Trip
The power courses through her fingers and along her skin and right down to her tiniest toes and oh God, it's all beautiful, it's all wonderful, and it's perfect.
Even as she floats down -- floating! Actually floating! -- she's still riding that crest. Trails of rainbows and glitter sparkle along the edges of her sight, and everything is slightly fuzzy, like vaseline on the camera lens, like women in old Star Trek episodes, like sunlight and laughter and beautiful things.
It doesn't matter what it is, it doesn't matter what it looks like normally, because the magic, that brilliant light that shines over everything, hiding all flaws and just showing the beauty. The cracks on the walls are secret maps to untold treasure. The puddles of filth are oceans. The boxes and litter are entire cities, carefully laid out according to an unknown plan.
And on the faded stained couch, which reveals its delicate pattern and soft cushions, sits Dawn.
Dawn does nothing but sulk and grumble, but there's still that glorious glowing light inside of her, green like leaves and limes and emeralds, sharp and sweet and delicious. Willow laughs as the light glows stronger, pulling her closer, pulling her in. The couch sighs happily as she sits next to Dawn, the music swells, the lights dim, and that gorgeous green light pulls her closer, sweeter.
Dawn's mouth tastes like sourballs, the kind that are hard and sour on the outside and soft and sweet on the inside, and Willow sees green. Green like a green sourball, all sweet and delicious and candy-coated sharp, even as she slides her hands up and over and against.
Everything feels more -- velvet and smooth and the heat radiating off of Dawn's skin is like a fire, burning Willow's hands even as she has to keep on touching her. The trails of light coalesce and form a figure, overlaid on Dawn's skin like clothing or paint or a possession by a glorious angel.
Willow feels like she's going to be consumed entirely by Dawn. The green light grows and brightens and Willow will burn, turn to ash and charcoal before she even realises what has happened. The pleasure will consume her, engulf her, her hands slipping not just against Dawn, but through Dawn.
Dawn's breast is small, tender, budding firmness developing into femininity and the nipple hardens against Willow's palm, poking against her, another sensory explosion over and over stabbing her system.
Dawn's jeans are rough, sandpaper against Willow's skin, but big enough for Willow to slide her hand in and against, cupping fire and softness and impossibly smooth silk. Dawn is hot and cold at the same time, fire and ice, hard and soft, wrong and right, the green light shining through her pale pink skin.
Willow breaks away long enough to moan and buck against her, groaning out a fluttering orgasms, the pulse in her body like a small bird or a fragile insect. Her eyes screw up tightly, and still the colours flash and trail in her wake.
"What are you doing?!" Dawn screeches, discordant notes crashing against the soft melodious hum of the city. "Get off me!"
Dawn pushes her away, and Willow laughs.