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Second of the Five Senses ficlets.
Title: Five Senses ([2] Taste)
Rating: R
Pairing: Haas/Various (both slash and het)
Summary: Tommy explains how everyone on tour tastes different.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been, never will be, it didn’t happen and I didn’t do it. Okay, not that last one, but everything else applies.
Taste
“Andy Roddick.”
“Those horrible caramel things he orders from Starbucks.” Tommy sips his beer, glancing over at Andy who’s playing pool and being blatantly flirted with by Safin. The American is trying his best to make shots with Marat’s hand brushing his ass but it’s no surprise that he’s losing so badly. With a grin Tommy looks back at his companion. “Andy’s always eating – his house is full of snacks - but underneath it, you can still taste the vanilla. It’s sugary and disgusting but…” He shrugs. “More than a little addictive. If Marat kisses him, they won’t be coming up for air anytime soon.”
There’s a shout from across the room; it seems Marat slapped Andy’s ass hard on an important shot. Other players drift over to watch the unfolding drama that Tommy would bet his house will turn to public near-sex any minute now. Tennis players spend so much time hiding from the media that discretion amongst each other is optional.
As Tommy watches Marat’s hand go down Andy’s jeans, he revises that to ‘very optional.’
“What about Safin then?” his companion draws his attention again with the question. “Let me guess, vodka?”
Tommy shakes his head. “Surprisingly no. Though he liked to make me drink enough of it to get me well and truly uninhibited.”
“Tommy Haas, inhibited? Now that I can’t imagine.”
“Hey,” Tommy says sharply. “Do you want to hear this? Because I have better things I could be doing-“
“No.” His companion smiles, tilting their head to one side. “You like talking about it so you’ll tell me. Safin?”
Tommy frowns a little, not liking to be seen through so easily. “Marat’s like… syrup without the sugar.” A sideways glance at the Russian, now pressing Andy back against the pool table. “Like sex, if sex has a taste.”
Heavy and slow, salt and the tang of beer in the corners of his mouth, sweat catching on Tommy’s tongue as he slid down- Aware of his companion’s eyes watching him curiously, Tommy jerks his mind back on track. “Who next?”
A quick scan of the bar with hazel eyes that are sharper than they have any right to be; Tommy catches the pink tip of a tongue, pressed lightly to a lower lip in thought and shivers. There’s one mouth in the bar he hasn’t tasted and he’s looking at it.
“Rafael Nadal.”
Tommy starts back in his chair. “Rafa belongs to Carlos.”
“And that’ll stop you?” The person across from him sips at their drink, tongue sliding out to lick splashes of martini from pink lips. This time, Tommy’s shiver is noticeable and his companion smiles, just a little. “How does he taste?”
A cry from the pool table and Tommy turns, raises an eyebrow at Marat grinding his hips against a flushed and panting Andy, the Russian licking a wet trail up the curve of the American’s neck. A few of the players are still watching from the bar but neither Carlos or Rafa are in sight. Nevertheless, Tommy lowers his voice as he turns back to answer.
“Rafa still tastes like a child. He’s fiery and coffee and candy altogether. He’s not sure he likes kissing , you can taste it in the way he hesitates, but he makes up for it with natural talent.” Tommy unconsciously licks his own lips at the memory. “Rafa’s uncomplicated. Everything you taste is everything you get.”
“You know I could tell Carlos,” his companion warns softly. Tommy’s grin is sharp and bright.
“Carlos tastes like spices and fine wine. He’s everything Rafa isn’t, experience and sex and ruthlessness. Guilt tastes like lemons, you know? Bitter and sharp.” Tommy takes another mouthful of beer and swallows it slowly, letting it trickle down his throat. “Tell Carlos whatever you want.”
A scream from the pool table and Tommy doesn’t need to look to see Andy mid-orgasm because he can still taste the saltiness of the American’s come on his own tongue. Unconciously, he licks his lips.
His companion is staring at him. “Do you have any shame?”
Tommy reaches over and takes their drink for a sip, eyes meeting hazel ones filled with shock over the rim of the glass. “No,” he says with a smile. “Shame isn’t any fun.”
“Mardy Fish,” the person across the table challenges abruptly. Tommy barely controls his flinch and blood is metallic in his mouth as he bites his tongue. He hasn’t thought about Mardy in months.
“Guilt tastes like lemons, you know,” his companion remarks and the words drip with sarcasm. “How did Mardy taste Tommy?”
“Sweet from both ends.” Tommy regains his assurance with barely a quiver to his voice. “I could suck him off for hours and never get tired of the taste.”
“Shame he did.”
Tommy’s on his feet before he knows he’s moved and the guilt is edged with anger this time, tight in his throat. “How dare-“
“Wait.” The other person grabs his wrist, pulling him back to his chair. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“It was.” Tommy resists, glancing around to see who’s watching them. No one; everyone is looking at Andy and Marat, now lying on the pool table and kissing like air is for other people to worry about. With reluctance, he lets himself be pulled back down.
“If you want to talk about Mardy, you can go somewhere else.”
“No, I don’t.” Across the table, the person narrows their eyes. “What does Roger taste like?”
The panic is back and Tommy wonders absently if this is what shame tastes like too, heavy and thick in his mouth. “I never touched Roger.”
“Oh come on Tommy,” his companion drawls. “Andy, Rafa, Carlos. There’s no one on this tour you haven’t tasted. What did Roger taste like?”
Tommy shrugs to cover his confusion, frowning. “I would have thought you of all people would know," he says softly.
Mirka smiles across the table at him, edged of bitterness. “I want to hear your opinion.”
“Like chocolate.” Tommy takes a long swallow of his beer, letting it wash away the tang of guilt in the back of his throat. “He carries chocolate around with him to eat when no one’s looking and you can taste it in his mouth.” He reads the question on Mirka’s lips before she asks it and sighs. “Downstairs, he tastes just like everyone else.”
Marat cries out from the pool table but Tommy ignores it, waiting for Mirka’s tears or screams. He’s slept with enough of the men on tour to know how jealous girlfriends react and he doesn’t expect her to be any different. It’s not until she’s in his lap, with her arms around him and her mouth inches from his, that he realises she’s moved.
“What’re you doing?” he demands. Roger’s over by the bar and if he isn’t looking their way now, he will be soon. Mirka smiles against his lips.
“I’m seeing how you taste,” she murmurs. The drops of martini are acid, sharp on her tongue or that could be anger, mixing with the bitterness of resentment as she kisses him hard. “No one else on this tour has any shame. I don’t see why I should bother.”
Tommy smiles. She’s sweet despite the bitterness, sugar underneath the acid and she’s right about the tour. Andy and Marat, still moaning from the pool table, is enough of a reminder of that. He kisses her back, running his hands through her hair.
“Mmmm,” he whispers. “You taste like lemons.”
~ Fin ~
Rating: R
Pairing: Haas/Various (both slash and het)
Summary: Tommy explains how everyone on tour tastes different.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been, never will be, it didn’t happen and I didn’t do it. Okay, not that last one, but everything else applies.
“Andy Roddick.”
“Those horrible caramel things he orders from Starbucks.” Tommy sips his beer, glancing over at Andy who’s playing pool and being blatantly flirted with by Safin. The American is trying his best to make shots with Marat’s hand brushing his ass but it’s no surprise that he’s losing so badly. With a grin Tommy looks back at his companion. “Andy’s always eating – his house is full of snacks - but underneath it, you can still taste the vanilla. It’s sugary and disgusting but…” He shrugs. “More than a little addictive. If Marat kisses him, they won’t be coming up for air anytime soon.”
There’s a shout from across the room; it seems Marat slapped Andy’s ass hard on an important shot. Other players drift over to watch the unfolding drama that Tommy would bet his house will turn to public near-sex any minute now. Tennis players spend so much time hiding from the media that discretion amongst each other is optional.
As Tommy watches Marat’s hand go down Andy’s jeans, he revises that to ‘very optional.’
“What about Safin then?” his companion draws his attention again with the question. “Let me guess, vodka?”
Tommy shakes his head. “Surprisingly no. Though he liked to make me drink enough of it to get me well and truly uninhibited.”
“Tommy Haas, inhibited? Now that I can’t imagine.”
“Hey,” Tommy says sharply. “Do you want to hear this? Because I have better things I could be doing-“
“No.” His companion smiles, tilting their head to one side. “You like talking about it so you’ll tell me. Safin?”
Tommy frowns a little, not liking to be seen through so easily. “Marat’s like… syrup without the sugar.” A sideways glance at the Russian, now pressing Andy back against the pool table. “Like sex, if sex has a taste.”
Heavy and slow, salt and the tang of beer in the corners of his mouth, sweat catching on Tommy’s tongue as he slid down- Aware of his companion’s eyes watching him curiously, Tommy jerks his mind back on track. “Who next?”
A quick scan of the bar with hazel eyes that are sharper than they have any right to be; Tommy catches the pink tip of a tongue, pressed lightly to a lower lip in thought and shivers. There’s one mouth in the bar he hasn’t tasted and he’s looking at it.
“Rafael Nadal.”
Tommy starts back in his chair. “Rafa belongs to Carlos.”
“And that’ll stop you?” The person across from him sips at their drink, tongue sliding out to lick splashes of martini from pink lips. This time, Tommy’s shiver is noticeable and his companion smiles, just a little. “How does he taste?”
A cry from the pool table and Tommy turns, raises an eyebrow at Marat grinding his hips against a flushed and panting Andy, the Russian licking a wet trail up the curve of the American’s neck. A few of the players are still watching from the bar but neither Carlos or Rafa are in sight. Nevertheless, Tommy lowers his voice as he turns back to answer.
“Rafa still tastes like a child. He’s fiery and coffee and candy altogether. He’s not sure he likes kissing , you can taste it in the way he hesitates, but he makes up for it with natural talent.” Tommy unconsciously licks his own lips at the memory. “Rafa’s uncomplicated. Everything you taste is everything you get.”
“You know I could tell Carlos,” his companion warns softly. Tommy’s grin is sharp and bright.
“Carlos tastes like spices and fine wine. He’s everything Rafa isn’t, experience and sex and ruthlessness. Guilt tastes like lemons, you know? Bitter and sharp.” Tommy takes another mouthful of beer and swallows it slowly, letting it trickle down his throat. “Tell Carlos whatever you want.”
A scream from the pool table and Tommy doesn’t need to look to see Andy mid-orgasm because he can still taste the saltiness of the American’s come on his own tongue. Unconciously, he licks his lips.
His companion is staring at him. “Do you have any shame?”
Tommy reaches over and takes their drink for a sip, eyes meeting hazel ones filled with shock over the rim of the glass. “No,” he says with a smile. “Shame isn’t any fun.”
“Mardy Fish,” the person across the table challenges abruptly. Tommy barely controls his flinch and blood is metallic in his mouth as he bites his tongue. He hasn’t thought about Mardy in months.
“Guilt tastes like lemons, you know,” his companion remarks and the words drip with sarcasm. “How did Mardy taste Tommy?”
“Sweet from both ends.” Tommy regains his assurance with barely a quiver to his voice. “I could suck him off for hours and never get tired of the taste.”
“Shame he did.”
Tommy’s on his feet before he knows he’s moved and the guilt is edged with anger this time, tight in his throat. “How dare-“
“Wait.” The other person grabs his wrist, pulling him back to his chair. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“It was.” Tommy resists, glancing around to see who’s watching them. No one; everyone is looking at Andy and Marat, now lying on the pool table and kissing like air is for other people to worry about. With reluctance, he lets himself be pulled back down.
“If you want to talk about Mardy, you can go somewhere else.”
“No, I don’t.” Across the table, the person narrows their eyes. “What does Roger taste like?”
The panic is back and Tommy wonders absently if this is what shame tastes like too, heavy and thick in his mouth. “I never touched Roger.”
“Oh come on Tommy,” his companion drawls. “Andy, Rafa, Carlos. There’s no one on this tour you haven’t tasted. What did Roger taste like?”
Tommy shrugs to cover his confusion, frowning. “I would have thought you of all people would know," he says softly.
Mirka smiles across the table at him, edged of bitterness. “I want to hear your opinion.”
“Like chocolate.” Tommy takes a long swallow of his beer, letting it wash away the tang of guilt in the back of his throat. “He carries chocolate around with him to eat when no one’s looking and you can taste it in his mouth.” He reads the question on Mirka’s lips before she asks it and sighs. “Downstairs, he tastes just like everyone else.”
Marat cries out from the pool table but Tommy ignores it, waiting for Mirka’s tears or screams. He’s slept with enough of the men on tour to know how jealous girlfriends react and he doesn’t expect her to be any different. It’s not until she’s in his lap, with her arms around him and her mouth inches from his, that he realises she’s moved.
“What’re you doing?” he demands. Roger’s over by the bar and if he isn’t looking their way now, he will be soon. Mirka smiles against his lips.
“I’m seeing how you taste,” she murmurs. The drops of martini are acid, sharp on her tongue or that could be anger, mixing with the bitterness of resentment as she kisses him hard. “No one else on this tour has any shame. I don’t see why I should bother.”
Tommy smiles. She’s sweet despite the bitterness, sugar underneath the acid and she’s right about the tour. Andy and Marat, still moaning from the pool table, is enough of a reminder of that. He kisses her back, running his hands through her hair.
“Mmmm,” he whispers. “You taste like lemons.”
~ Fin ~
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And Rafa can be the cute frontman. Carlos and Rafa can sing duets to each other.
If I knew or was able to write fic at all, I would write a fic about how all these tennis players got together and started a band, with Mirka as their publicist.