Ficlet: Justification (R, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Justification Rating: High R. Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer Summary: Andy knows Roger has him trapped. Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, not claiming this ever has, or ever will happen.
Justification
Roger’s gorgeous when he’s being fucked.
To see him out on court with his mask of calm in place, you’d never think he’d make so much noise during sex. Moans; whimpers; tiny little sounds of pleasure that I’d call squeaks if I didn’t love them so much that describing them as something so mundane seems an insult. I have a private bet with myself that every time Roger lets me fuck him I’ll drag some new sound out. So far, I’ve never lost.
I bend my head to kiss his neck, running sharp teeth over smooth golden skin. Roger cries out and arcs up into me, helpless, mine. I can do anything to him when I have him pinned beneath me like this and he knows it; knows it every time I ask if I can fuck him; ask wordlessly with my mouth and my hands and the press of our bodies together in whatever hotel room we’re in that week. Knows it and still says yes in the way he responds to kisses and the way he lets me press him down into the bed with never a word of protest. I never ask anything of him apart from this; his permission to let me dominate occasionally, to control him through sex like the way he controls my tennis, my life. It’s all I want – an outsider might call it revenge but it goes deeper than that, to the level of basic, primal instinct. I submit to Roger on a daily basis because I have the memory of him pinned beneath me like this, crying out in English or German or an incoherent, babbling mixture of both as I, for these rare times only, have him under my control.
What you have to understand about Roger is that he’s not simply good, he’s unreal. With his talent comes modesty; with seriousness comes a dry sense of humour. He can work the media like a puppet on strings without even seeming to try and always, always is generous to those he defeats. Grace and assurance gives him an aura of calm that hides a killer instinct. Looking at Roger is like looking into a mirror and seeing what you could be - a mirror that shows you all your faults with stark clarity; shows you what you’ve worked your life to reach and never achieved. I think of it as looking at the sun; dazzlingly beautiful but deadly and I can’t stop, never ever can I stop. It may seem masochistic. Perhaps it is, a little. If I think about it too hard I’ll go crazy, or then again, I may be already. I lost the ability to tell the difference when Roger first kissed me months ago.
It was at Wimbledon that he first slammed me back against the wall and pressed his mouth to mine; in my rented house that night he let me fuck him senseless in what I’ve always considered a tacit apology for shocking me. Andy Roddick and shocked aren’t words that usually appear in the same sentence but he surprised the shit out of me that day and why I didn’t end it there and then… well. I tell myself I must’ve been insane but at the same time I know I’m lying – I let Roger kiss me, ruin me, turn my life upside down, because he’s Roger Federer. If he asked someone who loved him to bring him the world in that quiet, amused tone he uses to his full advantage, they’d turn themselves inside out trying to get it for him; if he asked me to bring him the world, I know I’d try until my heart burst. In my own, twisted way I do love him and Jesus, ten therapists - no, a hundred - could retire off us comfortably. Roger has something there are no words for – if I believed in religion I’d call it a soul, something that shines out and makes the rest of us seem drab and grey by comparison… but I’ve never had faith in God and with something so golden and beautiful writhing and trapped beneath me, I don’t need to. I have everything I ever could need right here - twisted, crazy, wrong, none of it matters.
I press a sharp kiss to Roger’s mouth and he moans with a breathy whimpering sound that makes me tremble and kiss him harder. None of it matters when I have this. When I’m in him, I’m untouchable. When I make him gasp and moan and cry out, I break the illusion that is Roger’s power. He’s just another human like us all and only I get to see it, to force it to the surface. In a way that makes me special. It makes me more than just a number two to his one; more than the player who wasn’t good enough to stay the best. It makes me more powerful than him. It makes me, for the briefest of moments when he comes, lips shaping my name and pleasure making him shiver, his equal. Never better but to be equal to someone like Roger, human as he is, is all I could ever hope for. It shocked me in the beginning and it still shocks me now – looking down through the haze of orgasm, seeing Roger tremble when I move even slightly - knowing he lets me do this shocks me. That he lets anyone touch him, taste him is incredible enough but that he chose me… it gives me a thrill of something like pride. Only I can leave teeth marks on that golden skin; only I can leave half-crescent nail marks in his shoulders when holding him down.
I know it makes me special. Important. Loving Roger means I’m more than just Andy Roddick, seeded second in the world. It means I’m Andy Roddick who was chosen by the best, even if no one knows it but us. For me loving Roger is entirely selfish but also entirely involuntary – if I tried to leave I know I’d fail. I need his brilliance to keep me alive; I breathe Roger’s approval like I breathe air. Sometime between Wimbledon and here I got addicted and the willpower to stop, to walk away – I don’t think I have it.
Sometimes I think about stopping. As I lie curled next to him, a possessive arm wrapped over my chest, I think about saying no. I construct the conversation piece by piece in my mind; what I’d say, where I’d say it, how he’d react. Occasionally I even get to the part where I stand up and walk away.
Then I fall asleep and the next morning, waking up warm from his body heat, everything I’d planned to say scatters like ashes in the wind. I may have these brief moments when Roger is mine to do with as I please but I’m more trapped than he’ll ever be and this locked cell doesn't have a key. I’m Roger’s; he’s mine and the fairy tales never mention the disastrous end I can see looming up ahead of us. Nothing this crazy can last and it’s enough to make me consider leaving, just one more time. I even form the opening words in my mind, “Roger this has to stop…”
Then I turn onto my side, rest my head against his warm shoulder and wish myself asleep.