Early because I'm bored.
Feb. 20th, 2005 07:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againAnd anything is better than actually doing English. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
liroa15 who had a really bad today. Hope today is better. *hugs*
Title: Just to Make You Smile (part 3 of the Pretty Close to Invincible series)
Rating: PG-13 (swearing)
Pairing: Roddick/Federer (implied)
Summary: Andy’s feeling a little depressed after Wimbledon and being unable to play for a few days. A delivery from Roger cheers him up.
Disclaimer: Not mine, for which they are probably eternally thankful. Didn't happen, blame the crazy plotbunnies that won't leave me alone. Ever.
Notes: Written... last summer actually. Set after Wimbledon, when Andy developed a minor thigh injury. Some minor editing, but as usual not nearly enough. Sequel to Match Over and followed by Softer Than Feathers.
Just to Make You Smile
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Andy moodily tossed the tennis ball against the wall, caught it, tossed it again. His left leg was propped up on a pile of cushions and his tennis racquet was abandoned in the corner, a glaring reminder of his forced inactivity. Part of him was idly wondering how many times he’d have to throw the ball before it made a sizable dent as a matching reminder of his frustration.
It was the sixth day of his ordered ‘complete rest and relaxation’ and he was going out of his mind. After a month of English rain he’d been looking forward to tennis-worthy weather in Austin, but even that didn’t seem to want to oblige with grey clouds and strong breezes. The fact he couldn’t actually play tennis notwithstanding, it would have been nice to see some true sunshine to lift his mood.
He was starting to rethink that almost-fucking Roger had made his life any better.
A flash of movement through the window caught his eye and he turned to look, missing his reach for the flying tennis ball. It rebounded off his forehead with a thud.
“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!” Andy snatched up the ball and hurled it across the room, watching it scatter a pile of magazines with some satisfaction. “Hah. Teach you to attack me you fucking…”
He was talking to tennis balls. Oh please god let something happen to stop him going completely round the bend.
And, in a coincidence enough to make the most cynical atheist believe in divine intervention, the doorbell rang.
'Thank you', Andy mouthed to mid-air as he scrambled to his feet, hobbling a little as he crossed to the door. Glancing out the window as he passed he saw the FedEx van that had distracted him and frowned. Who would be…
He hardly dared hope as a name occurred to him but realised after signing for the slim box and hurrying back to the couch to open it that he was holding his breath and felt a little stupid. He’d heard nothing from Roger since the evening after their match when he’d given the man a blow job only metres from his girlfriend, half the Wimbledon officials and several members of the press who’d have given their left arms – and probably both legs as well – to catch Andy Roddick and Roger Federer in an, uh… compromising position. It had occurred to him that the whole thing had been a mistake and they’d never be able to look each other in the eyes again (which would certainly make for some interesting matches) but he’d dismissed the idea more out of a fear it was true than anything.
After all, the Swiss had seemed eager enough at the time…
Andy dragged his mind back to the box he was absently crushing in his grip. The anticipation was too much for him and he ripped it open, upending it eagerly. He stared at what fell out in mute shock for almost a minute before a smile crept slowly across his face, he threw back his head and laughed.
The neatly folded pair of underpants on his lap were similar to the pair of his he assumed now resided somewhere in Switzerland, with one notable exception – this pair had Roger Federer’s signature swirled across the back and a note pinned to the waistband.
It read “Thought it was only fair. R.”
~Fin~
Title: Softer Than Feathers (part 4 of the Pretty Close to Invincible series)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roddick/Federer (implied)
Summary: Exhausted from Wimbledon and Gstaad, Roger needs a little while alone to let it all sink in and to reflect on what happened with Andy.
Disclaimer: Not mine, for which they are probably eternally thankful. Didn't happen, blame the crazy plotbunnies that won't leave me alone. Ever.
Notes: Also written last summer. Set after Wimbledon and Gstaad, which were right after each other and both of which Roger won. I had no idea where he'd be and improvised. Some minor editing, but as usual not nearly enough. Sequel to Just to Make You Smile and to be followed soon by part five, Out of Mind.
Softer Than Feathers
Exhausted. The type of exhaustion that made his bones ache even after a hot shower and clean clothes, the type of exhaustion that let him know he’d done too much in the last few weeks. Exhaustion so intense it kept him awake and if there was any kind of sense in that Roger couldn’t see it, but it was how he felt. He was shivering with tiredness as he prowled around the ‘living room’ of their hotel suite but it was that kind of nervous-excited tiredness that stopped him being still for even a second. He paced restlessly across the soft carpet and idly wondered if he could wear himself out enough to sleep before he collapsed. Another restless quiver of energy killed that idea.
Through the open doorway into the bedroom he could see Mirka, curled up asleep in the four poster bed, blond streaked hair spread fan-like across the pillow. It brought a stab of guilt to his restlessness – she had no idea someone else was currently occupying half his thoughts. Even if she had known something, she’d never have guessed it was, of all people, Andy Roddick.
Hell, if he hadn’t known the truth he’d have laughed at the thought himself.
Andy stalked his thoughts with flashes of hazel eyes and suggestive smiles; Andy with ghost-fingertips brushing along his jaw and chest; Andy with salty-damp lips and spiky-sharp stubble kissing him and telling him he’d never use him in a million years. Roger inhaled through clenched teeth, tilting his head back; phantom hands ghosted along his thighs, an imagined tongue leaving a wet trail over golden skin. Roger realised he was trembling and dropped onto the couch, rubbing his hands hard across his face, almost as if he could wipe the thoughts away.
“Fuck you Roddick,” he growled helplessly under his breath which conjured up an entirely new range of mental images. A tiny moan escaped gritted teeth and he cast an anxious look over the bed. Mirka hadn’t stirred but with his commonsense apparently as tired as the rest of him, he didn’t trust himself not to make more inadvertent noise.
And the last thing he needed was to explain why he was muttering about Andy Roddick with a hard on.
Quickly, automatically, he jumped up and collected the key card, his wallet, his jacket. His hand hovered over the handle of his racquet case; with a shrug he left it undisturbed and stalked out the suite, closing the door carefully behind him.
Hotel corridors were practically identical; the décor might change slightly in terms of colour or design but the impersonal sameness was always there. Roger knew as he walked past dozens of identical closed doors that the rich carpet muffled his footsteps sufficiently not to wake anyone; he knew the vases of flowers in each carefully lit alcove were silk without even glancing at them and he knew that if he went up three floors, or down two or sideways or backwards it would all be the same identical colours, the same identical pattern, the same muted design. He’d seen a thousand hotel corridors and would see a thousand more.
The very sameness was driving him crazy.
Andy would say he was losing it. He’d say it with questing fingers and wet lips; with the press of his thigh between Roger’s and a smile that suggested he found the idea of the Swiss going crazy very amusing. He wouldn’t need words, though he loved to use them anyway. Roger pictured the half narrowed eyes, the red lips and groaned silently. Andy was imprinted on his skin, inside and out and it didn’t look like he was planning on leaving anytime soon.
Jogging smartly down several flights of stairs rather than wait for the lift, the Swiss strode through the lobby, greeting the concierge’s “Guten abend!” with a distracted smile. He didn’t know what he’d thought a walk would do for his Andy-fixation or his restlessness but the American seemed to be haunting his every step even closer in the marbled expanse of the lobby. He paused near the doors with his eyes closed tight in an attempt to block Andy’s grin from his mind.
The touch across the back of his neck was soft, like the barest brush of fingertips or lips over his skin. Roger spun round with a hiss of breath, fully expecting to see the American standing there smirking at him. Instead the vase of huge, dangling peacock feathers mocked him silently, swaying in the breeze from the open entrance doors. Roger’s hand went to the back of his neck; he could still feel the shiver of a touch across his skin, the brush of the nearest teasing feather. Andy’s smile mocked him from his mind.
Feathers. Kind of kinky.
Shut the hell up! Furious at the American for being so persistent, inanely furious with the goddamn feathers and most of all furious at his own inability to control his feelings, Roger turned sharply on his heel and stalked out through the doors into the rainy darkness. The first splatter of drops against his face made him flinch but the summer air was pleasantly cool against his flushed skin so he continued resolutely on. If he walked enough he could tire himself enough to… sleep? Forget? He didn’t know but anything was better than pacing in his room. A treacherous part of his mind suggested Andy was only a phone call away but he squashed it, walking faster.
Out of habit he made for the tennis courts, feeling his way along the path in the dark. He was soaked by the time he’d negotiated the flight of steps down to the courts, his wet jeans clinging uncomfortably to his skin and his loose hair hanging down in dripping strands. The rain clouds obscured the moon and the only light came from the hotel some distance away. Roger walked, shivering, across the court to where an overhanging tree provided some measure of shelter. Sinking to the damp concrete he drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly in an attempt to keep warm.
Thoughts of Andy still wouldn’t leave him alone. He couldn’t find it within himself to regret sending a pair of his briefs to the injured American to cheer him up but part of him knew it had been a bad idea. They should never have gone past that encounter in the Wimbledon toilets; looking back he knew they shouldn’t have even done that. Roger’s breath caught in a half whimper as he remembered the sight in the mirror of Andy leaning over him, naked from the waist down as they brought each other to orgasm. A guilty thrill swept through the Swiss at the memory; his jeans were abruptly uncomfortably tight and he unbuttoned them unthinkingly. His hand was halfway inside before his exhausted commonsense made him pause.
He was on a deserted tennis court, in the dark, hidden from the hotel by distance and the tree canopy above him. His body argued desperately that there was no-one to see and it was winning, overriding protests from his head that insisted that there was always someone to see. A half-stifled gasp escaped clenched teeth as it occurred to him that if Andy wasn’t across a couple of oceans, he’d probably fuck him right there and to hell with the consequences.
It was all the incentive he needed. Pushing his jeans further down over his hips, he leaned his head back against the fence and loosely fisted his hand around his hard cock.
Andy would be kissing him now, hot wetness pressed hard to his mouth as he cupped his hand over Roger’s, quickening the pace slightly. Roger moaned a little in his throat as his body responded eagerly to the fantasy. A ghost hand pinched a nipple; Roger hissed and bucked his hips up, eyes closing against the soft spots of rain that made it through his sheltering canopy. They trickled over hot skin, mingled with sweat, tiny kisses of cool wetness tracing patterns across his body with tantalising softness, softer than fingertips, softer than feathers. In Roger’s mind Andy caught each drop with his tongue, flavouring his kisses with cool rain and salty sweat, closing his hand tighter around Roger’s and speeding the pace. The Swiss could feel molten pleasure gathering as his balls tightened; his breath was coming in short gasps and fantasy-Andy leaned in for a final bruising kiss, eyes dark and serious.
I’d never do that you know. Not in a million years.
Roger came with Andy’s voice in his ears, his body arcing up so sharply it was painful as come splattered across the concrete. The euphoria of orgasm dissolved the fantasy, leaving him to wind slowly down until he could open his eyes and breathe again. He was alone on a dark tennis court in the rain, his own come splashed over his hands and jeans.
Disbelief warred with guilt; he wiped his hands as best he could and curled his arms around his knees again, hot tears of frustration already squeezing free to mingle with the colder raindrops. This was going too far. No more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the lingering thought of Andy. “I can’t...” He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead onto his knees, soaked through and shivering. His muffled words were almost lost in the hands he pressed to his face.
“I can’t do this.”
~Fin~
To work now. *sighs*
liroa15 who had a really bad today. Hope today is better. *hugs*Title: Just to Make You Smile (part 3 of the Pretty Close to Invincible series)
Rating: PG-13 (swearing)
Pairing: Roddick/Federer (implied)
Summary: Andy’s feeling a little depressed after Wimbledon and being unable to play for a few days. A delivery from Roger cheers him up.
Disclaimer: Not mine, for which they are probably eternally thankful. Didn't happen, blame the crazy plotbunnies that won't leave me alone. Ever.
Notes: Written... last summer actually. Set after Wimbledon, when Andy developed a minor thigh injury. Some minor editing, but as usual not nearly enough. Sequel to Match Over and followed by Softer Than Feathers.
Just to Make You Smile
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Andy moodily tossed the tennis ball against the wall, caught it, tossed it again. His left leg was propped up on a pile of cushions and his tennis racquet was abandoned in the corner, a glaring reminder of his forced inactivity. Part of him was idly wondering how many times he’d have to throw the ball before it made a sizable dent as a matching reminder of his frustration.
It was the sixth day of his ordered ‘complete rest and relaxation’ and he was going out of his mind. After a month of English rain he’d been looking forward to tennis-worthy weather in Austin, but even that didn’t seem to want to oblige with grey clouds and strong breezes. The fact he couldn’t actually play tennis notwithstanding, it would have been nice to see some true sunshine to lift his mood.
He was starting to rethink that almost-fucking Roger had made his life any better.
A flash of movement through the window caught his eye and he turned to look, missing his reach for the flying tennis ball. It rebounded off his forehead with a thud.
“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!” Andy snatched up the ball and hurled it across the room, watching it scatter a pile of magazines with some satisfaction. “Hah. Teach you to attack me you fucking…”
He was talking to tennis balls. Oh please god let something happen to stop him going completely round the bend.
And, in a coincidence enough to make the most cynical atheist believe in divine intervention, the doorbell rang.
'Thank you', Andy mouthed to mid-air as he scrambled to his feet, hobbling a little as he crossed to the door. Glancing out the window as he passed he saw the FedEx van that had distracted him and frowned. Who would be…
He hardly dared hope as a name occurred to him but realised after signing for the slim box and hurrying back to the couch to open it that he was holding his breath and felt a little stupid. He’d heard nothing from Roger since the evening after their match when he’d given the man a blow job only metres from his girlfriend, half the Wimbledon officials and several members of the press who’d have given their left arms – and probably both legs as well – to catch Andy Roddick and Roger Federer in an, uh… compromising position. It had occurred to him that the whole thing had been a mistake and they’d never be able to look each other in the eyes again (which would certainly make for some interesting matches) but he’d dismissed the idea more out of a fear it was true than anything.
After all, the Swiss had seemed eager enough at the time…
Andy dragged his mind back to the box he was absently crushing in his grip. The anticipation was too much for him and he ripped it open, upending it eagerly. He stared at what fell out in mute shock for almost a minute before a smile crept slowly across his face, he threw back his head and laughed.
The neatly folded pair of underpants on his lap were similar to the pair of his he assumed now resided somewhere in Switzerland, with one notable exception – this pair had Roger Federer’s signature swirled across the back and a note pinned to the waistband.
It read “Thought it was only fair. R.”
~Fin~
Title: Softer Than Feathers (part 4 of the Pretty Close to Invincible series)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roddick/Federer (implied)
Summary: Exhausted from Wimbledon and Gstaad, Roger needs a little while alone to let it all sink in and to reflect on what happened with Andy.
Disclaimer: Not mine, for which they are probably eternally thankful. Didn't happen, blame the crazy plotbunnies that won't leave me alone. Ever.
Notes: Also written last summer. Set after Wimbledon and Gstaad, which were right after each other and both of which Roger won. I had no idea where he'd be and improvised. Some minor editing, but as usual not nearly enough. Sequel to Just to Make You Smile and to be followed soon by part five, Out of Mind.
Softer Than Feathers
Exhausted. The type of exhaustion that made his bones ache even after a hot shower and clean clothes, the type of exhaustion that let him know he’d done too much in the last few weeks. Exhaustion so intense it kept him awake and if there was any kind of sense in that Roger couldn’t see it, but it was how he felt. He was shivering with tiredness as he prowled around the ‘living room’ of their hotel suite but it was that kind of nervous-excited tiredness that stopped him being still for even a second. He paced restlessly across the soft carpet and idly wondered if he could wear himself out enough to sleep before he collapsed. Another restless quiver of energy killed that idea.
Through the open doorway into the bedroom he could see Mirka, curled up asleep in the four poster bed, blond streaked hair spread fan-like across the pillow. It brought a stab of guilt to his restlessness – she had no idea someone else was currently occupying half his thoughts. Even if she had known something, she’d never have guessed it was, of all people, Andy Roddick.
Hell, if he hadn’t known the truth he’d have laughed at the thought himself.
Andy stalked his thoughts with flashes of hazel eyes and suggestive smiles; Andy with ghost-fingertips brushing along his jaw and chest; Andy with salty-damp lips and spiky-sharp stubble kissing him and telling him he’d never use him in a million years. Roger inhaled through clenched teeth, tilting his head back; phantom hands ghosted along his thighs, an imagined tongue leaving a wet trail over golden skin. Roger realised he was trembling and dropped onto the couch, rubbing his hands hard across his face, almost as if he could wipe the thoughts away.
“Fuck you Roddick,” he growled helplessly under his breath which conjured up an entirely new range of mental images. A tiny moan escaped gritted teeth and he cast an anxious look over the bed. Mirka hadn’t stirred but with his commonsense apparently as tired as the rest of him, he didn’t trust himself not to make more inadvertent noise.
And the last thing he needed was to explain why he was muttering about Andy Roddick with a hard on.
Quickly, automatically, he jumped up and collected the key card, his wallet, his jacket. His hand hovered over the handle of his racquet case; with a shrug he left it undisturbed and stalked out the suite, closing the door carefully behind him.
Hotel corridors were practically identical; the décor might change slightly in terms of colour or design but the impersonal sameness was always there. Roger knew as he walked past dozens of identical closed doors that the rich carpet muffled his footsteps sufficiently not to wake anyone; he knew the vases of flowers in each carefully lit alcove were silk without even glancing at them and he knew that if he went up three floors, or down two or sideways or backwards it would all be the same identical colours, the same identical pattern, the same muted design. He’d seen a thousand hotel corridors and would see a thousand more.
The very sameness was driving him crazy.
Andy would say he was losing it. He’d say it with questing fingers and wet lips; with the press of his thigh between Roger’s and a smile that suggested he found the idea of the Swiss going crazy very amusing. He wouldn’t need words, though he loved to use them anyway. Roger pictured the half narrowed eyes, the red lips and groaned silently. Andy was imprinted on his skin, inside and out and it didn’t look like he was planning on leaving anytime soon.
Jogging smartly down several flights of stairs rather than wait for the lift, the Swiss strode through the lobby, greeting the concierge’s “Guten abend!” with a distracted smile. He didn’t know what he’d thought a walk would do for his Andy-fixation or his restlessness but the American seemed to be haunting his every step even closer in the marbled expanse of the lobby. He paused near the doors with his eyes closed tight in an attempt to block Andy’s grin from his mind.
The touch across the back of his neck was soft, like the barest brush of fingertips or lips over his skin. Roger spun round with a hiss of breath, fully expecting to see the American standing there smirking at him. Instead the vase of huge, dangling peacock feathers mocked him silently, swaying in the breeze from the open entrance doors. Roger’s hand went to the back of his neck; he could still feel the shiver of a touch across his skin, the brush of the nearest teasing feather. Andy’s smile mocked him from his mind.
Feathers. Kind of kinky.
Shut the hell up! Furious at the American for being so persistent, inanely furious with the goddamn feathers and most of all furious at his own inability to control his feelings, Roger turned sharply on his heel and stalked out through the doors into the rainy darkness. The first splatter of drops against his face made him flinch but the summer air was pleasantly cool against his flushed skin so he continued resolutely on. If he walked enough he could tire himself enough to… sleep? Forget? He didn’t know but anything was better than pacing in his room. A treacherous part of his mind suggested Andy was only a phone call away but he squashed it, walking faster.
Out of habit he made for the tennis courts, feeling his way along the path in the dark. He was soaked by the time he’d negotiated the flight of steps down to the courts, his wet jeans clinging uncomfortably to his skin and his loose hair hanging down in dripping strands. The rain clouds obscured the moon and the only light came from the hotel some distance away. Roger walked, shivering, across the court to where an overhanging tree provided some measure of shelter. Sinking to the damp concrete he drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly in an attempt to keep warm.
Thoughts of Andy still wouldn’t leave him alone. He couldn’t find it within himself to regret sending a pair of his briefs to the injured American to cheer him up but part of him knew it had been a bad idea. They should never have gone past that encounter in the Wimbledon toilets; looking back he knew they shouldn’t have even done that. Roger’s breath caught in a half whimper as he remembered the sight in the mirror of Andy leaning over him, naked from the waist down as they brought each other to orgasm. A guilty thrill swept through the Swiss at the memory; his jeans were abruptly uncomfortably tight and he unbuttoned them unthinkingly. His hand was halfway inside before his exhausted commonsense made him pause.
He was on a deserted tennis court, in the dark, hidden from the hotel by distance and the tree canopy above him. His body argued desperately that there was no-one to see and it was winning, overriding protests from his head that insisted that there was always someone to see. A half-stifled gasp escaped clenched teeth as it occurred to him that if Andy wasn’t across a couple of oceans, he’d probably fuck him right there and to hell with the consequences.
It was all the incentive he needed. Pushing his jeans further down over his hips, he leaned his head back against the fence and loosely fisted his hand around his hard cock.
Andy would be kissing him now, hot wetness pressed hard to his mouth as he cupped his hand over Roger’s, quickening the pace slightly. Roger moaned a little in his throat as his body responded eagerly to the fantasy. A ghost hand pinched a nipple; Roger hissed and bucked his hips up, eyes closing against the soft spots of rain that made it through his sheltering canopy. They trickled over hot skin, mingled with sweat, tiny kisses of cool wetness tracing patterns across his body with tantalising softness, softer than fingertips, softer than feathers. In Roger’s mind Andy caught each drop with his tongue, flavouring his kisses with cool rain and salty sweat, closing his hand tighter around Roger’s and speeding the pace. The Swiss could feel molten pleasure gathering as his balls tightened; his breath was coming in short gasps and fantasy-Andy leaned in for a final bruising kiss, eyes dark and serious.
I’d never do that you know. Not in a million years.
Roger came with Andy’s voice in his ears, his body arcing up so sharply it was painful as come splattered across the concrete. The euphoria of orgasm dissolved the fantasy, leaving him to wind slowly down until he could open his eyes and breathe again. He was alone on a dark tennis court in the rain, his own come splashed over his hands and jeans.
Disbelief warred with guilt; he wiped his hands as best he could and curled his arms around his knees again, hot tears of frustration already squeezing free to mingle with the colder raindrops. This was going too far. No more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the lingering thought of Andy. “I can’t...” He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead onto his knees, soaked through and shivering. His muffled words were almost lost in the hands he pressed to his face.
“I can’t do this.”
~Fin~
To work now. *sighs*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
AHHH!!!!!
Date: 2005-02-21 01:11 am (UTC)Also, *pets poor laid up Andy* Talking to your tennis balls isn't necessarily a sign of insanity. I talk to lots of my stuff and I'm not in... wait, maybe that wasn't such a good example.
We needs more of this, yes we do. We'll even trade you part 4 of Omerta for it. And maybe part 5, depedning on what kind of mood we're in. *nods*
Re: AHHH!!!!!
Date: 2005-02-21 01:33 am (UTC)Well you know, the next part is pretty much done and just needs some rewrites to get it post-worthy... I could have it done for say Tuesday night? After that I think I'll actually have to start writing them from scratch again, but the next one is pretty long compared to these, so it may even be worth two parts of Omerta. ;)
YAY FOR FIC! :D
I talk to stuff too. I yell at the fish when they make too much noise with gravel at night and talk to the laptop. But we're not crazy. Nope. Um... ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-02-21 05:06 am (UTC)Don't you dare back out now Roger Federer! *glares*
*giggles at the underwear swap*
*bounces*
So does Roger actually wear Andy's underwear still?
Re: AHHH!!!!!
Date: 2005-02-21 05:59 am (UTC)Re: AHHH!!!!!
Date: 2005-02-21 11:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-21 11:26 am (UTC)The only person who knows that is Roger. I'll have to ask him... he's so cute when he blushes. ;) He is very attached to Andy's underwear though...
Re: AHHH!!!!!
Date: 2005-02-21 06:04 pm (UTC)*pets all the pretteh tennis slash*
no subject
Date: 2005-02-22 06:59 am (UTC)*tries to distract self with Public Relations and Administrative Law - Nope didn't work*
*wants to see Roger blush*
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 07:58 am (UTC)*comes back to reality*
*goes to read the next part* :)
no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 03:31 am (UTC)Roger!!! *kicks him* Stupid idiot!! How can he do this!?