It’s only three nights since Willow’s moved in, but the late hours are. . . later than she imagined. Not that she’s Ms. Uptight, always to bed by eleven and up sharply at seven, but Buffy’s not quiet when she comes back. You’d think after living with her mom for the last eighteen years of her life would teach Buffy that returning home after patrol meant quietly putting your weapons away and taking off your clothes, but apparently not. Then again, maybe the heady freedom of college is too much for Buffy to remember those small considerations. Willow’s not really complaining, exactly. Just. . . she misses sleep, sometimes, when she’s trying to pay attention in Psych class so Professor Walsh doesn’t glare at her again.
She’s lying in the dark, unable to bring herself to turn on a light, but not able to sleep yet, either. And maybe she’s starting to get used to the late hours, because she’s not really tired, yet, anyway. She’s just waiting, drifting in the dark like the fast-moving clouds racing across the moon, shapes defined by the absence of light instead of reflection, and. . . Buffy’s home.
She moves quieter tonight, a little slower, but it occurs to Willow that this might not be a good thing. Certainly doesn’t sound like it, when a pyjama-clad Buffy slips into bed with a breathy moan of pain. When the moan comes again, Willow considers asking Buffy if she’s all right, if some emergency first-aid or maybe an emergency trip to the emergency room is in order, but then she places the moan. Not pain. Not with the quickening sound of fabrics rubbing and a small squeaking protest from the bed, accompanying it.
Buffy must think she’s asleep, of course. Because good girls don’t talk about this kind of thing, and definitely don’t partake in it when their roommate is sleeping on the bed next to said good girl. Except Buffy’s never really been a good girl, and, well, Willow’s done her reading and she knows what the human body’s like. Near death experiences really juice the hormones. . . but that would mean that Buffy had a near-death experience, and she would’ve said something, since she should’ve been able to see Willow’s eyes reflect the light from outside, when Buffy first came in. She’d seen them yesterday, nearly leaping out of her skin and then accusing Willow of doing that glassy-eyed, shining thing on purpose.
So, probably a Slayer thing. That was Buffy’s usual excuse, anyway.
Buffy’s breathing was faster, now, undercut by the buzz of whatever she was using. If Willow really had been asleep, she probably wouldn’t have heard it, but she isn’t so she does and recognizes it easily enough. Oz had purchased a similar one for her to use, when he was wolfy. And occasionally they play around when she’s feeling exceptionally brave, or maybe just wanton. Slut-Willow. She’s always know that Willow exists, but each appearance is a surprise. For Oz, too, sometimes.
When Buffy comes, sighing out in relief, Willow clenches her eyes shut and hopes that it’s time to sleep, now. And it is, at least for a little. Buffy wakes up an hour later, and what Willow’s still doing up, she doesn’t want to speculate on, not even to make the running circles in her mind into straight lines. The buzz starts up again, and the moans too, but they aren’t as rhythmic as before. Scary to notice this kind of thing, but Buffy almost sounds. . . desperate. Slut-Willow recognizes this, because Oz likes delayed gratification, when he can persuade Willow to do it for him, and his pants and groans and almost falsetto whimpers are very similar. Except his eyes are open, love and trust and that incredible lust that makes her melt and burn inside, all of that and more shining up at her. Sometimes he’ll reassure her that he wants this, usually with touches, but words, too, when she’s getting flustered and flighty and worried. Oz likes that, too, because it means he has to wait even longer, for Willow to control herself before starting again.
She doesn’t know what Buffy’s eyes would show her, but she can bet that it isn’t going to be restrained ecstacy like Oz’s, that moment before he finally comes all over her and then licks her clean and quivery. Buffy doesn’t seem like the delayed kinda girl, and besides, Willow’s never needed to do it more than once a night, not even on the really bad nights, when she wants to slip into Oz’s cage, just to see what it might be like. Just once. In case it might be. . . different. Not better, because nothing was better than human-Oz, because he loved her, but. . . different. Different could be good, too, right?
A louder moan from Buffy interrupts her, more of a grunt of displeasure, and Willow finally understands what’s going on. The first wasn’t enough, but even though something inside her is demanding more, Buffy’s body isn’t cooperating, leaving her frustrated and unhappy and probably a big old grouch tomorrow morning. Buffy isn’t a morning person to begin with, so Willow isn’t sure she wants to see sexually-frustrated-not-morning-person Buffy.
She tells herself that’s why she’s getting up. That this is strictly in the interest of healthy roommate relations, nothing more, and there’s nothing wrong with what she’s planning. Which she won’t think about it, so she can’t tell herself what a horrible idea this is.
Buffy freezes with a little yip as Willow kneels on the bed next to her. She isn’t looking at Willow, but that’s okay, because Willow can’t look at Buffy, either. Not Buffy’s face, anyway. Slides her hands under the covers, instead, finding the bunched up elastic of the pyjama bottoms first. The upper leg is smooth, only a little bit of stubble—Buffy’d complained about losing her waxing privileges once college started and had to rely on shaving, now—that was already sticky-wet, like melted candy on glossy book covers. Buffy doesn’t move when Willow’s hands touch her own, breath short and sharp and Willow can hear the words Buffy isn’t saying, tumbling through her mind to fill her throat and lay heavy along her tongue.
The vibrator is plastic but feels rubbery, with little bumps all over it. It’s not the one Willow has, after all, since hers is slick and smooth and burnished silver, like the bullets she never has nightmares about, chasing Oz. This one is thicker, too, much larger than two fingers, and that does surprise Willow, since Buffy is sometimes really, well, virginal. Willow’s had all summer to play around, and Buffy’s had one time, back in junior year of high school, and Willow realizes she’s jealous. She also realizes how stupid this is, but she’s jealous that Buffy can take more, that Buffy needs more. ..
The jealous feeling melts away, leaving something behind that scares Willow. It’s big and powerful, blustery hot winds in the desert, filling her up and driving her hands with a surety she doesn’t know she possesses. Turning the vibrator back on, she sets up a slower pace than Buffy had, only removing her hand when she’s sure that Buffy isn’t going to stop. Then she drags her fingers over girlflesh that’s syrupy and hot and delicate, poking around not so gently until she finds what she’s looking for. Willow, knowledge-girl, didn’t really know what this was until Oz showed her, and she’s sure that Buffy knows about it, and how to use it, but sometimes—sometimes it really needs someone else to make it happen.
Willow presses hard, almost grinding it down until she can feel the larger band of muscle and the ledge of bone, bumpy and uneven. Buffy is panting again, not worried about hiding her sounds, her hips bucking upwards erratically as two hands work her: one slow, one hard and rough.
Buffy comes with a quiet cry she just barely manages to swallow, body shuddering so much that the bed shivers underneath them and Willow. . . Willow is coming too. Without touching herself, without even thinking about herself, just pushing and shoving and had she even been turned on, beforehand? She doesn’t remember, but then, she’s been concentrating mostly on Buffy, who’s lying utterly still now, head turned away, vibrator still held with in her, but off.
Willow makes a tiny ‘oh’ sound, bouncing off the bed and out of the room. Buffy probably assumes it’s to give her the privacy to clean up, retain a little dignity, but really its so Willow can clean herself up. Her panties are soaked so badly that she’s sure the one person she saw on the way noticed the huge wet-spots on her own pyjama bottoms, but the girl doesn’t say anything, so Willow puts it out of her mind.
She’s got too many other things to think about.
A routine sets up, because humans need a routine, and usually manage to find one despite themselves. Willow starts to notice when the patrols are ‘bad’ and Buffy starts leaving the covers off completely, even on the good nights. They don’t talk about it, ever, and Willow doesn’t even know if Buffy knows just how hard she comes each time. Or even if she comes, because Buffy’s kind of selfish. Not really selfish-selfish, because she works so hard to save the world each and every day, sometimes twice during May, and gives up so much to make sure the world stays saved, but it’s a kind of self-involvement that’s probably a defense. Professor Walsh would have a field day with Buffy, and Willow dreams vaguely of writing papers about the ultimate level of feminine empowerment and how it’ll ensure her tenured professorship at Harvard or Oxford or Yale, and she’ll write all about the Slayer, without ever giving up Buffy or her secrets. It’s an idle fantasy, but there’s some truth to the stuff underneath it. Buffy gives and gives in so many ways—so in other ways she almost has to take, just to make sure she doesn’t give away all of herself.
Or maybe it’s just Buffy’s always been a little selfish—Joyce sometimes drop hints, and Buffy too, of what LA had been like.
Every few nights or so, Willow climbs into Buffy’s bed and gets Buffy off. How varies, since she’s becoming bolder, and Buffy seems to have a large array of toys: several vibrators, a dildo that’s so big it terrifies Willow, but she loves the way Buffy’s cunt just swallows it down like it’s nothing, and occasionally even Willow’s own fingers slip inside. She’s sure it’s not much in the great lesbianic wave of female pleasure—Willow can’t bring herself to use her tongue, and doesn’t want to contemplate Buffy’s breasts at all—but Buffy seems to enjoy it; she never says so, of course, because Buffy never says anything at all when Willow’s there, but it’s obviously all the same.
Sometimes, when the orgasm hits hard enough, Buffy makes sobbing noises in the back of her throat, a whimpering animal sound of a creature that can’t control anything, least of all its own body. Willow likes those noises the best, and always comes so hard she can barely drag herself to the bathroom and back, afterwards.
Oz doesn’t know, no one knows, but there’s something odd going on with Oz, anyway. First he’s feeling sick, and then he’s distant, and by the time Willow realizes the culprit is a girl named Veruca, complete with band and goth-slut look, she’s using the bigger dildo on Buffy every night, tying Buffy’s unresisting hands down to the headboard while she slams the black rubber inside Buffy’s body, again and again and again and again.
A normal girl would have been bloodied at worst, bruised at very best. Buffy just makes that delicious animal-sobbing-sound and arches her body for more.
When all hell breaks loose, and Oz leaves, and Veruca taunts Willow in a way that makes her burn inside as much as her cheeks do outside, she doesn’t know what to do. She’s almost afraid to come back to Buffy, who just wants to get off and go to sleep, when Willow needs. . . something. She doesn’t know what, just that the hot, desert winds inside her have turned into a raging tornado of something, and her body’s too little to contain it for very long.
She stays out of the room for a long time, coming back close to three am. Buffy’s been following her for most of the night, not close enough to intrude, but Willow still know she’s there. Watching over her, protecting her, making sure that Willow doesn’t do anything stupid, like forget that Sunnydale’s not a good place to stand in the middle of a deserted clearing and hurl sticks at innocent trees. Well, no town is really safe enough to do that, but Sunnydale has that unsavory mystical element that make the possibility of mere rapists pale in comparison.
It’s a shock when Buffy somehow beats her back to the room. Further when Buffy’s in Willow’s bed, arms already stretched above her head, naked and waiting.
It’s different that night. Not just because Willow pours out words that sound like hate but aren’t quite while she plays with Buffy’s body. There’s handcuffs instead of ropes, and Willow attacks Buffy’s breasts for the first time, viciously twisting and pinching until Buffy is bruised, the nipples so flushed with blood they look distorted. It’s not because Buffy’s actually responding, either, murmuring broken words whenever Willow pauses, each one a plea for more. Willow isn’t sure why Buffy’s doing this, but pretty soon, she doesn’t care, either. The pain inside is too strong, and Buffy’s so damned indestructible that each bruise is like a victory, each murmured gasp and cry an exultation.
No, Willow knows why it’s different, when she’s on orgasm number two and the bed is so soaked from Buffy’s releases that they’re going to have to sleep in Buffy’s bed that night. . . which Buffy probably guessed, since Willow is stripped of everything but the bottom sheet. It’s because tonight she’s looking at Buffy. And Buffy’s looking back at her.
Big eyes colorless in the night, wide and dilated and looking directly at Willow, unless Willow tells her not to, which she does sometimes. Her hair is wispy silver streaks, and her face is so translucent Willow can see blue veins under the California tan she’s never had, and the layers of makeup she won’t use. Buffy’s so fragile without the Slayer confidence and bubbling personality, bones almost brittle as Willow drags her nails over Buffy’s cheeks, raising red welts that never quite break open and bleed. Willow realizes at some point she wants Buffy to bleed, but confines her efforts to places that aren’t so visible.
She’s crying when she finally runs out of energy, still mumbling out all the things she wants to say to Veruca, all the names she wants to call her, all the things she never told Oz, the bad things that she holds inside because Oz loves her, and that’s worth a little badness, right? He probably has things about her, too, but never says them, and now he’s gone, and a bastard for leaving her—isn’t he? He has to be. Because he never, ever should’ve left her—no matter how hot Veruca was, no matter how much Willow wants her, herself. Oz is hers.
Willow continues mumbling, too exhausted to do more than release Buffy’s handcuffs before collapsing. But then Buffy is moving, retrieving a cool, wet cloth from somewhere, wiping them down as much as possible and then carrying Willow, still crying and mumbling and so heartsick she can’t stop either, into Buffy’s bed.
Buffy covers them both tightly with the blankets, then further wraps Willow into her own bruised body, whispering things too quiet to be heard. The words are cool, though, like the cloth Buffy used, gem stones that rest around Willow’s mind, and eventually they lull Willow to sleep, her head on Buffy’s shoulder, red hair bleeding into blonde.
The introduction of Riley should change things, but it doesn’t. Buffy’s commitments as a Slayer are a good excuse not to spend the night, and Riley’s commitments as a Commando eat up the rest of the time, no excuse needed. Buffy and Willow play almost every night, now. Willow finds a spell that virtually sound-proofs their room, which is good, because she also discovers that Buffy likes being fucked in the ass, and screams like a banshee every time. Buffy likes screaming during sex, which probably explains the frustration that first night—the noises get her hot, almost as much as the actions. Willow discovers that she likes talking, too—dirty things, calling Buffy her bitch and spinning tales about bending Buffy over in the middle of class and making Buffy ride her fingers while a professor lectures and everyone stares.
Riley does mean that Willow is more careful about bruising Buffy, making sure that Slayer-hazards can explain away the ones she can’t resist making.
A new and unforseen side effect is that Buffy is becoming a better Slayer. Giles mentions several times that Buffy is more honed, now, fiercer and less prone to her usual quips, her killings faster and the kill-count far superceding her high school highs.. He believes it’s Buffy’s newfound determination in school—her grades are up, and she acts as if she likes classes more—that is creating this upswing, and will occasionally praise Willow for her tireless and unswerving example as someone who can have fun, study magic, and maintain perfect grades.
Willow always smiles and brushes her fingers along Buffy’s thigh.
A slightly more complicated problem is the arrival of three newer people: Spike, human-Anya, and a shy witch-girl named Tara.
Spike, Willow feels, should have been the biggest problem. He notices straight away, making comments that turned Buffy bright red and Willow steely-eyed with disapproval. No one is allowed to make Buffy so flustered, and Spike is never allowed to mock what they have. Not that Willow knows what she and Buffy have, but she knows she likes it and that Spike isn’t allowed to dirty it. . .more than it already is, anyway.
Eventually, Willow runs out of glares and whispered threats—less than a week since Spike’s, and before the stupid spell she tries that makes her will be done—and finally promises Spike that if he just shuts up, she’ll let him have Buffy for an hour. That definitely shuts him up, and when he comes back with the inevitable agreement, he starts watching Willow with narrowed, speculative eyes. Sometimes he smiles, too, the way Willow vaguely remembers him smiling at Dru, which should probably frighten her, but doesn’t because it’s just Spike. Spike who feels some kind of kinship and almost paternal investment in Willow, but still just harmless Spike.
Buffy still doesn’t know that Willow is now her pimp, and that amuses Spike enough that he doesn’t mind when Willow tells him ‘not yet’. That isn’t going to stop him forever, Willow knows, but by then she’ll have some magickal way of making Spike behave. She’s working on something on her break between Tuesday classes, and it should be ready to test out soon. And if that doesn’t work, well, Buffy won’t say no.
Willow’s not really sure if Buffy can say no to her anymore. She’s also not sure why she isn’t upset—is actually really pleased—about it.
Anya doesn’t know as much as Spike does, but she’s cleverer than she often acts and the sex-obsession, while useful for distracting her, gives her insight that Willow frequently dances around. That could be a problem, because Willow can’t just use the spell she’s making for Spike on Anya—it doesn’t work on humans, for one thing. She thinks about this before the ethics of forcing someone to ignore something, and that really does disturb her, because it goes hand in hand with the last problem.
Tara is sweet, and shy, and has eyes blue like a summer day, a winter-flush of pink always on her cheeks, lips that Willow wants to sink into, that melt her whenever they happen to quirk into a smile, and a sense of morality that annoyingly exact. Willow wants to be good for Tara, to be the Willow she used to be back in high school, who knew right from wrong and didn’t know that wrong felt so good. She’s trying, too. They practice magic together, simple spells, each success producing an expression that’s eerily like the dawning joy of a baby cat first opening it’s eyes, innocent and miraculous. Willow likes that look, calls it sexy even though Tara calls it naive, and endeavors to bring it about more often.
It’s right around then that Willow starts demanding more participation from Buffy. First it’s the two-headed dildo she asks Buffy to buy, since there’s only one shop that Willow knows that sells that kind of thing, and she won’t go in there. Buffy does without protest, picking out something big and black and just putting it on can make Willow come the first few times. She loves fucking Buffy, loves ordering Buffy to work those Slayer-enhanced muscles to fuck herself onto the dildo, in effect fucking Willow long after Willow’s normal human stamina runs out. The sex stretches for hours with very little exertion on Willow’s part, if she doesn’t want it.
She also starts making Buffy eat her out. It’s an idle thing, at first, because Buffy’s feeling good and for some reason that night, Willow isn’t. It’s not great, at first, either, but Willow can tell that it can be. So she makes Buffy practice. A lot. Some nights, she doesn’t do anything at all to Buffy, just spreads her legs and lets Buffy practice for the next hour or so. If Buffy doesn’t do a good job, she’s sent back to bed, unmarred and unfulfilled. If she does, Willow rewards her with a full session the next night. It’s a very effective system, Willow thinks, especially when Buffy is spearing her tongue inside Willow, wiggling it like an eel, and stretching far enough that she can almost touch Willow’s most secret spot.
Willow’s contemplating a magickal means of extending Buffy’s tongue. She needs a few more ingredients and Buffy will talk funny for a few days afterwards, but it’s mostly the amount of money she’ll need for the essence of snake that worries her. And, well, she isn’t really sure she’s up to this kind of a transmutation spell. Yet.
The balancing act takes a toll on both of them, but Buffy never complains. Willow does, usually when she’s fucking Buffy with the double-headed dildo, shoving it deep inside Buffy’s body until Buffy starts moving in pain, not pleasure, and Willow has to remember to not push so deep. She doesn’t really like hurting Buffy, after all. Not in ways Buffy doesn’t like.
It goes on like this for months, juggling school, a diminishing social life, significant others, their friends, and then the unexpected discovery that not only is the Initiative bad, it’s dangerously out of control. Adam frightens them all the way the Mayor and Angelus never did, because their earlier enemies are people. Weird, deranged people that have abilities most never dream of outside their nightmares, but still, just people. There are rules to be found, and expectations and reactions to be exploited, based upon those rules. Adam is logic and science and not people at all, not even human the way Angelus is human, just. . . scary. Because Willow looks at him and sees a great deal of herself, even though by now she’s given herself almost totally to the magic. He’s clinical and precise, the way she is at night when she creates patterns on Buffy’s skin, just to see the way the different marks fade over time—how long, what colors, how long the discomfort lingers.
When Oz comes back, Willow doesn’t spend any time with Buffy. Spends all of it with Tara, who’s safe and normal and even if Oz doesn’t like it—which he doesn’t—it seems like it’s a logical, healthy step, and he’ll do anything for Willow to be happy. It’s a real effort when she sleeps with Tara not to take control, not to shove Tara down into the mattress and fuck her, or order her to do the same to Willow. Willow likes being fucked, since she’s long ago learned the differences between tops and bottoms, submissives and dominants—there were some fascinating books on the subject, a lot of them in Giles’ private collection. Willow knows that she’s never really been a submissive, not even when she was with Oz, and she prefers being dominant. Putting herself back into that submissive role, especially with someone who is so clearly a submissive herself, is exceptionally difficult for her. She’s not sure what to do about it, the second time.
The second time, however, is a long time coming, pun is most definitely intended. After Oz’s visit, there’s Angel’s, and then Adam starts making his plans known a little more, and there’s no time for Willow and Buffy to do anything but sleep when they’re in their rooms. It leaves them both cranky and out of sorts, and Buffy starts becoming very, very quiet whenever Willow takes charge in meetings. Giles speculates that Adam is spooking her more than she’s admitting, and is grateful that Willow seems to be picking up the slack. Xander thinks that Buffy’s going to collapse from exhaustion, because when is Buffy ever quiet and compliant? It’s the concern in his voice that prevents Willow from snapping at him, because she likes quiet, compliant Buffy just fine.
Mostly Willow wishes that she could take Buffy away for a weekend and beat and fuck her until she is a screaming, bloody, come-soaked mess—but they don’t have the time. Not yet.
Oz and Angel leave, both content that their old girlfriends are with people who make them happy, and the Scoobies go to war underneath the University. War is scary, much scarier than Willow ever imagined, and she’s always thought she had a very good imagination. The stacks of bodies haunt her dreams—faces screaming, blood like paint splattered everywhere—and the stench of dead humans and demons—acrid when it isn’t sickly sweet and always nauseating—lingers for days. Even worse is the First Slayer dream, which lets Willow see all kinds of things about herself that she isn’t supposed to like. She knows the point of the dream is that she should change and grow and let Buffy do the same. . .
But she likes dream-Willow. She’s confident and powerful, when she isn’t mousy and hiding behind her mother’s hand-picked clothes and the curtains of a theater. She’s a full witch with incredible abilities at her beck and call—and there is a tamed warrior sitting at her feet, one who will fight where Willow tells her to.
She doesn’t tell anyone about the dreams, not that part of it. But she does convince everyone that she and Buffy are going to take a week’s vacation up to her uncle’s cabin, an hour away. They’ll bring groceries and their reading for next year’s course work and just let the stresses of the past year fade into nothing. Riley is off ‘debriefing’, so all Willow really needs to do is convince Tara, which isn’t a problem, since Tara understands the bond between best friends and she loves Willow completely.
They do bring groceries.