Funnier in Latin
Title: T-Minus Three Hundred
Spoilers: Vague Buffy season 7 and Angel season 4.
Summary: Fred learns the value of time efficiency.
Disclaimer: All non-original characters herein belong to persons such as Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, WB, etc, etc, etc, rather the author. No compensation is received by the author or the owners of this site .
Author's Note: For the contrelamontre five-minute fic challenge.
Fred understands numbers. She understands their relationship to one another,
the way they work. How two numbers can create something radically imperfect
and then be broken, divided; only to be paired off with a completely
different, and almost too similar, number to become whole and absolute like
they've always wanted. And all it can take is one sexy equation.
It's like that now, Fred thinks, with Willow's head between her thighs.
Although it's hard to really contemplate the numerical value of Willow's
fingers splayed on Fred's bare belly, Fred's skirt hiked up around her
breasts, and shocks of what Fred worries might be actual magickal electricity
radiating to her kneecaps.
Six and a half weeks ago, Willow had shown up for the third time, but with
five bags and a second girlfriend gone. Six and a half weeks translated to 17
days of muted flirtation, 408.344 hours huddled closely over demon anthologies
and roughly 2300 moments out of 24500.64 seconds including shared sheepish
smiles when fingers brushed on a seeming accident.
Willow does something fast and firm with her tongue, following it with a round
nip of her lips and a soft vibrational hum. Fred shifts, squirms, hollers half
a cuss, losing the end of it in her bitten lip.
Fred's too smart to not have seen this coming since the first cup of coffee
and calm stroke of Willow's hair; and she's too lonely to not have thought
about it late at night while easing the sting between her legs beneath the
cold sheets of her big bed . Or she had been, lonely that is; it being 120,604
seconds since Charles last touched her like this.
Dragging her tongue in a torturous retreat, Willow abandons the flushed pink
junction of Fred's thighs. Fred squeaks like a mouse, mouth closed, a
squealing gasp in her throat as Willow giggles and licks up to the tiny plunge
of her navel. Fred's hands fly to Willow's scalp, tightening around a fistful
of auburn, probably too hard because Willow slightly digs her nails in where
they rest on Fred's hips.
This time Fred fails to bite off the sharp end of a cussword when Willow
returns down beneath and between, tongue sliding, thumb circling, Fred arching
and clawing. Cordelia said she'd be gone ten minutes, and it's been almost
half that. So Fred isn't given much time to recover after she comes, the
sizzle in her kneecaps multiplying in her limbs and fingertips. Just a moment
of Willow's mouth on hers, a combination of tongues and saliva and salt,
before Fred's leaning over Willow, kissing down her neck as Willow moans and
giggles some more.
Fred's really starting to get this. T-minus three hundred and counting…