fic: the sporting life (tennis rps)
wow. shame. I think I used to have it? anyway, this is very possibly an enormous ball of suck, and I apologize, but, um. restarting. this was going to be a "congratulations for finishing!" present for aramley upon completion of her finals. but then certain unfortunate events unfolded and I thought maybe she could use a little cheering-up ahead of schedule. I hope you like it despite the fact that it is utter nonsense and I am terrible at sex scenes, aramley! especially since I'm pretty sure you're the only person I know who would even read it.
title: the sporting life
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: rafael nadal/novak djokovic
rating: r
word count: 1900
summary: everyone knows rafa likes football. feli lopez knows rafa might like football a little too much.
contextual notes: in order to appreciate this fic, one must first appreciate the glory that is novak djokovic in footballer gear. go on, appreciate.
apparently he did some kind of fundraiser two weeks ago that involved playing football with a bunch of racecar drivers. I don't even care, I was just inspired by the outfit. also important to know is that Novak just had a birthday! happy birthday, bb.
Novak glanced down at himself one last time, braced himself and knocked on Rafa's door. He was pretty sure nobody had recognized him on his way up from the hotel lobby - ridiculously large sunglasses were key - and he'd driven himself, so at least if Rafa laughed, in that completely good-natured and yet ego-crushingly unaroused way he sometimes reacted to sexual advances (when he even noticed them), the only person who would know about this particular humiliation was Novak himself.
He was such a fool for this man-child, Novak reflected, hearing footsteps, recognizing them as definitely Rafa's, not his uncle or one of the many other Spaniards who continually surrounded him. But - well, Lopez could be an asshole, Verdasco's Lopez, not the other one, who insofar as he even had a personality seemed pretty nice, but Novak was pretty sure he hadn't been fucking with him when he'd sent that text.
It was weird trying to get along with Rafa's friends, and given the way that had been going lately it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that Lopez really had just been making fun of him. Novak knew that he was mostly just trying to protect Rafa, though, so he tried not to take it personally. Ferrer at least confined himself to death glares and muttered remarks in Spanish, and Verdasco was staying out it entirely; Feliciano (who was friends with and possibly also fucking half the tour, anyway, Novak thought with satisfying pettiness, so why he had decided he had to hate Novak was an extremely inconvenient mystery) was the only one really going out of his way to make things difficult. But he also loved Rafa like a baby brother, and Rafa adored him even if he was a fuckwit who couldn't play his way out of a paper bag, let alone the third round, so Novak was trying, and maybe (hopefully) it was working.
Rafa opened the door without even checking the peephole, which made Novak frown. He needed to be more careful; there were a lot of crazies out there, and Rafa attracted more than most. He wasn't going to say so without saying hello first, though, and Rafa wasn't saying anything at all. Novak glanced at his wide-eyed, incredulous expression for a moment and then looked away, turning red. This time, he resolved, he really was going to do something to get back at Lopez. He didn't care if he was Rafa's best friend; there had to be a limit somewhere.
"Novak," Rafa said at last, his voice inexplicably husky. Novak looked him in the eye, determined to face his rising embarrassment like a man, and realized that Rafa was flushing, too. He had such dark eyes, Novak thought, fascinated. It was impossible, unless you looked closely, to tell that his pupils were dilated. "Madre de Dios. Get inside."
Novak obeyed, still caught by the intensity of that black stare, and found himself caught in a less metaphorical sense when Rafa slammed the door and then slammed Novak up against it. "Who tell you this?" Rafa demanded, mouth centimeters away from Novak's; he went nearly cross-eyed trying not to look away. One of Rafa's hands was pinning Novak's wrists above his head; the other was already yanking up Novak's jersey. "Who tell you dress like this for me?"
He couldn't even tell if he wanted to struggle; he didn't think he'd be successful if he tried. "Lopez," Novak said, just before Rafa crushed their mouths together. Then Rafa pulled back to finish jerking Novak's shirt over his head, and he was dragging him over to the bed. It was some kind of miracle they didn't kill themselves getting there - any room in which Rafa spent more than a few hours automatically was transformed into a phenomenal wreck. There were shoes and socks and sweaty practice T-shirts all over the floor, racquet bags piled in the corner, a pair of shorts unaccountably draped over the lamp on the bedside table. Novak didn't consider himself a particularly neat person, but just walking into one of Rafa's hotel rooms normally made him itch to start tidying up. He didn't much care at the moment, though. Anyone would be hard-pressed to think about cleaning when he was pinned under the muscular body of one Rafael Nadal, who was kissing him as though he wanted to eat him alive.
"I am send Feli fucking fruit baskets, rest of his life," Rafa mumbled between kisses. "Motherfucking - you are the hottest thing I ever see."
Novak surged up against the weight of Rafa's body, determined to give as good as he got. Rafa never swore. He was a sweet, polite little mama's boy; every interviewer who'd ever done a magazine article on him said so. Except in bed, if you could get him distracted enough, he cussed like a sailor. Novak had only managed to get him to that level of distraction twice. "You like it, huh?" he said, because he always had to push. "You like to watch me play, maybe? Maybe my shorts ride up, yeah, you get to see a little more thigh when I kick the ball? That get you hot, Rafa?"
Rafa actually snarled. Novak could feel Rafa's grip on his wrists tightening, decided to press his luck a little further anyway. He gathered his strength and flipped them both over, running a trail of sloppy kisses up Rafa's neck. When he got to his ear, he breathed on it, felt Rafa go rigid underneath him, and whispered, "So, you like the knee socks?"
The phrase in Spanish that Rafa responded with was one of the few Novak was actually familiar with, although he'd never heard it from Rafa; he was pretty sure it was all Ferrer had called him for the whole first month of his whatever-it-was with Rafa. Eventually he'd gotten curious enough to check an online translator. "Is not nice to talk about my mother like that," Novak teased, feeling too triumphant to be really annoyed.
Rafa looked up at him, pupils still edging out all but the thinnest ring of brown, cheeks flushed. "You want me call you whore instead, Nole?" he asked, and grinned when Novak went still above him. "That what you want? You come here dress like football slut, you want me call you names? I can do, if you want."
"I want you to fuck me," Novak said, and knew he'd won when Rafa rolled them both over again, dangerously close to the edge of the bed, and knelt up just long enough to rip off his shirt before pouncing again. The guys in the locker room were going to talk, Novak thought; Rafa wasn't making any effort to avoid leaving marks. He really didn't care.
"Whore," Rafa repeated fondly, leaning back a little to examine his handiwork. Novak could still feel the imprint from his teeth in his shoulder. He smiled up at Rafa, sweetly enough that Rafa looked suspicious (it was both pleasing and a little nerve-wracking to realize that he knew Novak that well, but that was a thought for another time, when he wasn't trying to get Rafa naked), and put a hand down Rafa's shorts. The noise Rafa made when he squeezed ever so gently was gratifying on multiple levels.
"Pants, off," Novak said, with more authority than he would normally assume with Rafa. Normally, Rafa wasn't hard, shirtless and on top of Novak. He had a look on his face like he was thinking about arguing just for the sake of arguing, which Novak sometimes did enjoy even when Rafa was hard, shirtless and on top of him, but he wasn't in quite that sort of mood anymore, so it was for the best that Rafa apparently decided to let Novak get away with it. The ensuing wriggling as Rafa tried to take off his shorts without getting off of Novak alone was worth it. "Let me," Novak started, reaching for the waistband of his own shorts, and Rafa grabbed his wrist.
"No," Rafa said. Novak frowned.
"No?"
"No," Rafa repeated, and pressed his hips against Novak's, grinding down. His cock slipped against the slick nylon; Novak couldn't see between their bodies, but he could picture the smears left on the black fabric. He shivered, as much from the mental image as the feel of Rafa's erection against his own, separated only by the bottom half of his football uniform.
Rafa's grip on his wrist loosened, but he seemed to have matters under control below the (metaphorical) belt, so Novak slipped his arms around Rafa's neck to pull him down for a kiss. The expression on Rafa's face - affectionate, maybe even tender, for all of his obvious arousal - seemed ludicrously out of place against the rhythmic movement of his hips; it was distracting. Then Rafa wrapped a hand around his erection and started jerking him off, almost in time to slide of his tongue against Novak's, and Novak let go of any thought except Rafa's hand on his dick, Rafa's tongue in his mouth, Rafa's cock rubbing against the crease where his thigh met his body.
Novak's orgasm snuck up on him in an almost embarrassingly small amount of time, and he would have been annoyed at the disgusting mess he'd made of his shorts, except Rafa was still hard and rutting against him, panting into his mouth. He wrapped one leg around Rafa's waist, pulling him even closer. "You know, I'm still wearing the knee socks," he said, almost conversationally. Rafa's whole body tensed over him, then he shuddered once and relaxed completely, leaving a hundred and eighty eight pounds of dead weight on Novak's body. "Fuck you, you're heavy," he complained, pushing at Rafa's shoulder. "Move."
"Callate," Rafa mumbled, already half-asleep, but he rolled over enough that Novak was no longer in immediate danger of suffocation. Novak thought about getting up, calling someone on his team so they wouldn't freak out when they realized he was gone, even just closing the curtains so the damn sun wasn't shining in his eyes. Rafa was completely out of it, his absurdly childish face relaxed in sleep. Novak sighed, tucked his cheek against Rafa's shoulder and shut his eyes. The sun would move eventually, and the rest could wait.
*
When Novak woke, Rafa's hotel room was dark. He extricated himself from Rafa's uncomfortably warm embrace and picked his way through the wreckage on the floor, following the buzzing sound of missed calls on his cell phone. When he finally found it (six messages, two from his coach, three from his publicist, one from his mother), though, he pressed ignore all and went into his text inbox instead, looking for the message that had gotten him here in the first place. It was a little surreal, actually. He hadn't even known that Rafa had put Lopez's number on his phone.
early bday present for you and raf. wear the football kit. trust me now, thank me later. fl
Novak grinned, and hit reply. thnx, he typed quickly. "Nole?" Rafa asked sleepily, sitting up when his outstretched arm encountered nothing but more bedding. "What you do?"
"Nothing, just texting Lopez."
"Mmf," Rafa said, falling back against the pillows. "Ask him if he want normal fruit basket or tropical." Novak laughed, dropped his revoltingly come-encrusted shorts by the door and went back to bed.
title: the sporting life
fandom: tennis rps
pairing: rafael nadal/novak djokovic
rating: r
word count: 1900
summary: everyone knows rafa likes football. feli lopez knows rafa might like football a little too much.
contextual notes: in order to appreciate this fic, one must first appreciate the glory that is novak djokovic in footballer gear. go on, appreciate.
apparently he did some kind of fundraiser two weeks ago that involved playing football with a bunch of racecar drivers. I don't even care, I was just inspired by the outfit. also important to know is that Novak just had a birthday! happy birthday, bb.
Novak glanced down at himself one last time, braced himself and knocked on Rafa's door. He was pretty sure nobody had recognized him on his way up from the hotel lobby - ridiculously large sunglasses were key - and he'd driven himself, so at least if Rafa laughed, in that completely good-natured and yet ego-crushingly unaroused way he sometimes reacted to sexual advances (when he even noticed them), the only person who would know about this particular humiliation was Novak himself.
He was such a fool for this man-child, Novak reflected, hearing footsteps, recognizing them as definitely Rafa's, not his uncle or one of the many other Spaniards who continually surrounded him. But - well, Lopez could be an asshole, Verdasco's Lopez, not the other one, who insofar as he even had a personality seemed pretty nice, but Novak was pretty sure he hadn't been fucking with him when he'd sent that text.
It was weird trying to get along with Rafa's friends, and given the way that had been going lately it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that Lopez really had just been making fun of him. Novak knew that he was mostly just trying to protect Rafa, though, so he tried not to take it personally. Ferrer at least confined himself to death glares and muttered remarks in Spanish, and Verdasco was staying out it entirely; Feliciano (who was friends with and possibly also fucking half the tour, anyway, Novak thought with satisfying pettiness, so why he had decided he had to hate Novak was an extremely inconvenient mystery) was the only one really going out of his way to make things difficult. But he also loved Rafa like a baby brother, and Rafa adored him even if he was a fuckwit who couldn't play his way out of a paper bag, let alone the third round, so Novak was trying, and maybe (hopefully) it was working.
Rafa opened the door without even checking the peephole, which made Novak frown. He needed to be more careful; there were a lot of crazies out there, and Rafa attracted more than most. He wasn't going to say so without saying hello first, though, and Rafa wasn't saying anything at all. Novak glanced at his wide-eyed, incredulous expression for a moment and then looked away, turning red. This time, he resolved, he really was going to do something to get back at Lopez. He didn't care if he was Rafa's best friend; there had to be a limit somewhere.
"Novak," Rafa said at last, his voice inexplicably husky. Novak looked him in the eye, determined to face his rising embarrassment like a man, and realized that Rafa was flushing, too. He had such dark eyes, Novak thought, fascinated. It was impossible, unless you looked closely, to tell that his pupils were dilated. "Madre de Dios. Get inside."
Novak obeyed, still caught by the intensity of that black stare, and found himself caught in a less metaphorical sense when Rafa slammed the door and then slammed Novak up against it. "Who tell you this?" Rafa demanded, mouth centimeters away from Novak's; he went nearly cross-eyed trying not to look away. One of Rafa's hands was pinning Novak's wrists above his head; the other was already yanking up Novak's jersey. "Who tell you dress like this for me?"
He couldn't even tell if he wanted to struggle; he didn't think he'd be successful if he tried. "Lopez," Novak said, just before Rafa crushed their mouths together. Then Rafa pulled back to finish jerking Novak's shirt over his head, and he was dragging him over to the bed. It was some kind of miracle they didn't kill themselves getting there - any room in which Rafa spent more than a few hours automatically was transformed into a phenomenal wreck. There were shoes and socks and sweaty practice T-shirts all over the floor, racquet bags piled in the corner, a pair of shorts unaccountably draped over the lamp on the bedside table. Novak didn't consider himself a particularly neat person, but just walking into one of Rafa's hotel rooms normally made him itch to start tidying up. He didn't much care at the moment, though. Anyone would be hard-pressed to think about cleaning when he was pinned under the muscular body of one Rafael Nadal, who was kissing him as though he wanted to eat him alive.
"I am send Feli fucking fruit baskets, rest of his life," Rafa mumbled between kisses. "Motherfucking - you are the hottest thing I ever see."
Novak surged up against the weight of Rafa's body, determined to give as good as he got. Rafa never swore. He was a sweet, polite little mama's boy; every interviewer who'd ever done a magazine article on him said so. Except in bed, if you could get him distracted enough, he cussed like a sailor. Novak had only managed to get him to that level of distraction twice. "You like it, huh?" he said, because he always had to push. "You like to watch me play, maybe? Maybe my shorts ride up, yeah, you get to see a little more thigh when I kick the ball? That get you hot, Rafa?"
Rafa actually snarled. Novak could feel Rafa's grip on his wrists tightening, decided to press his luck a little further anyway. He gathered his strength and flipped them both over, running a trail of sloppy kisses up Rafa's neck. When he got to his ear, he breathed on it, felt Rafa go rigid underneath him, and whispered, "So, you like the knee socks?"
The phrase in Spanish that Rafa responded with was one of the few Novak was actually familiar with, although he'd never heard it from Rafa; he was pretty sure it was all Ferrer had called him for the whole first month of his whatever-it-was with Rafa. Eventually he'd gotten curious enough to check an online translator. "Is not nice to talk about my mother like that," Novak teased, feeling too triumphant to be really annoyed.
Rafa looked up at him, pupils still edging out all but the thinnest ring of brown, cheeks flushed. "You want me call you whore instead, Nole?" he asked, and grinned when Novak went still above him. "That what you want? You come here dress like football slut, you want me call you names? I can do, if you want."
"I want you to fuck me," Novak said, and knew he'd won when Rafa rolled them both over again, dangerously close to the edge of the bed, and knelt up just long enough to rip off his shirt before pouncing again. The guys in the locker room were going to talk, Novak thought; Rafa wasn't making any effort to avoid leaving marks. He really didn't care.
"Whore," Rafa repeated fondly, leaning back a little to examine his handiwork. Novak could still feel the imprint from his teeth in his shoulder. He smiled up at Rafa, sweetly enough that Rafa looked suspicious (it was both pleasing and a little nerve-wracking to realize that he knew Novak that well, but that was a thought for another time, when he wasn't trying to get Rafa naked), and put a hand down Rafa's shorts. The noise Rafa made when he squeezed ever so gently was gratifying on multiple levels.
"Pants, off," Novak said, with more authority than he would normally assume with Rafa. Normally, Rafa wasn't hard, shirtless and on top of Novak. He had a look on his face like he was thinking about arguing just for the sake of arguing, which Novak sometimes did enjoy even when Rafa was hard, shirtless and on top of him, but he wasn't in quite that sort of mood anymore, so it was for the best that Rafa apparently decided to let Novak get away with it. The ensuing wriggling as Rafa tried to take off his shorts without getting off of Novak alone was worth it. "Let me," Novak started, reaching for the waistband of his own shorts, and Rafa grabbed his wrist.
"No," Rafa said. Novak frowned.
"No?"
"No," Rafa repeated, and pressed his hips against Novak's, grinding down. His cock slipped against the slick nylon; Novak couldn't see between their bodies, but he could picture the smears left on the black fabric. He shivered, as much from the mental image as the feel of Rafa's erection against his own, separated only by the bottom half of his football uniform.
Rafa's grip on his wrist loosened, but he seemed to have matters under control below the (metaphorical) belt, so Novak slipped his arms around Rafa's neck to pull him down for a kiss. The expression on Rafa's face - affectionate, maybe even tender, for all of his obvious arousal - seemed ludicrously out of place against the rhythmic movement of his hips; it was distracting. Then Rafa wrapped a hand around his erection and started jerking him off, almost in time to slide of his tongue against Novak's, and Novak let go of any thought except Rafa's hand on his dick, Rafa's tongue in his mouth, Rafa's cock rubbing against the crease where his thigh met his body.
Novak's orgasm snuck up on him in an almost embarrassingly small amount of time, and he would have been annoyed at the disgusting mess he'd made of his shorts, except Rafa was still hard and rutting against him, panting into his mouth. He wrapped one leg around Rafa's waist, pulling him even closer. "You know, I'm still wearing the knee socks," he said, almost conversationally. Rafa's whole body tensed over him, then he shuddered once and relaxed completely, leaving a hundred and eighty eight pounds of dead weight on Novak's body. "Fuck you, you're heavy," he complained, pushing at Rafa's shoulder. "Move."
"Callate," Rafa mumbled, already half-asleep, but he rolled over enough that Novak was no longer in immediate danger of suffocation. Novak thought about getting up, calling someone on his team so they wouldn't freak out when they realized he was gone, even just closing the curtains so the damn sun wasn't shining in his eyes. Rafa was completely out of it, his absurdly childish face relaxed in sleep. Novak sighed, tucked his cheek against Rafa's shoulder and shut his eyes. The sun would move eventually, and the rest could wait.
*
When Novak woke, Rafa's hotel room was dark. He extricated himself from Rafa's uncomfortably warm embrace and picked his way through the wreckage on the floor, following the buzzing sound of missed calls on his cell phone. When he finally found it (six messages, two from his coach, three from his publicist, one from his mother), though, he pressed ignore all and went into his text inbox instead, looking for the message that had gotten him here in the first place. It was a little surreal, actually. He hadn't even known that Rafa had put Lopez's number on his phone.
early bday present for you and raf. wear the football kit. trust me now, thank me later. fl
Novak grinned, and hit reply. thnx, he typed quickly. "Nole?" Rafa asked sleepily, sitting up when his outstretched arm encountered nothing but more bedding. "What you do?"
"Nothing, just texting Lopez."
"Mmf," Rafa said, falling back against the pillows. "Ask him if he want normal fruit basket or tropical." Novak laughed, dropped his revoltingly come-encrusted shorts by the door and went back to bed.