Log in

No account? Create an account
May 2015   01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Fic: Intermezzo (Dr Who)

Posted on 2007.07.08 at 14:57
Current Mood: accomplished
Tags: , , ,
Title: Intermezzo
Author: bistokids
Spoilers: TSoD, some Utopia (set in between TSoD and TLotTL)
Rating: NC-17 for non-con, slash, violence and that sort of thing. Angsty angst alert.
x-posted to dwfiction

A/N: I know there's a lot of it about, but since Rusty was so generous as to give us a whole year of unaccounted for time, it seems rude not to take him up on it! This picks up on some of the plot cues, and attempts to set things up for last of the Timelords.

Pairings: mostly Master/Ten, with a bit of Master/Jack, and allusions to Master/Lucy. All of these are non- or dubious-con, as the master's a nutter!


For a Timelord, one who had outlived just about everyone he had ever known, one who had been present at the birth of races and the death of others - had even been the cause of both - seven months shouldn’t have been any kind of trial. But then, he hadn’t had to endure seven months quite like these before.

He suspected that at some point in the future, if and when this nightmare was satisfactorily wrapped up, he would look back on it as a valuable learning experience. He had a deep affection for humans, an appreciation of their resilience and ingenuity that not all of his previous incarnations would buy into, but he would never have claimed to understand them.

Now, though, having to exist in a body ravaged and weakened by age had given him a far greater insight into the imminent mortality of a short lifespan than any of his kind had ever experienced. The Doctor realised now that these bizarre, unpredictable creatures must live in a constant state of subconscious terror, that everything they did or thought was coloured by an unceasing battle against their own inevitable deaths.

And the Master wasn’t helping. For the first month or so, his mania had been channelled into the destruction of the existing infrastructure on Earth, then remodelling the surviving communities into the Empire he craved. He had had little time for his captives aboard the Valiant, beyond the odd jibe or threat, and a certain amount of showing off.

After that, though, things changed, settled. The Toclafane, guided at every step by the Master, were firmly in control, and the humans soon realised the immediate and fatal consequences of even the most tentative act of rebellion. Whatever resistance movements there were either went deep underground, or simply gave up. And the Master got bored.

As was the way with the Master, this process wasn’t a gradual one. It happened very suddenly, one morning identical to every other morning, the Master gazing out over his dominion from the Valiant’s viewing platform, his sick, besotted wife/companion clinging to him as ever. He whispered something inaudible into her ear which made her giggle, pulled her close for a lingering kiss, ran his hands over her curves. Then, without warning, he thrust her angrily away from him, sending her sprawling to the floor, from where she gazed up at him with an expression of mingled incomprehension and trust that served to madden him still further.

He turned, leapt down the steps. "Is this it?" he burst out, spitting his frustration into the silence. "It’s not enough. It’s too easy." His glare encompassed the room, sliding off the various human occupants, soldiers and captives, as if they were unworthy of it. And fell, inevitably, onto the still, hunched figure of the Doctor, staring impenetrably back from the shelter of the makeshift tent.

Watching his expression clear was like watching the sun rise over the sea, all sparkle and gleam from eyes and teeth, and the Doctor’s breath hitched and his hearts swelled with the sheer terrifying beauty of it. The Master’s head lifted, lips parting in a smile of such clear-eyed innocence. "Doctor." The tender whisper of a lover. The Doctor swallowed, held his gaze with effort.

The Master’s approach was uncharacteristically sedate, almost tentative. He knelt close to the Doctor, faces inches apart, brought one hand up to smooth over the Doctor’s lined cheek in a gesture that was half-caress, half-exploration. The Doctor’s senses tingled, a response to the Master’s mind edging into his. A moment of weakness prompted him to respond, probing gently through the surface of the Master’s consciousness, desperate to discover something he knew didn’t exist. All he found was the incessant throbbing of the drums, the darkness of the Vortex. He pulled back sharply before the Master could sense his pity, knowing this would just inflame him further.

"Don’t," he warned. Pleaded.

The Master frowned. "Oh, don’t be a spoilsport," he said, the lightness of the tone directly at odds with the intensity burning within his eyes. "We could be good together. Great. You know we could. Isn’t that what you want? You and me, together?"

The Doctor said nothing.

The Master changed tack, determined to get a reaction. "So," he drawled, "I’ve been doing a spot of – let’s see now – planetary redecoration. What do you think? Big improvement? Maybe a different colour scheme? Red seems to be working for me right now."


The Doctor found his arms gripped tightly, all trace of humour vanishing in an instant from the tormented eyes so close to his own, replaced by a haunting vulnerability that the Doctor could hardly bear. "Tell me, Doctor. Please. Tell me you can hear it too."

Reflexively, the Doctor’s eyes closed, and he paused for a long moment, listening to the ever-present rhythm of the Vortex, as fundamental a part of him as the beat of his hearts. Drawing no satisfaction from what he was about to do, he met the Master’s gaze once more, carefully shielding his mind from any further prying.

"No." Each syllable dropping like acid into the stillness. "It’s just you."


After that, the situation on board the Valiant deteriorated rapidly. The Master, smarting from the rejection and with too much time on his hands, dedicated himself to the humiliation and torment of the Doctor with a ruthlessness of purpose matched only by his astonishing ingenuity. Meanwhile, the Doctor fought to maintain an air of casual indifference, although in truth he came despite himself to dread each morning, and the latest manifestation of the Master’s mercurial temper.

Much of the Master’s strategy centred on the use of the screwdriver. Sometimes he would use it to restore the Doctor to his true form, chaining him first to a chair or a wall, then just staring at him contemplatively for hours on end before casually flicking the switch and reversing the process. On more than one occasion, during these stretching silences, the Master would run his hands with breathtaking gentleness over the Doctor’s body, or pull his head back sharply, assaulting his lips, face, neck with his own mouth.

At such times he would pierce through the Doctor’s lowered defences, forcing a brutal path into his mind, relishing the knowledge that the Doctor was far from immune to these advances, soaking up the reluctant arousal, basking in the control. "One of these days, Doctor," he would whisper, mouth brushing against the Doctor’s ear, "I’ll take this further. You’ll beg me to. Won’t you?" The Doctor said nothing, but his mind spoke for him, and the Master would smile, temporarily satisfied.

On other occasions he would age the Doctor by another hundred years, or regress him to the form of a child, or add or subtract five, ten years here and there. Each time he studied the Doctor’s form and physique intently, with the precise curiosity of a scientist, before reversing the procedure only to begin all over again. And throughout, despite the appalling debilitating pain caused by each transformation, the Doctor remained silent, unresponsive.

From time to time, he would wheel the Doctor down into the bowels of the ship, to the stifling grimy hold where Jack was kept tethered. Gleefully, he would explore various ways of killing the Captain, blasting him with the screwdriver, shooting him through the gut or the thigh and watching as he bled to death, beating the life from him with clubs or metal bars. Once, he fucked him, harsh and brutal, laughing in delight at Jack’s agonised screams, coming into him with a shout of triumph as he crushed his windpipe, adjusting his clothing with a smug insouciance as Jack’s head lolled lifelessly and blood dripped down his thighs onto the floor below.

Throughout the whole ordeal, the Doctor’s eyes never left Jack’s, tears cascading unnoticed down his cheeks to drip from his chin, impotent rage burning white hot in darkened eyes. He spoke once, soundlessly, mouthing "I’m sorry" through dry lips, and Jack shook his head fractionally, forcing the tiniest of smiles, absolving the Doctor completely.


Between times, days, sometimes weeks would go by when the Master shunned all contact with the Doctor and his other captives. The Doctor used this time to build and develop his psychic link with the Archangel network. Slowly but consistently, the link grew stronger, a fact which filled the Doctor with relief and hope. The increase in strength was a sure sign that, somewhere below, Martha was still alive, still working.

Her family were a constant presence, submissive but not cowed, defiance radiating from them like a physical force even as they acceded to the Master’s latest whim. The Doctor attempted to bond with them, offering little smiles and the occasional wink in an effort to boost their spirits, receiving glowers in return. Mystified by the anger he seemed to be inspiring, he tackled Martha’s mother head-on, one endless morning during one of the Master’s periods of absence, as she scrubbed the floor near his tent.

"Mrs Jones."

A glare, a sniff. The Doctor raised his voice slightly.

"Mrs Jones." Pause. "Martha’s fine, you know."

She stood, swung round to face him. "Oh, really? And you know that for a fact, do you?"

The Doctor regarded her steadily. "Yes. Actually, I do."

"Right," she said awkwardly, not meeting his eyes. "I see. Well, thank you." Turning away, she resumed her cleaning, the stiff set of her back showing that she was far from satisfied. The Doctor waited patiently, sensing that more was to follow. He watched as she scrubbed jerkily, working out her aggression on the unyielding floor. Finally, never one to keep quiet, he intervened.

"You want to watch that. Keep going like that, you’ll wear a hole right through. And then where will we be?"

The scrubbing brush clattered half way across the room as Francine wheeled round to confront the Doctor, still on her knees. "Shut up. Just shut up! This is all your fault. If you hadn’t dragged Martha off God only knows where, torn her away from the people that really care about her, we wouldn’t be here now."

The Doctor gaped at her, open-mouthed, genuinely speechless at the utter injustice of the accusation. Typical, he thought. As much as he held humans in affection, one trait that never failed to irritate him beyond measure was this unreasonable and completely illogical urge to find someone to blame whenever something went wrong. And usually it seemed to be him. Taking a deep breath, he reined in his annoyance with some effort and limited success.

"You’re right," he retorted quietly, allowing the vehemence to seep through, taking some satisfaction from seeing her conviction waver and crumble. "If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here. Course, the Master had already set all this up long before I met Martha. So you’d all be dead, or prisoners. And there’d be no hope, because there’d be no Martha out there. But I don’t know, maybe you’d prefer it that way."

"I…" The accusation drained away, exposing the raw pain behind the carefully crafted façade. "Doctor…I’m so scared."

"I know." Hesitantly he reached out a hand, and Francine allowed him to place it on her shoulder, grateful for the offered comfort.

"Mrs Jones, it’s going to be fine. I promise. Just…trust me. Trust Martha, anyway. She’s…"

"She’s what, Doctor?" A new voice. Francine retrieved the scrubbing brush and scuttled out of sight as the Master approached, settling himself in her place. "Just what did you say to your little companion? Oh, come on, Doctor – we both know she’s out of her depth. But I do hate mysteries. Why don’t you put me out of my misery?"

The Doctor’s lips twitched with the temptation to respond, and the Master inclined his head with a small, rueful smile. Just for a second, there was a sense of shared awareness, an acknowledgement of times long past. But the Doctor held his silence, watching with infinite sadness as the Master’s face shut down, frustration and madness shattering the fragile bond. Situation normal, then. The Doctor braced himself.


Gradually, but with increasing frequency, rumours and then firm reports began to filter through to the Valiant. Pockets of resistance, acts of sabotage, open defiance. The humans, shattered but fighting back. And each report had a common element, a name linking them together. Martha Jones. She was spoken of in whispers, in tones of hushed awe.

At first, the Master laughed it off, taunted the Doctor with elaborate descriptions of how he was going to see off this insignificant irritation, use her destruction to suppress the rebellion. Each time, he despatched his forces to find her, yet each time she managed to evade capture, slipping away with minutes, sometimes mere seconds, to spare. It was as if she had a telepathic ability to anticipate his reactions.

The Master became both infuriated at the failure, and deeply suspicious of the Doctor’s involvement. His violence became more focussed, always accompanied by demands for information. He watched intently on the monitors as the Toclafane cornered Martha on a remote Pacific island, howling in anger when the search proved fruitless yet again. He hurled himself bodily at the Doctor, grabbing him by the throat, shaking and squeezing until the Doctor’s body grew limp under his hands.

"Where is she, Doctor? Where is she?"

Stars danced in front of the Doctor’s eyes, but he said nothing, and the Master gave up, sitting back on his haunches, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Finally he stood, forcing a parody of a smile.

"Never mind," he said, with an edge of uncertainty that was almost more unnerving than his usual complacent conviction. "It’s only a matter of time. She can’t hide forever."

He strolled over to Lucy, pulling her close for a deep prolonged kiss, rendered almost obscene by her passivity. Met the Doctor’s eyes over her shoulder.

"Ah, well," he drawled. "Can’t stand around here chatting all day. Things to do, haven’t we, darling?"

Wrapping one arm firmly round her waist, he led her away, kissing her once more as the door closed behind them.

They returned a couple of hours later. Lucy’s reddened eyes told their own story, along with the fresh bruise flowering purple and scarlet across her cheekbone and the raw, angry lines on her wrists. The Master caught the Doctor’s eye in challenge, daring him to comment. The Doctor turned away, sighed deeply. There was a storm brewing.


The storm broke seven months to the day after the Master had taken over the Valiant and sent his army to decimate the Earth. A scattering of reports had come in, from humans spying for the Master, that Martha had just arrived in Japan. She was quickly traced to the island of Shikoku, where she was being harboured by a small coastal community that had for some time dedicated itself to small but irritating acts of resistance. The Master had spared the village till now, guessing that Martha would be drawn there sooner or later, and he was buoyantly gleeful that his strategy seemed to have proved successful.

"Yes!" he hissed. "Got her. In you go, my children." He stood hunched over the monitors as the Toclafane rampaged through the village, cheering and whooping as they indiscriminately blasted people and buildings until nothing remained standing. Pacing back and forth in agitation, waiting for the report of the capture or death of Martha Jones.

At last, cutting into the tense silence, a childlike, metallic voice. "Master?"

The Master leapt for the communication controls. "Yes."

"She’s not here."

A pause, disbelief crackling in the air like static. "What?"

"The human. We can’t find her. She’s gone away."

The Master clawed distractedly at his hair. "No." It began as a whisper, crescendoed into a scream of pure outrage. "No no no! This is – just – not – fair!" He clenched his fists, snarling obscenities under his breath, the icy control temporarily but completely disintegrated. The Doctor held his breath, genuinely terrified for the first time since this ordeal had begun. In all the time he had known the Master, even as children, he had never seen him lose control like this. In this mood, there was literally no telling what he would do.

With shocking suddenness, the Master’s fist slammed down onto the control panel. "Enough!" he ground out. "Burn it. Burn it all."

"The whole island?"

"The whole country. Get rid of it." He paused, turned to face the Doctor. "No – wait."

Slowly, deliberately, he descended the staircase, halting before the Doctor, laser screwdriver trained unerringly at his chest.

"One chance, Doctor. Will you tell me where she is?"

This time, holding the silence was one of the hardest things the Doctor had ever had to do. He waited, every muscle rigid with tension. Eternity came and went.

The Master’s voice, when it came, was little more than a breath. "Then so be it."

The Doctor screamed as the beam pounded into and through him, blasting and distorting his very essence. Panting, he lay huddled on the floor, restored to his true likeness, knowing himself to be every bit as helpless as before. He closed his eyes, allowing the strength to seep back into him, listening with a sinking comprehension as the Master ordered all the other occupants of the room to leave.

When the room was deserted, the Master turned back, looming over the Doctor. "Stand up," he commanded tersely. The Doctor pushed himself to his feet, still shaky after the transformation. Stood face to face with his old friend, breathing laboured, dark eyes wary. The Master’s own eyes gleamed with satisfaction and anticipation. He bounded back up the steps, making his way to the long viewing platform.

"Come on, Doctor," he called back. "Come and see."

Swiftly, desperately, the Doctor scoured his mind for options, found none. Skin crawling with apprehension, he joined the Master at his vantage point. The two Timelords gazed silently down over the planet below, incongruously peaceful but for the dark swarms of Toclafane buzzing around the skies. The islands of Japan lay spread before them like a sacrifice on the blue-cloaked altar of the Pacific.

The Master moved round to stand close behind the Doctor. "Beautiful, isn’t it?" he murmured, lips brushing the Doctor’s ear. The Doctor shivered as hot breath caressed his neck. "No Gallifrey, of course, but not bad at all." He shifted closer, the two bodies pressed together, and the Doctor could feel the Master’s excitement and arousal hard against him, felt a strange sense of almost-relief at the realisation that this was going to happen now, no matter what he said or did. "Then again," the Master continued, his voice soft and lilting, "There is no Gallifrey, is there? You destroyed it. That must have been…incredible."

"Don’t," the Doctor whispered. "Please. This doesn’t have to happen."

"Mmm." The Master spoke thoughtfully. "Don’t, please…"

A small price for a stay of execution. "Master."

The Master sighed, dropped a light kiss of reward on the Doctor’s neck, arms snaking round to hold him captive. "You’re right, Doctor. This can stop now. Just tell me where Martha Jones is. Give her to me."

Grief crashed through the Doctor with the awareness that, seconds from now, yet another civilisation would be needlessly wiped out of existence, that there was nothing he could do to prevent it, that despite this he would carry the guilt of their deaths along with so many others for the rest of his existence. He wondered fleetingly how much responsibility it was possible for one being to bear, even one so well adapted for it as himself.

"No." The Doctor’s voice cracked, and he took a deep breath, speaking more firmly. "No. I can’t."

The one word the Master spoke was possibly the single most chilling sound the Doctor had ever heard.


He flicked a switch on the control panel in front of them, raised his voice.

"Do it."

For long moments they stood, locked together in a warped embrace, as nothing happened at all. Then, one by one, infinitely slowly, the lush greens of the islands faded, changing to the reds and yellows of leaping flames. Through the monitors, the air was flooded with screams of pure agony and blasting explosions, a symphony of chaos and death.

The Master shifted, his breathing becoming heavier as his erection rubbed against the Doctor. A familiar, unwelcome prickle, the Master brusquely penetrating the Doctor’s mind. The Doctor let him in without resistance, desperately hoping that the horror he found within might have some impact on the scrambled, damaged brain. A mistake. This time, the Master wasn’t taking, but giving.

With a sick, appalled, lurch, the Doctor realised what the Master was doing, and tried to throw up defences, but too late. Into his unshielded mind poured all the fascination, glee, excitement suffusing the Master as he gazed down over the devastation he had caused. The Master’s hand dipped downwards, undid the zip at the Doctor’s groin, pushed inside, stroking and soothing. The Doctor resisted weakly, arching backwards, bringing him into even closer contact with the firm arousal against his buttocks. The Master was unrelenting.

"Let it go, Doctor." The Master’s voice was soft, breathy, with all the hypnotic magnetism that had brought him such success as Harry Saxon. "This is our moment, just like you wanted. You and me. Together."

The Doctor’s will crumbled, and he sagged backwards, growing hard under the determined, expert fingers wrapped around him. Not quite satisfied, the Master used his body weight to force the Doctor forward until his hands clung onto the sill, forehead resting on the coolness of the window in front of them.

The Master’s free hand came up to tangle in damp hair as he pried the Doctor’s mind open still further, forcing in all the power of his own arousal, the pounding rhythm of the drums. The Doctor bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out, blood trickling through his teeth.

"Oh come on, Doctor," the Master said, irritation mingling with entreaty. "Work with me here."

The Doctor stared down at the burning islands, trying with all his strength to hold his focus on the tragedy and horror unfolding below him, but the Master was having none of it. His fingers gripped more firmly, and he increased the rhythm, matching the beat of the Vortex stroke for stroke. At the same time, his tongue found the Doctor’s exposed throat, licking and then nibbling along his neck with such breathtaking gentleness that the Doctor’s eyes closed in utter defeat.

Behind his eyelids, red faded to black, the drumming swelled and lifted until it overwhelmed his senses, and he came, trembling, his orgasm merging with the Master’s in one incredible surge of energy and power that left both of them gasping.

The Master clung to the Doctor as the wave subsided, stroking his hair, his own defences momentarily lowered to reveal a heart-wrenching sense of regret and vulnerability. Seizing the moment, the Doctor pushed back, allowing all the enormity of his sympathy and love to transmit itself into the brain of the only other Timelord in existence. Forging a psychic link that could never be fully destroyed.

The Master reeled back, wrenching his mind free with deliberate coldness. "No." The rejection was absolute. The Doctor staggered, bereft at the sudden isolation. He turned, supporting himself against the frame of the window, feigning an air of nonchalance as the Master’s customary mask of suave complacency clicked back into place.

"So tell me, Doctor," the Master asked lightly, "did the Earth move for you?" He threw back his head in delighted peals of laughter at his own wit. Shaking his head, still chuckling, he lifted the screwdriver, and once more the Doctor found himself curled on the floor, a helpless bundle of pain and age.

"Guards!" From the speed with which the soldiers responded, it was clear that they had been stationed just outside the door for the duration. They stood to attention, awaiting the Master’s whim.

He waved a vague, immaculate hand. "Clean this up. Oh, and organise some champagne, and find my wife. I think a toast is in order."

The Doctor, limp and unresisting, allowed himself to be dragged back down to his straw-filled lair. The guards sneered at this picture of defeat, this broken shell. The Master stared at him for one protracted moment, as the Doctor filled his mind with images of pathos and surrender. Satisfied, he turned his back in dismissal, and the Doctor’s hearts sang with hope and a renewed sense of purpose. Martha was alive, and a psychic bond with the Master, so crucial to the success of their plans, had been established.

Now, it was just a matter of time.


lozenger8 at 2007-07-08 15:38 (UTC) (Link)
This is dark and yet somehow hopeful - a strange and compelling combination. I got a very real sense of The Master's insanity and the passion that comes with it. The idea of the drumming being the vortex and something that the Doctor does hear is --- well, the first words that came to mind were evil genius.

I, being poor, have only my dreams.
bistokids at 2007-07-08 15:51 (UTC) (Link)
Bwa-ha-haaaaa! *does the evil genius dance of glee, as copyrighted by Mr Simm*

I've had it very strongly in mind throughout the finale that the Doctor could hear the drums, and that Gollum!doc was lying when he said it was just the Master. To the extent that I was quite surprised this didn't show itself in canon.

Thanks - dark but hopeful is pretty much exactly what I was after. xx
magenta_blue at 2007-07-08 19:21 (UTC) (Link)
Hello you! I liked this very much, and this is from someone who *whispers* doesn't actually watch Doctor Who. So I have a limited grasp of who is who and what is happening, but the best thing about a long running series is you sort of know the characters even when you sort of don't, and the best thing about your fic is it sort of plunges me right in there and I love the way you write, it draws me into the story. My fave bit, or the bit that stood out the most for me is again when the Master asks or almost pleads with the Doctor whether he can hear the vortex and the Doctor replies no, even though he can. Nice hint of fragility contained within madness!
I, being poor, have only my dreams.
bistokids at 2007-07-10 10:43 (UTC) (Link)
*waves madly* Hello! And thanks!

I've just read through this again, trying to imagine what sense it would make if you don't watch Doctor Who, and the answer was - not much! (Although I know what you mean about series where you're familiar with the characters even if you don't watch it). So well done you, and thanks - it's a real compliment and tremendously boosting to feel I can hold the attention of a non-viewer just through the story. *feels proud*

Speak soon xx
magenta_blue at 2007-07-10 14:06 (UTC) (Link)
You know, I am that clueless about Doctor Who that I first thought the LJ community group you had x posted to was dwarf fiction and thought to myself eh op, sunshine's gone off on a strange new tangent... *g*
I, being poor, have only my dreams.
bistokids at 2007-07-12 15:26 (UTC) (Link)
*chokes* just spotted this! I'm not sure what it says about me that you think this might be a possibility!

Hmmm, dwarf fiction. Snow White and the Seven CI5 Agents. Oh actually, I think that's already been done!
Using words like a trickster
liquorishflame at 2007-07-09 10:26 (UTC) (Link)
This is deliciously dark, and yet, I love how the Doctor's hope shines through everthing, how he is determined not to give up, bowed, but unbroken. Glad I found this :)
I, being poor, have only my dreams.
bistokids at 2007-07-10 10:50 (UTC) (Link)
Deliciously dark - I love that!!:DDD

Glad you liked it, and I'm especially glad the hope came through - I didn't want it to be too morose, but it got away from me occasionally. Thank you.

astrogirl2 at 2007-07-12 14:32 (UTC) (Link)
Wow. I like this a lot. It's very well-written, and horrible and all the right ways. And you have the Master's voice and (current) personality down perfectly; I believed every second of this. It fills in the gap really well, too.
I, being poor, have only my dreams.
bistokids at 2007-07-12 15:22 (UTC) (Link)
Oh thank you! Good horribleness - hee! I'm pretty pleased with my Master characterisation, it's the Doctor I need to work on now - he's much harder to write than he should be, if that makes sense! I suppose I'm just going to have to resign myself to watching Who DVDs over and over. Tragic really. :DDD
boulette_sud at 2008-05-30 21:14 (UTC) (Link)
Beautiful. Thank you :)
I, being poor, have only my dreams.
bistokids at 2008-05-31 12:34 (UTC) (Link)
Oh, thank you for commenting! :D I'm really glad you enjoyed it.
Previous Entry  Next Entry