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| Today is femslashfic day! This is for ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} onetwomany, who asked for Fred/Willow, comedy preferred, but anything true to the characters is fine, no character death. Well, that plays to my strengths - so thanks onetwomany! Here is your story:Willow sat in her wrecked Torquay hotel bed and stared gloomily at the television screen, watching a glamorous blonde and her water spaniel running lightly along the seashore. “You too can live life to the full, untroubled by feminine itching and soreness, with Femgel - the cream for those intimate feminine places.” Ha! thought Willow to herself, shifting uncomfortably as the agonising burning sensation in her nether regions flared up again, but I bet that lucky bitch didn’t just spend 8 hours straight having wild, perverted sex with an insane mathematics genius with a skill for building lusto-matic contraptions. She shuddered as she imagined how she was going to explain to Reception tomorrow just what had happened to the so-called ‘Recreation Room’ downstairs - to the chairs, to the card table, to the deep leather sofa, to the billiards table, to the croquet set, and - she blushed - to the boot scraper from beside the back door, and to the little dustpan and brush that had been sitting by the fireplace. And then there was the tide of destruction in their hotel room ... She looked around from her uncomfortable perch on the broken double bed. The other bed across the way from her was in even worse shape. The luggage racks and both easy chairs had either given way, or been turned to scrap by Fred in her Leonardo-ish frenzy. The wardrobe too had succumbed, while the ominous crack that ran right across the porcelain of the sink was really very hard to explain without getting on to the topic of trajectories and ... Willow shuddered again. Could she claim that a localised tornado had spun through the premises, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake? Did they even have tornadoes in England? She would have to look it up. It had all started so well. Fred arrived on vacation on Saturday morning, all oohing and aahing about being in England, and how cute everything was, and how green, and how tiny the fields were, and the red letterboxes and the funny road signs - all in that way-cute Texan accent. Willow waited at least two minutes before smoothly inserting the information that Kennedy had dumped her in favour of a newly Slayerish Tae Kwon Do instructress from Manila, and noted, delighted, a little smile on Fred’s lips, before her friend made with the sympathetic remarks and supportive arm patting. The conversation grew ever livelier from there, and all in all, by the time they pulled into the local Motorway Services Station, Willow felt that she was pretty much guaranteed girlish confidences by Saturday afternoon, hand holding and significant eye contact by dinner time, and smoochies in the twilight soon after. Instead, things ran away from them as soon as the Pierogies Pythagorean Puzzle made its entrance. An interesting relic from the Cult of Pierogia, the Puzzle had recently fallen into the hands of the Devon Coven. Consisting of twenty quadrilinear formulae, randomly distributed through a book of bean recipes written in an ancient dialect of a dead Western Slavic language, it had so far defeated even their keenest minds. Willow had been working on a brilliant computer simulation which mapped the quantities listed in the bean recipes against known mathematical equations, and she made the mistake of mentioning it as she sat gazing admiringly at Fred over a table strewn with overpriced sandwiches and anaemic coffee in the Motorway Services Station cafe. Fred’s eyes gleamed behind her spectacles as soon as the true mind boggling extent of the difficulty of the problem was set before her, and pausing only to buy a shiny new 2B pencil at the Services Station shop, she set to work. When they arrived at the hotel, Fred rushed up the steps and fired up her laptop, and the die was cast. Lunchtime came and went, without a girlish confidence to be heard. All hand contact was of the strictly accidental variety, as books, pencils and floppy disks passed between them; and their eyes collided only on the computer screen as they both read the same tentatively translated passage of the instructions for making winter bean soup. In the end, Fred’s experience with interdimensional portal theory proved decisive. The formulae obligingly unfurled themselves across the screen, and then interlocked with one another in an unstoppably dazzling cascade of applied physics, digital geometry, and leguminous determinism. Unfortunately, Willow realised now, neither of them had given much thought to what the Puzzle’s Solution might actually do - although the fact that Pierogia was the ancient Goddess of a Fertility Cult, and the Puzzle was rumoured to unravel her Mysteries, really should have clued them in. Ancient Magicks to unleash Female Sexual Power sizzled across the screen and erupted from the laptop (another broken item, Willow noted glumly), catching both of them full blast, throwing them across the room. Willow drew one shocky, shaken breath, staggered to her feet, and then went down again under the onslaught of a sex-crazed Texan. Her favourite peasant blouse was torn to shreds in a moment, her Levis with the cool buttoned fly were ruthlessly popped, and her first orgasm came before Fred had even found a way past her cute Sloggies panties. Things got wilder from there. Willow twitched as she recalled sliding naked down the hotel banister, curtain rod in hand, shouting, ‘Ride me, noble Huntress!' And Fred had ridden her all right, in the Rec Room, at length. And she’d proved to be remarkably creative with the tools to hand. Sore muscles twinged, as Willow remembered. Who knew you could do that with a croquet mallet? And they could have continued screwing even until death, that was the most frightening thing. It was only the fact that when Fred was illustrating position 52 in the Karma Sutra (slightly adapted for Sapphic purposes), Willow, in a brief moment of mental clarity, had lifted her face from the floor to avoid a nasty carpet burn - and seen her cell phone lying tumbled but unbroken on the floor beside her. With a massive effort of will she dialled the Coven’s Spells Gone To Hell? hotline and gasped out her cry for help between her other cries of pleasure. Miraculously the witch on the other end of the line did not dismiss her as an obscene caller, but instead summoned the Power of Twelve, who rallied around a pentagram in nearby Torbay marina and imprisoned the Puzzle back within the pages of the nearest book (in this case, the January 2004 edition of the Reader’s Digest.) As the raging formulae were disseminated and contained among the Quotes of the Day, the Word Watch, and the random jokes scattered through the Digest, Fred and Willow collapsed, exhausted, into an instant sleep. Five minutes later the Coven Mother teleported into the room in her Marks and Spencer nightie, shocked them awake with a clap of righteous thunder, and, sounding very grumpy, demanded that Willow and Fred come round the next day to her Bed and Breakfast in Torbay, where they could Explain Themselves. Willow and Fred, both exhausted, embarrassed, miserable, and sore as hell, had quaveringly agreed to the summons, and, gathering up the Reader’s Digest with a practised snap, the Coven Mother departed in a crackle of disapproving white energy. Eyes were avoided, clothes were quickly donned, and some pathetic attempts to mend the shattered furniture were made, before suddenly Fred had bolted for the door with a cry of distress, and disappeared, leaving Willow to contemplate their shattered room and her shattered dreams. Fred was gone for ever, she was sure. How could she hope that Fred would forgive being bent into a naked pretzel shape before they had even established one another’s star signs, or the names of their childhood pets? How could Willow ever look Fred in the face again, after what she asked her to do with that croquet set, and what she had done to Fred on the billiard table? No, she had blown it, and blown it big time. Fred was halfway back to Los Angeles by now (Willow hoped tenderly that she was sipping an isotonic drink on the way to restore her body fluids). She, Willow, was doomed to a life of loneliness and disgrace in an out-of-season hotel in a shabby South Devon seaside resort. Two big fat tears slid down Willow’s face. The door opened. “Hey, there.” It was Fred, peering nervously round the door, and blushing madly. “Fred!” Willow started to her feet, and then groaned, as the full force of her soreness, vaginal and otherwise, hit home. “Oh, darlin'!” Fred flew across the room, and took Willow’s hand. “I’m so sorry! I should never have done that thing with the croquet set, no matter how much you begged me! I’m a bad, bad woman.” She paused and blushed again, and pushed her glasses nervously up her nose. “Anyhow, I found a 24 hour drug store -and asked about,” her voice lowered, “feminine itchin’ and soreness.” She brandished a pretty pink tube of Femgel. “This stuff is real effective.” She paused, and blushed some more, “It’s worked real well for me anyhow.” She looked down at the tube, and twiddled it nervously in her fingers. “And I was thinkin’, if you’re maybe too sore to bend over there yourself, well, I could always apply it for you.” Willow smiled a big happy smile, and clambered back in to the broken bed again. | ||||||
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