Take Heart 4, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R;.
Timeline: After a different Primeval, BtVS 4.21
Author's note: warning: character deaths, squick and possibly fluff. Don't believe that combination is possible? Try me!
Deep obeisance to the wonder that is Spikejones, who beta’ed this.
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please, loads of it, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
The sun is shining on Spike’s back, warming him and making him feel wanted and loved. He stretches luxuriously, taking his time about it and shifting back into the delicious fiery heat. A big dark cloud moves in, obscuring the light and warmth and sucking the life out of his happy state.
“Hostile Seventeen,” a voice grates harshly and Spike wakes up and rolls away from the green and orange fist, which he feels more than sees descending. He’s instantly awake and scrambles up, happy to have a proper scrap for breakfast. Not-so-pureblooded-human being-anymore Finn may be a great big lumbering creature but Spike’s got speed and strength on his side. For Spike the true glory of it all is being able to hit him again, being able to fight, to count for something now that the chip is out. Although now that Finn is part demon, he might have been able to anyway, but never mind.
Spike lands a few exploratory kicks on the parti-colored legs and dodges the return swipes Finn is trying on. Hah. Spike didn’t learn his fighting in boot camp, he learned it through many decades of scrapping and back-alley catfights and he can predict every standard move the ex-man tries on. What a berk the guy is, demon or not. His fist connects to Finn’s nose with a wonderful crunching squelching sound and Spike shouts for joy.
“Spike!” the Slayer squeaks. Ah, she's awake. “Don’t kill him, remember the spell.”
Yeah, yeah. He was only playing.
Unfortunately, the Slayer has drawn attention to herself and it soon becomes clear that Lover Boy hasn’t retained his former affection. He goes after her just like Mr. Bit Parts himself. Spike sees the Slayer take it hard in the midriff because she’s foolishly standing still and babbling to the big lug, who’s completely oblivious to the tearful looks the Slayer throws him. Aw. If he was a man it would soften his heart, but he isn’t, so he just follows the altercation with interest.
“Riley, it’s me, Buffy. Riley, please, honey, don’t you recognize me? Riley!”
She keeps on dodging the fists and repeating her entreaties in a dozen different ways until Spike finally, well, not takes pity on her, because he wouldn’t, but gets bored by the repetition.
“Give it up, Slayer,” he says. “Bloke’s been properly brainwashed and all. Let’s just slug him on the head and do our mojo on him, all right? This is getting tedious.”
“Yeah, okay,” she pants, “But be careful. Don’t damage him too much.”
As if he can’t be subtle when he needs to be. Which is not now, so Spike just grabs one the ornamental stone vases next to the entrance and catches demon boy on the knees with it, and when he staggers to the floor Spike gets him on the upswing at the back of the head. The skull makes a wet scrunching sound and Spike knows our Captain won’t be rising in the next few hours. He puts the vase back in place and turns proudly to the Slayer, dusting his hands.
She grabs fistfuls of duster and tries to drag him down to face her. Her hands are so tiny it hardly makes a crease. “What part of careful did you not understand? You broke his head! I’d kill you for that if I didn’t need you!”
“Why bother saying I, pet, if you’re not gonna do it?” he says, unfazed.
Not even a token tap on the nose. She must be getting soft on him.
Buffy releases him with an angry thrust and starts pacing the crypt. She’s not taking on his mannerisms, is she? He’ll have competition for the artery market next.
“So, do we even have a clue how to begin? Last time I tried to touch Riley he fell apart. How do you know what to do? How do you know it’ll work?”
Know? He knows nothing. This is just seat of his pants guesswork. All this anally retentive needing to know is just not his style. Although he does have inklings, strong inklings, fuelled by the weird passengers in his brain, he wagers.
“Slayer,” he says, trying for calm and reasonable, “all we have to do is have at our sexy mojo again and put our hands on your multicolored sweetie. I have a posh lecturing voice in my head telling me so.”
“Really?” she says, her eyes big and awed. She raises a trembling hand. “Hi Giles. Thanks for still being there for me.”
Christ. “Not like that, you nit!” he says. “S just a feeling.”
Spike checks out the crypt and spots couple of level flagstones. “Here. No reason not to make ourselves comfy, is there?”
He takes off his duster and spreads it out on the floor. He can be gentlemanly, too, what does she know about him anyway? He starts taking off his shirt and grinds to halt when the Slayer turns purple with rage, pointing at him with a quivering finger.
“Now what!” he says.
“You’re taking off your clothes! Don’t take off your clothes! I don’t wanna see your gross undead body!” she spits out, backing off against the tombstone in the middle of the crypt.
He tries reasonable again. “Slayer, we’re gonna have to generate a mighty big power surge here," and he can't resist posturing, putting his hand on the waistband of his jeans and pointing to the goods on display. “Stands to reason that the more fun we have and the more comfy we are, the bigger the power‘s gonna be.”
“Fun? Fun! As if! It’s never gonna be fun with you, Spike. It’s duty. You’re a vampire, I’m a vampire Slayer, do the math.”
“Vampire equals hot, yeah, yeah,” he says, grinning. “Been there, done that, eh Slayer?”
Now she is trying for his nose but he dances away from it. He knows just how to improve on this, though. She needs a little sop for her conscience, because, hey, vampire nose info. She’s hot for it.
He takes of his overshirt and T-shirt while she looks on in frozen dismay and advances on her in his best panther prowl. “We’re gonna make sex magic, Slayer, and you have no choice in the matter whatsoever. I’m gonna force you to submit to my evil prowess and you’d better behave, or else!”
Anybody saying nay? His vampire hearing gives him heavy breathing and the heart of the slayer pitter-pattering like mad. He takes off her jacket with faked roughness and forces her down on his duster.
“Lay back, Slayer,” he growls. “For the sake of your friends’ fate I order you to fake enjoyment. Big enjoyment. Not because it’s fun, but because it’s your duty. Lie back and think of Sunnydale!”
The Slayer nods. “Right. For the mission.”
He’s almost sure she’s buying it but then he catches a look from her eyes that makes him think she’s completely aware of what he’s doing. So much the better.
He takes her clothes off, gently, while occasionally growling or yanking hard on a piece of clothing to keep up the pretense. Every time he does that she bucks or gasps or closes her eyes in ecstasy. So, the Slayer really likes it rough? When she's naked, she gets an attack of shyness and fights it by starting on his clothes to make them equal. Spike grows still while her little hands busy themselves on his jeans or the bootlaces. He needs to savor these completely surrealistic moments. The Slayer, kneeling at his feet to take his boots off. It almost makes him feel awe in stead of just arousal, but he's an evil vampire. He's done this countless times before, seducing a victim before draining her dry at the height of passion. Gives them a good death at least, innit? Only difference now is that he’ll let the Slayer live. They’re partners for now, time enough to kill her afterwards.
She lies down shyly and opens up her legs for him. The sight of her and the scent of her arousal make him powerfully hard and he has to fight the urge to throw himself upon her and plunge in. He tells himself he’s going for maximum effect before lowering his mouth to her fragrant cunny. The Slayer moans from pleasure and surprise both and her hands claw at his hair. He knew she'd like this. He takes his time licking every fold and crevice, glorying in the warmth and softness of her thighs against his cheeks and the incredible lemon-and-salty nectar on his tongue.
His fingers slide into her pussy with ease and he blows softly on her clit. "Slayer," he says, "O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely."
“Hm?”
“The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman.”
He moves upward, his lips seeking a path to her breast, but gets distracted by the sweet swell of her belly. “Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.”
“Whoa, you got a weird simile going on there, Spike. Or do I mean metaphor?” the Slayer muses, not dissatisfied, it seems.
“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies,” he murmurs. He’s on a roll now. She’s eating it up.
“Roe? Now you’ve lost me, buddy. Fish eggs? They’re not that small!”
“This one then? This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes.”
“Lay off with the weird pop songs, Spike, and just…” she pauses. Spike levers himself up on his elbow to watch her say, but she wavers and retreats. “Get on with it.”
Spike sighs. She'd be like that, he might have known. Instead of basking in his words, the sound and reverberation against her clit, she's taking it literally, and is completely unaware of the source of these wonderful phrases. Never mind.
"I mean, Slayer, that you’re a hot little thing and a man should count himself lucky to be pleasuring you."
"Oh," she says.
It sounds pleased, but she recollects too soon who they are and what they’re doing.
"Don’t say that. It sounds like you’re my boyfriend and you’re so not. Let’s say, Buffy’s a pleasure to work with in the battle against evil," she says sternly.
Spike sighs, going back to her quivering eager cunt, "Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?"
The Slayer bucks and cries out wordlessly. Spike takes mental notes. War and weaponry metaphors, check. The time's ripe for his own pleasure and he can’t help moaning when he slides in her hot slippery pussy, overflowing with readiness for him. Oh God, he didn’t know he was that suggestible, murmuring all those words directed at her has made him soft and grateful, so that he sighs in earnest as he look upon her flushed face and sees her parted lips. He just has to kiss her and he realizes he hasn’t done that often enough yet, and it's so interesting he forgets to move his hips until the Slayer shimmies beneath him, catching him unawares and nearly making him spend right then and there.
Oh, she's…he loses his train of thought and needs long moments of concentration just to be able to go on. She's all golden limbs and silky skin, velvet cunny and spun bronze hair, her lips red and luscious and moving against him like liquid mercury, hot, strong, clenching around him. They're hot together, they're combusting and he’s going to shed his tight skin and he’s gonna mushroom outwards like an atomic bomb. They’re burning together and he can't keep going anymore and goes supernova like a sun she’s his sun…
They leave their bodies locked in embrace, faces grimacing and straining from an overdose of joy and stride, joined, to the warrior who needs their help. Tombs and stones are no hindrance for their magical substance and Spike sees their twinned hands stretch towards Riley Finn, alabaster and amber, big hand and small hand as one. At this tiny but infinite moment, it’s easy to see what must be done. They touch him on head, heart and hand and gift him with some of their glorious shining power, channeling it into him so that he can be once again what he was.
The joy of giving the power away is immense, as large and shiny as ten orgasms and the combined Buffy and Spike being sees the soldier twitch and glow and change, his demon parts fall off and wither. His limbs, half his face and his torso, which were still tan and human, start expanding to make up for lost substance and use up the power to become human again. The growth is going very fast, too fast, there is already more of Riley than there has ever been. Buffy-and- Spike become worried and try to stop sending the power into him, but they can’t, he takes over and keeps devouring it. They become afraid, it's too much, they can’t give more. The Riley mass of flesh keep twitching, multiplying, and it's taking all, all the power they amassed, all the power that was in them is sucked out and the Buffy-and Spike creature simply vanishes.
Spike's eyes snap open. He's lying with his forehead on the Slayer, who's awakened at the same moment he has. They’re glued together by cooling sweat and sticky come. The Slayer is showing signs of disturbance, forehead wrinkling up, eyes pinching shut, lips grimly clenched together.
He climbs off her, carefully, just as she says "Get off me, Spike. Right now."
He steps away from her and surprisingly, he isn’t missing the connection. He feels normal, a separate being from the Slayer, who has again returned to her regular state of anger and frustration, stomping around and putting on clothes with her back to him. He still likes the lush curve of her bum, make no mistake, his hand itches to give her an approving slap right there, but he doesn't feel the slightest inclination to recite the Song of Songs to her. What has happened?
Strange sounds from behind the sarcophagus sharply bring back the recent magical happenings in his brain. Lieutenant Finn has risen and multiplied like an exceptionally frisky loaf of Wonderbread and that did not go well. He finds his jeans and T and fishes a stake from the duster. His boots can wait. The Slayer has similarly shrugged on some essential items of clothing and they may not be one creature anymore but they’re still agreed on the next course of action, so much is clear. He nods to her that he understands and they carefully circle the sarcophagus. God knows what they’ll find.
They see not one giant Riley, but an olive and pink and white amorphous creature rolling helplessly on the floor, now forming hands, then other limbs and even different faces. "Buffy!" all the faces shriek. "Help us!" And he's as shocked as a heartless soulless being can be when he sees who the faces belong to. It’s not just Riley, but also Willow and Harris and Rupert, forming and reforming on different places in the fleshy blob on the floor, screaming in agony and fear and confusion, begging for release.
“Kill me, Buffy, please kill me…”
The Slayer sinks to her knees, pushing her fist in her mouth. “Oh God," she says, over and over, "Oh God, what have we done? They weren’t dead, the; were inside us, and now they're all in here, and oh God, o God. Spike, we have to help them, Spike, we have to do something."
Spike opens his mouth and makes a wonderfully liberating discovery. He feels no compulsion to help the Slayer at all. No strange feelings of compassion in his head. He's truly free now, chipless and Scoobie-less. His fingertips do a quick check in the pocket of his duster to feel if the chip's still there, and it is. He can just up and go and leave Sunnydale and the Slayer and her troubles behind. He could even kill her right now if he was so inclined; she's utterly helpless and lost.
So why is he still here, turning over his options in his mind? Time was, he'd have been halfway to his car if he so much as felt the beginning of a desire to leave grow in his mind. Is there a residual effect? Nah. He’s remembered who is, is all. William the Bloody, slayer of Slayers. He’s not gonna pass up a perfect opportunity to kill his third Slayer, is he now? And it's gotta be a fair fight, not with her all weepy and broken, or it won’t count, he’s got a reputation to maintain. That's absolutely the only reason that he nods to her and helps her up.
"Best put it out of its misery, Slayer," he says. "Even your little pals don’t deserve a fate like this."
Her face gets that look of absolute determination he's seen before, the face that makes her turns a certain defeat into victory. "No. No way. I'm not giving up on them. I'm gonna take the power back out of there, out of that thing and get them back in their own bodies."
"Um, Slayer, their own, buried and decaying bodies you mean?"
She makes a face. "Well. Yeah. It’s only been a few days, right?"
"Ye-ah," he says, doubtfully. "What makes you think that will work?"
“Of course it'll work," she says. "We'll make it work. Like you said, Humpty Dumpty. "
"We" again, he notes. He’s not feeling the 'we' so much right now. "And all the king's men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again," he says.
"Don’t be defeatist, Spike. It’s only a nursery rhyme. And besides, we're not King’s men. I’m an American woman and you’re a vampire. So."
At first he's not planning to point out the many flaws in her plan, hell, it's more flaw than plan, but he cant help touching on a major dilemma.
"S'pose it works, Slayer. S'pose you get your fiends’ power back out again. What about Soldier Boy? Will he survive it?" He jerks his head towards the shriveled remains of Finn's demon parts. "They’re not looking particularly lively."
Her eyes grow even bigger. Then she shakes her head. "No, not gonna listen to this. We're gonna take all the, the stuff over there with us and use it to make a new Riley."
She gets up and tugs on his arm. She's jerked back when he doesn’t move. "Spike. Come on. We have to get moving. Every second counts."
"Does it?"
Spike's just happy he’s not slavering on her heels like a sick puppy anymore. That wasn't right. He'll join her under his own steam, not tugged along like an errant toddler.
"Let's see what we got here."
Buffy sighs in exasperation. She's not part of him anymore, but the rise and fall of her breasts is a riveting sight, now that he knows her skin is golden even there and her nipples are pinker than he'd have expected with a fake blonde. They fit right into his hands, the perfect size for breasts. He hasn’t paid enough attention to them so far, really. Always the rising tide of the spell- induced ecstasy getting in the way.
"Spike!" the slayer grates. "Stop staring at my midriff and get to work!"
He quirks an eyebrow. "Midriff? Slayer, I believe your penchant for euphemisms is getting out of hand. I was ogling your pretty tits."
She stomps her foot. Her frustration’s balm for his feelings, that are embarrassed and lustful at the same time. "Shut up. You don’t get to say those words. You’re not my boyfriend! That was a big mistake and we’ll never ever go there again."
"Oh, please, and how will we get the mojo to resurrect your friends? I think we both know what will happen the next few hours. Don’t fool yourself. You'll be having the best sex of your entire life, sex the like of which you’ll never ever have with Captain Straight-up-and-down here, the like of which you'll still remember when you’re a little old lady."
"Gee, I’m so glad I’ll get to be a little old lady, Spike, since that means you’ve given up on killing me. Just don’t think I have given up on slaying you."
"Just you wait, missy!" Spike says, stepping into her personal zone. “I’ll yet feel your neck crunching under my teeth, your heart beating out its last pitiful bursts of life.”
Buffy steps up even closer, grabbing his duster again just like she did a few moments ago. "While a plain old stake in the heart will do for you, Spike."
They’re standing close, almost nose to nose, breathing hard, and it strikes Spike with a strange sense of foreboding how similar almost engaging in mortal combat is almost engaging in mindblowingly hot kissing. He knows that if he values his independence he’d better get out know. No good can come of this. He’s teetering on the brink of a very deep abyss here, and he doesn’t fancy falling down the next hundred years of his existence. He’d best do what he’s meant for and kill her or die trying. Right. On three.
Spike closes his eyes and chooses option three. He’ll teeter a bit longer. He clenches his teeth and steps back form the seething Slayer.
“Let’s be a bit more professional about this, bitch. Let’s get going. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can kill you and go back to terrorizing the rest of the world.”
“You? Terrorize? Hah. You couldn’t scare a four year old in pink knee socks anymore. Spike the Bloody Chipless.”
Count to ten. No point in killing her now when he won’t be able to brag about it.
He grabs her by the arm and drags her over, muttering but almost willing, to the sad thing writhing on the crypt floor. Thank God, the things they’re saying have degraded into the unintelligible. Eyes in various colors travel over the mottled flesh colored mass, appearing and disappearing. Patches of hair sprout of, in a wildly varying array of texture and color.
“Look at that, you silly bint. Don’t waste your time being mad at me. Get it over with.”
“You don’t get to tell me off!” she hisses, purpling in greater rage. “You’re a foul evil creature and you don’t have the moral sense of a…a hedgehog! So shut up and don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my mom.”
Spike knows it’ll be seconds before she’ll be sniveling against his coat once more. How has he gotten to know the Slayer that intimately? Also, she’s not hitting his nose. Is there a subliminal Slayer sense thing telling her she’d get one right back on her own, which is not as pretty as his is anyway? He grabs her upper arms and pulls her only slightly resistant form against his duster, which is getting moisturized by more Slayer snot and tears than it ever could have imagined.
It hardly takes a minute this time. The Slayer steps away from him with a shake of her head. She rolls her shoulders a little, shakes out her arms and declares herself ready. It gets easier and easier to hold back on the snark. Bah. He’s getting trained like a dog.
The Slayer takes hold of his right hand and they both sink on their knees and touch the heaving babbling blob at exactly the same time, as if they’ve rehearsed it. Perhaps he should turn her. They’d make a great team.
Nothing happens.
“Spike?”
“Don’t look at me, love. I haven’t the faintest clue, you were there the first time,” Spike says. “How did you do it?”
Buffy wrinkles her forehead as if she’s actually trying to think. She looks like a puppy, all sweet and earnest. He’s had puppies in times of dire need; he prefers kitten blood.
“It’s called the enjoining spell and there was talking in Siberian. Giles did that. And then Willow did the magic and Xander was the heart.”
“Siberian. Right. You remembered the words?”
She rolls her eyes. “Duh. Of course not. I wasn’t there, and even then…" She shrugs. “I just was the vessel of Power, the hand. Willow, Spirit, Xander, Heart, Giles, Mind, invoking the First Slayer.”
Spike sighs. Bloody useless, the Slayer on her own. If it’s any more complicated than staking a vamp she needs three people to hold her hand. He’s clearly gonna have to talk her through it.
“Okay, Slayer,” he says, trying to sounds as Rupesy as he can. “Close your eyes. Remember what it felt like when the power first surged through you. Picture yourself in the same surroundings you were standing in then. What it smelled like, the sounds you heard. Remember the Power. It’s close to you. Reach for it. Haul it in, like a fish on a hook, it’s like coming, innit, you know it’s gonna happen if you just concentrate.”
He didn’t think it would work, but he’s feeling a tingle in the hand that is touching the heaving blob of flesh. If he hadn’t been so bludgeoned by chip pain all three times he consumed the Scoobies' powers, he might remember a bit more himself.
“Feel it, Slayer? Tingling on the edge of your perception? Let it come to you. The power’s waiting for you to receive it, open wide, open your legs and let it in.”
The Slayer giggles, shockingly inappropriate in a solemn moment like this. “It’s open your mind, Spike, not your legs. Not everyone keeps their brain there.”
“It’s a metaphor, Slayer. Shut up and concentrate,” he bites out. All the backtalk is making him crabby. He’s trying to do her a good turn, for God’s sake, can’t she be properly grateful and do what he says.
When the rush of power suddenly flares up it’s strong enough to blast through Spike’s brain like a tornado, no a meteor, destroying everything in its path. The Slayer, already too big a blip on his internal radar, looms big and bright, shining in his mind like a terrible sun. Did he think he was making sensible choices a minute ago? Well, forget about that. There is no escaping the gravity well of this particular star, he's caught and will have to circle her for eternity.
There’s new sensations trying to crawl inside his mind, prying it open at three different location, with a crowbar, with dirty too-soft white fingers or hot rough angry calluses, boring into him, confusing him with all the sensations on going on at once. Goose bumps skitter over the folds of his brain with prickly little black legs like skater bugs on a pond. His brain’s a pond, with a monster Nessie lurking on the bottom, feeding on the slithering shoals of voracious piranhas infesting it.
His hands are plunged into the sun, burning them to the bone, consuming the bone until it’s as charred and brittle as a spent match, and still the burning doesn’t stop, and the screaming, can they please just stop the screaming?
“Spike! Shut up!”
Her words are bracing, a slap in the face, and Spike takes a deep breath to deliver a stinging reply. The screaming stops and he realizes with rapidly blooming shame that it was him who was doing the screaming. Bugger. The witch and the watcher and the boy are careening around in his brain, not at all enjoying the amusement provided, addling him with their widely different flavors and manners of thinking. Like mixing pepper, fleece and mud. Nobody could turn that omelet into three whole eggs again, he thinks desperately, staring into the slayer’s green eyes as if that will help.
“Spike? Say something. Are you in there?”
His tongue is sluggish. “Yeah. Just barely.”
Spike turns his neck in tiny increments, like a very old man. His head is feeling big and fragile, like it might drop off any moment. It’s not a fun feeling. Finally he sees what he was looking for. An inanimate heap of dead flesh in unattractive mottled coloration. He gingerly feels around in his head for a fourth occupant, trying not to stir up the other three. It’s so much worse than before, having them poured in the cracks between his thoughts. God, it was nice and quiet in there for those few moments between the sodding let’s-blitz-Spike’s-brain-into-milkshake spells.
“Where’s Finn?” he says.
The Slayers’ face crumples and smoothes out again, but like a Kleenex, you can still see the fold marks. “Isn’t he in your head?” she asks.
So that’s what she was hoping for. He’s bloody glad it didn’t work out; Finn’s really the last person he wants in his head.
“No, Slayer,’ he says, more gently than he planned. “He’s not.”
She blinks furiously and with a grim set to her jaw sets out to explore the still warm fleshy amoeba that’s cooling on the crypt floor. Automatically he lends her strength when he feels she needs it through the connection. A strangled gasp tells him she found something. He toddles over and folded under a darker flap of hide there’s the Lieutenant’s face, his eyes open and staring. Spike thinks he’s lucky to have all of his features in one place when he died. The Slayer closes Finn's eyes with trembling hands and Spike squeezes her shoulders reassuringly.
What do you say when someone you really disliked dies a terrible death? Liked the screaming in the end, Captain America? Got your girl, nya nya nya nya? He’s gotta go a long way back to remember anything resembling usefulness. Your father died an honorable death, Master William. The sentiment is right, but not quite the right words.
“I’m sure he’d prefer death to being Boris Karloff Revisited, Buffy.”
“Shut up,” she says reflexively but he can tell she appreciates what he said.
Spike steadies himself with his hand on the sarcophagus and strikes a pose of waiting impatiently for the Slayer, trying to disguise his own trembling thighs and fuzzy vision. He’s not, he repeats, not going to fail now. He can’t quite remember why the bloody hell he’s still here instead of heading out in de DeSoto, music on and a few coeds under his belt, but that shining vision is still beckoning in his near future. Give a man a goal and he’ll go through fire.
TBC
[Reviews - 41]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | 
Chapter or Story
Has been viewed 1826 times
- Text Size +
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | Chapter or Story - Text Size +