Title: T-Minus Three Hundred

Author: Buffonia (Buffonia@ragingvenus.com)

Fandom: BtVS/Angel

Rating: R

Pairing: Willow/Fred

Summary: Fred learns the value of time efficiency

Spoilers: Vague Buffy season 7 and Angel season 4

Feedback: offlist please, to buffonia@ragingvenus.com

Notes: 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...

* * *

The End