be taken seriously. Also, I haven't written a word in weeks (thanks Twitter), so maybe this will get me going again.
AO3
Roger sat in the locker room waiting for the call to go out on court. There was a rain delay but they'd been assured it wouldn't be long. He was calm and composed, ready as he'd ever been to face Rafa in a match. They only met in quarterfinals these days thanks to them both dropping in the rankings. Rafa had climbed back up, while Roger dropped a bit further and now was at no. 7. He would not drop further now that he had reached the quarters of the US Open, and he hoped to gain a few points by winning this match, but Rafa was on fire this summer and would be difficult to beat. Roger had his confidence back and knew that would help immensely in gaining ground. Beating Rafa would be the best, as much as he liked his friend, Roger really wanted to kick him in the ass.
And a fine ass it was, too.
Huh.
Roger sometimes thought of Rafa and his ass when he was in his bed. Mirka had benefited from those thoughts more than once, and didn't mind if he used the Spaniard as inspiration. She was very okay with that. To think about Rafa sexually right before a match was so not a good idea.
His gaze drifted over to where Rafa was sitting, bouncing his legs, lost in his own thoughts. At least he wasn't jumping around the room like he usually did. He'd already done that earlier, but this rain delay seemed to have quelled his explosive energy somewhat.
Roger studied him, knowing he was crazy for considering what he was thinking. Then he made up his mind and stood up, casually walking over to his on-court nemesis.
“Hey, Rafa.”
Nadal blinked up at him, perhaps surprised that Roger would approach him right before their match. Normally they kept to themselves, assigning a distance that neither had ever broached.
“I hope I'm not upsetting your rhythm or rituals here.”
“Is okay.” Rafa seemed only curious rather than angry.
Roger sat next to him, leaning back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. His casual posture belied his inner steel. He knew what he had to do.
“So here we are again. Fourth time this year.”
“Si. We give fans a good match, no?”
“I think they always anticipate a good match when we meet,” Roger agreed.
“I say before, but they call us Fedal.” Rafa grinned.
“Yeah, well, if it makes them happy, you know.”
“Si.”
Aware that he might not have enough time to put forth his plan Roger said, “Listen. I think we both have our pride. We're both good players.”
“You are best in history.”
“Yeah, and I'd like to keep that in the present, rather than the past, you know?”
“Sorry?” Rafa was clearly puzzled by Roger's words.
“What I mean is I'm not ready to be a past champion. I want to keep winning.” He stared into Rafa's brown eyes. “I want to win this title.”
“Of course. Why else you here?”
“No, I mean I will win this title. This slam is mine.”
Waiting until understanding showed in Rafa's expression, that Rafa truly comprehended that Roger meant what he said and wasn't just doing the usual talk that was said for the press, Roger leaned forward into Rafa's space.
He kissed him.
Hard.
Gasping with surprise Rafa opened his mouth and Roger dove in deeper, plunging his tongue inside. He put everything he had into the kiss, all of the frustration he felt at the end of those 21 previous matches, especially this year's matches at Indian Wells, Rome and Cincinnati. He used every bit of love and passion for their sport that still flowed strongly through his veins and the joy from the ten versus Rafa that he had won, on top of the ecstasy from when he won his 17 slams.
Rafa made a sound like “mmph” and began to kiss back. Roger felt a moment of near-panic when Rafa unleashed his own considerable fire and pressed forward. Roger needed to keep the upperhand in this encounter, so he slid his right hand into the waistband of Rafa's shorts and down. When he cupped the hot, rising length Rafa started to protest, but then Roger stroked him and quickly had him moaning.
Relentless, the cool Swiss kept a damper on his own arousal, and pumped Rafa into a frenzy. The Spaniard cried out and climaxed, spurting over Roger's fist. Roger pulled his hand out of the shorts and looked around for a tissue to wipe it clean.
Rafa slouched on the bench, panting hard, his eyes closed. His shirt showed sweat stains around the neck. He muttered softly, probably in his native dialect.
Roger just watched him through shuttered eyes, teeth gritted because his own body was threatening to betray him. He had a reputation for being cool under pressure, but he wasn't made of stone and what he'd just done stirred up those feelings he had for Rafa, that normally only came out in the privacy of his own bedroom.
He tried to ignore the ethics of what he'd done and the possibility of ruining his friendship with Rafa.
Finally Rafa shifted on the bench and opened his eyes. He looked at Roger.
“Why you do that?”
“Something I've always wanted to do,” he answered truthfully.
“And maybe more?”
Roger sat up straighter and turned his body towards Rafa. Was that a note of hopefulness in Rafa's voice?
“Raf, I'm sorry about the timing. That was stupid. I have no excuse.”
Grinning, Rafa said, “Si. That's what Nike say, “No excuses”.”
“I don't think they meant us to apply it to that. More like tennis.”
Rafa shrugged.
“You're taking this awfully well. Shouldn't you be angry?”
“Why? You do what I want you to do since I was seventeen.”
“Oh god, Rafa. Seriously?”
“Si. Why you think I call you greatest and best?”
It took Roger's mind a minute to catch up with what his gut was telling him. “You...love me?”
“Yes.” Rafa leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Roger's mouth, more on the corner but the intent was clear.
Turning away Roger leaned his head back against the wall. “God.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I tried to sap your energy so I can win this fucking match!”
“You can win. You always have the power in here,” Rafa touched Roger's temple with whispery fingers. “And here,” he placed his palm over Roger's heart. “You a proud man with great talent. You only need to believe in yourself.”
“I do believe in myself.”
“Yes, but your confidence has been shaken. You can win, no? I not let you, but you can do it. And maybe you do...” he waved a hand at his groin, “...that more because you want to?”
Their eyes met and held.
Roger brushed a quick kiss across Rafa's lips.
“I don't really know you at all,” he said smiling. He already felt better about all that had transpired in the last few minutes, and especially about what was about to happen in a little while out there.
“You can get to know me better.”
“Flirt.”
“Si.”
They heard the sound of footsteps and quickly composed themselves.
“Time, gentlemen.”
They gathered their bags and walked out into the hallway and towards yet another date with destiny.
Rafa didn't seem to have lost any of his energy.
Roger discovered lots of his own.
# end
Author: Jae Kayelle
Pairing: Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No profits made from it.
Rating: PG13
Word count: 1299
Summary: Roger thinks he needs every edge he can find to beat Rafa.
AN: Not meant to be taken seriously. Also, I haven't written a word in weeks (thanks Twitter), so maybe this will get me going again.
AO3
Roger sat in the locker room waiting for the call to go out on court. There was a rain delay but they'd been assured it wouldn't be long. He was calm and composed, ready as he'd ever been to face Rafa in a match. They only met in quarterfinals these days thanks to them both dropping in the rankings. Rafa had climbed back up, while Roger dropped a bit further and now was at no. 7. He would not drop further now that he had reached the quarters of the US Open, and he hoped to gain a few points by winning this match, but Rafa was on fire this summer and would be difficult to beat. Roger had his confidence back and knew that would help immensely in gaining ground. Beating Rafa would be the best, as much as he liked his friend, Roger really wanted to kick him in the ass.
And a fine ass it was, too.
Huh.
Roger sometimes thought of Rafa and his ass when he was in his bed. Mirka had benefited from those thoughts more than once, and didn't mind if he used the Spaniard as inspiration. She was very okay with that. To think about Rafa sexually right before a match was so not a good idea.
His gaze drifted over to where Rafa was sitting, bouncing his legs, lost in his own thoughts. At least he wasn't jumping around the room like he usually did. He'd already done that earlier, but this rain delay seemed to have quelled his explosive energy somewhat.
Roger studied him, knowing he was crazy for considering what he was thinking. Then he made up his mind and stood up, casually walking over to his on-court nemesis.
“Hey, Rafa.”
Nadal blinked up at him, perhaps surprised that Roger would approach him right before their match. Normally they kept to themselves, assigning a distance that neither had ever broached.
“I hope I'm not upsetting your rhythm or rituals here.”
“Is okay.” Rafa seemed only curious rather than angry.
Roger sat next to him, leaning back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. His casual posture belied his inner steel. He knew what he had to do.
“So here we are again. Fourth time this year.”
“Si. We give fans a good match, no?”
“I think they always anticipate a good match when we meet,” Roger agreed.
“I say before, but they call us Fedal.” Rafa grinned.
“Yeah, well, if it makes them happy, you know.”
“Si.”
Aware that he might not have enough time to put forth his plan Roger said, “Listen. I think we both have our pride. We're both good players.”
“You are best in history.”
“Yeah, and I'd like to keep that in the present, rather than the past, you know?”
“Sorry?” Rafa was clearly puzzled by Roger's words.
“What I mean is I'm not ready to be a past champion. I want to keep winning.” He stared into Rafa's brown eyes. “I want to win this title.”
“Of course. Why else you here?”
“No, I mean I will win this title. This slam is mine.”
Waiting until understanding showed in Rafa's expression, that Rafa truly comprehended that Roger meant what he said and wasn't just doing the usual talk that was said for the press, Roger leaned forward into Rafa's space.
He kissed him.
Hard.
Gasping with surprise Rafa opened his mouth and Roger dove in deeper, plunging his tongue inside. He put everything he had into the kiss, all of the frustration he felt at the end of those 21 previous matches, especially this year's matches at Indian Wells, Rome and Cincinnati. He used every bit of love and passion for their sport that still flowed strongly through his veins and the joy from the ten versus Rafa that he had won, on top of the ecstasy from when he won his 17 slams.
Rafa made a sound like “mmph” and began to kiss back. Roger felt a moment of near-panic when Rafa unleashed his own considerable fire and pressed forward. Roger needed to keep the upperhand in this encounter, so he slid his right hand into the waistband of Rafa's shorts and down. When he cupped the hot, rising length Rafa started to protest, but then Roger stroked him and quickly had him moaning.
Relentless, the cool Swiss kept a damper on his own arousal, and pumped Rafa into a frenzy. The Spaniard cried out and climaxed, spurting over Roger's fist. Roger pulled his hand out of the shorts and looked around for a tissue to wipe it clean.
Rafa slouched on the bench, panting hard, his eyes closed. His shirt showed sweat stains around the neck. He muttered softly, probably in his native dialect.
Roger just watched him through shuttered eyes, teeth gritted because his own body was threatening to betray him. He had a reputation for being cool under pressure, but he wasn't made of stone and what he'd just done stirred up those feelings he had for Rafa, that normally only came out in the privacy of his own bedroom.
He tried to ignore the ethics of what he'd done and the possibility of ruining his friendship with Rafa.
Finally Rafa shifted on the bench and opened his eyes. He looked at Roger.
“Why you do that?”
“Something I've always wanted to do,” he answered truthfully.
“And maybe more?”
Roger sat up straighter and turned his body towards Rafa. Was that a note of hopefulness in Rafa's voice?
“Raf, I'm sorry about the timing. That was stupid. I have no excuse.”
Grinning, Rafa said, “Si. That's what Nike say, “No excuses”.”
“I don't think they meant us to apply it to that. More like tennis.”
Rafa shrugged.
“You're taking this awfully well. Shouldn't you be angry?”
“Why? You do what I want you to do since I was seventeen.”
“Oh god, Rafa. Seriously?”
“Si. Why you think I call you greatest and best?”
It took Roger's mind a minute to catch up with what his gut was telling him. “You...love me?”
“Yes.” Rafa leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Roger's mouth, more on the corner but the intent was clear.
Turning away Roger leaned his head back against the wall. “God.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“I tried to sap your energy so I can win this fucking match!”
“You can win. You always have the power in here,” Rafa touched Roger's temple with whispery fingers. “And here,” he placed his palm over Roger's heart. “You a proud man with great talent. You only need to believe in yourself.”
“I do believe in myself.”
“Yes, but your confidence has been shaken. You can win, no? I not let you, but you can do it. And maybe you do...” he waved a hand at his groin, “...that more because you want to?”
Their eyes met and held.
Roger brushed a quick kiss across Rafa's lips.
“I don't really know you at all,” he said smiling. He already felt better about all that had transpired in the last few minutes, and especially about what was about to happen in a little while out there.
“You can get to know me better.”
“Flirt.”
“Si.”
They heard the sound of footsteps and quickly composed themselves.
“Time, gentlemen.”
They gathered their bags and walked out into the hallway and towards yet another date with destiny.
Rafa didn't seem to have lost any of his energy.
Roger discovered lots of his own.
# end