Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: Up through NC-17 (For language, violence, and adult situations)
Timeline: Season 4 post 'Something Blue' of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Season 1 post 'Celestial Navigation' of The West Wing
Summary: A rogue Slayer is on the run. As the Scoobies follow reports and sightings that lead them further into the Old South, President Bartlet prepares for a speech in Vicksburg while Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lyman is assigned a project that will unwittingly change his life.

It was Friday night at the Bronze, and the entire town had decided to celebrate. Not for any particularities, of course. In Sunnydale, excuses were never of the needed when it came to putting on one's party hat. Being alive was miracle enough. And if you survived the week: even better.

And what a week it had been. A long, eventful, and magically disastrous trial of endless excursion.

It amazed him that the people of this town readily refused the helping hand of change. He had seen it all; watched as people grew older, fatter, balder, lost their ambitions to the wayward understanding of life's petty limitations. Granted, Spike hadn't been in Sunnydale long enough to successfully diagnose the pragmatics of everyone's inability to cope with their various obstacles and revelations; he simple knew what he knew based on all he had seen. Disappearing for twenty years at a time and requiring no help pinpointing old faces at the same old hangouts. People who pissed away years of their life trying to find their life.

The Bronze would become that someday. They all inevitably did. But for now, it was as it always was. A place of bright lights and bad music. Good food of little food value. The place where the lonesome and the trendy collided, shoving their differences aside to dance the night away as though the world would end come morning.

Spike snickered at that and tossed his head back with a drink. Bloody typical. These wankers didn't know what they had; didn't know what it was like to lose the one thing that demanded dependency. The one thing taken for granted as years of idle waste ticked by to little extent of anything else. He did. He knew all too well. And unlike everyone else here, he didn't have a choice.

There was nothing—condemned by technology to stand at the bloody sidelines while the whole world passed in front of him. He had endured as much as any vampire could vouch for, and it wasn't getting any easier. Of course it wouldn't get easier. Why, that would be…well, easy.

Especially with what had happened recently. Happened and commanded every waking thought thereafter.

Over the smoke-filled crowd, his leering gaze wandered; landing, as always, on her. And while logic told him there was no sagacity in tormenting himself, his sense of masochism evidently disagreed. And no one liked logic these days. He was merely bending himself over to accommodate the rest of society, and he was doing a hell of a job.

And where had it gotten him? Abso-fucking-lutely nowhere. To the point where he couldn't look but to see her face. Couldn't close his eyes but to have hers haunt him, even if they were separated by miles.

Nights were plagued with the thought of her.

Ah hell, who was he kidding? Days, too.

That wasn't even the worst of it. It was wrong. It was so bloody wrong. At first, he had given way to the possibility that the chip in his head had finally gone over the proverbial and not-so edge and was finally giving him delusions of grandeur. And sure, it wasn't as though he hadn't thought about it. Dreamt about it. Fantasized a thousand or more times…but such yearnings had always remained void of sentiment. Of any sort of feeling. The type of castles in the sky that were always plagued with sieges and bloodshed. The way castles were supposed to be. Not like this.

There wasn't supposed to be feeling. And the notion disturbed him.

Rightly so.

It was all Red's fault, he decided. Red and that bloody stupid spell of hers. After all, a man whom had never known the touch of such radiance similarly couldn't know to miss it, right?

Spike's eyes drank her in as she moved, and he felt all sorts of naughty parts spring to life.

Oh yeah. Definitely Red's fault. He was killing himself over and over again for something so wrong. So deliciously wrong. And there she was; moving provocatively, grinding against mindless co-eds; completely oblivious to the torment she was willing upon him. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she knew she was driving him out of his mind and the entire spectacle on the floor was to perpetuate his torture.

Fucking brutal bitch.

Spike snickered dryly to himself, lifting his glass to his lips. Rupert would be expecting him soon. Not for any reason other than the tedium of habit. Wasn't that perfect? He was William the Bloody, goddammit. The Slayer of Slayers, of the Order of Aurelius, and he was shacking it up with the Slayer's fucking Watcher, of all things.

Beggars can't be choosers.

Better to finish up here and head back, regardless of temperament. After all, it had been he who came to them in the first place. Furthermore, thanks to Red's spell and the Slayer's perpetual mission in life to make his existence miserable in any way she could, there was no use in trying to escape. She would find him. She always did.

She did, and he had Buffy taste in his mouth as a result.

The Slayer.

Bane of his existence.

God, she moves like it's nobody's business.

He missed the dance most of all. With her. With anyone, really, but mostly with her. He had never known anyone who could make it all so…interesting. She moved like she was made for him. As though the dance commanded everything she was, whether or not they were entangled with each other.

Now she danced by herself. Herself and with the occasional vamp. Not him. Never him. His days of dancing with her were over.

Spike smiled wryly to himself and raised his glass to his lips again for one last gulp before he consigned it over the balcony railing. There was no use in wasting time here. Here where everything, even getting the girl, was nothing more than a lonely spectator sport. And while fighting remained an improbability, he could at least get his rocks off by studying blokes who were more miserable than he was.

Buffy was moving in ways that would embarrass Madonna. Yes, it was definitely time to leave.

With some difficulty, he tore his eyes away from her and made a steady path down the stairs while shuffling through his duster to find his cigarettes. He had named this carton Xander. The boy was never the picture of demon tolerance, but this week had been especially patronizing, and thus he exacted revenge the best way he could. The only way he could without hurting the Slayer: he named a pack of ciggies after him and imagined that every one smoked signified a portion to a horrible death.

Sad thing was, it helped. Not tonight.

Not with Buffy out there giving every willing body a free show. Every willing body excluding his own.

He had to get out.

It would be his misfortune to run into the very object of his desires as he tried to make his way toward the exit. They collided rather brashly—her scent smacking him with sudden brevity that it had lacked while separated by an entire room. And—ohhh—there she was. Right there with him. Against him. If he thought the sight of her was torture, the feel of her body pressed against his had to be his ultimate undoing.

Not. Fucking. Fair.

The collusion had been an accident, he knew. Something he wouldn't have cheated himself out of for anything. Still, in such circumstances, it served better to blame her.

"Oi! Watch where you're goin', luv." His eyes danced over her body without inhibition. Being this close to her, despite the further of his torment, did have certain advantages. "Wouldn't want some nasty creature to get too up close an' personal, would you?"

There was a long pause; Buffy blinked at him in confusion. It was a look he was accustomed to. A sort of bland 'and you're talking to me, why' flavor that had grown old too fast. The same he doubted she would tire of anytime soon.

And then…no. It wasn't. Something was different. She was different.

It only lasted a second. When she gave up trying to place him, she threw her hands in the air and backed off with a dismissive snicker. "Sorry, buddy," she said. And that was that. She had turned before he could even attempt to keep up and was on her way to the bar without another word.

Spike stood dumbfound for a minute.

What?

"What?" He pivoted sharply at the heel, frowning his frustration. God, she was the most evasive little bitch in the world. "So, that's it? No quibble? No jibe? No witty poke at my manhood?"

Oh how he wished he hadn't mentioned his manhood. Said manhood, once acknowledged, practically leapt at the opportunity to be noticed by a coveted female. More precisely, the Slayer. Buffy.

Buffy.

It was twisted. It was unnatural. It just plain sucked. And yet here he was, upping his self-torment for no other peculiarity outstretching the region of boredom.

Dru's last fucking hurrah. Well done, sweetheart. I'm sure we'll catch a laugh 'bout this in Hell.

Buffy turned to him slowly, cocking a brow of expectation. "What do you want?" she snapped. "A medal for copping a feel? Sorry, Junior. Not interested. Why don't you go annoy someone else?"

It was an unprecedented occasion when Spike found himself whiplashed to the other side of the world by the hand of surprise alone. For a long minute, all he could do was stare in blank wonder. Had his heart been in such condition, he was sure it would have stopped. As though all authority that came with vampirehood was stropped and he was nothing more than a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Granted, if there was one person who could render him so, it was the Slayer.

More specifically, Buffy Summers.

But he wouldn't admit that. Not in her lifetime. Not in the next twelve.

"What?"

"Well, really," she continued, shrugging as though it made little difference. There was irritation behind her eyes, but it was far placed from the customary 'Oh God, it's you' glare that he had too-often found himself on the receiving end of this month. "I got plenty of better things to do than hang here and warm your hands, Snappy. So move along before I take you over my knee—and trust me, that's something you don't want."

Judging by the feral in her eye, Spike was inclined to agree with her. Even if kink was something he was known for appreciating.

But this was different. It was wrong. Something was very wrong. While he was accustomed to being at the bad end of the Slayer's puns, she had never been so forward in her insinuations. Never come close to acknowledging the attraction that had been there from the beginning. Oh no. Wouldn't that be telling?

It was wrong. Something was wrong. And it took less than two seconds to pinpoint.

It wasn't Buffy.

The vampire's eyes narrowed. Either it wasn't Buffy, or she was under some wonky spell; and judging by her ever-so wise selection of friends, he wasn't too hasty to rule out option number two. But one could never be too careful, especially when one was toothless in a hell-town with Slayers and all sorts of other anti-demon yuppies running around, so he relaxed and exhaled deeply. Better to play it cool and get to the bottom than suffer Wrath O'Slayer next time they ran into each other.

Though hopefully, his cock pleaded, not literally.

"You feelin' all right, Slayer?" he drawled, voice dripping with condescension. He realized the next second that he had never found his cigarettes and he moved to rectify that immediately. "You're lookin' a li'l pale. What's wrong? Life got you down? Run out of my friends to kill?"

A typical Buffy statement would have been one of the following:

"Shut up, Spike."

"Why are you still here?"

"Since when do you have friends? Did I miss that memo?"

This Buffy, however, reflected none of her usual hostility. She stared at him for a few blank seconds before realizing that, yes, he had made mention to her line of work. Said mention likely meant that he was on the in of the secrets of vampirehood. And hey, come to think of it, he did look a little pale for a hot guy of the Southern-Californian climate-persuasion.

However, whatever lapse she suffered, she made up for admirably. She shimmied her hips a bit before resting her hands against them, quirking a brow at the blatant misdirection of his attention. "You're a vampire," she stated obviously.

Oh yeah. Definitely of the not right.

And Spike, not being one for patience, decided to stop playing along. This was ridiculous.

"What the bleeding hell has gotten into you, Slayer?" he demanded, tossing the unlit ciggie to the ground without much thought. Bollocks. "Did the bleach finally go to your head?" His eyes followed to her hair and he smothered a chuckle. "Knew it was eventual."

"And who exactly are you to be talking?"

That one was a walk-in. He had opened the door and walked right in. Which was fine. He wasn't the one undergoing an identity crisis.

"Right. Make all the jokes you want. Jus' answer me this." He cocked his head to the side with a patronizing glare. "You remember my name?"

The look she gave him in turn was a near-Buffy look, but no cigar. "Name?" she retorted. "What? I don't just call you Vampire? Well, consider yourself in sector of special treatment. Happy? Now get out of my way."

That was it. That pinched it. This girl was in Buffy's body, but she wasn't Buffy.

Even in the wonkiest of spells, he wagered Willow wouldn't be daft enough to make her victims forget essentials like names.

At least, not intentionally.

Unless Buffy had asked her to do a spell to make her forget the whole 'engagement' thing, and really, he wouldn't put it past her.

But a bloke never could be too sure.

Thus Spike did something that some might deem colossally stupid; he stepped forward and grasped the small blonde by the arm, effectively catching her off guard even if it wasn't the strongest game plan. She fumbled awkwardly against him and the look that crossed her eyes could make coffee nervous. And if the vampire that presumed to be so bold had any sense about him at all, he would have released her at once and stepped back to give her much-needed space.

This vampire did not. At least, and especially, when matters concerned the Slayer.

His Slayer.

"You might think you can fool the Scoobs, luv," he told her lowly, eyes taking full advantage at the eagle view his grasp on her allowed. This Buffy was strong, yes, but she shivered against him all the same. Looked at him with something that was not quite disgust. As though she was lost and he was the one that would help her back on her way. The prospect was rightly laughable, but that didn't mean his anatomy reacted unfavorably. "But the vamps in this town…they know the Slayer. They're made to. Whatever you're playin' at's not gonna swing." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "You sure you know what you're doin'?"

A few heated seconds pressed between them. She watched him closely without really looking at him. Trying to place him without making a true effort. And for the briefest instant, she reflected the lost gaze of a rabbit caught in headlights. It only lasted a minute, of course. Whoever was steering Buffy—or regardless of whatever wonky spell she was under—knew the true Slayer enough to emphasize her status and reap it for all its advantages. From uncertain and hesitant one minute to manipulative and elusively seductive the next; she switched shoes without bothering to check what she was wearing.

And she did so admirably.

Thus Spike's eyes nearly boggled outside his head when he felt her press against him in a matter of guarded intimacy, the look crossing her face suggesting nothing more than what he had been denying he wanted ever since Red's spell came to terms. Good God, this was not supposed to be happening. His own confidence abandoned him without much persuasion, and he was left an unsure stuttering shell of a confused vampire. He was unwilling to play until he knew where exactly the pawns were, and what losing the game would cost.

It was his bad luck, in that regard, that Buffy decided she didn't want to waste time with dawdlers. Oh, no. Something primal had crossed her eyes, and she wasn't going to let him walk until she had what she wanted.

And at the moment, it seemed that what she wanted was him.

Oh bloody hell.

This had to be dream. Spell or no spell, Buffy could not want him like this.

Honey, we need to talk about the invitations. Now, do you wanna be William the Bloody, or just Spike?

Okay, so, Buffy couldn't want him like this twice in one week—spell or no spell.

"Oh, come on," she was saying; rubbing provocatively against him in time to the incredibly judicious song the band was playing. Bollocks, there were nights he was sure the Powers set things up with the sole purpose of fucking with his head. "You can't tell me you haven't thought about it…once or twice?"

Another three seconds and she was going to be bent over the bar counter.

For whatever reason, that thought brought logistics screaming back, red flags and all. The vampire's eyes widened in horror and his hands came up with diplomacy. "Slayer," he growled. "This 's me, right? Spike. You remember me, don'cha? You better, 'cause you've all people oughta know I don' start somethin' without finishin' it."

His words lent her pause and she pulled back just a hair. His body cried in protest at the loss.

"Spike," she said a minute later, as though testing the sound of his name on her tongue. "Spike. William the Bloody, jonesing for the Slayer. Of all the fucking irony. I kinda love this town."

Jonesing? Was he that bloody obvious?

Well you are practically panting down her top, mate.

"What? Are you off your bird?"

Buffy shook her head, amazingly self-confident. "Nope. I really don't think so."

"You've got some nerve—"

"And you've got some wood." And the next minute, the world came crumbling down around him. Her small hand reached for his cock and squeezed him tantalizingly through his jeans, nearly bringing him to his knees with nothing else. Shock willed his body frozen, but he could not stop the long-winded moan of pleasure from rushing through his lips. "Ohhh…big boy."

"Slayer—"

She squeezed him tighter. So tight it bordered on pain. But, oh, pain was delicious. "My name," she spat. "Say it."

No need to ask him twice. "Buffy!"

A sadistic smile drew across her face. "You've wanted me for a long time, haven't you, Spike?"

"God…"

"Right sentiment." Another agonizing squeeze. He was panting needlessly but could not stop. "Wrong answer. Care to try again?"

"Yes!" The word hissed through his teeth; a dirty word for what it meant for him. For the love of everything, he couldn't tell if he wanted to fuck her or kill her at the moment. Vampires were known for perversions in the bedroom, but he was more than a vampire. He was William the Bloody. He was one of those vamps that new vamps looked up to. And yes, since his breakup with Drusilla, he had been known to take a trollop or two to bed—but he never conceded the high ground. It was about control. About who had it. And right now, Buffy had it. Buffy had it in spades. His desire for her was fogging his senses, but anger in these situations was an overwhelming ally. And he knew still that she was not in her right mind. Buffy, standing in the middle of the crowded Bronze, grasping his cock? Definitely something wrong.

But her grip on him tightened, and he suddenly wondered why he cared at all.

Her scent had neared tantalizingly. She was right at his ear, teasing his skin with her teeth. Ooohhh… "I thought so," she said. "Bet you've dreamed of it, right? Of driving hard into me. Dreamed so hard that you came in your sleep. And judging by your enthusiasm…" She clinched the word by dipping her hand below the waistband so that there was nothing separating her fingers from his flesh, and the slight caress nearly had him undone. When she had her first touch, she smiled coquettishly and lowered the zipper so that he sprang fully into her hands, concealed by the propinquity of their bodies and the hazed apathy that surrounded them. "You came a lot. And you should. After all, you know what I could do to you? Your dreams wouldn't do you justice."

That was a wager he wouldn't mind seeing through. But still he said nothing.

"I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes rolled up," she whispered, her hand taking cadence up and down his length. Sparks of pleasure coiled his insides, but he didn't move. He couldn't. With as much as he wanted her, this was not the way it should be. Buffy was either crazy or under the influence, and he didn't particularly fancy waking up with a stake in his chest. Thus, he wouldn't do what his body begged. He wouldn't. He would wait this out, go tell the Scoobies that their fearless leader had lost her mind, then go home and have a nice long wank.

Regardless of the fact that he had a warm, willing, and very wet Buffy wiggling against him, her hand grasping his erection, and her tongue playing laps under his ear.

Bleeding buggering good-for-nothing…

But he wouldn't let her win this last over him. This was about more than carnal sins. His scathed pride was on the line, and with everything she had managed to rob him of since returning to this pissant town, he would be damned even more so before she took that as well.

"I've got muscles you couldn't have dreamed of." Her thumb brushed against the leaking head of his erection and swirled the moisture she found, pinching when it was at her pleasure and eliciting a long-suffering coo from his anguished body. "I could squeeze you until you pop like warm champagne and you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more. Whaddya say, Billy? Wanna take it out for a test-drive? You know how I get when I don't get a good slay in. All wound up—tighter than a fucking drum. After I'm through with you, you'll have nothing left to dream about."

No, mate. Can't let her win. Can't—

"Buffy," he moaned, cursing himself for his weakness and thrusting his hips forward. "Oh God."

"You'd like to know how my mouth would feel around you, wouldn't you?"

Just the thought caused his body to propel forward needily. The disgust coiling within his stomach was mounting but lust shoved it aside. There would be time for self-hatred later. Right now…oh god, right now. "Christ!"

"You'd like me to lap at you. Take you as far in as I could and swallow you up." She clutched him tighter, scratching her thumbnail over the head of his cock again. "But I wouldn't. I don't give like that without getting my own first. You want some, you give some. You'd have to eat me out, Spike. Stick your tongue in me. All the way. I don't do cheaters." Her eyes danced maliciously. "But you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Oh Jesus…"

Her hand tightened again. "Wrong. Fucking. Name."

No point in arguing with the lady.

"Buffy!"

And it was over the next second. He knew it before the scent hit him. Before any of it came to terms. He heard a voice he had never heard before, but the sound of it, the tenor of it, rang so bloody familiar that he didn't know whether to growl his frustration or weep his relief. Another second, and he would have been a goner.

The voice said nothing spectacular or notably groundbreaking. Just two words. Two words that brought everything to crashing reason.

"You called?"

The Buffy standing right in front of him suddenly caught sight of something over his shoulder, and her eyes went wide. "Perfect," she hissed.

Spike utilized the opportunity to seize the Slayer's wrist and pull her against him, twisting her arm until she turned fully in his hold, her back pressed against his chest. It would have been a more menacing grip had his raging predicament not been stabbing her lovely buttocks, but he had bigger things to worry about at present.

More notably, the stunning brunette glaring at the blonde in his grasp. The brunette whose eyes were far too familiar to credit with coincidence.

Even if that didn't add up at all.

He cocked his head curiously to the side. "Buffy?"

The brunette nodded. "Almost hate to break up this party," she snapped, "when it appears you two were having so much fun."

"What can I say?" the Faux-Buffy in his arms replied. "Thought I'd take your boy for a ride tonight. Gotta hand it to you, B. Get a feel of the cold hard between your thighs and you swear off heartbeats for good. Am I missing something, or is this just some sick fetish?"

"You're disgusting."

The blonde spitfire shrugged with a coy smile. "Don't throw stones."

Buffy made a Buffy-like face of disgust which looked bizarre on the mask she was wearing before her eyes found his again. "Zip up, Spike."

He had the decency to be embarrassed. After all, she had just caught him with herself doing something in public. Or rather, having something done to him in public, so really—no blame. Though knowing her, she wouldn't see it that way. "Slayer—"

"Don't talk. Just do it."

"Ohh, he'll like that." The Faux-Buffy was smiling kittenishly. "This one likes being told what to do."

Spike sniggered at that, though he astutely did follow the Slayer's request. Funny how the sound of a zipper being raised could echo across the mass volume of music and the chatter exchange between mindless coeds. "I wasn'—"

"Shut up."

"Whattaya gonna do, B? I trashed the other one. 'Less you really like being stuck like this and just wanted a glance at how to really use your body. Spike here really didn't mind."

A growl rumbled through his throat; he merely looked at the real Buffy for answers. He was as confused as hell, but that didn't mean he would step aside and let the mystery-bitch get away with what she had nearly gotten away with. He couldn't stand people fucking with his head. And his head had been fucked with to the uppermost degree.

"Next time," the brunette depiction of the Slayer was saying, "don't pull a stunt like that in public. And really don't try it on people who have witches for friends. It doesn't work like that."

"Oh, is that right?" the Faux-Buffy demanded, struggling a bit in his grasp but not enough to register on the chip. Evidently, whoever was inhabiting his Slayer's body had not gotten the memo that foretold escaping him would be more than easy if she willed it so. Not that he was complaining. No, the feral in the true Buffy's eyes only nudged the anger rushing through his own. "And how exactly does it work?"

Another revelation with two simple words. The true Slayer held up a small, seemingly homemade object and offered a patented Buffy smile, cynicism and all. "Like this."

Though he had absolutely no clue what sort of power Buffy wielded this time, he knew immediately not to take it for granted. Especially when her imposter's eyes widened and her struggles became more intent. So intent that the chip finally kicked in and he was forced to release her with a long-winded 'oaf.' The blonde darted into the crowd—the brunette following sharply. And slowly the lot of them poured in. Giles from the front, crossbow in grasp. Willow and Xander rushing in from the balcony, evidently without arms but he knew that the former had no need for modern weaponry.

He knew all too well.

So the cavalry was here to save the day. Right. That was swell, but bugger all if he was going to stand here. No bitch mucked with his head like that and got away with it—sod the chip, sod bloody everything.

The crowds had parted accommodatingly at the first hint of a scuffle, herding like obedient sheep to their respective sides in hopes of getting a good view. He found Buffy and the imposter facing off in the center of the Bronze. The Watcher was within range, but he knew the old man well enough to acknowledge that the last thing he would do was fire that crossbow unless a diplomatic solution couldn't be reached.

The Faux-Buffy's back was to him, though. And he knew an opportunity when he spied one. Thus, without preamble, he leapt forward and seized her by the shoulders, nodding urgently to the Slayer as the chip started to go off.

Pain was a funny thing. He knew it when he felt it. He liked it at times and hated it more than often. The shocks the government's implant was sending to his brain were more excruciating than any Disney movie Drusilla had forced him to sit through in her delirium. More so than Darla's relentless torture of him—an activity she had once pursued actively when she became bored. And yet, he held firm. The chip would likely fry his brain and turn his insides into liquid shit, but outrage at the minute refused to waver. He watched through hazed eyes as the real Buffy raced forward and touched the device she held to her imposter's hand.

Something shook the room and the music came to a definitive standstill. Spike found himself thrown back with the impact, but the body in his arms stopped struggling and rather relaxed against him, as though consigning herself to what he offered. Then she was gone again, leaping after a dashing blaze of Slayer speed.

He tasted blood on his lips.

"Is he gonna be all right?" one shadow asked. One…Red. That was Willow. The little Witch. He focused as well as he could—making out the hazy figures of four surrounding him.

Buffy answered next. Buffy, the real Buffy, in her Buffy voice. He pried even further, desperate to see her Buffy face with her Buffy eyes along with everything else, but his own gaze would not comply. His head was aching into tomorrow and his nose was bleeding fountains. Rational thought was beyond reproach.

"We should get him out of here," she said. He would have liked to believe there was an ounce of compassion behind her voice, but accredited that to disorientation. "Back to Giles's."

"And Faith?"

There was no answer to that. Not that he heard, anyway. Faceless shadows continued conversation, and at some point, he felt arms under his—hoisting him up again. But he wasn't paying attention. The voices around him had muffled into one sound; the lights blurred into distant nonbeing.

And then there was nothing at all.



TBC

Feedback

chapter 2

<-