Fingers, strong and cold about her neck. Her eyes are wide, lips parted, panting. Thoughts twist, whirlwind fast, shatter apart, reform into something new. And she surges upward, moves against the pressure at her neck, takes his mouth with her own. She is in control, acting, changing her circumstances, taking anything, _everything_. Her tongue sweeps out, tastes blood and nicotine.
Stop. Rewind.
...mint and the faintest traces of cigarette. His hand slids, closes at the nape of her neck, holding her in place. She hadn't planned on moving any time soon. Her hands are quicker to explore than are his. Questing hands touch places already imprinted into long-term memory by unobtrusive sight-seeing in months past. She
jumps and squeaks in embarrassed surprise as a hand lights upon her shoulder. Her eyes close and Willow sucks in a deep breath. When she turns into Tara's arms, her lips are drawn into a smile.
What were you thinking about, Tara wonders. You seemed so intense.
Willow's lips, warm and moist and hungry find a home in the soft curve of Tara's neck. I was thinking about you, Tara, she tells the blonde. Quick flick of green eyes towards the clock beyond Tara. Time enough. Hands settle against rounded hips, fingers gently massaging. Tara, she breaths and they stumble together towards the bed.
Fast forward. The Magic Box, walking into everyone's stares. They smile, don't ask questions, turn back to the books piled on the table. Tara finds a seat while Willow searches the room. He's there. He is always there, now. He watches Buffy. The others don't notice. The others haven't had the experience in such matters that Willow has. She has spent her entire life watching men watch everyone but her.
Not that she cares. Of course. She has Tara and Spike is a fantasy.
And she's stopped showering after she and Tara make love, scent still strong around her when they leave for research sessions. Because she wants him to know, wants him to _see_
that she loves Tara. Because Tara is real and he is _not_.
Tara is soft and sweet and loving. And Willow is soft and sweet and loving. And they hold hands and brush each other's hair and paint sigils on each other's backs. They lay side by side, watching stars. Candles dancing around them, incense thick on the air, they sit face to face, voices rising and falling together as magic is woven around them. They fall into bed, laughing and gasping, hands lazily travelling well worn routes. And they are good together. Soft and sweet and loving.
Nice.
Sometimes, Willow smothers in 'nice.' She doesn't know how not to be nice, has never been anything but. She looks at Spike, and heat curls in her belly, her heart screams and beats against her chest. And she feels... something. He's dangerous and evil and it's wrong to think about him and suddenly she doesn't have to be nice in her own head.
In control, out of control, hurt, hurting, wild. She is everything, has everything.
She remembers him chained in Giles' tub, cut and paste and she's in the picture with him. She smiles, the kind of smile she's practiced in the mirror, only now the expression looks like it belongs on her face. She glides towards him, smooth and rolling and confident. Fast forward and she straddles him, skirt riding up around her legs so that she feels the material of his jeans against the inside of her thighs. Death and fury bound and helpless beneath her and she is powerful.
Tara motions for her, and Willow steps forward. She shifts past Spike, fingers curling into the material of her shirt as fantasy and reality stare each other in the face for a moment and she nearly brushes her hand against his chest. He doesn't notice, eyes not on Buffy, but Willow knows he's staring at the blonde.
Disappointment is sour in her mouth. Look at me! Want me! Someone, see _me_.
She pulls a book to herself, clasping Tara's free hand beneath the table.
Soft and sweet and loving. Her thumb runs circles across the smooth flesh of Tara's hand and Willow smiles. She looks at Spike from the corner of her eyes. He is watching Buffy from the corner of his. Willow sighs, thoughts twisting and shattering and rebuilding in her mind.
She sets aside the unspoken line her friends have set, leans over and kisses Tara.
Nice.
And nice is good.
Fast forward and she lays next to Tara on their bed. Closes her eyes, imagines cool lips travelling up the inside of her thigh, sharp teeth scraping against the soft flesh there.
~end~