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Cured Skins of Dead Animals

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The secret was leather, Willow'd decided. Instant attitude. Spike; Angel and Angelus (coat first, then Leather Pants of Evil); Faith always; Buffy jaunty and deadly on her skip down the wild side. Willow'd wondered, then, if some tasteful pleather would help her best-friend appeal.

And now the leather was hers, shiny-black and skin-tight and squeaky, lace exclaiming "Here be my boobs!" for the far-sighted. First entrant, Slut-o-Rama 1999: Willow Wannabe.

Except what Willow wanted was to be anywhere else, Oz home safe, all those people in the Bronze depending on anyone other than her.

Deep breath, Rosenberg.

Be the leather.