Return to Island of Death Chapter Seven

Island of Death

Author: Tarawhipped
Rating: R
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Joss Whedon/Mutant Enemy.
Note: Thoughts in italics.
Warning: Character death.


Tara woke with a start, her heart beating rapidly as her eyes and mind struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She hadn't intended to fall asleep; had only closed her eyes for a moment, but that was enough for physical and mental exhaustion to overcome her. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she surmised it was still the middle of the night. Not a sound could be heard save the quiet, agitated mumbling coming from behind her, where Willow lay spooned against her back. Tara smiled lazily and shifted to turn over, but the arm draped over her middle tightened and held her in place.

"Mmno... Tare... don' go... there's frogs."

The blonde bit back a giggle at the sleep-slurred words. Relaxing into the redhead's embrace, she sighed and let her eyes flutter closed, resigning herself to sleep. Her repose lasted a scant few minutes before the hand wrapped around her waist began moving over her bare skin, soft fingertips gliding across her stomach and chest, caressing down her right arm and thigh. Visions of their earlier lovemaking assaulted her, rendering all of her senses fully conscious of one thing.

"Willow?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Willow, are you awake?"

"Hmm," came the redhead's muffled reply, her warm breath on the back of Tara's neck sending a pleasant shiver down the blonde's spine.

As the wandering hand made its torturously slow way back up to Tara's breasts, the blonde exhaled loudly and reached behind her to grip Willow's thigh. The redhead flexed her hips and Tara let out a ragged gasp.

"W-willow," she repeated, her voice rising both in volume and pitch. "Willow, wake up."

The redhead grumbled in response, her right hand kneading Tara's breast, her hips slowly grinding against the blonde's ass. Tara felt on the verge of screaming in frustration or flipping Willow over, pinning her to the bed, and kissing her awake when she felt the other woman suddenly go still.


The blonde sighed with relief at the sound of the confused, but clearly awake voice. When she felt the redhead begin to pull away, she quickly brought her left hand up to hold Willow's arm in place across her chest, and squeezed the freckled thigh with the other for good measure.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked, her voice low and sultry. She smirked into the darkness at Willow's audible gasp.

"I, um... going? Er, not going anywhere... 'cause where else would I want to be than right here with you, all awake and naked and - hey, weren't you wearing jammies before? Not that I'm complaining of course... I'm all with the not complaining here... cause waking up to naked Tara... wow... and - oh my god, was I molesting you in my sleep? Oh, god, Tara... I am so sorry."

Tara didn't have to turn around to envision the look of horror on the redhead's face. She chuckled softly as she brought Willow's hand to her lips and nibbled on the fingertips, quieting the redhead instantly.

"It's okay, sweetie, you were dreaming. I think you were protecting me from... frogs?" Tara felt a shiver pass through the redhead's body, whether from the mention of amphibious creatures or the fact that Tara had moved Willow's hand back to her breasts, she wasn't sure. "That was very gallant of you. Who knows what those mean old frogs might have done. I'm sure I must have been very... appreciative... of your bravery."

Willow's lips curled into a grin at the base of Tara's neck, just above her shoulder. The redhead's hand again began to move, but with greater pressure and purpose, lingering only a moment on the blonde's erect nipples before proceeding down to Tara's already damp curls and hardening clit.

"Appreciative? As in... I get a reward?"

Tara groaned and dug her fingers into Willow's thigh. The redhead had managed to snake her left arm under Tara's waist and held on tightly as the blonde writhed.

"Let me turn over and I'll give it to you," she panted, her throat constricting as Willow's forefinger teased her opening.

"Hmmm," Willow mused. "As nice as that sounds, I think I'd like something else for my reward."

Willow dragged her lips up Tara's neck to her ear, where she licked the lobe before whispering, "I think I'd rather fuck you senseless, so that when I make you come hard all over my hand, my name will be the only word you can remember to scream."

With that, the redhead plunged three fingers into Tara, who thrust desperately against Willow's hand. It didn't take long for Willow to get her reward exactly as she'd asked.

I'm falling...

The figure pushed away from the desk and stood in front of the television screens, opening a labeled metal drawer beneath one, collecting several items and carefully stowing them in the front cargo pants pockets. From the desk a pair of night vision goggles were retrieved and situated in place. The office door glided silently open then shut, and the figure moved down the hall, stopping about halfway along the passage, where another steel door was built into the rock walls. With the push of a well-concealed button, the door slid open, revealing a steep staircase leading up.

Even without the goggles, the figure could have traversed the darkened passageways with the ease born of familiarity. Having designed the house for just this purpose, every secret corridor and room was embedded in the fevered brain of the home's owner. Two years of planning, building, and waiting had finally come to fruition, and the figure was methodical enough to know that it was better to wear the goggles than to risk an ill-timed trip or sound, inadvertently alerting someone to the presence of movement within the walls. The successful play of events so far had made the figure giddy with delight, but ever cognizant that any imprecise action could result in failure. The earlier surprise had made it abundantly clear that despite all of the effort put in, there were always unforeseen variables.

Moving with an almost inhuman patience, it took forty minutes to silently climb the two stories and cross to the East side of the manor. The figure paused at the threshold of a small wooden panel, lifted up the goggles, and pulled a hand-held monitor from one pocket. As the screen glowed to life, a woman appeared, still pacing restlessly. The figure's eyes never left the monitor while reaching into the other pocket for a remote control device. Pressing of one of several dozen buttons, the figure watched as the subject jumped, then moved to shut the French doors that had suddenly swung open. The figure waited for the subject to grab a cigarette and attempt to light it with shaking fingers before again pressing the button. This time the figure activated the switch that slid open the wood panel, and stepped silently into a half-filled wardrobe. The third time the doors flew open, the figure could hear the woman cursing as she stepped out onto the small balcony to peer out into the blackness. Quickly pocketing both devices, the figure passed through the wardrobe door and with extraordinary speed crept up to where the subject stood at the precipice, and shoved.

I'm fucking falling...

...was the last thought that went through Faith Johnson's brain before she jerked to a stop seven feet off the ground, her limbs twitching for several seconds before dangling limp around her. The figure looked down and smiled at the body impaled on the iron fence, one spear-shaped finial thrust through her midsection. The figure disappeared back into the walls, thinking that it could not have been a more precise hit if it had been a knife wielded by hand.

Continue to Island of Death Chapter Nine

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