fic: and who am i (i bet you can't even tell me that much) (roddick/federer, r)
Title: and who am i (i bet you can't even tell me that much)
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Rating: R (language, sex)
Word Count: ~700
Author's Notes: Run-on sentences like you wouldn't believe and abuse of parentheses abound. Title and inspiration from Ani DiFranco's Untouchable Face, so a little angsty.
Summary: So Djokovic wins the gold medal, and Spain takes home the Davis Cup, and maybe Roger's not going to get everything he wanted.
So Djokovic wins the gold medal, and Spain takes home the Davis Cup, and maybe Roger's not going to get everything he wanted
(and if Andy were a better person, maybe he'd say something vaguely sympathetic; he knows what it's like to want something that badly, that nakedly, so much that your teeth ache with it and everyone knows.
But he doesn't have much sympathy for Roger fucking Federer
(never has, never will).
How does it feel, he wants to ask, to come so close?).
*
He's got Roger Federer and his 16 slams down on his knees in a shitty locker room shower, which, if he's honest, he still likes seeing, and there's a part of him - not a big part, but more than he's proud of - that kind of wishes someone'd walk in on them like this (not someone who'd talk, someone like Soderling, the chatty fucker, but someone like Courier, maybe; Courier, who'd have to pull his head out of Roger's ass just to see what was going on, and because he's Andy's Davis Cup captain - but mostly because he wouldn't ever, ever want to tarnish Roger's fucking reputation - he'd never say anything, never even hint at it, but he'd see, he'd see that Roger Federer gets down on his knees for Andy Roddick).
They don't do this during majors (earlier, earlier, because theyd be competing against each other and later, later, after their careers took very different trajectories, because Roger was too focused on beating Rafa, then Novak, and Andy's too busy trying to win a fucking match) - haven't done it in over a year, if Andy's counting right, but Roger's bobbing his head and twisting his wrist in a way Andy remembers, a way that has his hips jerking forward, pressing deeper into Roger's mouth and he grabs a handful of Roger's hair (doesn't play with or stroke it, but hangs on tight, probably too tight) and gives a warning tug when the tingling at the small of his back starts, but Roger flattens his tongue, sucks a little harder and swallows convulsively
(and yeah, OK, Andy likes to see that shit, too).
Roger pushes Andy's sweaty shirt up, kissing his stomach softly, and something's coiling deep inside him, low in his belly, as Roger straightens up, kissing the skin in the gap of his shirt collar, then his chin, then hard, short kisses on his mouth that Andy never returns at first (and if Roger hadn't just glanced over at him and jerked his chin in faint recognition before straightening his goddamn wristbands when Andy shoved open the locker room door, then maybe he wouldn't have grabbed the front of Roger's shirt and kissed him, all teeth and tongue and resentment, wouldn't have dragged him into the showers and urged him down with just a hand to Roger's shoulder).
When Andy does kiss him back, pushing the stupid sweat band off his head, Roger laughs against his mouth, a warm hand at the back of Andy's neck, like it's ten years ago, and they didn't grow up and grow apart, like Roger never married the girl next door and Andy never married a swimsuit model, like the dreams that they had (rankings and slams and records; some secret, some not) didn't just come true for Roger.
Roger guides Andy's hand down to cup him through his pants, and the greatest player of all time is rutting into Andy's hand like he can't help it, one hand clutching at the front of Andy's shirt.
"Andy," Roger murmurs, into his neck, "Please."
One day, one day he won't; one day, he'll be something else that Roger Federer wanted and didn't get, but today, with Roger's breath still warm on his neck, his dick hard between them, he reaches down and undoes Roger's fly, fingers wrapping around him and Roger groans, loudly in the silence of the showers, as Andy's hand slowly starts to move
(because, really, Roger usually gets exactly what he wants).
Disclaimer: References to real persons, places and events are made in the context of fiction, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory or factual
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Rating: R (language, sex)
Word Count: ~700
Author's Notes: Run-on sentences like you wouldn't believe and abuse of parentheses abound. Title and inspiration from Ani DiFranco's Untouchable Face, so a little angsty.
Summary: So Djokovic wins the gold medal, and Spain takes home the Davis Cup, and maybe Roger's not going to get everything he wanted.
So Djokovic wins the gold medal, and Spain takes home the Davis Cup, and maybe Roger's not going to get everything he wanted
(and if Andy were a better person, maybe he'd say something vaguely sympathetic; he knows what it's like to want something that badly, that nakedly, so much that your teeth ache with it and everyone knows.
But he doesn't have much sympathy for Roger fucking Federer
(never has, never will).
How does it feel, he wants to ask, to come so close?).
*
He's got Roger Federer and his 16 slams down on his knees in a shitty locker room shower, which, if he's honest, he still likes seeing, and there's a part of him - not a big part, but more than he's proud of - that kind of wishes someone'd walk in on them like this (not someone who'd talk, someone like Soderling, the chatty fucker, but someone like Courier, maybe; Courier, who'd have to pull his head out of Roger's ass just to see what was going on, and because he's Andy's Davis Cup captain - but mostly because he wouldn't ever, ever want to tarnish Roger's fucking reputation - he'd never say anything, never even hint at it, but he'd see, he'd see that Roger Federer gets down on his knees for Andy Roddick).
They don't do this during majors (earlier, earlier, because theyd be competing against each other and later, later, after their careers took very different trajectories, because Roger was too focused on beating Rafa, then Novak, and Andy's too busy trying to win a fucking match) - haven't done it in over a year, if Andy's counting right, but Roger's bobbing his head and twisting his wrist in a way Andy remembers, a way that has his hips jerking forward, pressing deeper into Roger's mouth and he grabs a handful of Roger's hair (doesn't play with or stroke it, but hangs on tight, probably too tight) and gives a warning tug when the tingling at the small of his back starts, but Roger flattens his tongue, sucks a little harder and swallows convulsively
(and yeah, OK, Andy likes to see that shit, too).
Roger pushes Andy's sweaty shirt up, kissing his stomach softly, and something's coiling deep inside him, low in his belly, as Roger straightens up, kissing the skin in the gap of his shirt collar, then his chin, then hard, short kisses on his mouth that Andy never returns at first (and if Roger hadn't just glanced over at him and jerked his chin in faint recognition before straightening his goddamn wristbands when Andy shoved open the locker room door, then maybe he wouldn't have grabbed the front of Roger's shirt and kissed him, all teeth and tongue and resentment, wouldn't have dragged him into the showers and urged him down with just a hand to Roger's shoulder).
When Andy does kiss him back, pushing the stupid sweat band off his head, Roger laughs against his mouth, a warm hand at the back of Andy's neck, like it's ten years ago, and they didn't grow up and grow apart, like Roger never married the girl next door and Andy never married a swimsuit model, like the dreams that they had (rankings and slams and records; some secret, some not) didn't just come true for Roger.
Roger guides Andy's hand down to cup him through his pants, and the greatest player of all time is rutting into Andy's hand like he can't help it, one hand clutching at the front of Andy's shirt.
"Andy," Roger murmurs, into his neck, "Please."
One day, one day he won't; one day, he'll be something else that Roger Federer wanted and didn't get, but today, with Roger's breath still warm on his neck, his dick hard between them, he reaches down and undoes Roger's fly, fingers wrapping around him and Roger groans, loudly in the silence of the showers, as Andy's hand slowly starts to move
(because, really, Roger usually gets exactly what he wants).
Disclaimer: References to real persons, places and events are made in the context of fiction, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory or factual