Okay, who is stealing my time?!!
Feb. 24th, 2005 03:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againI can't believe it's getting on for five in the morning. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shana0809 I can't think straight now but will do your crazee!analysis tomorrow. I honestly have no idea where tonight - yesterday - went.
Title: Closer Than This
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Summary: After his match against Benneteau Wednesday night of Toronto, Andy meets Roger on the stairs.
Notes: Set the evening of Wednesday 28th July in Toronto. Inspired by a post-match interview in which the interviewer asked Andy, “Andy, what have you done since the match ended because you obviously haven't had a shower yet?” and Andy tersely replied, “I walked in. I put my bag down and I came up here. “
I think he left something out.
Part six of the Pretty Close to Invincible series, following on from Out of Mind.
Closer Than This
He was too tired for this, Roger reflected, leaning back against the wall. His muscles ached with months’ worth of exhaustion that got banished with adrenaline during each match only to return for vengeance later. He was playing mediocre – for him – tennis, in a foreign country, with no sign of a break in the near future… and Andy wasn’t speaking to him.
If it hadn’t been childish and immature and utterly inappropriate for the number one seed, Roger would have burst into tears and gone home.
Mirka had vanished off somewhere to arrange interviews or meetings or PR or something, Roger hadn’t really been paying attention after she said she’d meet him in the hotel later. Right now all he wanted to do was stand – actually sitting sounded good, so he sank down on the stairs, still leaning against the wall – on this spot and not have anyone ask him to move or speak or whack a ball around solely to get another trophy that wouldn’t fit in the display case. His body agreed with the new position and he closed his eyes and drew up one knee to rest his arm on. Hhhmm. Nice.
Approaching footsteps were an irritating distraction from his blank calm and he silently willed them to go away. Go on. Keep moving, turn the other way. Leave me alone. The owner of the footsteps seemed quite energetic, bouncing up each step rapidly until Roger knew they were going to pass right by him. Even worse they slowed as they came closer, sounding almost hesitant. Resignedly Roger opened his eyes to meet the hostile glare of Andy Roddick.
Of course. Why should anything about this day be easy?
“Hi,” he offered tiredly, coherent conversation beyond him. It occurred to him that if Andy was here he must have finished his match against that Frenchman, Benneu or Bennetau, Roger could never remember. “Who won?”
“He did,” Andy retorted acidly. “Kicked my ass. Best tennis I’ve ever seen. Think you’d better watch out.”
Roger closed his eyes again. “You lie terribly. Congratulations.”
He could feel Andy’s presence just a couple of feet away, body heat mingled with sweat radiating from him. God, he hadn’t even stopped to shower. Roger determinedly kept his eyes shut tight despite an urge to look, to admire the flushed skin and restless energy. Andy never stopped moving even when he was still; always he was glancing around, tugging at his shirt, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. It was beyond Roger how he managed to keep it up without collapsing. It drew attention to him no matter where he was; you had to watch him even out the corner of your eye to see what he’d do next, who he’d watch, smile at, touch. Roger couldn’t help himself. It drove him crazy. For a while that energy had been directed at him and he hadn’t realised until he lost it how addicted he’d become. Andy was like a living, breathing drug and having him so close yet out of reach was torture, enough to make Roger wonder how he’d ever thought he could simply walk away from the American.
He’d been overestimating his own willpower. All he wanted to do was beg Andy to forgive him and the one thing standing in his way was his pride.
Andy was hesitating still, jiggling his weight from foot to foot. Go away Roger thought desperately. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this now, not in the middle of the tournament, not when Andy’s words from last night still stung, fresh and sharp. Just being this close to the American was like drinking strong liquor; Roger felt a wave of dizziness wash over him as Andy took a slow step closer.
“You fuck with my head, you know that?” the American said abruptly.
Roger cracked an eye opening, frowning. “Excuse me?”
Andy crouched without warning, leaning in so there were only inches between them. Roger could smell the American’s mint breath, musky sweat and the unique, coffee-gum scent of Andy that he’d learned through just a few brief encounters. It caught in his throat, forced his eyes open wide. Andy smiled, bitter, humourless.
“I wanted nothing more than to spend as much time touching you as I could. Every time I saw you, it drove me crazy y’know? Not being able to slam you against the wall and kiss you senseless.” Both hands slid up the wall, coming to rest on either side of Roger’s head. The Swiss was frozen, motionless, breath coming in short bursts. Andy leaned in another inch.
“And now you say I can’t ever touch you again. Fine. Whatever.” His smile vanished. “So why the fuck are you lying in wait for me?”
Roger was pinned between the American’s arms and body; it was impossible for him to do anything other than sit straighter in anger – bringing his face so close to Andy that the tips of their noses touched. The shiver of arousal the closeness sent thrilling through him was ignored in the wave of fury building beneath it.
“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you Roddick?” he hissed. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait for you to pass by? Think that just because you want to touch me, I feel the same? Think again. I was here first and it had nothing to do with you, or with anyone. Go away and. Leave. Me. Alone.”
“You’d love that wouldn’t you?” Andy sounded a little shaken by the Swiss’ vehement tone. “To know you could tell me to fuck off and I’d obey, like a good little puppy.” He pressed his forehead to Roger’s, smile sharp as he regained his balance, out of focus this close. “Well I ain’t nobody’s pet Federer, especially not yours. Stay the fuck out of my way in future, understand?” He leapt to his feet and turning to continue up the stairs. Pure fury drove Roger to his feet; he grabbed Andy’s arm and swung him back against the wall hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Roger pinned his shoulders to stop him moving, ignoring the surprise warring with wariness in Andy’s eyes.
“How dare… I ended us, not that there ever was a ‘us’, because it was the right thing to do!” He realised he was almost-yelling and lowered his voice. “I never told you what to do. I never would. I can’t believe you’d think…” His arms ached from pinning Andy against the wall and he let them go limp, let himself sag forward without really thinking. The energy to fight with the American drained out of him as he rested his head against one sweat-soaked shoulder. “Please...” he whispered tiredly. Hot tears were burning his eyelids and he was close, closer to Andy than he’d ever meant to be again. He wanted to move, wanted to pull away; but he was too tired and if he let himself admit it, it felt good to be touch the American. “Please… just stop.”
Andy was still beneath him, chest rising and falling under Roger’s palms. One of the American’s hands rested on Roger’s waist; the other on his shoulder. Heat from them burned into the Swiss’ skin; branded handprints of touch that he knew he’d feel for the rest of the week. There was nothing in their past relationship like this; it was close, comforting and Roger found himself wondering if he really had made the right decision. There was nothing about Andy’s closeness that seemed wrong – instead the itchy, tense feeling that had irritated him all day was gone, to be replaced by calm.
I don’t know if I can walk away from this again.
Then footsteps in the corridor below had the American pushing him violently away, stepping aside. Struggling to catch his balance, Roger glanced up in shock and found himself staring into a pair of furious hazel eyes.
“Stop fucking with me,” Andy snarled. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t- I’m not a fucking toy!” He seemed to search for something else to say, but as the footsteps drew closer and Roger simply stood speechless, he lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness and left without a backward glance, taking the stairs two at a time.
Roger opened his mouth to call after him but couldn’t find the words. Instead he just stood and watched the American vanish around the corner, clenching his hands at his sides for lack of anything to hold onto.
“Hey Rog! I finished early. Ready to go?”
Mirka sounded cheerful, calling up from the bottom of the stairs. Roger glanced down, her smile tearing pieces in his soul as he felt Andy get further and further away in the opposite direction. Forcing an answering smile to his face and taking a deep breath, he turned to go down.
“Ja, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
~ Fin~
~~~
Title: The Poetry Ficlets (2/5)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Summary: Love. Ownership. Control. Roger doesn’t see the difference.
Notes: The second ficlet written for International Tennis Slash Week. Batter My Heart © to John Donne.
Warnings: This fic took the fluff bunny and ripped it to pieces. Bondage, masochistic!Roger, reference to non-con cutting, hints of non-con, more that I’ve probably missed. If you’re looking for sunshine and happiness, definitely skip this one because they ain’t here.
The Poetry Ficlets – Batter My Heart
~ Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. ~
- John Donne, ‘Batter My Heart’
~
He gags Andy to stop him screaming.
Roger knows the American tries to be quiet when Roger fucks him knowing it’s what the Swiss likes, but it’s hard, harder still when Roger uses teeth and nails to write his name across Andy’s skin. The one time he’d used a knife Andy had screamed loud enough to bring a terrified neighbour banging at the door. Roger had had to talk fast to get out of that, Andy refusing to leave the bedroom to prove Roger wasn’t murdering him, curled in bed with a hand pressed to the crimson-stained R carved in his hip. The neighbour had left satisfied with Roger’s excuses and Andy had sent her flowers a few days later in apology but Roger’s careful. Another time may be more difficult and he likes Andy quiet during sex anyway, so he uses the gag. Andy never protested though his eyes widened the first time Roger gently pressed it to his mouth.
Andy never protests. Which makes the knife incident all the more surprising; Roger had treated the American delicately for weeks afterwards, unwilling to push his luck. He knows Andy hates the games he plays, hates the teeth marks that last for days and the bruises that last for longer. Knows it and he still can’t stop.
Occasionally, when Andy is writhing and whimpering beneath him, he thinks he might not care.
Apart from the knife incident though he never leaves permanent marks and Andy tells him when he’s gone too far; tells him with cries from behind the gag; with the way he curls in on himself when Roger lets go and with the hurt, sharp as shattered glass behind hazel eyes bloodshot from holding back tears. Yes, Roger knows when he’s gone too far. He presses a kiss to the ridged scar on Andy’s hip to remind himself and it’s rough on his tongue, a mark of ownership, a reminder to all who see it in the locker room of who this pretty American belongs too. Roger longs for an F to complete the initials but he’s afraid Andy won’t take it this time. Mardy has already been working on his friend, whispering doubts and warnings in Andy’s ear when he thinks Roger isn’t looking.
Roger hopes it doesn’t become a problem. Mardy is too pretty to break but he will, if he thinks Andy is starting to listen.
Andy is writhing beneath him now, muffled whimpers coming through the gag and Roger digs manicured nails into the American’s shoulders, half moons of warning biting through skin. Andy quiets, eyes screwed tight shut, wrists trapped above his head with soft cloth that’s still rubbing the skin raw. Roger’s been trying to get him to wear wristbands on court so they can do this during tournaments without waiting for the bruises to heal but Andy’s avoided it so far, somehow. He never usually disobeys now Roger thinks about it. It must be Mardy’s influence. Dammit. Roger really didn’t want to take the time to break the little blond American.
Could be fun though.
Thoughts of Mardy are pushed aside as he starts to slide into Andy and catches the sharp gasp even through muffling cloth; it’s too soon and he shivers at the way Andy chews on the gag in his mouth, throwing his head back and pulling at the restraints until his wrists are painfully red, but Roger doesn’t stop. He loves Andy like this, loves the shell of confidence peeled away to reveal the naked layers underneath and all trace of rebellion vanished as the American screws his eyes shut and shakes beneath Roger’s touch.
The sex is like it always is, hard and fast and all about control; Andy’s lack of it and Roger’s love of it, painting his name like a brand across Andy’s chest in sweat, spit and come. Andy’s silent when Roger finally slides out, silent when his bruised wrists are released and silent as Roger snuggles up to him, whispering ‘I love you’ in the American’s ear and kissing swollen lips, curled together in the tangled mess they’ve made of the bed. He’s silent even when the gag’s untied and Roger’s tossed it aside. The Swiss is too tired to notice. He just curls up against Andy’s warmth and closes his eyes, Mardy and what to do about him on his mind.
He’s asleep long before the first of Andy’s tears soak the pillow. He’s asleep as Andy slides out of bed and tiptoes stiffly, painfully towards the door. He’s still asleep as a door slams and a car starts, the sound of it swiftly fading towards the highway.
He’ll sleep till morning and wake up to nothing but an empty bed and salt on his pillow.
~ Fin ~
And on that note of cheerfulness, I really need sleep. *flops*
Clo
EDIT: My LJ clock is wrong. o_O It's actually 5:03am now. It's like an hour out. Hhhmm.
shana0809 I can't think straight now but will do your crazee!analysis tomorrow. I honestly have no idea where tonight - yesterday - went.Title: Closer Than This
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Summary: After his match against Benneteau Wednesday night of Toronto, Andy meets Roger on the stairs.
Notes: Set the evening of Wednesday 28th July in Toronto. Inspired by a post-match interview in which the interviewer asked Andy, “Andy, what have you done since the match ended because you obviously haven't had a shower yet?” and Andy tersely replied, “I walked in. I put my bag down and I came up here. “
I think he left something out.
Part six of the Pretty Close to Invincible series, following on from Out of Mind.
Closer Than This
He was too tired for this, Roger reflected, leaning back against the wall. His muscles ached with months’ worth of exhaustion that got banished with adrenaline during each match only to return for vengeance later. He was playing mediocre – for him – tennis, in a foreign country, with no sign of a break in the near future… and Andy wasn’t speaking to him.
If it hadn’t been childish and immature and utterly inappropriate for the number one seed, Roger would have burst into tears and gone home.
Mirka had vanished off somewhere to arrange interviews or meetings or PR or something, Roger hadn’t really been paying attention after she said she’d meet him in the hotel later. Right now all he wanted to do was stand – actually sitting sounded good, so he sank down on the stairs, still leaning against the wall – on this spot and not have anyone ask him to move or speak or whack a ball around solely to get another trophy that wouldn’t fit in the display case. His body agreed with the new position and he closed his eyes and drew up one knee to rest his arm on. Hhhmm. Nice.
Approaching footsteps were an irritating distraction from his blank calm and he silently willed them to go away. Go on. Keep moving, turn the other way. Leave me alone. The owner of the footsteps seemed quite energetic, bouncing up each step rapidly until Roger knew they were going to pass right by him. Even worse they slowed as they came closer, sounding almost hesitant. Resignedly Roger opened his eyes to meet the hostile glare of Andy Roddick.
Of course. Why should anything about this day be easy?
“Hi,” he offered tiredly, coherent conversation beyond him. It occurred to him that if Andy was here he must have finished his match against that Frenchman, Benneu or Bennetau, Roger could never remember. “Who won?”
“He did,” Andy retorted acidly. “Kicked my ass. Best tennis I’ve ever seen. Think you’d better watch out.”
Roger closed his eyes again. “You lie terribly. Congratulations.”
He could feel Andy’s presence just a couple of feet away, body heat mingled with sweat radiating from him. God, he hadn’t even stopped to shower. Roger determinedly kept his eyes shut tight despite an urge to look, to admire the flushed skin and restless energy. Andy never stopped moving even when he was still; always he was glancing around, tugging at his shirt, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. It was beyond Roger how he managed to keep it up without collapsing. It drew attention to him no matter where he was; you had to watch him even out the corner of your eye to see what he’d do next, who he’d watch, smile at, touch. Roger couldn’t help himself. It drove him crazy. For a while that energy had been directed at him and he hadn’t realised until he lost it how addicted he’d become. Andy was like a living, breathing drug and having him so close yet out of reach was torture, enough to make Roger wonder how he’d ever thought he could simply walk away from the American.
He’d been overestimating his own willpower. All he wanted to do was beg Andy to forgive him and the one thing standing in his way was his pride.
Andy was hesitating still, jiggling his weight from foot to foot. Go away Roger thought desperately. He didn’t have the energy to deal with this now, not in the middle of the tournament, not when Andy’s words from last night still stung, fresh and sharp. Just being this close to the American was like drinking strong liquor; Roger felt a wave of dizziness wash over him as Andy took a slow step closer.
“You fuck with my head, you know that?” the American said abruptly.
Roger cracked an eye opening, frowning. “Excuse me?”
Andy crouched without warning, leaning in so there were only inches between them. Roger could smell the American’s mint breath, musky sweat and the unique, coffee-gum scent of Andy that he’d learned through just a few brief encounters. It caught in his throat, forced his eyes open wide. Andy smiled, bitter, humourless.
“I wanted nothing more than to spend as much time touching you as I could. Every time I saw you, it drove me crazy y’know? Not being able to slam you against the wall and kiss you senseless.” Both hands slid up the wall, coming to rest on either side of Roger’s head. The Swiss was frozen, motionless, breath coming in short bursts. Andy leaned in another inch.
“And now you say I can’t ever touch you again. Fine. Whatever.” His smile vanished. “So why the fuck are you lying in wait for me?”
Roger was pinned between the American’s arms and body; it was impossible for him to do anything other than sit straighter in anger – bringing his face so close to Andy that the tips of their noses touched. The shiver of arousal the closeness sent thrilling through him was ignored in the wave of fury building beneath it.
“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you Roddick?” he hissed. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait for you to pass by? Think that just because you want to touch me, I feel the same? Think again. I was here first and it had nothing to do with you, or with anyone. Go away and. Leave. Me. Alone.”
“You’d love that wouldn’t you?” Andy sounded a little shaken by the Swiss’ vehement tone. “To know you could tell me to fuck off and I’d obey, like a good little puppy.” He pressed his forehead to Roger’s, smile sharp as he regained his balance, out of focus this close. “Well I ain’t nobody’s pet Federer, especially not yours. Stay the fuck out of my way in future, understand?” He leapt to his feet and turning to continue up the stairs. Pure fury drove Roger to his feet; he grabbed Andy’s arm and swung him back against the wall hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. Roger pinned his shoulders to stop him moving, ignoring the surprise warring with wariness in Andy’s eyes.
“How dare… I ended us, not that there ever was a ‘us’, because it was the right thing to do!” He realised he was almost-yelling and lowered his voice. “I never told you what to do. I never would. I can’t believe you’d think…” His arms ached from pinning Andy against the wall and he let them go limp, let himself sag forward without really thinking. The energy to fight with the American drained out of him as he rested his head against one sweat-soaked shoulder. “Please...” he whispered tiredly. Hot tears were burning his eyelids and he was close, closer to Andy than he’d ever meant to be again. He wanted to move, wanted to pull away; but he was too tired and if he let himself admit it, it felt good to be touch the American. “Please… just stop.”
Andy was still beneath him, chest rising and falling under Roger’s palms. One of the American’s hands rested on Roger’s waist; the other on his shoulder. Heat from them burned into the Swiss’ skin; branded handprints of touch that he knew he’d feel for the rest of the week. There was nothing in their past relationship like this; it was close, comforting and Roger found himself wondering if he really had made the right decision. There was nothing about Andy’s closeness that seemed wrong – instead the itchy, tense feeling that had irritated him all day was gone, to be replaced by calm.
I don’t know if I can walk away from this again.
Then footsteps in the corridor below had the American pushing him violently away, stepping aside. Struggling to catch his balance, Roger glanced up in shock and found himself staring into a pair of furious hazel eyes.
“Stop fucking with me,” Andy snarled. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t- I’m not a fucking toy!” He seemed to search for something else to say, but as the footsteps drew closer and Roger simply stood speechless, he lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness and left without a backward glance, taking the stairs two at a time.
Roger opened his mouth to call after him but couldn’t find the words. Instead he just stood and watched the American vanish around the corner, clenching his hands at his sides for lack of anything to hold onto.
“Hey Rog! I finished early. Ready to go?”
Mirka sounded cheerful, calling up from the bottom of the stairs. Roger glanced down, her smile tearing pieces in his soul as he felt Andy get further and further away in the opposite direction. Forcing an answering smile to his face and taking a deep breath, he turned to go down.
“Ja, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
~ Fin~
~~~
Title: The Poetry Ficlets (2/5)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Roddick/Federer
Summary: Love. Ownership. Control. Roger doesn’t see the difference.
Notes: The second ficlet written for International Tennis Slash Week. Batter My Heart © to John Donne.
Warnings: This fic took the fluff bunny and ripped it to pieces. Bondage, masochistic!Roger, reference to non-con cutting, hints of non-con, more that I’ve probably missed. If you’re looking for sunshine and happiness, definitely skip this one because they ain’t here.
~ Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. ~
- John Donne, ‘Batter My Heart’
~
He gags Andy to stop him screaming.
Roger knows the American tries to be quiet when Roger fucks him knowing it’s what the Swiss likes, but it’s hard, harder still when Roger uses teeth and nails to write his name across Andy’s skin. The one time he’d used a knife Andy had screamed loud enough to bring a terrified neighbour banging at the door. Roger had had to talk fast to get out of that, Andy refusing to leave the bedroom to prove Roger wasn’t murdering him, curled in bed with a hand pressed to the crimson-stained R carved in his hip. The neighbour had left satisfied with Roger’s excuses and Andy had sent her flowers a few days later in apology but Roger’s careful. Another time may be more difficult and he likes Andy quiet during sex anyway, so he uses the gag. Andy never protested though his eyes widened the first time Roger gently pressed it to his mouth.
Andy never protests. Which makes the knife incident all the more surprising; Roger had treated the American delicately for weeks afterwards, unwilling to push his luck. He knows Andy hates the games he plays, hates the teeth marks that last for days and the bruises that last for longer. Knows it and he still can’t stop.
Occasionally, when Andy is writhing and whimpering beneath him, he thinks he might not care.
Apart from the knife incident though he never leaves permanent marks and Andy tells him when he’s gone too far; tells him with cries from behind the gag; with the way he curls in on himself when Roger lets go and with the hurt, sharp as shattered glass behind hazel eyes bloodshot from holding back tears. Yes, Roger knows when he’s gone too far. He presses a kiss to the ridged scar on Andy’s hip to remind himself and it’s rough on his tongue, a mark of ownership, a reminder to all who see it in the locker room of who this pretty American belongs too. Roger longs for an F to complete the initials but he’s afraid Andy won’t take it this time. Mardy has already been working on his friend, whispering doubts and warnings in Andy’s ear when he thinks Roger isn’t looking.
Roger hopes it doesn’t become a problem. Mardy is too pretty to break but he will, if he thinks Andy is starting to listen.
Andy is writhing beneath him now, muffled whimpers coming through the gag and Roger digs manicured nails into the American’s shoulders, half moons of warning biting through skin. Andy quiets, eyes screwed tight shut, wrists trapped above his head with soft cloth that’s still rubbing the skin raw. Roger’s been trying to get him to wear wristbands on court so they can do this during tournaments without waiting for the bruises to heal but Andy’s avoided it so far, somehow. He never usually disobeys now Roger thinks about it. It must be Mardy’s influence. Dammit. Roger really didn’t want to take the time to break the little blond American.
Could be fun though.
Thoughts of Mardy are pushed aside as he starts to slide into Andy and catches the sharp gasp even through muffling cloth; it’s too soon and he shivers at the way Andy chews on the gag in his mouth, throwing his head back and pulling at the restraints until his wrists are painfully red, but Roger doesn’t stop. He loves Andy like this, loves the shell of confidence peeled away to reveal the naked layers underneath and all trace of rebellion vanished as the American screws his eyes shut and shakes beneath Roger’s touch.
The sex is like it always is, hard and fast and all about control; Andy’s lack of it and Roger’s love of it, painting his name like a brand across Andy’s chest in sweat, spit and come. Andy’s silent when Roger finally slides out, silent when his bruised wrists are released and silent as Roger snuggles up to him, whispering ‘I love you’ in the American’s ear and kissing swollen lips, curled together in the tangled mess they’ve made of the bed. He’s silent even when the gag’s untied and Roger’s tossed it aside. The Swiss is too tired to notice. He just curls up against Andy’s warmth and closes his eyes, Mardy and what to do about him on his mind.
He’s asleep long before the first of Andy’s tears soak the pillow. He’s asleep as Andy slides out of bed and tiptoes stiffly, painfully towards the door. He’s still asleep as a door slams and a car starts, the sound of it swiftly fading towards the highway.
He’ll sleep till morning and wake up to nothing but an empty bed and salt on his pillow.
~ Fin ~
And on that note of cheerfulness, I really need sleep. *flops*
Clo
EDIT: My LJ clock is wrong. o_O It's actually 5:03am now. It's like an hour out. Hhhmm.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 05:01 am (UTC)I'M even going to bed and I'm an ocean away!!!
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Date: 2005-02-24 05:02 am (UTC)*loves being tucked in though* Mmmm... bed... :D
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Date: 2005-02-24 05:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 05:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 05:17 am (UTC)Okay, I'M going to sleep now ;P Nearly fell asleep at work on Tuesday, can't have that tomorrow...
no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 05:19 am (UTC)Goodnight! Am also going to sleep... any minute now. Sleep well! :)
That...
Date: 2005-02-24 05:07 am (UTC)Re: That...
Date: 2005-02-24 05:10 am (UTC)Re: That...
Date: 2005-02-24 06:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-24 08:46 am (UTC)*pets Andy* *steals Roger to teach him a lesson* :) (that's a naughty smile that is...)
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Date: 2005-02-24 04:01 pm (UTC)Roger definitely needs to be taught a lesson. ;) Have fun! *grins*
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Date: 2005-02-24 09:08 am (UTC)*gares mutinously at Roger*
*mumbles*idiot...upsetting Andy...poor baby
Oh goodness. In both of them but especially the ficlet...the writing was so excellent...it was like a trainwreck...I knew reading further would be painful but I just couldn't stop. Oh I hope your muses cheer up soon. I'm such a fluffball and angst such as this tears me to pieces *sighs* Methinks I might have to add Jim Courier to the list of people I'm sending to talk sense into Roger and then try to calm down Andy
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Date: 2005-02-24 04:05 pm (UTC)I promise fluff tonight to make up for it. *blushes at the writing compliment* Definitely lots of fluff! :)
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Date: 2005-02-25 04:11 am (UTC)Oh thank goodness. *claps Mardy on the shoulder in congratulations*
And yes must grovel. He must grovel more than he's grovelled in his life! The offended tennis player Gods demand it!
And yay for fluff!!! *bounces on a marshmallow*
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Date: 2005-05-08 07:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-11 03:40 am (UTC)*shudders* I just sort of skipped Batter my Heart 'cause you know I love the series but... *shudders*
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Date: 2007-07-17 09:54 pm (UTC)And love these! The first one, i love tired!roger and the whole dynamic of the fic was great.
The second one.... ooo dark!roger is interesting. Also would be interesting to see the sock on the other foot as it were.... you know the other way around.
Great job!
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Date: 2010-02-22 06:08 pm (UTC)thank you :)