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kricketsTitle: The Way Out is Through
Fandom, Characters: supernatural - john-centric ( with bill, mary, demon )
Words, Rating: 2300-ish, nc17
Summary: You can’t exactly die twice, can you?
Warnings: torture, non-con, violence, disturbing imagery, hell!fic
A/N: Beta read by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kmousie. Written as a request for disanddat for Sweet Charity.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- Robert Frost
"What have you given, John Winchester?" The demon voice hisses, her breath like sulfur. Today, she is her true self; a monster. He must admit he misses her usual busty brunette, her pink lips and blue eyes that make the torture somehow more bearable. But no matter what form she takes, it is always this question - before the pain, and after too; between, and during.
"Please," he begs, his blood spilling onto the cold stone floor. He wants to slide down the wall, let his heavy limbs rest on jagged rock and sleep, but held fast by invisible bonds, he hovers over her.
"Begging won't do," she says. "Answer."
"Everything," he says, his voice strained, finally giving her what she wants - what she always wants.
Her eyes flicker behind reptilian lids, first black, then yellow, and red, like always, and he knows what's coming next.
"Not enough," she says, and runs a long tongue across sharp teeth, her talons clicking against the wall, her grotesque body moving closer as she reaches for him once more.
He screams.
It's never enough.
+
The warm sun beats down on his back. Grass tickles his nose. And in that split second, a thought occurs to him.
He remembers Bill Harvelle's words.
"There is no judgment here, no discernment between sinners, no book of truths. Thing is... you're marked, John. What they know is this: You don't belong. A path is carved for you, and all others like you. And there will be those who want to keep you here, enemies, old foes, spirits angrier and more evil than any you ever met on Earth. But they, too, answer to someone. And they will be punished. It'll be long and it'll be hard, but you will make it to the other side. You all do. Besides, can't exactly die twice, can you?"
The other side. Those three words pound in his head. But beyond that, beyond the cool breeze through his hair and the soft grass under his cheek, he hears the sounds of songbirds in the distance.
+
In life, John Winchester had never seen a demon in the flesh. And when the barren ground shakes on that first day, somehow he knows it.
"Demon," Bill explains. "They're different here. Like nothing we ever came up against, John."
"I've seen demons," John says, brushes the dust off his back, and looks toward the path.
"No," Bill says, "you really haven't." And the ground in Bill's wake is as settled as it was when he arrived, and John is once again alone.
John never asks Bill how it is that he too ended up here in this place - doesn't have to. He remembers that night. Bill had always taken the big risk, always hunted alone. And this time he fucked up. The only difference was that this time, John was there. He didn't see it happen, just heard the screams. And when he found him, he was broken, torn up, blood everywhere, and totally lucid.
Pull the fucking trigger, John, he had begged.
It was his choice.
He remembers the cool weight of the gun in his hands, taking aim, closing his eyes, and squeezing the trigger. And after that, there were no more pleas or cries, just dead flesh and wide, glassy eyes.
A man.
A soul.
A corpse.
Damned.
Just like that.
+
Time is different here.
Try as he might, he can't measure it.
Soon, he realizes it's better this way.
The faces of his boys fade. Like pages of the Bible swimming in holy water, they disappear. But what he remembers, what he holds on to, is the way they loved each other - even in secret. Right or wrong, he remembers that. And it isn't the how that matters, just that they did.
So when all the rest of hell has left him on his way, and that bitch tracks him down again, pulls his pants down to his knees, fills him with cold steel, finds his prostate, and makes him come despite himself, despite the blood and the tearing of sensitive flesh, he remembers that.
What have you given, John Winchester? (She doesn't say it this time, but he hears it nonetheless.)
He slumps naked to the floor, and she hovers over him, straddles him, fingers the come drying on his stomach, and laughs. "I would have let you fuck me, John," she sneers, "but I've a sneaking suspicion you would have enjoyed that all too much." He moves his mouth to speak, but no words escape his dry lips. She, stands, spits in his face, and turns again.
This time she's a man, with the same blue eyes and raven hair, all muscle with a jagged scar along his jaw, same as all of her incarnations. "Next time I'll let you suck it," she says, her voice deep and gravelly, laced with laughter, "faggot."
+
It's after the rape, after days of rain and walking endless paths through dead woods, washed-out deserts, and caverns with no end in sight, that he falls.
Bill appears to him one last time, brings him clothes, kneels beside him, feeds him bread and water, touches his bruised skin, and reminds him that none of this is real. "You're dead, remember?" And then he says he's led as far as he can and that John will have to go it alone from here on out, says that if he strays from the path that it won't be hard to tell, says that as long as he remembers who he is and where he's going, he'll make it through. "And you shouldn't have much trouble in that regard, seeing as you're so full of yourself."
"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" John says, manages a chuckle.
Bill laughs, helps him to his feet. "Yeah," he says, "I know."
Before he goes, Bill pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to John. "Take this," he says. "It'll help you remember."
John fingers the smooth object, notices how heavy it is, and then drops his gaze to his hand; a bullet. The colt.
"Of course, it's not real," Bill says, "but here, it doesn't need to be. That's not what it's for."
+
She finds him again, like always, but this time all she does is talk. She runs her fingers down his spine, doesn't use his name.
"Have you forgotten yet?" She asks, kisses his fingertips, acid lips singing his skin.
"Have you?" he counters, and something goes dark in her blue eyes before they flash again from red to black. "Touched a nerve?"
"Soon enough, John," she says after recovering, "you'll be just like me."
Never, he thinks, even as her elbow comes crashing against his temple. Never.
+
Heaven.
It is only when he hears her voice that he believes it. Blue skies above, she walks with bare feet, the fabric of her thin cotton dress kissing her ankles, and stops at his side, kneels down and whispers soft in his ear. Mary. He remembers her name, and it is only then he realized he'd forgotten, and the pain of that is sharper than any torture the demon might have put him through.
"You're okay," she whispers, helps him to his feet. "You're here now."
The bed she makes for him is soft and warm, and he never wants to leave. The broth she brings is hot and fills him to his toes. And unlike before, everything is calm and easy, like coming home. Three nights like this, and he finds his feet again, steady enough now to walk. He finds her in the kitchen, standing by the sink. She looks so young, just like when they got married, and he realizes that he, too, feels younger. His hands are strong again, his scars fading.
"I missed you," he whispers, gruff into her ear, and she turns to face him, warm lips on his, hands in his hair.
"Me too," she whispers and pushes him backwards against the table, stronger than he ever remembers her being in life.
He kisses her furiously, not caring to remember how long it's really been, but feeling all the time and distance between them in the taste of her salty mouth. Small hands yank at his cotton pants, and as he turns, hoisting her onto the table, she lifts her dress, her legs going instinctively around his waist.
"Can you?" she asks. He's still healing, but behind her concern, there's desperation in her voice. He doesn't even have time to nod before he pushes inside her, balancing their weight against the uneasy table, a strangled cry escaping from his lips.
She reaches across his back, her hands pulling him closer, urging him deeper. "Baby," John hisses into her ear, closes his eyes, drinks in her scent, "too fucking long."
She begins to moan, her voice hitching in her throat. "Don't stop," she manages to breathe out as jerks inside of her. But this time, her voice is different. He opens his eyes to see that familiar scar along her jaw, blonde hair now turned black, and those same blue eyes and pink lips.
His movements stop and he tries to pull away, but her legs are wrapped around him like a vice. She laughs, throws her head back, and then pulls him impossibly close. "Don't you fucking stop," the demon says then into his ear, "you're better than I thought you would be."
He realizes at once that he still has control of his body, and he opens his hand and smacks her across the mouth with the back of his knuckles, draws blood. And somehow the light in the small kitchen shines more harshly in that moment.
"Bitch," he growls.
She licks her lips, rubs her thumb along the wound. "Go on," she says, "I like it rough."
He kisses her then, mouth rough and greedy, the copper taste of blood over his tongue, and this isn't some demon trick or mind control - by god, he wants to. He starts to move again inside her, his hips slamming into hers, cock plunging deep into her demon pussy, hoping he'll leave bruises. "You fucking bitch," he moans, pushes into her harder, fucks her against the table, teeth grazing her bottom lip, "I want you to come."
"I knew you couldn't stop," she whispers, bites down on his neck softly when he quickens his pace. She clenches around him, squeezes his cock and comes with her mouth open, filled with a litany of curses in forgotten ancient languages that never make it past her lips. He doesn't slow, doesn't give her a moment to recover, just continues thrusting until he finishes, sticky hot fluid escaping inside her.
"No," he agrees, pulls limply from her and yanks up his pants. She's spent and sweaty on the table, and he walks to the counter to get her a towel to clean up. "And I've been thinking about something," he says, and she doesn't notice the flash of silver as he walks back to the table. "That scar," he says. "Where'd you get it?"
She laughs, pulls the towel from his hand, and sits up as she adjusts her dress. Apparently, even demons have modesty. "Miserable bastard like yourself," she says, kisses his bare shoulder. "But I knew you'd come around."
"But see," he traces his finger along the scar, kisses it where it meets the back of her jaw, "I've been thinking. If you've got this scar, then that means," he says, pauses to flick his tongue behind her ear, "then that means that I can hurt you."
Her eyes go wide, and this time she sees the flash of silver, the knife from behind his back, but it's too late.
+
Now, he walks.
Everything is dark, and he no longer remembers living. Sure, he remembers that he once did, but he doesn't remember the act of it, what it was like to breathe real air, to watch a sunrise, to hold his sons in his arms, to dive into the cool refreshing pond behind his grandfather's house, none of it. Now that she's gone, everything fades. Even the cries of sinners suffering around him soon disappear.
Now, it's waiting, and somehow he thinks it's harder than before. Before. Even that becomes a distant memory. (Hasn't he always been here?)
Sometimes he walks in circles. He'll hear a noise, a bug flitting past his ear, the tinny whine of electricity in the distance, and chase it for what feels like days with no reason. It's something different than pressing forward. And there are sometimes, only sometimes, when he very nearly forgets who he is.
What's my name?
And that's when he feels it, the weight of the bullet in his pocket - a gift from a stranger. ( A friend? )
Samuel, he thinks. Samuel Colt. But that's not right, he knows. He'll juggle it for days, the name bouncing around in his mind. Samuel Colt built a gun, he remembers. Non timebo mala. I will fear no evil. And soon, a word forms on his dry lips, though he can no longer use his voice. Winchester. And that's it. Winchester, Winchester. John Winchester.
So there, he knows who he is. He knows where he's going. He hasn't strayed from the path. And somewhere in the distance, a door is opening in the dark, moonlight filtering into this hell of his, and he swears, he swears, he can hear the voices of his sons.
Sam?
Dean?
He closes his eyes and starts to run.
-fin
Fandom, Characters: supernatural - john-centric ( with bill, mary, demon )
Words, Rating: 2300-ish, nc17
Summary: You can’t exactly die twice, can you?
Warnings: torture, non-con, violence, disturbing imagery, hell!fic
A/N: Beta read by
kmousie. Written as a request for disanddat for Sweet Charity.But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- Robert Frost
"What have you given, John Winchester?" The demon voice hisses, her breath like sulfur. Today, she is her true self; a monster. He must admit he misses her usual busty brunette, her pink lips and blue eyes that make the torture somehow more bearable. But no matter what form she takes, it is always this question - before the pain, and after too; between, and during.
"Please," he begs, his blood spilling onto the cold stone floor. He wants to slide down the wall, let his heavy limbs rest on jagged rock and sleep, but held fast by invisible bonds, he hovers over her.
"Begging won't do," she says. "Answer."
"Everything," he says, his voice strained, finally giving her what she wants - what she always wants.
Her eyes flicker behind reptilian lids, first black, then yellow, and red, like always, and he knows what's coming next.
"Not enough," she says, and runs a long tongue across sharp teeth, her talons clicking against the wall, her grotesque body moving closer as she reaches for him once more.
He screams.
It's never enough.
The warm sun beats down on his back. Grass tickles his nose. And in that split second, a thought occurs to him.
He remembers Bill Harvelle's words.
"There is no judgment here, no discernment between sinners, no book of truths. Thing is... you're marked, John. What they know is this: You don't belong. A path is carved for you, and all others like you. And there will be those who want to keep you here, enemies, old foes, spirits angrier and more evil than any you ever met on Earth. But they, too, answer to someone. And they will be punished. It'll be long and it'll be hard, but you will make it to the other side. You all do. Besides, can't exactly die twice, can you?"
The other side. Those three words pound in his head. But beyond that, beyond the cool breeze through his hair and the soft grass under his cheek, he hears the sounds of songbirds in the distance.
In life, John Winchester had never seen a demon in the flesh. And when the barren ground shakes on that first day, somehow he knows it.
"Demon," Bill explains. "They're different here. Like nothing we ever came up against, John."
"I've seen demons," John says, brushes the dust off his back, and looks toward the path.
"No," Bill says, "you really haven't." And the ground in Bill's wake is as settled as it was when he arrived, and John is once again alone.
John never asks Bill how it is that he too ended up here in this place - doesn't have to. He remembers that night. Bill had always taken the big risk, always hunted alone. And this time he fucked up. The only difference was that this time, John was there. He didn't see it happen, just heard the screams. And when he found him, he was broken, torn up, blood everywhere, and totally lucid.
Pull the fucking trigger, John, he had begged.
It was his choice.
He remembers the cool weight of the gun in his hands, taking aim, closing his eyes, and squeezing the trigger. And after that, there were no more pleas or cries, just dead flesh and wide, glassy eyes.
A man.
A soul.
A corpse.
Damned.
Just like that.
Time is different here.
Try as he might, he can't measure it.
Soon, he realizes it's better this way.
The faces of his boys fade. Like pages of the Bible swimming in holy water, they disappear. But what he remembers, what he holds on to, is the way they loved each other - even in secret. Right or wrong, he remembers that. And it isn't the how that matters, just that they did.
So when all the rest of hell has left him on his way, and that bitch tracks him down again, pulls his pants down to his knees, fills him with cold steel, finds his prostate, and makes him come despite himself, despite the blood and the tearing of sensitive flesh, he remembers that.
What have you given, John Winchester? (She doesn't say it this time, but he hears it nonetheless.)
He slumps naked to the floor, and she hovers over him, straddles him, fingers the come drying on his stomach, and laughs. "I would have let you fuck me, John," she sneers, "but I've a sneaking suspicion you would have enjoyed that all too much." He moves his mouth to speak, but no words escape his dry lips. She, stands, spits in his face, and turns again.
This time she's a man, with the same blue eyes and raven hair, all muscle with a jagged scar along his jaw, same as all of her incarnations. "Next time I'll let you suck it," she says, her voice deep and gravelly, laced with laughter, "faggot."
It's after the rape, after days of rain and walking endless paths through dead woods, washed-out deserts, and caverns with no end in sight, that he falls.
Bill appears to him one last time, brings him clothes, kneels beside him, feeds him bread and water, touches his bruised skin, and reminds him that none of this is real. "You're dead, remember?" And then he says he's led as far as he can and that John will have to go it alone from here on out, says that if he strays from the path that it won't be hard to tell, says that as long as he remembers who he is and where he's going, he'll make it through. "And you shouldn't have much trouble in that regard, seeing as you're so full of yourself."
"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" John says, manages a chuckle.
Bill laughs, helps him to his feet. "Yeah," he says, "I know."
Before he goes, Bill pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to John. "Take this," he says. "It'll help you remember."
John fingers the smooth object, notices how heavy it is, and then drops his gaze to his hand; a bullet. The colt.
"Of course, it's not real," Bill says, "but here, it doesn't need to be. That's not what it's for."
She finds him again, like always, but this time all she does is talk. She runs her fingers down his spine, doesn't use his name.
"Have you forgotten yet?" She asks, kisses his fingertips, acid lips singing his skin.
"Have you?" he counters, and something goes dark in her blue eyes before they flash again from red to black. "Touched a nerve?"
"Soon enough, John," she says after recovering, "you'll be just like me."
Never, he thinks, even as her elbow comes crashing against his temple. Never.
Heaven.
It is only when he hears her voice that he believes it. Blue skies above, she walks with bare feet, the fabric of her thin cotton dress kissing her ankles, and stops at his side, kneels down and whispers soft in his ear. Mary. He remembers her name, and it is only then he realized he'd forgotten, and the pain of that is sharper than any torture the demon might have put him through.
"You're okay," she whispers, helps him to his feet. "You're here now."
The bed she makes for him is soft and warm, and he never wants to leave. The broth she brings is hot and fills him to his toes. And unlike before, everything is calm and easy, like coming home. Three nights like this, and he finds his feet again, steady enough now to walk. He finds her in the kitchen, standing by the sink. She looks so young, just like when they got married, and he realizes that he, too, feels younger. His hands are strong again, his scars fading.
"I missed you," he whispers, gruff into her ear, and she turns to face him, warm lips on his, hands in his hair.
"Me too," she whispers and pushes him backwards against the table, stronger than he ever remembers her being in life.
He kisses her furiously, not caring to remember how long it's really been, but feeling all the time and distance between them in the taste of her salty mouth. Small hands yank at his cotton pants, and as he turns, hoisting her onto the table, she lifts her dress, her legs going instinctively around his waist.
"Can you?" she asks. He's still healing, but behind her concern, there's desperation in her voice. He doesn't even have time to nod before he pushes inside her, balancing their weight against the uneasy table, a strangled cry escaping from his lips.
She reaches across his back, her hands pulling him closer, urging him deeper. "Baby," John hisses into her ear, closes his eyes, drinks in her scent, "too fucking long."
She begins to moan, her voice hitching in her throat. "Don't stop," she manages to breathe out as jerks inside of her. But this time, her voice is different. He opens his eyes to see that familiar scar along her jaw, blonde hair now turned black, and those same blue eyes and pink lips.
His movements stop and he tries to pull away, but her legs are wrapped around him like a vice. She laughs, throws her head back, and then pulls him impossibly close. "Don't you fucking stop," the demon says then into his ear, "you're better than I thought you would be."
He realizes at once that he still has control of his body, and he opens his hand and smacks her across the mouth with the back of his knuckles, draws blood. And somehow the light in the small kitchen shines more harshly in that moment.
"Bitch," he growls.
She licks her lips, rubs her thumb along the wound. "Go on," she says, "I like it rough."
He kisses her then, mouth rough and greedy, the copper taste of blood over his tongue, and this isn't some demon trick or mind control - by god, he wants to. He starts to move again inside her, his hips slamming into hers, cock plunging deep into her demon pussy, hoping he'll leave bruises. "You fucking bitch," he moans, pushes into her harder, fucks her against the table, teeth grazing her bottom lip, "I want you to come."
"I knew you couldn't stop," she whispers, bites down on his neck softly when he quickens his pace. She clenches around him, squeezes his cock and comes with her mouth open, filled with a litany of curses in forgotten ancient languages that never make it past her lips. He doesn't slow, doesn't give her a moment to recover, just continues thrusting until he finishes, sticky hot fluid escaping inside her.
"No," he agrees, pulls limply from her and yanks up his pants. She's spent and sweaty on the table, and he walks to the counter to get her a towel to clean up. "And I've been thinking about something," he says, and she doesn't notice the flash of silver as he walks back to the table. "That scar," he says. "Where'd you get it?"
She laughs, pulls the towel from his hand, and sits up as she adjusts her dress. Apparently, even demons have modesty. "Miserable bastard like yourself," she says, kisses his bare shoulder. "But I knew you'd come around."
"But see," he traces his finger along the scar, kisses it where it meets the back of her jaw, "I've been thinking. If you've got this scar, then that means," he says, pauses to flick his tongue behind her ear, "then that means that I can hurt you."
Her eyes go wide, and this time she sees the flash of silver, the knife from behind his back, but it's too late.
Now, he walks.
Everything is dark, and he no longer remembers living. Sure, he remembers that he once did, but he doesn't remember the act of it, what it was like to breathe real air, to watch a sunrise, to hold his sons in his arms, to dive into the cool refreshing pond behind his grandfather's house, none of it. Now that she's gone, everything fades. Even the cries of sinners suffering around him soon disappear.
Now, it's waiting, and somehow he thinks it's harder than before. Before. Even that becomes a distant memory. (Hasn't he always been here?)
Sometimes he walks in circles. He'll hear a noise, a bug flitting past his ear, the tinny whine of electricity in the distance, and chase it for what feels like days with no reason. It's something different than pressing forward. And there are sometimes, only sometimes, when he very nearly forgets who he is.
What's my name?
And that's when he feels it, the weight of the bullet in his pocket - a gift from a stranger. ( A friend? )
Samuel, he thinks. Samuel Colt. But that's not right, he knows. He'll juggle it for days, the name bouncing around in his mind. Samuel Colt built a gun, he remembers. Non timebo mala. I will fear no evil. And soon, a word forms on his dry lips, though he can no longer use his voice. Winchester. And that's it. Winchester, Winchester. John Winchester.
So there, he knows who he is. He knows where he's going. He hasn't strayed from the path. And somewhere in the distance, a door is opening in the dark, moonlight filtering into this hell of his, and he swears, he swears, he can hear the voices of his sons.
Sam?
Dean?
He closes his eyes and starts to run.
-fin
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-12-28 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-28 04:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-28 04:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-28 04:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-28 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 05:05 pm (UTC)I've got a fever and therefore I'm not as coherent as I'd like to be, but this is a dark and good scenario for John's days in Hell, and how the demons try to break him, and how Bill (Bill of all, great touch) helps him remember who he is, with the bullet.
Love that John is a fighter, always.
Thank you! :D
no subject
Date: 2007-12-30 02:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-29 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-30 02:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-30 08:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-31 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-01 06:27 pm (UTC)...her talons clicking against the wall
Shape-changing demons rock. It's a gruesome introduction to the concept, gruesome in the best possible way. She/he/it is fascinating.
Besides, can't exactly die twice, can you?
Which is part of what makes a soul's time in hell so much MORE! Bill is an interesting choice of guides. Not someone expected, and thereby more intriguing. Just this little hint of hope makes the torture more severe.
In life, John Winchester had never seen a demon in the flesh.
Puts me in mind of that Buffy:tVS episode where they first see a FULL demon in the flesh. Ohh... the suggestion that John's mercy killing of Bill had more layers than were suggested on the show. Cool. The last few spaced out words/lines, very effective.
Like pages of the Bible swimming in holy water, they disappear.
The suggestion of wincest is so very subtle, but I want to see it, so it's there. Lovely. The steel made me shiver. This little bit is brutal but I'm intrigued.
Bill pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to John.
What a perfect talisman. The reminder... of the gap between what John feels is real and the situation around him. This is a really good story.
"Soon enough, John," she says after recovering, "you'll be just like me."
Which isn't something I thought of earlier. I like that John managed to sting her/it back.
The bed she makes for him is soft and warm, and he never wants to leave.
Tricky, very tricky. I was confused and cautiously relieved for his sake and then...
"Go on," she says, "I like it rough."
It's gets all squirmy and hot/wrong... and then 'Go John!'. He's got it.
Now, it's waiting, and somehow he thinks it's harder than before.
The build up for the escape... I'm glad it's convoluted rather than a straight run. It only fits, considering what he's gone through.
All in all... this is a great fic. It's perfectly in line with what I was hoping for when I said John in hell and/or climbing out. You've done a job and a half and I thank you loudly and completely.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-12 08:48 pm (UTC)Anyway I just wanted to say thank you so much for the amazing prompt. It really pushed me, but I'm happy with the results. And I am just thrilled that you liked it and that it met what you were trying to get. Yay!
no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 08:24 am (UTC)Omyyyy...
*Swallows thickly*
Thank you...
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 02:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 03:04 pm (UTC)I think I'll survive...
*Hugs you*
no subject
Date: 2008-01-27 03:05 pm (UTC)