Although she would never admit it, Buffy Summers knew when she was beat. It simply bothered her that she could be defeated so easily not only by nothing more than metal and gas, but also by the supposedly-straightforward concept of linearity – which was apparently too much for her brain to conceive.
She’d burned the first cake. The second, bought from one of Sunnydale’s nicer grocery stores, was close enough to butchered thanks to her attempts at writing in icing that she was close to throwing in the towel. Seriously, how difficult was it to write “Happy Birthday Willow” on a birthday cake large enough to feed a small country – or a gang of Scoobies?
Apparently, it was very difficult. Because the final result looked like she’d suffered a seizure in the middle of writing.
“I’m the Slayer,” she mumbled to herself. “I should be able to handle this.”
Buffy tore her eyes from the ruined cake and looked around the kitchen. Paper bags were still propped up on the far end of the island, filled with streamers and balloons and one ridiculously large noisemaker – Xander would never grow up – as well as various party snacks she’d intended to scatter around the room in strategic places.
Maybe it was a throwback to junior high birthday parties. But she didn’t care.
Maybe it was selfish, but Buffy needed this. While she’d certainly been trying, it wasn’t easy for her to just get over being suddenly resurrected by mourning friends. The first few weeks of her new life back among the living – and one member of the undead – had seen her quiet and withdrawn, but lately she’d been fighting to come back to herself and grasp for at least a semblance of normalcy. And though she still had her reservations, she was ready to gather with the entirety of her friends outside of the context of work.
She was ready to show them that she still loved them, despite the fact that they’d torn her from Heaven, and they didn’t even know.
And so Buffy stood in the middle of her kitchen with a ruined cake and a slew of unattended-to party decorations. And she hadn’t even changed into her enthusiastically-shopped-for party outfit. And she only had three hours until people would start to arrive.
She needed reinforcements. Which was tricky, because absolutely no one knew about the party in the first place; she had issued the invite as a “mandatory Scooby meeting.”
In what was either a fit of insanity or a stroke of genius, she crossed to the phone and dialed a number she wouldn’t admit to having relied on, especially the first few weeks out of Heaven.
“Hate this bloody thing,” the grumble came from the other end. “Makes me feel like a sodding beck-and-call vamp.”
She chuckled at his traditional answer to her call, and she smiled as she gave her usual reply. “But Spike,” she said, “what else would you be?”
He groused in response to her words, which only widened her grin. He never minded, of course – Spike was the one who’d handed her a slip of paper with a telephone number on it, mumbling that it was easier and safer than her trudging across town to his crypt at all hours of the day – or night. And during one late-night phone confessional, when she’d revealed to him – and still only him – exactly where she’d been after her death, he’d been silent for a long time before responding quietly, “You call any time you need to, Buffy.”
That was the last time he’d spoken her name, she realized. Since then she’d been “pet” and “kitten” and “Goldilocks.” She wasn’t entirely certain how she felt about that.
His voice broke her reverie. “You doin’ okay, Slayer?”
Slayer. How could she forget “Slayer.”
She shook her head. “Carton of cigarettes and a week’s worth of blood.”
A pause. “’m listenin’.”
She loosed a deep sigh. “I’m putting together a surprise birthday party for Willow,” she began, “and I could really use some help. I don’t think I can get this all done in time by myself, and I didn’t want anyone else to know.”
“How much have you got done?”
Buffy bit at her bottom lip and surveyed the kitchen once again, summing up by replying, “I think I murdered the cake.”
“When’s the grand event?”
Her voice became quiet and meek. “Three hours.”
A chuckle of disbelief sounded in her ear. “You definitely owe me this time, Slayer,” he warned, before disconnecting the call.
Buffy smiled as she hung up her end, knowing that Spike was on his way over. His threat at the end of the call was entirely empty; he hadn’t actually collected payments for his self-proclaimed “sell-out to the bloody white hats” since months before her death. It was more of a tacit tradition on both their parts.
That didn’t stop her from calling him over every now and then for a surprise mug of blood, or from showing up at his crypt, shaking her head disapprovingly before producing a pack of cigarettes from behind her back.
She didn’t know exactly when or why it had happened, but not only had Spike become her confidante after her resurrection, but he was also the one around whom she felt most at ease; with whom she was most likely to be herself. And if it took a pack of cigarettes or a mug of blood every now and then to keep his stalwart, supportive presence in her life, she would gladly do it.
And the fact that they both knew that she didn’t have to do these things to ensure his continued involvement in her life made the occasions when she did all the sweeter.
And Spike loved her. That was something she still couldn’t wrap her mind around – more specifically, she didn’t know exactly when she’d stopped fighting his love and started accepting it. Embracing it.
She cared about him. She couldn’t deny that, nor would he, to herself or to anyone around her. She wasn’t sure if she loved him – yet – but she knew that she could. That she would, in fact, if given time. Now that she had time again.
Buffy didn’t realize that she’d been standing in the kitchen, staring at the botched writing on Willow’s birthday cake, until she felt a hand resting on her shoulder, pulling her out of her thoughts. She raised her head to glance at him, and found that he was staring at the cake.
“You call this murderin’ baked goods, Slayer? Looks all right to me.”
She scrunched her mouth into a moue of annoyance and looked back at the cake. “I suck at writing with icing. And I totally killed the one I tried to bake. Cake and Buffy are non-mixy things now. I am declaring myself a cake-free zone.”
His chuckle was warm and his low voice akin to a purr as he leaned closer to her ear, squeezing lightly on her shoulder. “But it’s good, pet,” he teased, and drew away from her as she shivered, dropping his hand from her shoulder. He lifted his chin at the cake and asked, “Is it jus’ the writin’ that’s wrong?”
“Y-yeah.” Nice one, Buffy.
Spike nodded. “Don’t have to get another. I can fix it.” He crossed around the island and peered into the paper bags, frowning before crossing silently into the living room. He reappeared in the doorway of the kitchen seconds later with his hands on his hips and his head cocked.
“You tellin’ me that you have a Scooby party in under three hours an’ you haven’t done a sodding thing?”
Buffy winced. “Basically, yeah,” she admitted, before following up with a desperate, “But I did all the shopping! All we have to do is…set stuff up. And decorate,” she finished in a quieter voice, hoping Spike would let it slide.
He didn’t. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and said, “’m not blowin’ up any balloons.”
Buffy perked at his words. For all that Spike grumbled and complained – a strange combination of smokescreen and a tint of actual annoyance – she knew that he would help her, would do anything she asked.
Oh yeah, she thought. If I haven’t fallen already, I’m definitely falling now.
She smiled, and rooted through one of the paper bags, pulling out the bag of balloons and shoving the rest into the vampire’s unsuspecting arms.
“Come on, then,” she said, giving him a push into the living room. “Let’s get started.”
------------------
If he wasn’t in love with her, he was fairly certain that he would have snapped her neck by now, massive headache be damned.
What had started out as “help me” had quickly turned into “do it for me,” evidenced by the fact that shortly after starting, Buffy had quickly sat down on the sofa they’d moved and began blowing up balloons, barking out orders of things for him to do. She’d gone from Normal-Buffy to Corporal-Buffy in the span of thirty-five seconds.
“Spike,” she called, pulling her lips from a mostly-inflated balloon and waving a finger towards him. “You can’t put the chips there.” Pointing to another location, she added, “They need to go there.”
He looked from where he’d placed the bowl to where she’d indicated the bowl should be, and frowned. “It’s the other end of the table.”
Buffy blew one more large breath into the balloon before moving to tie it off. “Yeah.”
“It’s maybe a foot an’ a half away from where it is now.”
Buffy set the balloon onto the small pile amassing on the sofa cushion next to her. “Okay,” she replied. “Didn’t really measure.” She pointed again. “But it needs to go there.”
An exasperated eyebrow crept towards the top of his head. “It’s not a great divide, Goldilocks,” he noted. “They can reach.”
Buffy lost her grip on the new balloon she’d been working on, but neither vampire nor slayer paid it any attention as it whizzed around the room, rapidly losing air.
“No,” she rebutted, feeling every bit like a petulant child. “They have to go over there. This party…it needs to be perfect.” She paused, then, “I think if it was just me doing this, I’d go crazy. But you’re helping, and that helps.”
They stared at each other for a brief eternity, frozen, both trying to figure out if there was more to her statement than had actually been said. Finally, Buffy broke the moment with a shrug and a sheepish grin as she reached for another balloon.
“So would you move the chips?”
Spike sighed and turned back away from her, expressing his feelings towards the entire matter by slowly pushing the bowl across the table with one extended finger.
------------------
If the incident with the bowl of chips could in fact be summed up as an incident, then the decorations had been an outright disaster.
Spike was hardly an interior designer – though he remembered eating one some time ago, so maybe something had stuck – but he had thought he possessed enough common sense regarding aesthetics that he could tastefully decorate the room with balloons and streamers.
He’d thought wrong. First the “Happy Birthday Willow!” banner was too high, then it was too low. The same went for the streamers, which were also subjected to being too long or too short. Buffy had nearly had a panic attack when she’d realized that a pair of balloons Spike had hung were not the same size – though he honestly could not tell the difference.
At least she’d left the couch, although he wasn’t sure it was any better. She’d gone from calling out orders from outside the fray to pushing him aside after he’d finished hanging something and fussing needlessly with whatever he’d done. He could hear her increased heartbeat and could see the stress and worry on her face.
He’d simply had enough.
Pushing on her shoulder to spin her around, Spike grabbed Buffy’s arms and ducked his head, forcing her to hold his gaze.
“Look, pet,” he said, his voice forcibly low and calm, hoping to inspire the same in her. “The room looks fine. ‘s perfect. You have about an hour before this party, an’ I’m pretty sure this isn’t want you wanted to wear.”
He probably shouldn’t have spoken that last part aloud. Buffy’s eyes widened in response, and she wriggled to get out of his arms; he would not release her.
“Spike,” she pleaded, “Let me go. I need to take a shower and get ready.” She looked around the room and grimaced. “There’s still so much to do down here…” Her eyes widened. “And the cake! We haven’t even touched the cake, and it’s still all butchered!”
Spike ran his thumbs firmly across her arms and squeezed, forcing her attention back to him. “Listen to me, kitten,” he said, keeping his voice at the same low timbre as before. “Let’s make a deal, yeah? You take care of everythin’ upstairs – the girly stuff you need to get done – and I’ll take care of things down here. Promise you Red will be happy.” His right hand traveled up her arm and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear before falling to her shoulder and squeezing in encouragement.
Spike flinched as he encountered the knotted muscles in her shoulders from keeping them tensed all day. Dropping his hand back to the side of her arm, he added, “Make sure it’s a nice warm shower, yeah? Otherwise your shoulders’ll be complainin’ in the morning.”
He walked her to the stairs and gave her a push to encourage her to walk up them, blocking the way back into the living room with his body. Buffy stared at him for a moment before finally sighing defeat and trudging up the stairs.
------------------
Once he heard the shower running upstairs, Spike turned his attentions back to the food still stashed in the paper bags, and managed to make quick work of the room. Stepping back, he assessed the layout of the Summers’ living room before nodding in approval.
Mostly satisfied that Buffy wasn’t likely to blow a gasket when she came back down into the living room – he was fairly certain that at this point she was so wound up about the party that the room could be impeccable and she could find fault with it – he walked back into the kitchen, intent on fixing the cake.
It was a careful operation, removing the words she’d written without damaging the surface of the cake, but he finally managed, depositing the wasted icing in the garbage – after swiping a finger-full for himself – and picking up the tube full of remaining icing.
The letters he wrote achieved the linearity that Buffy’s had not, and the passing of several minutes saw the reappearance of the message “Happy Birthday Willow” in his tight, sophisticated script, altered only slightly given the nature of the unconventional writing stylus.
Tasks accomplished, Spike sat back in one of the chairs surrounding the island – mussing up one of the chairs in the living room would likely send Buffy right back where she’d been before her shower – and let his mind wander as he listened to the sound of the still-running shower.
She’d come so far in such little time, he mused. When she’d returned from Heaven – he still flinched at the thought, that such a soul could be ripped out and forced back among the living after having known such deserved peace – she’d been closed-off and distant to everyone around her. But after the passing of a few long, eternal days, he noticed that she stuck physically closer to him than the rest of the Scoobies.
It thrilled him, the thought that maybe – just maybe – he could be the one to provide comfort for a change. That maybe he was useful in her life. And on a whirlwind impulse, he’d bought a pre-paid cellular phone and had given her the number. She was the only one who had it.
She used it, and it touched him all the more. He had become her formless confidante; what she couldn’t tell him to his face, she told him over a phone line, and despite the fact that he wanted her to be able to tell him in person, he had no reason to doubt the sincerity of her words nor deny the pent-up emotion in her voice.
She was hurting. And it surprised him to find that their phone conversations – and his continual presence around her – was helping her to heal.
What surprised him more, however – shocked the hell out of him, actually – was how responsive she was to him, when she never had been in the past. It had started during one of their increasingly-frequent late-night phone conversations.
“Kitten…I know you don’t wanna hear it, but I jus’…you were gone, and I…I haven’t said it in a while, but you know I love you, right?”
Her response had nearly forced his heart back to life.
“I know. And…thank you. For loving me.”
The subject hadn’t been readdressed, and he wasn’t about to bring it up. Not yet. He was waiting for her. As far as he was concerned, she had given him the crumb he’d needed. Buffy was opening up to him, and he could do nothing else but stand in front of her with open arms and wait for the day she enfolded herself into them.
But God. It was so hard to wait when she was responsive. He hadn’t missed her reaction to his teasing voice when he’d first walked into the kitchen earlier in the day, nor had his nose missed the smell of her decided arousal when he’d held her in the living room, tucking hair behind her ear and running his thumbs over her arms.
He wanted her to love him. He wanted to love her. Slip inside of her completely. Make her gasp, and pant, and moan, and cry out to the gods she believed in and the gods that she didn’t.
Instead, he was forced to compromise by running up the stairs to answer her frustrated yell.
------------------
Buffy pouted into the mirror. “Stupid, stupid hair,” she groused, fussing with a lock that refused to fit in with the rest of her coif. She seriously debated just cutting it off, but thought it foolish in the long run.
She was interrupted by a rap at the door and a worried voice. “Slayer? You all right?”
She let go of the hair and brush and sighed. “You can come in, Spike,” she said, watching in the mirror as the door behind her opened and closed. The sound of footsteps brought him behind her body, though all she could see was herself and the door.
His voice lowered, the worried tone absent. “You all right?”
Buffy’s lips pulled in a grimace and she turned around to face the vampire behind her, her defeated and frustrated eyes meeting his.
“I can’t get my stupid hair to work.”
He stepped back and blinked in confusion before taking in her entire appearance. He could not recall having ever seen the blouse or skirt before, but he found himself envious of the fabric that hugged her curves when he could not.
“Pet,” he said, “you look beautiful.”
She sighed. “I don’t! I’m not so sure this blouse works anymore, and don’t even get me started on this skirt…and my hair! It just isn’t behaving the way I want it to, and…” She sighed again before whimpering quietly, “Spike…”
There was something in her voice. Something in the way she said his name. Something that shattered an answering something inside of him, and before he could think about what he was doing, he’d swooped in and claimed her lips with his.
She froze against him, her mind whirling, simply trying to take everything in, to comprehend of a world suddenly turned upside down. Hadn’t it been just earlier this afternoon that she’d contemplated her changing relationship with Spike – and her place in it? She knew he loved her; hadn’t doubted it for quite some time. And the feeling of his lips on hers touched her in a way she’d never felt, and the sensation was indescribable.
And suddenly, her world shifted again, and everything made sense. This vampire – this man -- and herself, and the life she’d hesitantly began to live again after her fall from Heaven, and phone calls and cigarettes and blood and brief but devastating touches, and she knew that she loved him.
God, she knew. And she wanted him to know, too. Overwhelmed, she raised a hand to rest tentatively on his chest.
He misread her. For no sooner had she arrived at her decision – surrendered to it, embraced it entirely and welcomed it home – Spike pulled back and rested his forehead on hers, remorse swimming in his eyes. “’m sorry,” he babbled. “I shouldn’t…I was wrong, and I’m--”
His words were silenced by her lips crashing back onto his, her free hand darting out to tangle in his hair and pull him closer to her. He hesitated for a heartbeat before growling against her lips and pushing back against her, backing her into the wall next to her closet, his hands on either side of her head; framing her, sheltering her.
He drew back from her, blue eyes darker than she’d ever seen, and as she fought to regain her breath, he ran slow hands up her legs, the hem of her skirt sliding over his wrists and riding with him as he continued his journey upwards, grasping at her hips.
“Kitten,” he breathed, “you sure about this? I can’t…we can’t go back.”
Buffy bit and her lower lip and nodded emphatically, trembling hands reaching out to find purchase anywhere on his body. “Please,” she whimpered, grasping desperately to his shirt.
His smirk was characteristically confidant – if a bit lewd – belied only by the complete astonishment in his lust-filled eyes. He stared at her before coming back to himself, the astonishment fading into awed acceptance, and the lust in his eyes battled with the love he allowed to resurface at long last.
“I don’t know,” he drawled, his lips trailing lazily over her neck, his thumbs flirting with the waistband of her panties. “You were pretty unreasonable downstairs,” he noted, his blunt teeth nipping where her neck met her shoulder, his thumbs hooking under her elastic waistband. “Pretty…bossy.”
“I’m sorry,” she panted, fumbling with the button of his jeans, her fingers tangling up amongst themselves as she searched desperately for the fly, crying in dismay when she had trouble unzipping it.
“Shouldn’t pent up so much tension, pet,” he murmured against her lips. “’s not healthy.”
The smirk didn’t leave Spike’s lips as he dropped suddenly to his knees, bringing her underwear down with him. Using one hand to bunch up the fabric of the front of her skirt and hold it against her belly, he used the fingers of the other to trace inside of her thighs, to tease a path on the outside of her sex.
Buffy’s hips bucked towards him at the sudden contact, and he chuckled, bringing his mouth closer without any warning and running his tongue up her pussy before wrapping his lips around her clit, sucking insistently as he slipped a finger inside of her, pumping slowly, reveling in her heated embrace.
Her hands slipped down to tangle in his hair, to hold him closer to her. His name left her lips shakily, but reverently, and with such love that he couldn’t deny it, and he felt close to tears. Buffy loved him. She hadn’t said the words, but God, he knew.
“Christ,” he whispered, overwhelmed. “You’re so gorgeous. So warm. So tight, so wet.” His tongue teased a tarantella against her clit as he slid another finger into her, pumping into her with more insistence. “’s for me, right?” he asked, nipping at the inside of her thigh. “’s all for me, right?”
Buffy jerked a nod as her lips panted out a fervored cry. “Yours! It’s you, it’s you, it’s…Spike, please!” The fingers she’d tangled in his hair pulled purposefully and he pushed himself back to his feet as she pulled his mouth to hers, tongues dueling as he freed himself from the confines of his jeans, letting them fall to his ankles before pushing his cock inside of her in one long, slow stroke.
His hand released the bundle of fabric still clenched between his fingers like a lifeline and skated up the side of her body, trailing up her neck before coming to rest on the clip that held up her hair, squeezing the ends and letting her hair tumble back down over her shoulders.
“Like it better this way,” he groaned, his hips pumping steadily against hers, his fingers tangled in her hair as he nibbled at her lips. “Never put it up.”
“Promise,” she gasped, as her fingers tightened over his shoulders. “Promise. Spike,” she panted, pulling one of his hands to where they were joined. “Please!”
“I’ve got you, pet,” he swore, placing his thumb over her clit and rubbing in slow, torturous circles. “Not lettin’ you go.” And as he felt her begin to tighten around him, he pulled back from her lips to stare at her passioned face, her parted lips, her closed eyes. Pressed his thumb more firmly against her clit as he whispered, “Like that? Like it when I touch you? Like feelin’ me inside you?”
And when her dark eyes opened and met his, unrelenting, something inside him broke and he whispered, “God, Buffy, never thought…I love you, baby. Love you…Buffy…”
Buffy. Buffy Buffy Buffy. She tightened around him, shattered, trembled, whimpered into his ear. “Love you love you,” she babbled, and pulled him closer into her embrace when he trembled in turn and followed her over the edge, burying his face in her neck, raining soft kisses on any part of her he could touch.
------------------
When Buffy came back to herself, she was wrapped in Spike’s arms as he sat, leaning against the wall she had until recently been pushed against. His fingers were running random trails on her arm, and every once in a while they would stop their explorations as he dropped a kiss in her hair.
“Buffy?” he ventured, and she noticed the insecurity in his voice. “Where do we…I mean, what happens now?”
Buffy pushed herself up until she sat facing him, and pulled him towards her for a reassuring kiss. “Now,” she said, “or soon, we have a party to go to. Both of us,” she stressed, her fingers lacing between his and squeezing. Her tacit message rang clearly to him: they would not hide. That she would reveal them – the two of them, a pair; Christ, they were a them -- to her friends touched him more than anything he could remember.
“Then, when everyone’s all partied out,” she continued, her voice light, “I figured you could bring me back upstairs and show me what I’ve been missing.”
Spike raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Missing?”
She smiled. “Well, yeah,” she said, her finger idly tracing around one of the buttons of his shirt. “Because there was definitely stuff missing just now. Like a bed. And…nakedness. We were definitely missing the nakedness.” Her mouth twisted into a teasing pout. “And that’s just not fair.”
Spike chuckled and leaned forward to catch her bottom lip between his. “Don’t worry,” he said as he pulled back. “There’s no way you can miss it.”
Buffy slapped at his chest in exasperation and leaned forward to steal one more kiss before pushing herself to her feet and glancing at herself in the mirror, eyes widening as she took in her appearance. Her blouse was creased, the front of her skirt looked like one large crinkle, and her hair…it wasn’t possible to look at her hair and think anything other than “just-been-fucked.”
From behind her, Spike slid his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder, dropping a kiss on the side of her neck. “I think you look perfect,” he offered.
Buffy rolled her eyes. “You would, sure,” she replied. “To the people who probably don’t want to know every detail about our sex life? Not so much.”
“‘Perfect’ is entirely relative, love,” he argued, nipping at her neck and reveling in the quivering gasp that resulted. “I want you to look like this for me more often. Can you do that?”
Buffy smiled and spun in his arms, gazing up into his eyes. “No promises on the exact outfit,” she said, and kissed him quickly. “But something tells me I’ll have no problem looking like this in the near future. Especially because I know what you’re going to do to make me look this way.”
Spike growled as he pulled her flush against him. “Bloody right,” he agreed, before groaning as the unmistakable tinny of the doorbell sounded, and he released her.
Buffy combed her fingers through her hair, desperately attempting to get it under some control, while asking, “Would you go run interference? I have to…” She gestured to her outfit. “I have to get changed.”
“Do I get a say in what you’re wearin’?”
Buffy chuckled. “Spike, you’d dress me in a bra and panties.”
“Not for a party. Private party, maybe.”
Her answering smile washed over him completely, even as she pushed him towards the hallway. “Go answer the door,” she said. “I’ll be down soon. And I promise you’ll like what I’m wearing.” A teasing glint entered her eye and she added, “Enough to tear it off of me later.”
He smirked back at her from the doorframe. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Better than a carton of cigarettes and a week’s worth of blood?”
Despite the lustful way Spike trailed his gaze across her body, his eyes spoke of nothing but love and devotion. Her heart caught, and pounded madly.
“Oh yeah,” he replied. “Definitely better.”
------------------
A/N: This was written in a response to a prompt for "anal." Get the joke now? :P
So, credit where credit is due. I was a touch inspired by Holly’s “Autumn Sunsets,” but I think this is significantly different enough in its setup (and certainly in the execution) that I don’t feel guilty that maybe I inadvertently copied something.
I'm working on chapter XI of Chirality, and hope to have it up by the end of the week. Thank you to all of my lovely readers!
squawks
05/18/17 04:16 am
pj! I remember wishing one of your stories would be finished seriously about a decade ago. Amazing. I just tried an old password I used to use and amazingly got in too. Memories!
pj
03/20/17 01:20 am
10 yrs later, i finally rem my username and password. Pari, you rock. Hope you are well.
Rabbit_moon1
12/23/16 01:12 pm
I donate every month. Please donate to keep this site up!
AudryDaluz1
10/06/16 08:34 am
Great post.
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:45 pm
And anyone else who loves this site, it's worth mentioning there's a nifty little "Donate" option just below the shout box here! ;)
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:43 pm
Just wanted to take a moment to thank Pari and all the mods for maintaining such a great site!
05/18/17 04:16 am
pj! I remember wishing one of your stories would be finished seriously about a decade ago. Amazing. I just tried an old password I used to use and amazingly got in too. Memories!
pj
03/20/17 01:20 am
10 yrs later, i finally rem my username and password. Pari, you rock. Hope you are well.
Rabbit_moon1
12/23/16 01:12 pm
I donate every month. Please donate to keep this site up!
AudryDaluz1
10/06/16 08:34 am
Great post.
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:45 pm
And anyone else who loves this site, it's worth mentioning there's a nifty little "Donate" option just below the shout box here! ;)
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:43 pm
Just wanted to take a moment to thank Pari and all the mods for maintaining such a great site!