Title: Agitate
Author: overthetiber
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Characters: Illyria, Spike, Tara
Pairing: Illyria/Tara (not very shippy)
Rating: M
Warnings: femslash, smut, weirdness
Summary: "Tara is a photograph, she's being made..."
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Her eyelashes are caked with blue mascara, and her pupils look like pinholes. She strokes the backs of her nails across Tara's stomach, leaving cool silver streaks. Tara, only her eyes move. The rest of her is still.
The woman smells of acetone. A man's working in the other room.
"Come on, Blue. Come away, Big Blue."
"Come away, o human child / to the waters and the wild."
"With a faery, hand in hand." It isn't a man, it's Spike, and his voice twists a little. "Come on, now, love, let her sleep—"
"Say it with me." A childish voice, a Texan accent.
"For the world's more full of weeping—" he begins, tiredly, and she chimes in, "than you can understand."
Spike's Docs beat an awkward rhythm on the tile floor, and he holds the door open for Blue. In another room, they talk. Their voices are low.
The streaks dry, a crust. Tara remembers, without smelling, a litany of labels on yellowing plastic pitchers. Tara remembers red light and a high school refuge.
Tara's a photograph, she's being made.
Her toes wiggle. They wiggle and wiggle. Her feet wiggle too, and soon they're slapping the surface of the table. She rolls her ankles from side to side. Her thighs and belly jiggle. Her breasts tremble in place.
She thrashes. She arches her back.
The woman holds her arms. It isn't a woman, and Tara isn't alone. It isn't a woman.
"What is this," it says.
Spike grabs her hand. "Tara." It isn't Spike.
"Agitation," says Tara.
"State of," says the woman-thing.
"I'm agitating," says Tara.
"Blue, I'm calling Buffy," Spike announces. He leaves. Blue stays.
"Develop me," says Tara.
"You're developed," says Blue the woman-thing, voice twanging like Aunt Maybelle's, "enough." To demonstrate, it uses a sizeable hand to seize Tara's sizeable left breast.
"Willow?" whispers Tara, as a strong skinny thumb traces her nipple. "Willow?" She can hardly believe it, she can hardly breathe.
Blue answers her in Willow's voice. Tara spreads her legs like a pair of scissors spreads its blades. She does it quick, too, so quick the real Willow'd barely know how to react. Willow wants Tara to gasp when she does things, wants Tara to lie down and take what she gives. All she gives. Tara could be anyone, for Willow.
This Blue girl could be anyone.
Blue isn't anyone.
She bites at the collarbone and the breasts, the insides of Tara's arms. Her hand is hard under Tara's shoulder. She eats the dried nail polish off Tara's belly, and Tara laughs and laughs. Blue girl kisses the tops of her thighs, kisses the fronts and the backs of her knees. Blue shoves four fingers inside, roughly—but, by this time, Tara is almost humping her face. Her cunt begs for pressure. Her clit swells unbearably.
Tara yells insensible things, flops like a suffocating fish. Blue's hair tickles her thighs. Her teeth scrape her clit. Tara should worry about the teeth and the nail polish; if Willow were fucking her, she'd worry. She'd worry and worry and whimper, not scream.
"Who cares!" screams Tara. "Who cares! Who cares!" She writhes. She undulates her hips, begs for a fist. It's building, it's developing. It swirls and swirls.
Developing. Developing. Coming into focus. An uncertain moment passes. The grays darken and suddenly it's there, the image, like it always was. But coming, still.
Tara is a photograph, she's being made....