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Title: Prize
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roger Federer/Mirka Vavrinec, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer, implied future Andy/Roger/Mirka.
Summary: After winning the 2005 US Open, Roger gets a surprise when he goes back to his room.
Notes: Set the night after the 2005 US Open final, where Roger beat Agassi. Andy lost in his first match two weeks earlier.
Dedications: For [ profile] liroa15 for the read-through and assuring me it all makes sense. :) And for all the people I taunted with this a month ago and then didn't finish until now. Ooops. ;-)
Disclaimer: I don't own the pretty people -- if I did, tennis matches would involve less clothing -- and I don't claim this happened or that any of this is real. Hence, fanfiction.

(Prize - Part I)

Prize - Continued

“Night,” Andy answers faintly as Roger slides the bedroom doors closed. Still smiling, the Swiss strips off his jeans and shirt, leaving his underwear on, taking the time to fold the clothes neatly as he half-listens for any sound from Andy in the other room. There’s only silence, still unbroken as Roger collects the cut silk on the bed into a pile, tidying around the room until even he has to admit he’s delaying because of nerves, finally deciding he’s drawn it out long enough. Turning off the light, he climbs into bed and starts counting, making a silent bet with himself that Andy will be at the door before he reaches a hundred.

The American is surprisingly stubborn. Roger’s at two fifty and is starting to really worry when there’s the shuffle of footsteps on the other side of the door. With the lights off all he can make out are faint shapes in the gloom, curtains open but the view of Central Park little help in softening the darkness. The only sign that Andy’s in the room is a muted creak from the door and then the mattress dips, Andy sitting on the opposite edge of the bed.

“I don’t like the couch.”

“Why not?” Roger murmurs, deliberately sounding sleepy. The bed creaks as Andy shifts a little.

“It’s too short. And the leather’s cold.”

“That’s too bad.” Darkness is good, Roger decides, because it means Andy can’t see him grinning. “I’d offer to let you share the bed but since you didn’t seem too happy about the snoring…”

A sigh, almost a groan of resignation. “Alright, you win.” The mattress un-dips as Andy stands up and Roger has all of a second to panic that he’s said the wrong thing before the covers are lifted back with a rush of cool air, the bed rocking slightly as Andy climbs in. “Talk Federer, if it means I don’t have to sleep with my feet sticking out in mid-air.”

“If you’re sure.” Roger thinks he might look a little smug, but, well -- it’s dark. It’s not like Andy can see it.

“Yes, I’m sure. And you can stop with the smug look you’ve probably got too.” Andy wriggles around, settling down as Roger winces, caught. “You only won because I have no willpower when it comes to sleeping in comfort… Oh my god.” An arm gropes across Roger’s chest, seemingly feeling for the opposite edge of the bed. “This bed is huge.”

“You’ve been tied to it for an hour,” Roger reminds him. “You didn’t notice?”

“Well I was sort of busy planning revenge on Mardy and wondering if I’d have to knee you in the crotch to convince you to untie me. It was a little distracting… oh my god. I think I need to stay with you all the time.” The arm across Roger’s chest relaxes, Andy seemingly flopping back against the pillows with his arms flung out wide. “You could fit my house on here. “

“I think the hotel might complain if you tried.” Roger turns his head, staring across at the American through the darkness. He can barely see; Andy’s just a faint shape of darker black against a background of dark grey. “Why are you still upset that you lost?”

“Wow, you could break glass with that delicate use of tact Roger.” Andy sounds more amused than offended. “Why? That’s a question with an obvious answer.”

Roger turns on his side, reaching blindly out over the sheets. Andy’s warm, the lack of t-shirt making the Swiss pause a moment before continuing, a shiver running through the skin beneath his fingertips as he slides them down to rest his palm flat against the American’s stomach.

“Not so obvious,” he says softly though it is, really; at least he thinks he might know. “Why?”

A breath, sighed out into the darkness and Andy sounds suddenly tired. “Because I lost Roger. Because I suck. Is that what you want to hear?” He rolls away in a rustle of crisp sheets and Roger’s hand is left hovering, fingers closing on a sense-memory of warm skin. “Are you going to leave it now?” Muffled, as if Andy’s got his face pressed to the pillow. “Or do I have to go and be uncomfortable on the couch?”

Roger hesitates, considering what best to say to keep Andy here, avoid the fight he can feel the American anticipating from the tension humming between them. It takes him a long few seconds to decide, quick reflexes from on-court dulled by a day of tennis and demanding press and maybe because this is more important than what shot to play, than points or games, even matches. Andy’s pride must’ve been chipped by letting Roger win the subtle battle of getting him back into the bedroom; if Roger pushes too hard now, Andy’ll probably be on his way back to Texas within the hour. Anything he says might be taken the wrong way, because Andy wants to fight and so he moves instead of answering, sliding through the tangle of sheets to curl around the huddle of tense, unhappy American.

“What can I say Andy, that won’t end in you walking out this room?” Slowly, daring a delicate kiss brushed over the curve of Andy’s neck, arm going around the American’s waist too lightly to be taken as an attempt to hold him down. “I can argue that you don’t suck and you’ll make it a fight. I can say that you do suck and you’ll take offence. Or,” and he moves closer, feeling the coiled tension of Andy pressed against him, chest to back, though he keeps his hips safely away from the American for now. He wants Andy to talk to him, not to think he’s suggesting something else entirely. “I can say nothing and we’ll fall asleep in very awkward silence.”

A pause and Andy laughs, the sound still muffled into the pillow so Roger can’t tell whether it’s bitter or genuine, deciding it’s the second with relief when the body pressed against him relaxes, just slightly. “Guess we need a fourth option then, since you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Guess so.” Roger says with his mouth still against Andy’s neck, smiling at the American’s shiver. “Any suggestions?”

He’s more than half expecting Andy to turn round, leaning back until the American’s settled before he presses boldly closer until he can almost taste Andy’s lips when he wets his own, nervously. It’s still impossible to see anything other than the faintest outlines and a glint of reflected light in Andy’s eyes. Arm still over the American’s waist, resisting the temptation to see if the sweatpants were left with the t-shirt, curling his fingers against the curve of hot skin. Andy’s breath is equally hot on his mouth, only the most fractional of distances separating it from being called a kiss.

“I can think of a few,” the American murmurs. “I’ll swap you the best for an honest answer.”

“To what?”

“To why do you care?” Andy’s voice is softly accusing, bitter. As if Roger has to have an ulterior motive for his concern, the deeply ingrained suspicion of the celebrity showing through perhaps or maybe Andy’s simply insecure, Roger knowing better than most just how much, since he must have caused the greater part of it by beating the American so frequently. “So I lost. You still won, so what does it matter to you?”

“What?” Disbelief that’s also amused because Roger does know the American well, knows better than to take offence. It’s Andy; blunt to the point of awkwardness, though Roger thinks he likes it focused on irritating journalists rather than him. “I have to have a reason to care?”

“Yes.” Andy’s tone still accusing but mocking too now, hints of teasing creeping back in and Roger knows he must have done something, said something right or had just the level of honesty in his tone for Andy to believe him because the American wriggles closer. A hand finds Roger’s hip, fingertips drawing meaningless, ticklish swirls that have the Swiss catching his breath. “Because you’re up there, better than anyone. Why should you care about us mortals losing?”

“I-“ Hand on Roger’s hip moving down, curling over his thigh and it’s hard to think with Andy touching him so… distractingly. Roger shifts, feeling suddenly hot under the constricting sheets and knowing the muffled sound from Andy is a choked-off laugh at his reaction. “I do care. I- Andy.” The hand gone from his thigh and nails, bitten short but still long enough to tease, running so lightly over his cock through damp cotton. Roger gasps in air, hips jerking into the touch and everything is suddenly hot and shivery and good. “Andy stop- no don’t stop, not that… I meant it mattered, that you lost. Y-you…” Breathing out, slow and deep, getting control back with a huge effort. “I cared. When you lost.”

“I know,” Andy murmurs and his hand cups Roger’s cock, already hard, through his underwear. Roger hears himself make a pathetic sound through clenched teeth; unable to form words, even thinking an effort and all he wants is Andy not to take his hand away because it’s heat and perfection, until Andy squeezes lightly and it gets even better.

“Andy-“ Gritted out, rocking into the pressure because he can’t do anything else but as much as he wants this with Andy, he wants the American to talk to him too. “You know, I can care about a friend losing and not have a reason other…” The fingers on his cock curl further, thumb rubbing slow circles against his balls and Roger thinks he might come out of this with a weird kink for slow, not-quite -- because Andy’s not moving his hand as such, just holding -- hand-jobs in dark rooms. “…Any reason other than I like him. Like you.”

“A friend huh?” Breathed against his cheek, a smile in Andy’s voice. “Friends don’t tie each other to beds.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“You, for you, your fault, by default, whatever.” The circling thumb stills, nails pressing just on the edge of too hard against Roger’s cock and the Swiss can’t help writhing, with Andy’s name caught between his teeth solely by the determination not to whimper it again. The sheets are tangled around his legs, sweat-damp blankets weighing heavy on his chest and he tilts his head back in an attempt to gasp in air, tasting hot skin and salty sweat as he licks his lips. Andy’s hand, the one not on his cock, touches his cheek lightly.

“Jesus you’re hot,” the American mutters and a second later the sheets and blankets are thrown back, a rush of cooler air flooding over Roger to his immense relief. He has time for a deep breath and then there’s a mouth on his, lips wet, soft and the hand gone from his cock as Andy wriggles over to lie almost on top of him.

“You okay with this?” he whispers, breath hot against the Swiss’s mouth and Roger answers with a hand tangled in the American’s short hair, pulling him down into a harder kiss. For a minute there’s only the press of their lips together and the fumbling of hands over sweat-sticky skin, Roger getting a hand over Andy’s hip and realising that the sweatpants are definitely gone, fingertips trembling against the curve of bare skin. He forgets to think about it as Andy rubs roughly callused fingers through the hair on his stomach, scratchy and ticklish and arousing in a softer way than the full-on groping, flares of heat spreading slow beneath the touch. They’re both gasping for air by the time Andy breaks the kiss enough to speak.

“That wasn’t a yes.”

“What, you need me to say it?” Roger’s teasing, maybe a little wickedly but Andy’s hand stills against his stomach and there’s a trace of tension in the his silence that has Roger regretting his flippancy. “Yes, I’m okay with this. Very okay; do you think Mirka would’ve done this is she thought I wouldn’t enjoy it?” It doesn’t do anything to lessen the tension, Andy even shifting away slightly and oh god, Roger can’t do this when he’s hard, the sense-memory of Andy’s hands still ghosting across his skin. “Andy, don’t-“

“So what happened to not being okay?” Softness gone and Roger reaches out to stop him moving away before he remembers, bad idea. Andy jerks out of his grip and they’re not even touching anymore, some indefinable space of darkness between them, not too wide from the sound of Andy’s quick breathing loud and close but wide enough. “You know Rog, you didn’t exactly look happy when you walked in the door and saw me tied to your bed.”

Well no, he hadn’t looked happy because walking in on a rival, naked and tied down for his personal pleasure, when he was expecting an empty bed wasn’t exactly something he had previous experience in dealing with; it hadn’t helped that Andy looked more like a distressed victim of a kidnapping than seductive and anticipating sex. Looking shocked hadn’t meant he didn’t want to run across the room and jump on the American; it had only meant his conscience had kicked in to point out Andy was doing everything short of chewing his own hands off to escape and that probably didn’t mean he was up for hot sex. Roger bites his lip as he searches for the right answer, wondering desperately what Andy wants to hear.

“Andy I walked in on you, tied -- unexpectedly and clearly against your will -- to my bed. Naked. What did you think my reaction would be?”

No answer. He can’t see Andy’s face in the dark but he doesn’t need to, the silence dragging on just long enough to have him flushing in anger and hurt because Andy had actually thought… “You really thought I’d fuck you. Like that.”

“Why wouldn’t I think it Roger?” Andy’s instantly on the defensive. “Your girlfriend arranged for me to be tied naked to your bed; Mardy actually told me he thought you, me and sex was exactly what I needed. I was lying here for an hour thinking of all the things you could do to me and because you have the world’s most sadistic girlfriend, there was nothing I could do about any of them. I’m sorry if I was supposed to have a better opinion of you than that but I was tied naked to your fucking bed! It didn’t exactly inspire rationality if you know what I mean.”

And whoa, if that doesn’t come like a fist to the stomach because Roger had seen the bruised wrists and the desperation in Andy’s eyes when he walked in the room but he hadn’t thought about it, not more than to glance at the might have happened and look quickly away again. He would never have fucked Andy like that; he knew it and Mirka knew it, and probably Mardy knew as well if Mirka had been honest with him -- but it was very possible that Andy, jumped on and tied to a bed and told to lie back and enjoy it because there was nothing else he could do, hadn’t known he had nothing to worry about.

“Andy,” Roger says softly, aware the American can’t see his stricken expression and trying to convey it through his tone, hands locked tight together to stop himself reaching out when the last thing Andy probably wants right now is to be touched. “Mirka knew I wouldn’t touch you when you were tied up. I don’t--“ It’s hard to say, not something he usually has to discuss. “I don’t like sex like that, not really and she would’ve known there was no way I’d do anything before talking to you. She’d never risk you for a… surprise.”

“Yeah?” Andy’s not convinced; the defensive edge clinging to his tone, still a safe distance of some inches from Roger and there are times when a really big bed is a disadvantage. Like now, when Roger’s still hard and shivers are playing across his skin with his need to be touched, begging held back only by concern for Andy. “If she cared so much then why would she do it at all Roger? I was supposed to be your prize right, your living, breathing trophy for winning? A prize that fights back isn’t exactly fun. So, why would she bother?”

He’s got a point, a good one, and Roger stares blankly in the darkness as he tries to work out what his girlfriend was thinking. “Because…”

Silence for a long minute, both of them lost in thought and then there’s a hiss of breath from nearby, Andy swearing in a muted, furious voice.

“Fuck. Because they fucking well set us up.”

Roger blinks, confused. “Um. Yes. The being jumped on and tied to a bed didn’t let you work that earlier?”

“No, not for you to have sex with me.” A heavy sigh from Andy, edged with anger that Roger doesn’t think is directed at him. “Because of the other thing. Me sulking. Mardy’s been trying to make me get over losing for two weeks. He wasn’t having any success and he knows you’re probably the only other person I’d listen to long enough for you to talk me out of it.”

“Yes, you said tha-“ And then Roger gets it too, biting his lip and mentally kicking himself for not knowing his girlfriend well enough to work it before. “If Mirka knew I’d talk to you before ever touching you…” he says softly, resignedly, letting the words trail away because there’s no need to voice what they both know. It had all been for Andy’s benefit, Mardy probably desperate enough to beg Mirka to help and of course they couldn’t just ask him to talk to the American, not when Andy’s pride wouldn’t have let him listen. It had to be elaborate and tricky and Roger had to not know or there wasn’t a chance in hell the American wouldn’t have seen through him, because Roger’s not exactly the best liar in the world. He tries to be annoyed at Mirka for setting him up to help Andy after a long, exhausting day but it’s close to impossible, part of him loving her for being that concerned about the American and it’s not like he can -- or wants to -- complain about the result when it’s sitting, naked and tempting, just a few inches of darkness away.

The bed creaks and dips in front of him as Andy moves closer. One groping hand finds Roger’s bare thigh and slides up it to rest at his hip, Roger motionless, barely breathing, every inch of skin tingling with the sense of Andy right in front of him. Don’t move, he orders himself, hoping desperately that this can work. He doesn’t think he could cope with another disappointment, not after all the temptations that have been dangled in front of him like the proverbial carrot in the last hour, only to be yanked away by common sense or Andy pulling back. Not when Andy’s so close not when they’re both so close, sex more certainty than possibility with Andy’s hand stroking over his hip.

“There’s something I don’t get though.” Andy’s voice soft, puzzled and his breath is a ghost of warmth on Roger’s mouth. Swallowing, the Swiss forces himself not to lean forward, not even to satisfy the temptation to see just how close Andy is.

“What?” he whispers.

“You’ve been making all this effort to listen to me whine about losing, talking me into cheering up -- like I guess they thought you would -- but you just won another Slam. Playing therapist isn’t much of a reward.” Andy’s hand drifts from Roger’s hip upwards, fingertips warm as they trail up over his chest which shudders with a hitch of breath. “Why would Mirka set you up when you weren’t going to get anything out of it?”

“Um.” Roger’s smile is impossible to suppress, rising up with a laugh behind it and he knows even if the dark can hide it, his tone of voice can’t -- because maybe Mirka hadn’t just been thinking of Andy after all. “What about you sitting naked in my bed right now?”

“… oh.” A long pause from Andy. “Yeah.”

Tone suddenly flat, unreadable, and Roger hesitates, biting his tongue on his disappointment. “If you don’t want to—“

For a second time he’s surprised by Andy’s mouth on his. Hard and wet, missing slightly in the dark until Roger tilts his head and it’s better. Close to perfect even and it is a moment later, Andy pushing him back until Roger’s pinned to the bed by the American’s weight. Hips rocking, cocks pressing hard together through sweat-damp cotton, heat and friction and Andy’s hands raking down his chest; Roger gasps into the kiss and slows it with a desperate effort before he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Andy--“ Breathed open-mouthed, wet lips pressed together. “You don’t mind being my prize?”

“Here I was thinking you were my consolation.” A feather-soft kiss, brushed against the corner of his mouth with a quiet laugh. “Don’t tie me up again and we’ll be fine.”

“I promise,” Roger murmurs and arcs up as the American grinds down, pleasure flaring hot and sharp. “Andy--“

“What did you mean when you said you’ve been trying not to think you’d win?”

Oh god the American wants to keep talking and Roger regrets doing the same before, realising how cruel it was now he’s on the other end of it because it’s impossible to talk like this, impossible to think. With a desperate sound he writhes up into Andy’s warmth, all hot skin and the sticky catch of sweat where they press together, cocks rubbing hard against each other through thin cotton. “A… what? Andy, not now-“

“No.” Andy lifts his hips away to hover close but not touching, over the panting Swiss. Roger almost begs him not to stop, words forming behind clenched teeth and staying there, held back by the last shreds of his willpower. “I talked. Your turn.”

“Later Andy… please.” Straining up as far as he can in a painful arc, aching muscles screaming protests as he pushes further but Andy’s just out of reach, elusive warmth prickling along Roger’s skin. “I promise… later.”

“Now.” The mattress dips, Andy shifting to press his lips to Roger’s, though it’s impossible to tell how the American finds them in the dark. Teeth rub lightly along Roger’s lower lip, not hard enough to hurt and soothed quickly with the wet tip of Andy’s tongue. “You thought—you knew,” Andy corrects himself. “That you were going to win.”

Statement, not question. Roger shakes his head against the sweat-damp pillows, ‘no’ -- realises the futility of it in the darkness a second too late but Andy must feel it anyway, lips brushing wetly past each other with the motion.

“Stop avoiding the question Roger.” The kiss hardens, Andy refusing to break it until Roger turns his head away to gasp in air, wet lips and tongue trailing cool over his cheek with words breathed past them, almost inaudible. “It’s not over-confidence when it’s true.”

“I don’t want to be like that,” Roger whispers, giving in to Andy’s determination reluctantly, as Andy must’ve known he would. There’s going to be no sex until the American gets what he wants; even with more blood rushing down than up, even with every thought taking twice as long as usual, Roger’s coherent enough to understand a determined Andy Roddick. He looks up, straining to see Andy’s face in the darkness but it’s useless, nothing more than a vague silhouette above him. “I don’t want to look at every tournament as one I’m going to win.”

“There’s this thing called denial.” An amused murmur, almost affectionate. Andy sounds like he’s smiling. “Current evidence would suggest every tournament is one you’re going to win.”

“If you keep doing stupid things like losing in the first round I will.” It slips out before Roger can stop it and he’s instantly mortified, biting his lip until he tastes the tang of blood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Well that hurts.” A deep sigh but it’s too deep, Roger catching an odd edge to it as if Andy isn’t really offended at all. “You say something so nice and then take it back before I can thank you.”

Really, so not up to following Andy’s twisted logic right now. “I- what?”

“The implication was that I’m the only one you worry about having to beat.” Andy laughs and then he’s pressed against Roger again, the Swiss making a strangled sound of shock at the sudden friction. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Even if it was unintentional.”


Andy cuts him off with a kiss, sucking gently on Roger’s bruised bottom lip when the Swiss makes an involuntary sound of pain. “Ssssshhh. Enough talking.” A pause, a hand sliding over Roger’s shoulder and up to curve against his chin, a thumb tracing along his mouth. “What did you do to your lip?”

“Nothing.” Roger rocks his hips, groaning as Andy shifts his weight away again. “Andy I swear, if you don’t stop finding excuses—“

“Hush. I just want to see you.” The American stretches over him, still pressed to Roger; there’s a thud as something gets knocked over, Andy swearing quietly and then a click, light abruptly filling the room with a soft yellow glow from the lamp beside the bed. Roger screws his eyes shut against the sting until they adjust and he blinks, focusing on Andy with hair sticking up in all directions, sweat gleaming along the golden curves of skin. The American is watching him with the quirked smile that Roger knows from experience means he’s trying not to laugh.

“You look surprised,” he murmurs, running a fingertip down Roger’s cheek, tracing the curve of his jaw. “Expecting someone else?”

No, though somewhere in the tiny part of his mind that’s still rational, he’s glad he’ll get to watch Andy through this. The dark was too much like something imagined, like nights spent lying in hotel rooms across countless time zones and letting himself wonder where Andy was in relation to him regardless of whether they were even in the same country. Pretending warm lips, the words behind them with a softly American accent breathed into his skin, were more than just a half-dream, made easier by the darkness and now it is true, Roger wants to believe very second of it. He looks up at Andy with a smile and the American smiles back, half-confused.

“Only expecting you,” the Swiss whispers. It’s too much, too sappy -- walking the fine line of making this more than just friendly sex but neither of them would say that, even though Roger thinks he catches a flicker of it in Andy’s eyes. It’s gone in seconds, replaced by a teasing remark hovering on Andy’s lips but Roger catches it before it can escape, hooking a hand behind the American’s neck and dragging him down into another kiss. Andy moans into his mouth, rocking his hips against Roger’s.

“So Trophy-boy,” he gasps, teeth dragging rough against Roger’s lips. “Do you top or bottom? Oh.” He stills uncertainly, a shiver running through the fingers curled loosely against the Swiss’s cheek. “Have you done this before?”

Roger laughs; he can’t help it, though he bites it off the moment he feels Andy go tense, hurt. “I’m sorry. Only shouldn’t you have asked that before you climbed into my bed?”

“Oh, right.” Tension easing, the beginnings of a smile curving the American’s mouth on his and Andy’s hand slides down from his face to trace along his shoulder, down his arm. Roger barely feels it vanish, returning with the brush of silk at his wrist. Andy looking at him is far more interesting, faces almost touching, closer than they’ve ever been before tonight aside from a few hasty hugs on court, stolen touches that lasted just short of too long to be casual. “I should’ve asked before? I can leave and come back in if you’d feel better, start over—“

“Try to leave and I might tie you to the bed again,” Roger threatens without meaning the words, teasing but he doesn’t expect Andy’s sudden, sharp smile. There’s a moment when he’s startled enough to hesitate, pressing back against the pillows, and then his hands are pulled gently up over his head by the silk Andy tied around his wrists while he was distracted. “Andy!” He starts up, wrists catching with a jerk as the American twists the strips of silk around the headboard, tying him down. “What’re you doing?!”

Andy finishes the knots, tests them with a sharp tug and looks down at Roger with a smile, the hint of a question in its uncertainty. Fingers tangle in the Swiss’s hair, twisting through the curls, and Andy leans down slowly, pausing an inch before their mouths meet.

“Does it bother you?” Breathed, barely audible. “Say yes and I’ll let you go.”

It’s on Roger’s lips almost before he can stop himself, automatic response, 'yes' -- when really, it doesn’t bother him at all. Not like it bothered Andy; maybe because Roger wasn’t forcibly tied down by three guys, maybe because he knows all he has to do is ask and Andy will untie him. Or maybe he’s just okay with it. Looking up, meeting Andy’s intent gaze, Roger lets himself smile and makes it steady enough to hide his uncertainty.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

Worth it for the look of relief and faintly wicked excitement that flashes across Andy’s face, the kiss pressed to Roger’s mouth hard with a mutely implied thank you and then fingers are curling over the waistband of Roger’s underwear. Roger barely has time to gasp into the America’s mouth before cotton is yanked down, Andy’s lips losing his briefly as he moves downwards to pull them free, tossing them aside and then they’re pressed together, skin on skin. A choked cry is jerked from Roger as the American grinds against him.

“You never answered my question.” Demanding now, softened by the light kisses Andy brushes along the curve of Roger’s mouth, bodies still rocking leisurely together. “Have you done this before?”

“Will you stop,” Roger whispers, unable to swallow a moan as his hard cock rubs along Andy’s thigh but an oddly stubborn part of him doesn’t want to answer the question, even with the persuasion. “If I say no?”

A hesitation, barely a fraction of a second long but Andy stills against him, braced, motionless. “Only if you want me too.”

Faintly reluctant, flatly honest. Roger smiles as shakes his head against the pillows, mute refusal of the suggestion. “Yes, I’ve done this before. Mirka -- she likes to try new things. We’ve asked friends, a few times…”

Andy’s sound of surprise is close to a squeak, interrupting. “Threesomes? You?”

“Why not me?!” Roger demands, starting to sit up in a sudden wave of indignation only for his bound arms to jerk him back down. “I’m not the innocent, perfect Swiss they make me out to be Andy, you should know that—“

“I know, I know.” A hasty kiss pressed to his lips, Roger obstinately refusing to open his mouth to the placating gesture. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Of course you can have threesomes.” A pause, Andy seeming to consider what to say and his next words are cautious, tone hesitant. “Did you top or bottom?”


“Jesus,” Andy mutters and starts to kiss his way down Roger’s neck, dragging wet tongue and teeth across the skin, hard enough to sting without marking, Roger writhing up into him in a desperate attempt to get more contact. It’s hard with his hands tied, shoulders straining as he wriggles. “You Swiss shock me. I need to move to Switzerland.”

“Not sure it’s your sort of- Jesus.” Roger jerks hard at his tied wrists as teeth close on a nipple, arcing off the bed until it’s almost painful. “Andy, please-“

Andy laughs against his skin, breath hot, ticklish and Roger writhes under it, wishing his hands were free so he could drag the American up into a kiss. The feather-soft brushes of skin are driving him crazy, the wetness of pre-come from Andy’s dick trailing along his thigh and he wants something more, teeth gritted hard against the urge to keep from begging. It’s harder without his hands, harder to make Andy do what he wants but there’s something too about giving up control, letting Andy explore unchecked; it’s a relief, to just lie on his back and let one whimper after another be drawn from deep in his throat. Andy maps him out with tongue and fingertips and teeth, as if Roger is a blank canvas and the American has to paint his name across every inch of it, something possessive in the press of kisses along the curve of Roger’s throat. The Swiss doesn’t have time to wonder at it before Andy’s hand curls around his dick and it’s almost too much, eyes closing, gasping at the white-hot pleasure flaring under the American’s touch.

“A-Andy. I-“

“Sssshh.” The whisper is smug, suspiciously so and Roger opens his eyes just as something coolly sticky hits his chest. Andy is holding a bottle of chocolate sauce upended over him with a smirk. “Revenge is sweet,” he murmurs, leaning down to lick at the oozing sauce. “Mmmm. And also chocolaty.”

“Where-“ Roger starts to demand, breaking off to groan as the hand around his dick moves, grip tightening. With a grin that’s nothing but wicked, Andy moves the bottle down so the sauce drips over his sliding hand, warming instantly with the friction, moving slickly over Roger’s cock.

“Mardy left it. Said he thought we could put it to good use.”

“Remind me to thank him,” Roger gasps, sarcasm getting somewhat lost as he arcs up into Andy’s grip. “I’ll be washing it off for weeks.”

Andy leans down to steal a kiss, lips smeared with chocolate, balance wobbling as he tries to keep the bottle from spilling everywhere. The sheets are going to be ruined Roger thinks with the part of his mind that’s still clinging to calm, rational thought, then a sauce-coated finger presses into him and he stops thinking at all, pulling desperately at his tied wrists as another finger pushes in right after the first. Andy’s gentle but relentless, stretching, pressing deeper until Roger thinks he might scream, desperate, wanting. He can’t feel the burn of silk at his wrists anymore, can’t feel the sticky catch of sauce as Andy drags fingers through the hair on his chest, empty bottle now discarded to one side. He can’t feel anything at all except the fingers inside him, good in a hot, slight-burn-of-stretch way but not quite enough, not quite what he wants. He opens his eyes to stare at Andy, saying with a look the begging words he can’t form between the ragged gasps for air and Andy’s small smile is nothing like a smirk, softer, understanding. The fingers are withdrawn, Roger hissing slightly at the sudden loss.

“Ready?” Andy asks, shifting until he’s kneeling between the Swiss’s thighs, hands braced against Roger’s hips, sticky fingers curling lightly against the skin. Roger nods, frantic, but Andy doesn’t move as his smile turns teasing. “Sure?”

“Fuck you Rodd-“ Roger starts to grind out but never finishes, words becoming a moan as Andy pushes in, all at once. Andy turns the answering jerk of hips into a smoother motion, sliding in and out of Roger with hard thrusts, slightly shaky from the effort, shivering with pleasure. Moving together, gasps for breath echoing each other and Andy leans down to lick a smear of chocolate from Roger’s bottom lip. By straining at his bound wrists, pulling on muscles he didn’t know he had, the Swiss manages to push himself up far enough to make it a real kiss, mouths half-together as they rock with each thrust, slow heat spreading through Roger as Andy fucks him harder. There’s nothing but the places where they touch left for Roger, the rest of the room vanishing, forgotten as he focuses on Andy inside him, the American’s nails pressing hard into his hip, the wet heat of breath across his mouth. He’s a second from coming, wavering at the edge with one last thrust all it would take to push him over, and then Andy stills, lips sliding along the corner of Roger’s mouth.

“I’m glad it was you Rog,” he whispers into the half-kiss, tongue wet, soft on Roger’s lips. “Congratulations.”

Before Roger can answer, before he can even think, Andy slams into him and the heat spills over as he comes, white light behind screwed shut eyelids and breath hitching, caught in his throat as he rides the orgasm out, Andy still moving through it. Only when Roger’s finished, letting his weight hang by his tied wrists as he relaxes back into the pillows, does the American let go with a long, shuddering breath, Roger echoing it at the half-forgotten sensation of someone coming inside him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs minutes later when he can manage the words, and both of them know he doesn’t mean the sex. “It means... From you, it means a lot.”

“Yeah, well.” Andy sounds a little uncomfortable, pleased but trying not to let it show. Roger can’t help a smirk which vanishes as Andy catches it, smirks back. The Swiss has barely time to frown suspiciously before Andy pulls out of him too fast in retaliation but they both yelp, sticky skin parting painfully fast.

“Ow,” Roger complains when he’s caught his breath for the second time, shifting awkwardly against his tied hands to give Andy more room when the American drops to the bed beside him. Reaching lazily over, eyes already closing, Andy rubs a hand across the Swiss’s stomach and lets it rest there, fingertips tracing idle circles through the chocolate-sticky hair.

“God you whine a lot,” he mumbles affectionately. “Is it okay for me to sleep here or should I be heading back to the couch?”

With a growl of exasperation that he doesn’t really mean, too tired and relaxed to summon real annoyance, Roger tugs at his hands. “You can stay if you untie me.”

“But if I don’t untie you, you can’t make me leave anyway.” Andy’s smiling though his eyes are closed. “Say please.”

“Andy Roddick, you untie me right now or…!”


Roger glares, aware the effect is completely lost with Andy’s eyes closed. “Or… I’ll tell everyone in the locker room that you’re in love with Ljubicic.”

Andy sits up so sharply that the bed rocks, glaring at him. “And I’ll tell everyone you’re a lying bastard.”

“Who’ll they believe? Me or you?” Roger lets his grin widen, raising an eyebrow in response to Andy’s hesitation. There’s a chance, just a chance that Roger’s vengeful side would override his innate niceness for once and he sees Andy realise it, frown slightly as he calculates how much Roger could make him suffer and decides it’s not worth it. With an air of reluctant defeat, the American leans over to untie the silk binding Roger’s hands with a teasingly muttered curse on devious Swiss.

“Remind me never to really piss you off Roger,” he remarks as the last knot slides free and Roger can lower his arms, wincing at the pull of strained muscles. “You okay?”

“Yes.” It’s not as bad as the results of a hard workout, twinge of pain fading as Roger rubs his shoulders. Andy leans over to flick the light off then settles down in the bed, pushing the Swiss’s hands aside as he takes over the massage.

“Roger,” he whispers after a minute, fingers finding all the stiff places around the curve of Roger’s neck regardless of the dark, working them loose as Roger tilts his head back in bliss. Andy’s good at this. “What-“

Roger knows what he’s going to say almost before the American starts, 'what now' and it’s not something he wants to answer. This was wonderful, initial awkwardness ceasing to matter once they got past it and he’s grateful to Mirka for letting him have it but he doubts her permission would stretch to more than once, unless it was as another prize. He loves Mirka, for all that she can drive him crazy, and not even for Andy would he risk that. “Andy,” he murmurs warningly but there’s a hint of pleading in it, wanting the American to understand. “Don’t.”

Silence for a minute, pressure of fingers against his shoulders softening until Andy’s barely brushing the skin, shivers running down Roger’s spine at the almost-caress. It takes a long few seconds and then there’s the rustle of sheets, Andy shifting forward until they’re close enough to share warmth. His kiss misses Roger’s mouth slightly in the dark, catching the corner until he slides the extra inch across and Roger kisses him back, wrapping an arm around the American’s waist with a stab of regret. There’s understanding in Andy’s mouth on his, maybe a little frustration in the hardness of it but he knows the American won’t push the issue. They kiss until Roger can’t hold back a yawn any longer, exhausted, and Andy laughs, settling back a little but still tangled around the Swiss.

“Night Rog.”

“Goodnight Andy,” Roger whispers back and wonders if it’s the last time he’ll say it like this, wrapped around each other, uncomfortably sticky but too lazy to move. He doesn’t want to think about it; he wanted Andy but he’s had him, it was nice, but it was never meant to be permanent. Better not to so much as consider what it would be like to make it more. Besides, what would I do with him once I had him? Roger asks himself silently. It’s not like I can put him on a shelf with my other prizes and leave him sitting there, just looking pretty.

No, he decides as he closes his eyes. Better not to think about keeping Andy at all.

What could be minutes, could be hours later, he’s dozing, caught between giving in to the weight of exhaustion and not wanting to miss a minute of lying beside the sleeping Andy. The door creaks and he blinks himself more awake as footsteps shuffle softly across the carpet. The sheets are lifted and the bed dips as Mirka slides in, fitting herself against his back with the ease of practise, all soft, warm skin and the faint scent of perfume. Roger murmurs a quiet greeting to let her know he’s awake.

“You have some explaining to do in the morning,” he mutters, soft enough not to wake Andy. She laughs, quietly, and Roger can tell she’s delighted at the success of her reward; there’s something almost gleeful about the way she wraps an arm around his waist and buries her giggles in his hair.

“So?” she whispers when she has the laughter under control, breath ticklish, hot against his neck. Do you like your prize?”

“I love him. Thank you.”

The silence that follows lasts so long that Roger starts to wonder if she’s fallen asleep. When she does speak it’s in a hesitant tone, cautious, words muffled by his hair to the point where he wonders if he’s heard them right.

“Do you want to keep him?”

“What?” Roger whispers, disbelieving. Mirka goes still against him, turning her head enough that her next words are clearer, less muffled.

“Mardy was really worried about him Roger. He made me promise that we wouldn’t make it worse for him and you seemed to want him so much, so I thought…”

Roger turns his head; he can’t roll over without risking waking Andy but he desperately wants to see Mirka’s face, to help him understand what she means. It’s too dark and he can’t turn far enough to see so much as her shape against the grey darkness, so he settles for a pleading tone, hoping she understands. “I won’t keep him if it means losing you.”

“I never said it did.” A shift in her warm body pressed to his and she leans over to kiss him, Roger feeling the curve of her smile against his mouth. “We can look after him Roger, if you want him. It’s not like I wouldn’t be getting anything out of it either. Did you talk to him earlier?”

“Yes.” Roger pauses to reflect on it, remembering the wistful look in Andy’s eyes when he saw the trophy, the forced attempt at calm when Roger had tried to get him to talk about how he felt. “He is… he’s fragile Mirka. We’d have to be careful.”

“I know. Mardy warned me.”

Taking a minute to consider it, Roger slowly starts to believe she’s serious and his caution eases, letting the excitement bubble up underneath. They can have this, have Andy, and it can work, if they’re careful. Not out of pity or just because Andy needs someone but because it could be good, with the three of them.

And he’ll get to keep Andy for more than just one night. It’s enough to make up his mind.

“We’ll have to be careful how we ask him,” he warns Mirka, smiling at her half-stifled squeak of excitement when she realises he’s agreeing. “If he decides we’re doing it out of pity, he won’t stay.”

“We’ll convince him.” With a sigh of satisfaction, Mirka settles back down behind him, wriggling close and Roger thinks he could get used to the feeling of being sandwiched between her warmth and Andy’s, something comforting in the closeness of the two of them. “Congratulations Roger.” Her voice softens as she starts to drift into sleep, mumbling the words. “I’m glad your surprise worked out.”

“Me too.” Reaching out, Roger wraps an arm around Andy again, careful not to wake the American who mutters something that sounds like Roger’s name in his sleep. The Swiss smiles, reflecting contentedly on his day.

“I think,” he mutters to himself as he finally gives in to sleep, eyes closing . “I could get used to prizes like this.”

~ Fin ~

Date: 2005-11-09 09:35 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Amazing, intense, involving...loved it so much

Date: 2005-11-09 09:59 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Poor Andy *pets him*

I loved your characterisation of everyone in here, but especially Roger. The thing he is, he did at points this summer come off sounding slightly arrogant, or he stopped just short of it.

Thing is, who was going to beat him? :p You captured it perfectly.

And I heard a rumour (ala Beatrice and Benedick in the garden) about Datta and NaNo?

Date: 2005-11-09 10:33 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
My lord. Okay, let's start at the beginning.

I love that Andy couldn't resist being ignored. He just had to go talk to Roger... and I LOVE that it gradually led to more. I hate the stop/start, but that's more from me just wanting them to have sex and get on with it because I love that they actually talked. Like really, really talked about everything. The sex was... damn. Just... damn. and the ending was perfect, Mirka sliding into bed with them and they're going to keep him. It's perfect all of it. I love it. LOVE LOVE LOVE IT! and I particularly liked Roger's brief idea of setting Andy on a shelf with all his other prizes. He'd be a hell of a lot prettier than the other prizes, that's for sure.

Date: 2005-11-10 09:09 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
“I know. You looked happier when he handed you the keys than when he gave you the million dollars.” I just about died when I read that, because it was so true. Roger is such a car whore.

Poor Andy *hugs him* But I did love this. I am entirely incapable of coherency right now, because, hot, and also shiny, and I loved Mirka in it, she was too adorable.

Date: 2005-11-11 06:10 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
I like it! I just finished reading it.

And that car thing was SO sexy. oh my gosh. it was so hot.

Date: 2006-01-04 05:53 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Arg!!! I am insurmountingly stupid. I loved this, I really did. *snuggles Andy and Roger and Mirka* Yay for happy endings!!!

Date: 2007-08-24 09:52 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Holg God, I love this so much I think I'm going to explode...

I didn't have time to read this second part so I printed it off and read it before I went to bed last night in desperation. And boy am I glad I did. It was amazin. You seem to have this talent to give your writing PERFECT flow and wase. I actually bounced up and down clapping my hands when I finished it because ti was so amazing and the ending was just so perfect and left so much to be imagined still.

I love it *sqwuddles it*


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