clo_again | Unexpectedly...

... a short, quite fluffy ficlet. Which has resulted in me doing no work today whatsoever. *sighs*

Title: Defining
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Summary: Andy, Roger, no clothes and a couch. Need I say more?
Notes: Completely inspired by liroa15’s comment on her Roger/Andy Sims - “…they started an impromptu make-out session on the couch.” Because with an image like that, how could I not?
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, own themselves, don't sue. Please.

Defining

Andy’s curled around me, ‘half-asleep’ just slipping over into dreaming as his head sinks onto my shoulder.

The day had been blissful. Waking up to sex, then coffee before a little more sex, flavoured with sugar and the creamy swirl of caffeine in Andy’s mouth. A little later, a walk through town, a few autographs and lunch in my favourite café by the river, sitting outside under the willows whose trailing fronds almost hid Andy’s kisses. He loves to be affectionate in public, delighting in my skin flushing pink beneath his lips. Home and a game of chess which Andy – as always – lost with good grace, the trace of a pout only to tease and then sex on the sheepskin rug he bought me, I suspect for exactly that purpose, white wool soft with a hint of itch against my back and thighs as Andy swallowed around me. Finally we curled up together on the couch to watch a movie but I’d rather watch him, tiredness lacing the warm kisses he trails down my neck, dark blond hair growing out from the buzz cut at all angles and unconscious beauty in every curve and line of him.

Andy’s most beautiful when he’s unaware of it. Most stunning when he isn’t trying. I’ll never tell him - he worries so much that his hyperactivity and five second attention span will drive me away - but half asleep, eyelashes fluttering and a lazy quirk to his smile when I press a kiss to his warm, stubble-rough cheek, I love him more than ever.

I love him so much that he worries me, especially how much he defines himself through success and control. I see another chip appear on his confidence every time he loses, snaking cracks papered over and ignored until the entire wall caves in. It’s done it once; before he became more than a faint ache in my heart when I saw him across the net, before he called me anything other than ‘Federer’, I found a terrified Mardy Fish in tears in the locker room, at a loss for what to do to bring Andy back from the edge. I offered to help but it took me months to rebuild the walls Andy uses to keep himself safe, piece by shattered piece without even realising I was building myself into them at the same time. I became another thing for Andy to define himself by; Roger Federer’s boyfriend, a success in love and no matter how much I try to make him see he never had to fight for me, it never quite gets through. When you define yourself by how much you win, life becomes an endless competition. Andy’s never quite shaken the belief that I’m the prize.

“What’re you thinking about love?” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

“How do you know I’m thinking? I could have fallen asleep.”

“You snore when you sleep and you weren’t.” Andy’s fingers trace invisible patterns down my thigh, calluses lightly, pleasantly rough. I try to read what he’s writing but it’s just patterns, meaningless except to those who know how to read it. To them it says he’s allowed to touch me, to graffiti his name across my own walls in invisible paint and leave it there for people who’re looking hard enough to see. I love that he probably isn’t even aware he’s doing it, more asleep than awake as the fingers slide along my inner thigh. I catch my breath and shift a little, skin still too sensitive.

“Andy-“

“Ssshh.” One fingertip runs teasingly along my soft cock and I moan, turning my head to bury the sound in his mouth. His lips part under mine and his tongue pushing in is enough to make me moan again as he presses closer, pushing me gently down until he’s leaning over me, braced with one hand while the other curls lightly around my hip. With Andy it’s never a simple gesture; never just a kiss because he puts so much of himself into each one. I feel his love of control in the light press of teeth to my lower lip; taste how much he loves me in the slow way our tongues tangle together, and know how much I love him back when he breathes my name wetly against my mouth, making me wish this never had to stop. He’s warm against my side, hand hot where it rests on my stomach and I wrap my arms around him to keep him close when he moves to sit up.

“Don’t.”

A chuckle and he lies down beside me, wriggling a little to get comfortable with his head pillowed on my shoulder. I arrange my arms around him, reaching up to stroke his hair as he falls asleep with a murmured “Love you Rog.”

I’m not like Andy. I don’t define myself by what I’ve accomplished or what I’ve won, because that’s only a part of the whole that is Roger Federer. I never felt that I had to fight to win him or that I’ll lose him once I cease to be the best. But I can’t help feeling that Andy Roddick loving me makes me special, in a way I wasn’t before.

And that’s definitely something worth defining myself by.

~Fin~

I'm going to do some work so I don't fail this year now. :)

Clo

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Music: Street Spirit - Radiohead