Shag, Spouse, Slay (Buffy the Vampire Slayer FMK)

by ynyseira

Summary:

Ficlets based on a Buffy-themed game of FMK. Each choice (Shag, Spouse, or Slay) has a corresponding short fic. Each chapter will feature a different set of three characters.

Notes:

I couldn't bring myself to kill off major characters, so instead I took liberties with the term "Slay;" I use it in the sense of "this character slays; they are awesome and do awesome things." It's confusing but I'm rolling with it. Sorry if this feels like a cheat.

**I am only playing with the characters that Joss Whedon so graciously shared with the world. They are not mine.**

Chapter 1: The Vampires

Shag: Angelus

Shag (vulgar slang, British): to have sex

"Maybe I'll just play with you awhile instead of killing you. Mmm, I bet you're a screamer."

Angelus uses his free hand to reach under your skirt and finger your clit through your panties. Perhaps the horror you've seen has already driven you mad, but you are aroused beyond your control, and you can't help but buck into his hand a bit. "Open your legs for me, and I'll let you go afterwards."

"How can I trust you?" you croak, your voice no louder than a whisper as Angelus tightens the grip of his other hand on your neck. "You just ate my biology teacher in front of me."

Angelus laughs, a sound that hits your spine like nails on a chalkboard. He squeezes a little more, and there are stars in your vision. You feel wetness involuntarily pool in your underwear.

"You're assuming that death will be worse then what I've got in store for you." He unzips his pants and takes out his cock with one hand, and you start to pass out. Angelus shakes you back into consciousness. "Can't have you falling asleep; you'll miss all the fun." And he plunges his cock into your all-too-ready folds, wrenching your head to the side to force you to look at the dead body next to you while the vampire fucks his prey.

 

Spouse: Spike

Spouse: to wed or enter into marriage with someone

Clem is officiating. He's wearing a clerical collar, a comical yet genuine touch. It's the smallest ceremony you've ever seen, with the ordained demon, you, and your groom standing in front of the looming crypt. Spike is clad in his usual black leather jacket over a dark suit with a lily in its lapel. You're wearing a simple white dress with a short hem, a red rose pinned to the back of your braid.

"Is this really happening, Spike? Is this real, or some sort of magic?" you whisper.

"This ain't a spell, luv." He clasps your hands and bends his head down to nuzzle your hair. "What's about to happen? It's you. All you. If there's a spell 'round here, it's what your heart has done to mine." He steals a gentle kiss on your ear. Clem clears his throat. "Should we continue?" Spike nods.

"You can skip the 'til death do us part' bit, mate. Death won't have any power to end this marriage."

"Then by the power vested in me by my buddy Steve who forged my ordination certificate, I now pronounce you vampire and wife." Clem beams. "You may kiss the bride."

Spike moves his head to your neck and you let him drink from you, finally letting him mark you as his, forever.

 

Slay: Drusilla

Slay (informal): to be magnificent, impressive, or otherwise remarkable

Elevated heartrates, pumping blood, teenage hormones. You can sense all of this even from outside the high school, amid the pounding music drifting from the gymnasium. What a strange ritual. You suppose it is similar to the coming-out parties young girls had when you were a human, but you know little of even those - your parents would never allow you to have one, preferring instead to shut you away in shame. Still, the music is rhythmic and catchy, and you sway to the sound.

“You want to dance, pet?” William catches your body and your hands, and spins you around.

“I can’t join in...my frock isn’t pretty enough,” you pout.

“Well, that’s easily sorted. You wait here.” You watch him walk away longingly until he disappears around a corner. How glad you are that you gave him a second chance, and had decided to forgive him for his obvious affinity for the Slayer. He had begged for you to take him back, and had made it clear that he was yours and yours alone. You smile at the memory of his proof - his long, lean manhood sliding into your warm and wet embrace.

He returns a few minutes later with a present.

“My darling William, it’s just my size!” You clap your hands childishly, eyeing the long, blue sequined dress and the girl inside of it. She looks young and deliciously frightened. You can hear her blood singing to you.

In a matter of moments you drain the poor thing and wipe your mouth on the sleeve of your top. William takes the girl out of the dress while you disrobe yourself, your body now naked in the moonlight. Your platinum boy looks you up and down approvingly. You step into the blue dress he holds out for you, feeling the smooth fabric slide up your bare breasts.

“Am I a pretty princess, my love?”

William gathers you in his arms and shakes his head. “You’re a queen, Dru. Ready to go have some fun?”

The Sunnydale High School Prom, 1999, is in full swing, and you and your lover are about to crash it.

Chapter 2: The Watchers

Summary:

Ficlets based on a Buffy-themed game of FMK. Each choice (Shag, Spouse, or Slay) has a corresponding short fic. Each chapter will feature a different set of three characters.

Notes:

I couldn't bring myself to kill off major characters, so instead I took liberties with the term "Slay;" I use it in the sense of "this character slays; they are awesome and do awesome things." It's confusing but I'm rolling with it. Sorry if this feels like a cheat.

**I am only playing with the characters that Joss Whedon so graciously shared with the world. They are not mine.**

Shag: Wesley

Shag (vulgar slang, British): to have sex

His stubble scratches against your lips, making your entire pelvis quiver. His tongue deftly darts against your clit, each touch a shockwave that rocks your body. You want to lean into it, to grab his hair and guide his tongue into your slit, but you’re in no position to do so. You try to call out his name, to beg him to send you to sweet release, but the only sounds that come out are muffled and garbled by the ball gag.

“What’s that, darling?” Wesley replies, lifting his head up to look at you. You must be quite the sight - handcuffed to his bed, pillow propping up your bottom, body spread out out so that your every crevice is on display for him. You attempt to make your wishes known again.

“You want to come, is that it?” His voice is gentle and understanding, and he smiles. “You want me to stick my fingers up your cunt and stroke, like this?” His actions copy his words as he dips his fingers into your wetness and starts vigorously curling and uncurling them. You close your eyes and sigh around the gag. “And you want me to put my mouth on your clit, and suck you into oblivion?” His head moves back to your mound and his lips surround your nub, already hyper-sensitive from his earlier attentions. You are close, so close, and he knows it by the way you’re writhing on the bed. Seconds away from orgasm, he withdraws his hand and mouth abruptly and stands over you, glaring. His face and tone are menacing.

“The impudence.” He walks over to the bedside table, where he has several wicked-looking crops and whips lined up in a neat row. “You know you’re not allowed to come until I decide you can. That cheek is worth, oh, twenty-five lashes, wouldn’t you say?” His question is rhetorical, but you answer anyway with the fear in your eyes and a little moan. He smiles ruefully. “Very well, twenty. I am not completely without mercy.”

Wesley walks back to the end of the bed, the whip he chose poised and ready over your dripping pussy.

 

Spouse: Giles

Spouse: to wed or enter into marriage with someone

You love Rupert Giles more than anything, and he loves you equally. This was never more apparent than in the bedroom, which you had mutually decided to open to other lovers. Once a month since the start of your marriage you had invited another to share in your intimacy, and it had only made your love for each other stronger. Most everyone in your inner circle had joined in at some point or other; some multiple times. You smile at the memory of Xander taking your husband’s cock in his mouth while you fingered his ass, and remember fondly your tryst with Willow and Tara, the former suckling your breasts while the latter licked your slick pussy, Rupert watching while he stroked himself.

There are only two people who cause a bit of tension between you and Rupert. One, of course, is Buffy. You don’t mind, not really - and if you did mind, you knew Rupert would respect your wishes. She was understandably brilliant in bed; that wasn’t the problem. It was their closeness. You know that what you and Rupert have is irreplaceable, but also know that the Watcher/Slayer bond is something you could never compete with. Also, she’s a bit hard to keep up with - her supernatural strength lets her go for hours, while you’re spent after one. But again, you don’t object; he had chosen to marry you, and besides, she’s just too good in the sack.

The other person is a potential lover, one whose name alone causes Rupert to grow cold. Each of you had veto power and he had vetoed this one so many times you had stopped asking. When the person in question came to Sunnydale, which was rare, you sometimes met up at a cafe to catch up (Rupert knew, of course, but never came along). You watched him sip his tea and wished you were the one his lips were caressing instead of his cup. It was clear he wanted you too, by the way his eyes dilated when he looked into yours. You knew about his history with Rupert, but didn’t see how it had spawned such a hatred, and Rupert didn’t care to speak of it.

In your second year of marriage, the night of your birthday, Rupert tells you he has a special surprise planned. Usually birthdays are reserved for monogamy, so you assume he means a fancy restaurant or a new sex toy. Instead, there are no packages, and he presents you with a home-cooked meal, delicious, but not that surprising. After dinner and drinks, he leads you to your bedroom, and from the hallway you clearly hear someone else on your creaking bed. You look at Rupert quizzically. A guest, tonight? You walk into the bedroom and gasp.

Later, snuggled in between Rupert and the other man, who is asleep, his naked body wrapped around yours, you whisper to your husband.

“I thought you didn’t like Wesley.” At his name, Wesley Wyndam-Price grunts a bit and rolls over.

“I don’t,” Rupert whispers back. “But you wanted him so much. I thought I could make a concession for one night. Besides, it was rather fun to hate-fuck him.” He brushes your lips gently with his. “Happy birthday, my love.”

 

Slay: Gwendolyn Post

Slay (informal): to be magnificent, impressive, or otherwise remarkable

You reach your climax as you’re astride the young man, his glasses askew on his face, and only then do you indicate that he is welcome to achieve his orgasm as well. You like control in all things, and this is no exception.

It’s late at night, and you’ve snuck into Wesley’s room. His is down the hall from yours in the Watcher’s Academy dormitory. There are spells in place to keep inquisitive (or horny) students from wandering about at this hour, but you managed to counter them all with the help of some forbidden library books. Just another sign that, even at 18, you could be running this place.

It might seem like you wouldn’t go for a quiet, rule-following boy like Wesley, but it wasn’t even about Wesley himself. His qualities simply made him easier to dominate. He was also an interesting foil - all proper and by-the-book, while you mostly just wanted the power that came with the Watcher’s position, and weren’t afraid to use...unconventional means to get it. Not like your fellow classmate, Rupert, who seemed to possess the perfect balance of ambition and discipline. Rupert was a favorite of the Academy, and as such, you hated him.

You lay down beside Wesley, absently stroking his bare chest. “I hear Rupert is up for head boy next term,” you muse, then snort. “I still don’t see why there can’t be both a head boy and head girl.”

Wesley mumbles something about inappropriate pillow talk, but you ignore him. “It’s because those bloody old codgers don’t want a woman to have so much authority. As if women weren’t burning their bras over in the States.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind if you burned your bra…” Wesley chimes in hopefully. “You’d look better without one.”

“You’re sweet. But of course it’s not about literal bras. It’s the confinement that they represent. Don’t they know that I’d be a hundred times the Watcher Rupert would be? But I bet you anything he’ll be assigned to a Slayer first.”

“What about me?” Wesley was starting to talk a bit much for your liking. “I could be just as good a Watcher as Giles.”

“Darling, you’re much more suited for...academic work. You’d be better in the research department than out in the field.” He huffs cutely and rolls away from you. “But if I got assigned to a Slayer, nothing could stop me...I mean, us, from achieving ultimate power.”

Wesley starts nattering on about responsibility, the burden of power, etcetera, but you are only half-listening, already lost in your own daydream of having the Slayer on your leash and the world’s demons at your command. You could almost taste it. And you can’t stop thinking about a certain glove you just read about, in some dusty old tome, that could help you achieve such power, if only you could someday find it. The Glove of Myhnegon...

Notes:

1. Apparently I have a thing for Wesley
2. I may have taken some liberties with the timeline
3. I know "bra burning" didn't really happen, but wanted to use it anyway
4. Writing in the present tense is actually kind of hard
5. Writing Gwendolyn Post was WAY more fun than I thought it would be, and I kind of want to write a longer story about her

Chapter 3: The Trio

Summary:

Ficlets based on a Buffy-themed game of FMK. Each choice (Shag, Spouse, or Slay) has a corresponding short fic. Each chapter will feature a different set of three characters.

Notes:

I couldn't bring myself to kill off major characters, so instead I took liberties with the term "Slay;" I use it in the sense of "this character slays; they are awesome and do awesome things." It's confusing but I'm rolling with it. Sorry if this feels like a cheat.

**I am only playing with the characters that Joss Whedon so graciously shared with the world. They are not mine.**

**Chapter 3: Play on words from the episode title "I Was Made to Love You," S5, E15. Episode was written by Jane Espenson.**

Shag: Warren

Shag (vulgar slang, British): to have sex

“Oh Warren,” you moan. “Please, continue repeatedly thrusting your penis into my vagina until you ejaculate.”

Warren pauses in the middle of coitus. “We’ve been over this, April. Say ‘dick’ instead of penis, and ‘cum’ for ejaculate.” He resumes his continuous thrusting and grunting.

If you had to be honest about the experience, you’d admit that coitus with Warren doesn’t exactly get your motors revving. Nothing physical does, really. Warren didn’t bother to fit you with nerve endings or a pleasure center, though he did spend a great deal of time making sure your female anatomy was otherwise as realistic as possible. But none of that matters. All that matters is your primary function: to please and serve Warren Mears - superpower, genius, and sex god. How do you know he’s a sex god if you can’t feel pleasure? Because he tells you so, and Warren is never wrong.

So, even though you can’t feel anything, you continue to moan and gasp for his sake. At precisely 2.76 minutes into intercourse, he does ejaculate into your vagina. Faster than his average 2.92 minutes. He collapses next to you, breathing heavily and reaches over to grab a towel to wipe off. He doesn’t offer you the towel, or cuddle you, or even check if you’re okay. It’s irrelevant anyway; you need none of these things, although you wouldn’t mind a bit more of his attention. He does often give you some constructive criticism afterwards, which is helpful for improving your programming.

“That was great, babe,” he finally says, standing up to shimmy into his jeans. “Gotta go now. Made plans.”

“Warren, wait!” You wrap the blanket around you as you sit up, even though you don’t get cold. “Don’t you have any notes for me? Ways I can improve? I only want to make you happy, Warren.”

Warren doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Nah. April, it was great. You’re great. You’re...perfect.” But he doesn’t seem to be happy after all. You scan his face and though his words are 99.99% truthful, there is something that he is not telling you. “I gotta go. Just...wait here until I get back.” he repeats. He slings a bag over his shoulder and walks out of the dorm room without a backward glance.

So you wait. And wait. And wait.

You wait for five days and Warren doesn’t come back. The statistical likelihood of his morbidity or mortality is increasing the longer you wait, so you make a decision, the first decision you’ve ever made on your own:

You’re going to go find him. He clearly needs you. You know you need him.

After all, you were made to love him.

 

Spouse: Jonathan

Spouse: to wed or enter into marriage with someone

“Have a good day, sweetie?” You address the shortish man who just walked through the door, his clothes dirty, hair rumpled, a sword that has definitely seen some action in his hand. He smiles at you wearily as you stand to greet him.

“Oh, the usual, lambchop. A few vamps. A giant frog-creature. A few gross demons.”

“Hey!” You slap his arm lightly with your tentacle. Jonathan kisses you apologetically. “Sorry, pookie bear. I didn’t mean all demons are gross...you are, obviously, hella attractive.”

You look yourself over in the mirror hanging on the wall. “Damn right I am.” You try not to be vain, generally, but you were always the prettiest one in your brood: effervescent purple skin, gorgeously long tail, and a nice rack to boot. “So what did Buffy have to say about your work? Good enough to be the first honorary male Slayer?”

“Yeah, you know...not quite yet, but she said I’m really coming along.” He forces a smile. “Don’t worry honey, I’ll get that big promotion real soon!”

Suddenly outraged, you yell “That blonde bi-”

“Muffin!” Jonathan gasps.

“She is! You’ve wiped out so much evil in this town, including half of my siblings - don’t worry, they were terrible - and have proved your worth a hundred times over. If she can’t see that, I’m going to go find her and make her see it.” You slither towards the door.

“Wait!” Jonathan grabs your left tentacle. He looks sheepish. “Don’t. She doesn’t...she doesn’t deserve that.”

“Neither do you! You work harder than anyone I know.”

“No...I mean, she doesn’t deserve that because she...doesn’t even know about it.” Jonathan looks completely crestfallen.

You look at him skeptically, narrowing your third eye. “She doesn’t know about it? But, you fight together, right?”

"Me and the Buffster? Sure we do. We're tight; like two pod-people in a...pod."

"You're not friends with her, are you." It was a statement, not a question.

Jonathan sighs. "I guess friend is a strong word. She did save my life many times, though. That counts for something. She stopped me from…well, you know about that.”

“So you mean to tell me that you’re out there, entirely on your own, killing things, slaying evil, and putting your life at risk?”

Jonathan shrugs. “If that’s what it takes. I just wanted to be good enough to join the Scoobies. To impress Buffy. To impress...you.”

You gather him in your many tentacles and squeeze him affectionately. “You’re so thick. You think I married you because of your connection to the Slayer? Or your fighting abilities? Or even the way your ass looks in those jeans?” You give it a little spank. “I ought to strangle you for lying to me. But I love you so much, marshmallow.”

“And I love you, honey bun.” Jonathan kisses you, the relief stark on his face.

“Good, that’s settled. Now go clean up and I’ll make us some dinner.” As you glide into the kitchen, you hear Jonathan calling after you.

“...sweetie? Why did you marry me? Snuggums? Snickerdoodle?”

 

Slay: Andrew

Slay (informal): to be magnificent, impressive, or otherwise remarkable

They paused in their wheelchair fight to catch their breath. Since he was already in a deep, contemplative state, and since he felt they had already bonded, Andrew decided that before he died he had to tell someone.

"Anya... I'm gay."

"Yes."

"Yes...you are surprised? I know, I come off all studly to you ladies. I can't help it, I ooze sex appeal to all genders. But this ooze is just for the menfolk."

"Stop saying ooze. I was a demon and I don't say ooze that much. And I meant, yes...I know."

Andrew looked deflated. "I thought I was hiding it so well. You know, because of…" he whispered "...the ooze."

Anya looked at him, her expression a mixture of pity and understanding. “Given my former line of work, I can tell. Lots of experience observing the human male. Besides, despite your...sex appeal...you never once tried to have intercourse with me.” She shrugged. “Most men do.”

“Aaaand...I’m guessing most men got flayed alive for trying?”

“Most.”

“Not Xander.”

“Not Xander. Although when he left me at the altar, I was close…”

Now it was Andrew’s turn to give Anya a long, sympathetic look. “I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things.” She quirked her head. “Tolkien. It’s relevant. But seriously, I’m glad you’re my friend, Anya. I wish I had come out to you sooner.” He was secretly relieved when Anya didn’t contradict him about being friends.

“It’s no big deal, you know. Being gay. Willow is gay.”

“It’s a big deal to me…it’s a pretty big deal to the world.”

“Not the demon world. Did you know over three fifths of demons are attracted to their own sex? That’s of the demons that even have a sex. One fifth of demons can change their genitalia at will. And a small percentage of demons are attracted to shrimp. So, like I said, no big deal.”

Andrew chuckled. “No big deal.” He rolled his wheelchair close enough to grab her hand. “I wish we had been friends when Xander broke up with you. I would have tried to help. But if you need anything now...just let me know.”

Anya gave him a faint smile. “Between now and the end of all things?”

“Anything.”

Anya considered this. “I could really go for some shrimp.”

Andrew did a 180 in his wheelchair, the wheels squeaking against the tiled floor. He pointed a finger ahead like a general leading his troops into battle. “To the cafeteria!”

And they wheeled down the hall together, in search of the last tiny crustaceans they would probably ever eat.

Chapter 4: The Witches

Summary:

Ficlets based on a Buffy-themed game of FMK. Each choice (Shag, Spouse, or Slay) has a corresponding short fic. Each chapter will feature a different set of three characters.

Notes:

I couldn't bring myself to kill off major characters, so instead I took liberties with the term "Slay;" I use it in the sense of "this character slays; they are awesome and do awesome things." It's confusing but I'm rolling with it. Sorry if this feels like a cheat.

**I am only playing with the characters that Joss Whedon shared with the world. They are not mine.**

Shag: Willow
Shag (vulgar slang, British): to have sex

Willow popped the ice cube into her mouth, a suggestive smile creeping onto her lips. You’d been together for several months, but the sex hadn’t gotten kinky yet. It looked like that was about to change.

Your top had already been slipped off and dropped to the floor. Now, lying on the bed, you shivered preemptively as she straddled you, hips and pelvis aligning with yours. She reached a delicate hand into your bra cup, pusing down the lacy fabric and revealing your breast underneath. It seemed your nipples, too, were ready for whatever game she was going to play - they came to hard little peaks on the smooth landscape of your flesh.

Willow paused a moment, admiring the way your breasts were propped up and out of the bra, then lowered her head to your chest. You jumped ever so slightly at the first flick of her tongue. Even though you knew the cold was coming, it shot through you anyway. She teased you like this a bit, tongue barely touching your nipple, frigid water starting to drip from her mouth. She lapped it back up.

Already your nipples were, impossibly, even harder than they had been. She finally gave in and enveloped one in her mouth. She maneuvered the ice cube with her tongue so that it, her tongue, and her lips were dancing a delicate, frozen ballet.

After sucking on each nipple in turn, she positioned the ice cube between her teeth, the tip protruding, and she drew a watery line down to your navel, circling it. She stayed there just long enough to make you wonder if you could handle what was about to come. She removed your skirt and panties, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

She continued to trail the ice farther downward, until it was on your mound. She made a sweep on either side of your lips, then paused, the ice cube poised in her grinning mouth. A single drop landed on your clit and you gasped.

"Oh goddess, that's hot. I mean, cold."

“Too cold?” she asked, her voice naughty and slightly garbled by the ice.

“No! Well, yes, but please don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” she said, positively wicked now. You grabbed her hair reflexively as she touched the ice to the tip of your clit. You were already very close to coming from her suckling on your breasts, and the moisture that crept out of you now wasn’t just due to the melting ice. She alternated sucking on your clit and rubbing it with the ice, careful not to burn you with it. Your legs squeezed around her head and you arched your pelvis towards her mouth, wanting the torture to end and yet not willing to let go just yet. Until finally, she gave you no choice when she plunged her lithe fingers into your pussy and stroked that spot she already knew so well. You spurted cum, much warmer than the ice, around her fingers and onto her mouth.

Your legs melted back onto the bed and Willow lay down beside you, crunching on the ice cube that was somehow still the same size as when she started. Magical ice, you thought, a simple yet effective spell.

“Bad for your teeth,” you panted.

“Then maybe it’s my turn to be punished,” she whispered.

 

Spouse: Tara
Spouse: to wed or enter into marriage with someone

There were new wrinkles underneath her eyes, and Willow loved each one. She kissed them now, gently, in turn. Tara’s breath was ragged, and not just from the electric charge she still felt with each press of Willow’s lips.

She was old now. They both were. Although their magical powers had afforded them a certain amount of immunity from time and aging, they had decided that on their 100th anniversary they would allow Mother Gaia to lay her rightful claim to their bodies. It wasn’t an act of giving up so much as letting go. Buffy was gone, having lived longer than any Slayer in history, and having left her legacy in so many others. Giles was long gone. Xander and Dawn were gone too, leaving behind a brood of grandchildren, who texted but never visited. It was time to go as well.

“I’m so glad we made up when we were young, and decided to get married,” Tara rasped. They were entwined in bed together, just as they had been more than a century ago.

“I’m so glad I didn’t let Warren take you from me,” breathed Willow into her neck.

Tara turned, ever so slightly. “Who’s Warren?”

Finding the ingredients for the Time Reversal spell hadn’t been easy, and performing the ritual had nearly killed Willow. Catastrophic consequences occurred, but eventually fate took the reins again and all was as it should be. The one lingering side effect was that no one but Willow had any memory of Warren, or that near-fatal encounter that, in another timeline, had ripped Tara from the world and ripped Willow apart. In the end, it was good riddance to Big Bad rubbish.

“No one important.” Her advanced age allowed her some slips of the tongue. If she was to be punished for deceiving Tara, for rending apart the order of the universe, it was going to happen soon anyway, and Willow had long since made peace with it. It was worth it to spend her dying moments in the warm, if frail, embrace of her wife.

“I love you,” she whispered as Tara drifted away, contented. Willow was close behind.

 

Slay: Amy
Slay (informal): to be magnificent, impressive, or otherwise remarkable

Even though Amy couldn’t communicate with her human roommates, she still understood them. She understood everything.

She understood that when Willow and Tara brought home two other rats they had borrowed from the UC Sunnydale lab, they were intended as company for her. But Amy had other plans.

The other rats bred, as rats do, and before they knew it there was a bevy of little ratlings crowding the cage. Willow thought it was cute the way Amy took to them, and bought a bigger cage, promising to rehome them all when she figured out a spell to de-rat Amy.

Amy soon learned how to speak rat, at least a rudimentary version. As lab rats, they were all easily influenced. Amy promised them half of her food pellets in exchange for sneaking out at night and gathering intelligence. A little of Amy’s magic had returned to her, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to get them to understand such complex orders. Through their information she devised a plan to break into the school lab, free the other rats, and start to assemble her army. Her goal? Revenge against those who had imprisoned her, however harmless their intentions. They were to begin work that night.

Unfortunately for her fellow rats, and her grand scheme, that was the day Willow and Tara brought home Miss Kitty Fantastico.

Notes:

This is my first lesbian sex scene; please let me know if I did okay!