Archive of Our Own

Mickey didn't know that wearing men's boxers would lead to her being knuckle deep in her best friend, but if she had, she would have done it a lot sooner. 

She bought the loose plaid boxers firstly because they looked comfortable, and secondly because she could imagine the way they would hang loosely off her hips, and it pleased her. Mickey found more comfort in the ambiguities of loose clothing, which disguised the awkwardness of her body, with all its unfinished curves and jutting angles.

Since starting college, Mickey had been tentatively experimenting with masculinity. Even as a child, she had loudly rejected the dresses her mother tried to force her into. 

She’d chosen a ‘boy’ nickname, deliberately, along with Willow when they were five. Initially, this was down to befriending Lucas and wanting to be closer to him – although new names weren’t necessary because the three were inseparable anyway. Still, Willow started going by 'Will', and Michelle was henceforth known as Mickey. This childhood tradition had persisted with Dusty (her Mom was a huge Dusty Springfield fan), who had become Dustin. El had started out as Elliot, but had later quietly admitted to preferring El. When Max showed up, Mickey immediately knew they would be friends because of her name. Dusty had later dropped her alternative name, and Willow, too had grown out of introducing herself as Will. Mickey still called her Wills though, out of both habit and affection. Mickey, for her part, had clung onto her childhood nickname, and doggedly refused to answer to Michelle. 

In any case, there had always been something innately androgynous about Mickey. She was a scrawny, awkward kid, all knobbly knees and sharp elbows and unbrushed curls kept back in an uninspired ponytail. Her mom had called her a stubborn child, and as she suffered through high school, Michelle saw a similar stubbornness mirrored in her body, as her hips remained narrow, and her chest mostly flat. She measured the changes in her friend's bodies expectantly against her own, but by eighteen she had come to realise there was something sparser about her. In some ways, Mickey hated it, resented the bare facts of her body. She felt awkward about fitting the flatness of her chest into a dress, or a blouse, and about the narrow line of her hips in skirts. There was something about feminine clothes that made her skin feel like it fit wrong.

By contrast, she had always looked at Willow, who was curvier, with a sort of admiration. She spent her teen years sneaking furtive glances at her in gym locker rooms. At seventeen Mickey told herself it was envy that made her eyes linger on Willow's chest, or the curve of her hips as she changed clothes. As Mickey grew into her early twenties, she was forced to reckon with the fact that it wasn’t simple jealousy that made her stare at her friend anymore. 

She figured it out her sophomore year of college, at a house party with Willow. In searching for Willow in the disorientating crowd of bodies, she caught sight of a couple kissing in the darkness of a crowded hallway. The man was a little shorter than the woman, but he had his thigh pressed in between her legs in such a way that she was sinking into him. The other woman's head was tipped back in a moan, the painted fingernails of one hand dug into the meat of his shoulder, the other buried in the short strands of his cropped hair. As Mickey passed them, she had caught sight of the swell of the man's hips, and realised with a jolt that they were both women. 

Mickey considered that moment a kind of rebirth. She couldn't stop replaying the woman's head thrown back in a moan, and, slowly but surely, the anonymous woman started to look a lot like her best friend. 

She had always known she had loved Willow, but she had suddenly been taught a stunning lesson in how to want her, too. Again and again, she slipped her hand into her underwear thinking of pushing her own thigh between Willow's legs, feeling the light scratch of Willow's short nails dig into her own scalp.  She reconstituted her few, lacklustre sexual experiences with men into lurid fantasies in which she stepped into their shoes, thrusting clumsily into Willow until she came apart. In most of her fantasies, she wasn't particularly experienced or skilled, but it didn't matter because there was a tenderness to them that felt filthy in its own right. 

She got hung up on the hallway woman's masculinity as well. Mickey found herself suddenly fascinated with the prospect of an alternative to her uneasy femininity. She bought the boxers to satisfy her curiosity about it, to see if she liked the way they felt.

Now, she walks into the living room in the apartment they share, and is arrested by the sight of Willow curled up on their couch. For a second, she hesitates, reluctant to break Willow's obvious peace with the abrasive sound of her own voice. Willow is in her own pyjamas - a soft yellow shirt and skimpy floral shorts. Her hair, cut into a bob, is tucked neatly behind her ears. She hasn't noticed Mickey yet, too immersed in her sketchbook to pay any attention to the creak of the floorboards in the doorway. There's a softness to Willow's face and body which makes Mickey ache. She wants to hold the weight of Willow in her lap, tilt her face up to bask in the warmth of her eyes, inhale the clean smell of her neck. She wants to tell Willow she loves her and have Willow understand she isn't talking about friendship. 

But she can't stare forever. Mickey clears her throat to announce her presence in their living room before walking in and spinning around for Willow in her boxers and ratty Nirvana shirt. "Do you like them?" she asks, gesturing to her boxers.

Willow looks like a deer in the headlights. Mickey traces the line of her throat with her eyes as Willow visibly swallows, before smiling nervously. 

"Yes! You look really cool," Willow nods. 

Mickey nods back. She can't help but mirror Willow. Something about looking into her large hazel eyes puts Mickey in a kind of trance. 

Blinking, Mickey asks, "Shall we watch Dune, then?" 

"It's already in the VCR," Willow replies, lifting the blanket so that Michelle can slide in beside her. Michelle gropes around for the remote, hand brushing Willow's thigh as she searches.
"Sorry", she mutters, "I swear it was here earlier." 

"Maybe you sat on it?" 

"I think I'd feel a remote digging into my ass, Wills", Michelle replies absent-mindedly, still searching with her hands. 

"Should I stand up?" 

"Might be helpful, yeah." Willow complies immediately, the blanket falling away from her as she stands. Mickey, who is now confronted with the plush shape of Willow's ass, almost at eye level, forgets to look. She forgets to breathe, actually. 

"Can you see it?" Willow asks, turning around and temporarily breaking the spell. Temporarily, because in bending to sift through the blankets on the couch, her shirt falls away from her skin, exposing the curve of her breasts. 

Mickey swallows, and then swallows again. "No I can't see it." This was true, but only because the remote wasn't buried in her best friend's cleavage. Pull it together Wheeler, she tells herself sternly, tearing her eyes away. 

"Oh! Here it is," Willow laughs to herself, locating the remote by shaking out one of the blankets until it clatters on the floor. She bends to pick it up, which, Mickey thinks, really isn't fucking fair on her. 

Willow's stupid skimpy cotton shorts do very little to hide her ass, giving Mickey a full view of Willow's sensible white panties. They're full coverage, Mickey notes. They shouldn't be sexy, but Mickey's mouth is watering anyway. It has less to do with the cut of the panties, and more to do with the illict thrill of seeing a part of Willow's outfit that was meant to be private. It wasn't underwear intended to be seen by anyone, which only serves to fuel Mickey's urgent desire to look, to see more. 

There is something especially thrilling about seeing Willow that way. 

Out of all their friends, Willow is, affectionately, labelled a prude. This is because, as most of their friends started to have sex, Willow steadfastly refused to sleep with any of the guys who propositioned her. Sometimes, when the girls were hanging out, Max or Dusty would try to dissect Willow's reluctance. They would insist that guys weren't that bad, that sex could feel good, that it wasn't scary at all. Willow would placidly shrug them off. 

The thing was, Mickey knows Willow isn't scared. It isn't in her nature to be afraid like that. There is a quiet strength to her that can weather anything. But if it isn’t fear, it also isn’t prudishness. Mickey knows for a fact Willow has several pairs of very lacy, very sexy underwear. She has seen Willow pulling them out the dryer. That Willow has that side to her, which she seemingly keeps hidden underneath her clothes, drives Mickey crazy. She is fixated on Willow's restraint; she’s obsessed with the idea of being the one to break it. She desperately wants to step into the role of one of the guys in the fantasies Dusty and Max conjure up for Willow. 

The simple white line of her panties is taunting Mickey, in the way they profess a sense of practical disinterest. She wants to take them off with her teeth. She wants - 

Willow is sitting down again, breaking Mikey's line of thought as she buries her legs under the blanket, blissfully unaware that Michelle was ogling her like Willow was a playboy bunny fresh stepped off the page of one of the magazines Mickey kept under her mattress.

"Earth to Mickey? Where have you gone?" Willow's voice cuts through her inner turmoil and Mickey realises she has spaced out. 

It takes a herculean effort to pull her thoughts back onto the straight and narrow and offer Willow a convincing smile, but Mickey  just about manages it. 

"Sorry Wills, just thinking about Dune and how they tried to fit too much into one film," Mickey replies.

"It should have been a duology," Willow agrees immediately. They had talked about this before. Mickey loved that they could revisit the same discussions repeatedly, as if they were well lived in rooms in the sprawling conversation of their friendship. They would rearrange the conversational furniture, stand in different corners to get a fresh angle, or draw the curtains to look at the topic in a new light. It didn't matter if the points they covered were the same, it always felt, oxymoronically, both fresh and familiar. 

"Right, because all the world building and political stakes are set up in the first half of the book, even if it is really slow," Mickey says, stealing the remote from Willow and clicking play. 

"Still a great film though," Willow says, as it starts. 

About ten minutes in, Mickey starts noticing a strange tension in the room. As always, Mickey finds herself stealing glances at Willow, but she could swear she keeps catching Willow's eyes flitting away from her whenever she does so. She feels distinctly watched.  

Willow keeps shifting around on the couch too, as if she was uncomfortable. This doesn’t sit right with Mickey. As far as she’s concerned, Willow should never experience an ounce of discomfort. 

"You alright Wills?" She asks softly, after Willow shifts for the fourth time in as many minutes. 

"Yeah, sorry." 

"Can't get comfortable?" 

"Um, not really," Willow says, casting another furtive look in Mickey's direction. Mickey tuts. Can't have that. 

"C'mere," she says, pulling Willow's legs across her lap so that she can face the television and stretch out at the same time. "Better?"  

"Yeah, much better, thanks Mickey," Willow says, smiling at her from under her eyelashes in a way that makes Mickey's heart skip. 

"No problem," Mickey replies, letting her hands come to rest on Willow's calves under the blanket.  If she runs her palms lightly over the few inches of skin, she can feel the light prickle of newly growing hairs from where Willow has shaved. 

Mickey turns her attention back to Kyle Maclachlan on the screen, continuing to smooth her palms over the meat of Willow's calves. It soothes her a little, the skin-to-skin contact, and the light abrasion of her hair. Willow seems soothed by it too, if the depth of her breaths and her half-lidded gaze are anything to go by. 

"Is this okay?" Mickey asks, just to make sure, as she slides a hand an inch further up Willow's leg, over her knee. 

"Yeah," Willow breathes. It feels loaded. Mickey's mouth runs dry. She knows Willow, knows her so well. She's never sounded like this before, never said words in that breathy, pitched way. Mickey is suddenly reminded of the lace panties in the dryer. She feels like a fucking bloodhound. 

"Are you sure?" She asks, sliding her hands two, three inches higher as she does so. Fuck, she's dreamed of touching Willow's thighs like this for so long. She wants to dig her hands into the thick plushness of them like dough in her hands. 

This time, Willow doesn't answer. Mickey risks a glance at her. Willow looks - actually, she isn't sure how Willow looks. Mickey pauses in her ministrations, fingers resting between Willow's legs as she makes frantic mental notes: flushed cheeks, tense shoulders, trembling breath. She seems caught between terror and something Mickey can’t place. 

Mickey goes to withdraw her hands, suddenly unsure of herself, and Willow clenches. Mickey's loose attempt to move away is stopped short by the gripping squeeze of Willow's thighs. She stares blankly at Willow, just barely understanding. 

"It's okay," Willow says, by way of explanation. 

"It's -?" Mickey repeats, her brain struggling to catch up. 

"Okay," Willow affirms, refusing to make eye contact. 

Tentatively, Mickey gently pulls at the flesh of Willow's thighs until she relaxes. Taking the opportunity, and the permission, she forges ahead, moving centimeter by tantalising centimeter up her legs, and then retreating again, sweeping her hands back down like the tide. But each time she returns, she edges closer to Willow's crotch. 

She persists with this for a while. How many minutes, she doesn't know, because seconds keep getting lost between the rush of blood in her ears and the near painful thud of her heart. Several times, she has to stop and steady herself, get her bearings with the grip of her sweaty hands against Willow's damp skin. 

Mickey and Willow are nearly always talking to each other, but right now they are silent, exchanging only breaths in the room. Mickey stares unseeing at the movie in front of her, trying to measure precise proximity to the apex of Willow's thighs. 

She can tell she is nearly at the top by the width of them, where the stretch of Willow's skin is just slightly too wide for the length of Mickey's fingers to cover. She lets her right hand rest there a minute, index finger tapping a nervous beat until Willow squirms and squeezes her thighs shut again, stilling Mickey's movements. 

Mickey catches her breath as she inches the pinkie finger of her right hand into the juncture of Willow's thighs. She waits for Willow to stop her, and she doesn't. She stretches it out further until the edge of her finger brushes against the elastic line of Willow's panties. 

Her heart in her throat, she pauses. She waits for one second, then another, before tentatively slipping her pinkie just under the elastic. If she can have nothing more in this life, she wants to just get the chance to feel her way along the crease where her pussy meets her thigh. She knows that Willow's thighs have been sweaty for a while now, but here, just a hairs breadth past the elastic, Mickey swears there's a different, slippery texture to the moisture gathered here. Is Willow-? 

Mickey goes light-headed before the thought has even formed. Maybe that’s why she can't stop herself from blurting, "Are you wet?" 

"Yeah," Willow says in a rush of exhaled breath, like she was waiting for Mickey to ask. 

"Oh my god," Mickey says intelligently. "Holy shit." 

"Sorry! I'm so sorry Mickey I-" Willow squeaks, moving as if to scramble backwards away from Mickey. Mickey is blindly clutching at her thighs to keep her in place before she fully registers the words Willow is saying. 

"Sorry?" Mickey finds herself repeating again. 

"Yeah, I really didn't mean to make it weird, you must think I'm so gross, I'm so sor-" 

"Gross?" Mickey says incredulously. "Jesus Christ, no, Wills of course not," she says, a little frantic. "There's nothing gross about this, this is like - Willow, I've dreamed of this-" 

"Dreamed of this?" Willow repeats, still sounding a little fragile, and okay, Mickey hadn't planned on coming out to her friend like this, but she would walk through fire to protect Willow's feelings, so revealing her deepest secret so that she doesn't feel gross is a no-brainer. 

"Yeah, Wills, I have thought about doing this," Mickey shifts her hands back up Willow's thighs, "for a really long time now." 

Willow's eyes, when Mickey looks up to meet them, are shining.

"But I thought you were into guys," Willow says, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Mickey shrugs. Guys shmuys. She can't think about that right now, not when she just got her pinkie finger through the gates of heaven. 

"I'm into women," she says simply. A thought occurs to her. "What about you?" 

"I'm also into women," Willow confirms, smiling shyly. "If it wasn't obvious," she says, gesturing at her crotch. 

Right. "Can we revisit that, please?" Mickey asks. 

Willow groans, covering her face with her hands. Adorable, Mickey thinks. 

"Do we have to?" Willow asks from behind her palms. 

"Have to? God no, but Willow, I really, really want to." 

"You do?" Willow says, a note of what sounds like hope in her voice. 

"Willow, you're gorgeous," she says earnestly, "And not to put too fine a point on it, but I would like to put my fingers inside of you, if you want that too." 

"I want that," Willow says. Mickey gazes at her, desperately searching her face for any signs that this is a prank. But Willow's face is open, open, open. In fact, it's like the sunshine has come out, there's so much light spilling from her eyes. 

"Is there anything else you want?" Willow asks, and this time there's a different edge to her voice, a little more confidence and a thrilling curiosity. 

"You really want to know the things I've thought about you?" Mickey asks. 

"Like, so badly, actually," Willow says, laughing nervously. A muscle in her thigh jumps. 

"Fuck, where do I start?" Mickey asks, mentally rifling through her list of fantasies. "I'd like to feel how wet you are, first of all. And I'd like to taste you, first on my fingers and then, you know, the regular way. On my tongue." Mickey feels a little awkward saying all this out loud, but Willow seems rapt. 

"Go on," Willow breathes. 

"I want to feel your really beautiful thighs squeezing around me whilst I eat you out," Mickey went on, admitting, "I kind of want them to crush me actually." 

"Oh," Willow says, sounding a little shaky. 

"And, I want you in my lap. You have such beautiful, um, tits." Mickey gestures to Willow's full chest. "I'd like them in my face, and also in my mouth?" 

When she glances at Willow, her eyes are closed, and her breaths a little unsteady. 

"Sorry," Mickey says, worried she's gone a little far. Willow opens her eyes.

"Don't be," she replies, her voice ragged. 

"What do you want?" Mickey dares to ask.

"All of that," Willow says immediately. There's something so deliciously fucking responsive about her; all Mickey has to do is ask and Willow is eager to admit to everything. Mickey can feel herself throb in her boxers. 

 "Anything else?" 

"I want to taste you too," Willow says, a little stilted like she isn't sure of herself. 

"Yeah?" Mickey says, encouragingly, rubbing circles on Willow's thigh. 

Willow's eyes flutter closed again. "Yeah," she repeats, although Mickey isn't sure if this is confirmation of her desires or a response to Mickey's touch. 

"Do you like that?" Mickey asks, watching Willow. 

"So much," Willow says, her voice almost a whine. 

Mickey groans. She cannot hold it together any longer, not with her best friend practically in her lap, wet and wanting. 

"Willow, please, please can I touch you?" 

"Yes," Willow says immediately, a tone of urgency in her voice. 

Mickey wastes no time. She moves her hand back up Willow's leg, moving her fingers under the loose fabric of her shorts. She pauses there, feeling the heat emanating from Willow's pussy, before pressing the back of two of her knuckles into the fabric-covered plushness of it. 

"Fuck, Wills, you're soaked," Mickey says, in awe, dragging her knuckles up and down the mound of Willow's cunt. She has seeped right through her panties, which are practically ruined. "For me?" Mickey says, hardly believing her luck. 

"Yes, Mickey." 

"I'm going in," Mickey says, and winces at how cheesy it sounds. She is rewarded, however, by the sound of Willow giggling. Mickey grins up at her before swiping a finger back under the elastic. 

It is somehow even wetter and hotter inside Willow's panties. Mickey feels her cunt twitch at the thought that she has a finger pushed against her friend's pussy. The fact of this alone feels inexplicably filthier than all of Mickey's dirtiest fantasies. She cannot believe that she has been granted access to this. 

Mickey is filled with an intoxicating desire to see, to explore, to know. She slips another finger in, glancing up again for reassurance from Willow's face. Willow is clutching the arm of the sofa for dear life with one hand. This time, her eyes are wide open, eager. Willow nods. 

"I can't believe I'm touching your pussy," Mickey says. As if in answer, Willow twitches against her.

"Me either," Willow says, "I like it though." 

"I can tell," Mickey says. "It's like a slip n' slide down here Wills." 

Willow covers her face and laughs, and, as much as Mickey loves the sound, she can't do this without looking at her friend's beautiful face. She reaches up with her left hand, pulling Willow's hands away. 

"Want to see you," she explains in answer to Willow's questioning look. 

As it stands currently, Mickey's wrist is at an awkward angle: she's come at Willow's cunt from the side, two fingers jutting awkwardly under the elastic of Willow's panties. This won't work, Mickey thinks. She withdraws her hand, eliciting a very cute huff from Willow as she does. 

"Need a better angle," Mickey says, looking thoughtfully at their current arrangement. For now, she elects to sit up and sit closer to Willow. As she shifts, she feels a wet tackiness in the fabric of her boxer shorts. In her preoccupation with Willow, she hadn't noticed how soaked she had also gotten. 

Nevermind that now, she has a job to do. This time, Mickey works her hand into Willow's panties from the top, wriggling her fingers down to cup the fullness of her pussy in her palm. "Holy shit," she says when she gets there. 

"What?" Willow asks. 

"Wills, I don't know how to say this but your pussy is, uh. It's fat," Mickey says. There isn't a better word for the thick plushness of Willow's cunt. It's basically a full handful. 

"Uh," Willow says, sounding lost. "In a good way?" 

"It's fucking perfect," Mickey says emphatically. "You're perfect." She presses her palm flat against Willow's folds to emphasise her point, and Willow whimpers. Mickey resists the urge to pump her fist in the air in sheer delight at the sound. 

She does it again, relishing the slick wet sound that it makes. The angle is still tricky though, and Mickey wants to see more of her friend's body.

"Wills," she starts, in a tone that lets Willow know she has a plan. 

Willow rolls her eyes affectionately. "Yes?" 

"How would you feel about taking your shirt off and sitting back against me?" 

"Yeah, I can do that," Willow assents. She doesn't move to take her shirt off, though. Mickey pulls her hand out of Willow's underwear and is about to reach for the hem of her shirt before she catches the look on Willow's face. From years of paying close attention to her friend, this is a look Mickey knows well. It's the face she makes when she wants something, but she's not sure she should ask. 

Mickey trained herself to recognise this particular expression after realising when she was younger that Willow would go a day without drinking before asking for so much as a glass of water at Mickey's house. 

"Wills," Mickey says gently. "Tell me what you want? I'd like to know." 

Willow's eyes slide away from Mickey's as she hesitates before saying, "Would you take yours off, too? I want to see you." 

"Oh," Mickey says, swallowing nervously. "Oh yeah, that should be fine." 

Willow scrutinises her. "Are you sure? We don't have to at all if you don't want to." 

The thing is, Mickey doesn't think her tits, or her body more generally, are anything to write home about. Her chest is so flat it's practically concave, her boobs are an odd, almost pointy shape, and her nipples are kind of hairy. She doesn’t generally like looking at herself naked, so she’s not sure about opening herself up to the weight of her friend's gaze, not because Wills would ever dream of being unkind, but because she doesn't want to force Willow to lie to her about it. 

But, this is something that Willow wants, and Mickey is, as ever, Willow's paladin. She always tries to be brave for Willow, and this is no different. Mickey takes a deep breath and pulls her shirt over her head. 

Willow stares at her. She keeps staring. Mickey is starting to worry that her boobs are even more disappointing than she thought. Were her nipples too hard? She looks back up at Willow, who is still staring. 

"Um," Mickey says awkwardly. "Happy with the view?" 

"You look so good," Willow says. There's a quiet wonder in her voice which unexpectedly makes Mickey ache. "Can I touch you?" 

"Yeah, sure, if you like," Mickey replies, trying to ignore the shakiness in her voice. 

Almost reverently, Willow reaches out and traces a careful finger along the line of Mickey's left breast. She traces it back up along the flat plane of her sternum, before reaching a second hand out to gently cup Mickey's right breast. She swipes her thumb over her nipple, sending an electric thrill right through her. 

"You like that," Willow says, not quite a question. 

"Yeah," Mickey says, unable to think of more words when Willow is touching her like that, looking at her like this. It’s easier to forget her complicated feelings about her body under the pleasurable attentiveness of Willow’s hands. Willow swipes her thumb over Mickey's nipple again, and she stifles a moan. 

A little uncomfortable with Willow’s undivided attention on her chest, and recalling that she had set out to complete a god-given mission, Mickey reaches out and tugs questioningly at Willow's shirt. Willow acquiesces, pulling it over her head and letting it drop to the floor beside them. 

Mickey feels her head explode. She's pretty sure her eyes bug out of her skull like she's a cartoon. She has ogled the shape of Willow's tits through shirts, caught glimpses of her in bras or down the neck of her shirt, but she's never been allowed to just look. Willow's breasts are so full, they look heavy. Her nipples are darker and larger than Mickey's, tantalisingly erect.

Mickey reaches out to palm them, rolling one of Willow's nipples between her thumb and finger. Willow inhales shakily, so Mikey does it again, watching fascinated as the effect shudders through Willow. Filled with a desire to do more, Mickey crowds closer to Willow, bowing her head to mouth at her breasts almost greedily. She fits her mouth around the firm bud of her nipple, and sucks, gently. Willow writhes against her, so Mickey brings a hand to her ribcage to steady her. 

"Mickey," Willow says, almost pleadingly. Mickey releases her nipple.

"Yeah?" Mickey says, transfixed by Willow's breasts and the shininess of her nipple from Mickey’s mouth.

When Willow doesn't immediately reply, Mickey looks up to find Willow chewing contemplatively on her lip, evidently still uncertain about chasing her own desires. That's too bad, Mickey thinks, because she is ready and willing to give Willow whatever she wants.  

"Tell me," Mickey implores.

"Want your fingers," Willow says. 

"Where?" Mickey says, being purposefully obtuse. 

"Mickey." 

"Wills." 

Willow huffs in annoyance, which paradoxically, brings Mickey great satisfaction. Willow so rarely voices her irritation with others, but Mickey delights in being one of the few who Willow trusts enough to show her true feelings with. Sometimes, she deliberately pushes Willow's buttons just enough to see it.

"Your pussy?" Mickey prompts, when Willow isn't forthcoming. 

"Inside me," Willow specifies. Well, okay, Mickey thinks. She has her orders.

Mickey shuffles back, so that her spine hits the opposite arm of the sofa. She lets her legs fall open, and gestures for Willow to join her. 

"Lie back against me," she instructs. 

Willow raises an eyebrow. "So demanding," she teases. 

"Lie back against me, please," Mickey amends. 

"That's better," Willow says as she obliges, turning around to lie back against Mickey's chest. Her skin is so warm, and her weight is so comforting, Mickey can't resist wrapping her arms around her best friend's waist and cradling her for a second. Willow flinches, and Mickey jerks her hands back.

"Your hands are cold," says Willow apologetically. Mickey grimaces. She has terrible circulation, it never takes long for her hands to return to being freezing. 

"Unacceptable," Mickey replies, "Help me warm them up?" Willow brings her hands up to cradle Mickey's fingers in between them. Willow's hands are so deliciously warm, Mickey kind of wants to be held between her palms for the rest of her life. 

"Better?" Willow asks softly. 

"You tell me," Mickey replies, freeing her hands and trailing a finger up the curve of Willow's belly, watching as her stomach jumps. 

"Almost," Willow replies. 

"You know, I can think of another hot place that would warm my hands up," Mickey says slyly, mouth next to Willow's ear. 

Willow can't hide the shudder that runs through her, but her voice is steadily wry when she says, "Is it my pants?" 

"Bingo," Mickey replies, using her other hand to brush Willow's hair back from her neck so that she can place a soft kiss there. She snakes the hand resting on Willow's stomach down to her panties again, slipping under the waistband to cup her crotch. 

Once she gets there, she finds herself a little overcome. The initial heady rush of finally getting to touch Willow recedes, and Mickey is gripped with a sudden fear that she doesn't really know what she is doing. She can feel Willow, tense, soaked and pulsing against her fingers, waiting for her to move. 

"Um," Mickey says. "Should I - like. Can. Do you- uh."  

Willow huffs a laugh. "Cat got your tongue?" 

"Something like that." 

Mickey and Willow are quiet for a second, and then Mickey decides to spread her fingers experimentally. It's all so wet and slippery that she can't really get her bearings. 

"Can I take your pants off?" She asks. Willow nods. Mickey hooks her fingers under the waistband and starts tugging them down. Willow lifts her hips to help, pressing Mickey back further into the armrest. Together they manage to get them halfway down her thighs, before they get stuck. 

"Probably should have stood up," Willow says sheepishly. 

"Probably," Mickey agrees, shifting up to give her room to do so. Willow puts one hand on Mickey's shoulder as she balances on one foot after the other to pull her shorts and panties off. Mickey stares. 

 She had already felt the shape of it in her hand, but it still didn't prepare her for the vision in front of her now. Her pubic bone is covered in a sparse thatch of brown hair, a shade or two darker than the hair on her head. Her pussy lips are swollen and glistening. Mickey’s mouth waters.

"Woah." Mickey says. 

"Woah," Willow agrees. 

"That's your pussy", Mickey declares, unnecessarily. 

"Last I checked." Willow has that undercurrent of wry amusement in her voice that she reserves for when Mickey is being a little ridiculous. Mickey loves her so much.  

"It's beautiful," she says to Willow, gazing up at her from her position on the couch. “You’re beautiful. Will you sit back down?" she asks, tugging gently on Willow's hand. 

Willow settles herself back against Mickey's chest, and Mickey spreads her legs further, bringing one foot to the ground to give Willow extra room to let her own legs fall open. 

She takes a minute to properly take in the sight of Willow from this angle, her breasts sitting heavy and the curve of her stomach rising and falling with her breaths, her legs spread out and her thighs trembling. And right there, at the apex of her thighs, Mickey's holy grail. 

Now that she can see what she's doing, and her hands aren't restricted by the tightness of Willow's panties, Mickey is free to explore. She slides her left hand down again, using her first two fingers to spread Willow's lips. 

Willow's clit isn't difficult to find, it's so swollen, but Mickey has trouble finding a rhythm at first. She listens carefully to the hitches in Willow's breath as she circles it, but they sound closer to discomfort than pleasure. 

"Sorry," Mickey mutters, frustrated, "used to my own." 

"It's okay," Willow says, rubbing Mickey's forearm comfortingly. 

"Can you show me what you like?" Mickey asks. 

"Yeah," Willow says, moving her hand down. Mickey withdraws, resting her chin on Willow's shoulder to watch the show. Willow spreads all four fingers over her cunt, flattening them and rubbing at herself. The sight alone is so deliriously hot, Mickey thinks she could come in her boxers just from watching. 

"Oh," Mickey breathes. "Can I try again?" 

Willow withdraws to give her space, and Mickey attempts to mimic her technique. The glide of her fingers over Willow's pussy is so easy it's intoxicating. 

"Can you show me the pressure you like?" Mickey says into Willow's ear. Willow snakes a hand down to cover Mickey's, pressing flat against her until she gasps, rocking back against their intertwined palms. The rocking motion puts a pressure on Mickey's own crotch, where it is pressed against Willow’s back, making it kind of hard to focus. 

"Yeah?" Mickey asks. Willow nods, rolling her hips again, retaining a firm pressure on Mickey's hand. Mickey can feel the wetness oozing between her fingers. 

"Do you like to put your fingers inside yourself?" Mickey asks, desperate to know everything Willow enjoys. 

"Sometimes, but my fingers aren't super long, so it's tricky." 

"My fingers are long," Mickey says, a little smugly. 

"I know," Willow says, breathlessly, still rocking against Mickey's hand. "I love your hands," she continues. 

"You do?" Mickey relaxes her fingers against Willow in surprise. 

"Well, yeah," Willow says, twisting her head to meet Mickey's eyes. "I draw them all the time." Mickey files that information under a newly established mental file titled, Things that make me feel ten feet tall. 

"Did you think about me doing this, then?" She asks, flexing her fingers again. Willow closes her eyes and tilts her head back against the crook of Mickey's neck. 

"Yes," she pants, "Yes."

Mickey slides her hand down so the heel of her palm is against Willow's clit, and tentatively rubs her index and middle finger against Willow's hole. Willow is so wide and ready she slips the tip of both her fingers in almost instantly. 

"This okay?" Mickey checks. 

"More," Willow begs, by way of answer. Mickey complies, slipping her index finger up to the first knuckle, and then adds her middle finger. Pressing her palm back against Willow's clit, she scissors her two fingers experimentally as she slides them in, up to the hilt. Willow is squirming and panting against her. Mickey grinds her own crotch against the meat of Willow's hip, attempting to briefly satiate the persistent ache in her own cunt with the friction.

"So warm," Mickey mutters, pausing for a second to relish the wet sucking heat of Willow around her fingers. 

Pressing her right hand flat against Willow's belly, she starts fingering her in earnest, crooking her fingers inside of Willow, and grinding the palm of her hand against the meat of her pussy. 

"Does this feel good?" She asks. 

"Really good, Mickey," Willow says, breathless. 

For a few minutes, the only sounds that matter to Mickey are the precise tremble in Willow's shaky breathing, the occasional gasp, and the wet slick sound of her fingers in her best friend's cunt. She attunes every singing nerve in her body to the quiet sounds of Willow's pleasure. 

When Willow's breaths get closer together, and her thighs start to tense and shake, Mickey dares to ask, "Are you close?" 

Willow nods, her hands grasping blindly for Mickey's upper arm. Mickey tries to keep going in the same rhythm, but Willow remains teetering on the edge for longer than she anticipated. Much to her dismay, Mickey's wrist starts to cramp, and she loses her rhythm.

"Shit! Sorry," she says, as Willow leans her head back to catch her breath.

"No, I'm sorry," Willow says, "it's hard to relax for some reason."

"Try again?" Mickey asks, and Willow nods fervently. She tries again, once, twice, more but she's lost her way a bit.

"Sorry," she repeats, after the third time. 

"It's okay," Willow reassures her. "It still feels really nice." 

"Really?" Mickey asks sceptically. 

"Really." 

"Because I feel like I'm messing this up." 

"You're definitely not." 

Mickey sighs, sliding her fingers out of Willow to flex her fingers and give her wrist a break.  "Never was much good with my hands, unlike a certain talented artist I know." 

Willow wrinkles her nose as she smiles, the way she always does when Mickey compliments her art. Then her expression shifts slightly, like an idea has occurred to her. 

"You know," she says thoughtfully, shifting around to face Mickey again. "You may not be an artist, but you do tell stories." 

"Yeah?" Mickey says, not quite following. 

"So, I guess, you're probably better with the oral tradition, so to speak." 

Oh. Oh. 

"You want me to eat you out?" Mickey says, enthusiastically. 

Willow shrugs, a little bashfully, "If you would like to?" 

"Wills, it would be the greatest privilege and pleasure of my entire life." 

"Isn't twenty-one a bit young to be making claims about your entire life?" 

"Not in this case. I'm pretty confident this will be my life's work. My sole purpose," Mickey says, earning herself a playful shove in the shoulder from Willow. 

"Shut up. You're an idiot," Willow says, beaming. 

"Your idiot," Mickey says, before she can help herself. She's not sure what this is to Willow yet, but she is sure that having to talk about her big capital F feelings for Willow would kill the mood. To avoid seeing Willow's reaction, Mickey performs a half dive, half roll off the couch, resituating herself in a kneeling position in front of Willow. 

Willow turns too, moving to face Mickey once again, planting her feet on the floor and curling her hands loosely in her lap. She studies Mickey. 

There's an odd tension in the air as Willow observes her, which almost makes Mickey want to cover herself, until she takes in the slackness of Willow's jaw and has the heart stopping realisation that Willow is checking her out. 

"Wills?" Mickey says, her voice more gravelly than she anticipated. 

Willow blinks, shaking her head a little. "I have got to paint you in those boxers." 

"Uh - okay? Not right this second though, right?" 

"Hmm. It's tempting." Willow pretends to deliberate. Or at least, Mickey hopes she is pretending. Just to make sure, Mickey decides to swing the odds in her favour by interlinking her fingers on the couch between Willow's legs and leaning her cheek against Willow's thigh in a supplicatory position. She gazes up at Willow with her best puppy dog eyes. She doesn't really understand why, but she knows that she can convince Willow to do anything with this expression. It's her secret weapon. 

True to form, Willow's eyes soften, darken and crinkle at the edges as she smiles at Mickey. Hook, line and sinker. 

"Not helping your case as much as you think," Willow says, reaching out to rub her thumb along Mickey's cheekbone. Mickey, on impulse, grabs Willow's wrist and drags her hand down so she can put Willow's thumb in her mouth. Puppy dog eyes still deployed. 

This elicits a ragged groan from Willow, much to Mickey's gratification. She swirls her tongue over Willow's thumb to emphasise her point, drooling a little. 

"Okay, okay," Willow relents, "Eat me out first." 

Mickey relinquishes Willow's thumb back to its rightful owner, pressing a sloppy kiss to the palm of her hand before letting go of Willow's wrist. 

"If you insist," she says, cheerily, hiding a smile by placing another kiss on Willow's knee as she catches sight of another of Willow's eye rolls. 

Mickey tugs gently at Willow's calves, guiding Willow to hook them over her shoulders. 

"Shuffle forwards for me?" She asks Willow, bringing her hands under her thighs and around to her back to support her, and yes, okay to grope her ass a little. Sue her.

 Willow scoots forward to the edge of the sofa, feet resting on Mickey's back. 

"This okay?" Willow asks. 

"More than okay," Mickey confirms. She’s right where she wants to be. 

She tilts her head down to gaze at Willow's glistening pussy again, inhaling the intoxicating, tangy scent of it. As she exhales, her breath fans over Willow, making her squirm. Mickey has no choice but to do it again, grinning with wolfish delight at the way Willow digs her heels into her back. 

"You are such a tease," Willow says accusingly, trying to muster up a glare. 

"You should know by now that I have a reputation for being a little shit," Mickey says, unapologetically, sitting back on her heels. "Seventeen years of friendship and you still haven't learned?" She punctuates each word of this last remark with a kiss to Willow's thighs. 

Mickey quickly learns that having her mouth on Willow's thighs is addictive, not least because Willow can't keep still every time she sucks the fat of her thigh into her open mouth, just past her teeth. Her innermost thighs, which Mickey notices with a heady rush, are darker than the rest of her skin, are the most sensitive, particularly when Mickey laves her tongue over them. 

She figures that teasing Willow is just another way to get her to ask for what she wants, and she is rewarded for her efforts by Willow gasping, "Please, Mickey, put your mouth on me." Willow underscores her point by threading her fingers through Mickey's hair and tugging her head towards her pussy. 

This is, unexpectedly, a greater reward than Mickey had bargained for. The sensation of Willow's hands in her hair, and the tugging sensation on her scalp results in an embarrassingly loud moan escaping from her throat. 

Willow stills, but Mickey doesn't give her time to compute, as she moves forward to swipe her tongue between the crease of Willow's pussy and her thigh. Willow tastes so salty here, and Mickey's cheek is instantly wet from the mess on Willow's thighs. Mickey repeats this action on the other side, before placing three sloppy kisses to Willow's sopping cunt, relishing the resulting squeeze of Willow's legs around her neck. 

Distantly, Mickey tries to recall the few times she has been eaten out by a guy, and what made it feel good. She thinks about the way Willow flattened her own fingers against herself, and opts to flatten her tongue and lick a stripe up Willow's slit. 

"Yes," Willow says above her, so Mickey does it again, keeping the same pressure and speed as she drags her tongue over Willow. She glances up at her as she does so, not wanting to miss out on the spectacle of her friend's head tipped back in pleasure. 

"Fuck, Mickey, please, Mick - oh my god," Willow gasps, her toes curling against Mickey's spine. Mickey, for once, is necessarily silent, but for the first time she's not interested in saying anything. The sound of Willow finally asking for what she wants is a pleasure second only to being the one to give it to her. 

"Feels so good Mickey," Willow praises, and Mickey's blood sings in time with the throbbing sensation in her crotch. She squeezes Willow's thighs, wanting to convey her pleasure at doing this right. 

Willow seems to catch her meaning, because more praises follow, "So good Micks, you're doing such a good job, don't stop, please - oh, fuck." It's as though something has been released in Willow, her inhibitions gone as she starts babbling, telling Mickey everything she wants to say, everything Mickey needs to hear. 

At some point, Willow's fingers wind their way back into Mickey's hair, and it's not long before she starts tugging on it. Like the first time, Mickey is powerless to stop the throaty moans that this results in. This sets off a chain reaction, the vibration of Mickey's groans as she has her face buried in Willow's cunt encouraging more hair pulling. 

Mickey, helplessly, finds herself absent-mindedly chasing her own pleasure, squeezing her thighs together in pulses in the hope of finding some relief for the relentless, needy throbbing of her clit. It's enough to ratchet up her arousal, but not enough to deliver it fully. She remains torturously on the edge for all the long, Edenic minutes she spends dragging her tongue over Willow's clit. 

Somewhere in the hazy heat of Mickey's endeavours, Willow starts pushing Mickey's face into her pussy, rolling her hips to grind against the flat of her tongue. Mickey lets Willow find a rhythm in tandem with hers. She realises that this is another way Willow can ask for, and take what she wants from Mickey, who is only too happy to give. 

Mickey isn't sure how long it takes before she feels the now familiar tightening in Willow's thighs that suggests she is close to the edge, and nor does she care. Time is meaningless to Mickey right now. Every fibre of her being is intent on making Willow come, on doing a good job. 

She persists in her efforts, as Willow starts to buck her hips more frenetically against Mickey's tongue. "Mickey, I'm - I'm close," Willow says, like Mickey hadn't already innately translated Willow's body language. She glances up at Willow again, digging her nails into the fat of her thigh in approval as Willow gasps and shudders above her, movements erratic as she fucks her orgasm out onto Mickey's face. 

Mickey helps her through it, never ceasing in her movements until Willow's shaking subsides into twitches and she gently pushes Mickey's face away from her cunt. 

Willow is a fucking vision, with her combined wetness and Mickey's spit coating most of her upper thighs. Her chest is heaving, and her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes - bright and warm, are best of all, Mickey thinks. 

By contrast, Mickey is pretty sure she looks wretched. She can feel that her chin is soaking- dripping actually. Her face is probably red, and her mouth all swollen. But Willow is gazing at her with such an expression of aching fondness that it soothes some of her insecurity. 

"You always were a messy eater," Willow says affectionately, reaching out to wipe Mickey's chin with the edge of the blanket. 

"Can't be blamed for that one, Wills," Mickey points out. 

They look at each other, panting, for a few moments, before Willow motions for Mickey to come closer. Mickey stands on shaky legs, right in front of Willow. 

"Thank you," Willow says, steadying Mickey by reaching up to hold her waist. 

"For what?" Mickey asks, dumbly. She can't really think coherently with the warmth of Willow's thumbs rubbing over her hip bone. 

Affectionate eye roll number three ensues. 

"For making me come?" Willow suggests. 

"Oh." Mickey nods. "My pleasure." 

"Was it though?" Willow asks, a little uncertain. "I feel like I kind of used your face." 

"Please use my face whenever you like, Wills," Mickey says earnestly. "I liked it so much." 

"Yeah?"

Mickey nods again. "I nearly came in my pants just from that." 

"About that," Willow says. "I think I should return the favor." 

"Is-" Mickey has to steady herself for a second. "Is that what you want?" 

"That's what I want," Willow confirms. 

"Okay," Mickey agrees, because she would be stupid not to. 

Willow hooks her thumb into the waistband of Mickey's sodden boxers, and then pauses. "Kind of a shame to take these off," she says. "You look ridiculously good in them." 

"Huh?" Mickey says, in disbelief.

"You look really good in them," Willow repeats. 

"Probably better to keep them on then," Mickey jokes, suddenly anxious. 

"What if I want them off?" Willow says coyly.

"Oh, then, take them off, definitely." 

Willow does so, promptly. They make a kind of wet sound as they hit the floor, and Mickey winces.  Willow raises an eyebrow, before nudging them with her toe. Mickey scrunches her eyes shut. 

"Mickey," Willow says, the tight sound of restrained glee in her voice. 

"Yep," Mickey says.

"You were soaked." 

"Uh huh," Mickey agrees, opening her eyes to inform Willow, "it's cause you're so fucking hot." 

Willow smiles, leaning forward to press a kiss to Mickey's hipbone. "Pot calling the kettle black, I think," she says softly. 

"Yeah?" Mickey asks, scanning Willow's face. 

"You're stunning," Willow confirms. "I want to make you feel good, too." 

"Already have," Mickey says immediately. 

"More than that." 

"Yes." 

Willow trails one finger up Mickey's inner thigh, and Mickey has to grab Willow's shoulder for balance. 

"Uh, maybe I sit down?" She suggests. 

Willow scoots back so her spine is flush with the sofa, opening her legs so that Mickey can sit between them. 

Mickey leans back against her, sinking into the warmth and softness of Willow's body, the enveloping curves of her breasts, stomach and thighs soothing her nerves. 

Willow licks up the side of her neck, causing a shudder to run through her. Her clit throbs again, and Mickey squeezes her thighs together. 

Now that she's in Willow's arms, and she's made Willow come, Mickey is freer to focus on her own body. She realises, belatedly, just how senselessly turned on she is. She's lightheaded, and her pussy is aching. 

Mickey whines, and Willow trails her fingers over her stomach, arms, bringing them back over her ribcage, and palming her right breast, pinching Mickey’s nipple lightly so that she gasps.

“Not there,” Mickey complains, eager to have Willow’s fingers where she needs them most. Willow drags her fingers torturously slowly over Mickey’s stomach, which jumps in anticipation, before stroking down the outer length of her thighs. Mickey is surprised to realise her legs are so sensitive; her entire body convulses in pleasure at Willow’s touch.

“Love your body,” Willow says, kissing Mickey’s jaw. She moves her hand up, slowly, to bury her fingers in Mickey’s bush. “Love your hair, too,” Willow murmurs. Overwhelmed, Mickey shakes her head. 

“You’re so handsome,” Willow says, a firm conviction in her voice. This staggers Mickey. She has confessed her dislike of the word pretty to Willow before, explaining the way it makes her shrink. It never felt real, and it never felt right. But handsome? It makes her toes curl, makes her feel ten feet tall. 

“Again,” she manages, rapidly losing her ability to form words.

“Handsome,” Willow repeats. Mickey whimpers. 

Next, Willow is smearing her fingers in the moisture that has collected on Mickey's inner thighs. 

She brings her hand up to Mickey's mouth. 

"Taste?" She requests, and Mickey opens up, sucking her own saltiness greedily off Willow's fingers. 

"Please," Mickey says, muffled by Willow's hand in her mouth. "Need it."

She feels Willow's lips stretch into a smile in the crook of her neck, before Willow moves her hand down to cup Mickey's cunt. 

Mickey throws her head back and groans, loud and long. She knows with immediate certainty that she is going to come hard and fast. She's been waiting for so long, and she's so desperate for it that it only takes a few circles of Willow's fingers on her clit before she can feel the coil of pleasure tightening. 

"Not gonna last, Wills," she mumbles, scrabbling for purchase on Willow's thighs as her legs start to shake. 

"I know, baby, I want you to come for me," Willow says, sweet as ever, and it's the appearance of this new nickname, and the steadiness in Willow's admission of want that finally pushes Mickey over the edge. Her orgasm crashes over her, successive waves of pleasure wracking her body as she chokes out Willow's name. 

-

When she comes back to herself, damp with sweat and exhausted, Willow is rubbing soothing circles on her hip. Mickey abruptly finds herself close to tears, strung out and overwrought. When Willow presses a kiss to the top of her head, Mickey can't stop them from falling. 

"It's okay," Willow says, kind as always, until Mickey calms herself. 

"Sorry," Mickey apologises. "I got overwhelmed." 

Willow smiles. "I really am good with my hands, huh?" 

Mickey laughs, wetly. It feels good, because everything always feels good with Willow. She always chooses the exact right words to say to make Mickey feel better. 

Willow laughs too, and then the both of them laugh even harder at the abrupt sound of the credits rolling on Dune. 

"Fuck, I forgot we were watching that," Mickey wheezes.

"It is not a sexy enough film to warrant any of what we just did," Willow says. 

"It's sexy now," Mickey says. She moves to sit next to Willow. They've swapped places, and as she sits down, she feels the spine of Willow's sketchbook digging into her leg.

Unearthing it from the blanket, she squints at the drawing Willow was working on, before her jaw drops. 

"Um," Willow says, a little awkwardly. 

"How did you know?" Mickey says, stunned. The drawing is of Mickey, kneeling and naked, a clear expression of lust in her eyes. 

"I didn't know, I just wanted," Willow says nervously. "I promise, I didn't plan this, I didn't have a scheme-"

"Shh," Mickey says, grinning. "I know you didn't, Wills, there isn't a deceitful bone in your body. I just can't believe that you wanted me, too." 

"I've wanted you for ages." Willow says.

"I didn't know," Mickey says, shell-shocked. 

"I feel like I did an awful job of hiding it," Willow says. "For example, when you came down in those boxers, I nearly went into heat." 

"You really liked those, huh?" Mickey says, feeling a new sense of self-confidence. 

"They were probably the final straw for me." 

"Should have worn them sooner." 

"Should have." Willow pauses. "But that was worth the wait."  

Mickey contemplates this for a minute. "You mean the sex?" She mumbles. 

"Uh yeah," Willow says, sounding confused. 

"Just the sex?" 

"Was there something else for you?" Willow asks, something cautious and unreadable in her voice. 

"Feelings." Mickey says, afraid to meet Willow's eyes. She doesn't have a choice though, because Willow reaches out to cup Mickey’s face and nudges her chin up. 

"Tell me about these feelings?" Willow asks. 

Mickey counts her breaths, steeling herself. Willow is patient, waiting whilst she counts past twenty, then thirty, then sixty. 

At seventy, Mickey opens her mouth. "I'm in love with you." 

Willow stares at her. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her hand drops into her lap. 

"Is that alright?" Mickey says, her voice small. She feels vulnerable, sat here naked with her feelings exposed. She curls her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knee. 

Willow looks close to tears. "It's not alright Mickey," she says. "Because I've been in love with you for ages. Years and years." 

It takes a while for Mickey to understand the words. "This whole time?" She says, confused. 

"The whole time," Willow confirms, her eyes bright. 

Mickey is stunned. She mentally recalibrates every single interaction they had through the lens of this new knowledge.  

Oh, god. She has a lot of making up to do. 

"The fight in the rain? When I said you didn’t like boys," she says, haltingly. 

"Yup." 

"When I said we were just friends?"

"Yeah, that sucked." 

"When I said we were best friends." 

"All 500 times, yeah," Willow says, but she has a smile on her face now.  

"I'm so stupid," Mickey says, shifting forwards into a kneeling position so she can take Willow's hands in hers. "I'm so sorry Wills, I should have told you how I felt sooner." 

"It's okay, Mickey," Will says. "You weren't ready. I wasn't ready." 

"Are you ready now?" Mickey asks, squeezing her hand. 

"Ready for what?" 

"For me to make it up to you, spend the rest of my life giving you whatever you want," Mickey says earnestly, gazing at Willow. 

Willow's eyes are shining. She's so fucking beautiful it's making Mickey's head spin. She might do something stupid, like propose marriage, if Willow doesn't say something- 

"Kiss me." Willow says. 

"What?" 

"That's what I want. A kiss." 

"Just one?" Mickey says, forlornly. 

"Greedy," Willow scolds, but she's leaning in. Mickey's hand comes up to hold Willow’s face, steadying her as she tilts her head to press their lips together softly. It's the gentlest kiss of Mickey's life, feather light. 

The fullness of Willow's mouth against hers is irresistible, but she pulls back enough to say, cheekily, "That's one." 

"Two then," Willow replies immediately, pressing their lips back together. This time, the kiss is deeper, as Willow's mouth opens under hers. Mickey is trembling, all over, she realises vaguely, as she licks into Willow's mouth.

When they pull apart, Mickey feels a sense of grounded certainty. She had imagined this, expected fireworks, a dizzying rush. But instead, she just feels peace. She feels like she's home. 

"I love you." She says. It bears repeating, so she says it again, “I love you.”

"I love you," Willow replies, instantly. 

"Also," Mickey adds. "I'm sorry I ate you out before kissing you. I was raised better than that." 

Willow throws her head back and laughs, loud and joyful. 

"I wouldn't have wanted it any other way."

"Well. As long as it's what you want," Mickey says, satisfied in her absolution. She leans back against the arm, gesturing for Willow to lie against her. 

Willow complies, curling up against Mickey, spine to stomach, so that Mickey can hold her properly, one leg over her hip. 

“I’m buying five more pairs of boxers,” Mickey informs Willow, lips against the back of her neck. Willow shivers.

“Good. I’m taking them all off you,” she says sleepily. 

They fall asleep that way, nestled against each other, and it's by far the best sleep of Mickey's life.