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snoggedTitle: Regrets and Mistakes (Their Memories Made)
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Co. own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t. Title taken from the song: “Someone Like You” by Adele so I don’t own that either.
Pairing: Willow/Parker
Word Count: 1990
Overall Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; ** angst, infidelity, some adult language, sex
Setting: Season 4 – “Beer Bad”
Summary: What if Willow had let Parker take advantage of her?
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.
A/N: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
whichwillow, aka the amazing, annual Willow fic-a-thon run by the incredible dragonydreams. This is my first time writing this pairing and I must admit I’m a bit nervous about how this fic will be received so please take the time to leave a comment. Thank you and enjoy!
Artwork made bysnowpuppies
A young woman walked into a bar and the bartender asked: “Got an ID?” She grinned and responded: “Nope, but I’ve got my Ego and my Superego.”
The Freudian joke that Riley had casually written on a note that he’d attached to the A+ paper he’d handed back to Willow after Maggie’s psychology lecture this morning had reduced her to a fit of giggles.
Luckily for her, that little message had fallen out of her Psych binder the moment she had pulled her books from her messenger bag. Before spreading the rest of her notes across the library table, she permitted herself to read it again and barely stifled a chuckle, much to the chagrin of the librarian on the staff.
The psychoanalytic humor was just the thing she needed to distract her thoughts from swinging full-tilt into worry territory. Not that she shouldn’t be worried about Buffy’s new-found drinking and sandwich-stealing problems because they were certainly things worth worrying about and as Buffy’s best friend, Willow knew it was her job to be in Buffy’s corner during her time of need.
But she was also Oz’s girlfriend and lately…Oz had moved to the top of her list of people to worry about because of that girl.
The one with the stupid hair and the stupid clothes and the stupid raspy sex voice.
The one Oz hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from last night.
The one he was choosing to spend tonight with instead of spending it with her.
Says she who still shops in the clearance aisle at Target and didn’t mind so much last year when Xander Harris, also known as not-your-boyfriend, was shoving his sloppy tongue down your willing throat….
Willow flinched, stunned by the disparaging tone of her inner voice. Instead of letting that negative message sink immediately into the marrow of her bones, Willow grabbed hold of her knowledge of one of Freud’s favorite theoretical constructs and began to rationalize.
First of all, shopping at Target wasn’t a bad thing. The clearance racks helped her maintain her skirt-wearing, shawl-draping look while allowing her to maintain fiscal responsibility. As far as Xander was concerned, she felt she had more than paid back karma for their fluke, hadn’t she?
Then she paused, putting the brakes on her soon to be derailed train of thought and got back to what was really worrying her.
Come on, Willow, you’re in Sunnydale. Clearly, that Veruca chick is a demon and once you tell Buffy, the problem will be insta-solved with a stake through the heart and Oz will be free and yours again.
Satisfied with this optimistic prediction, Willow unzipped her pen/pencil pouch and slipped her fingers inside, pulling out the highlighters and colored pens that would serve her organizational style well. It wasn’t long before the angsty thoughts about Oz started up again, ruining her attempts to focus elsewhere with the increasingly distressing refrain of chugga-chugga-choo-choo.
Oz wouldn’t just throw everything they had in the dumpster just for some cheap, pretty thrill, would he? Even if he was demonically possessed?
Willow’s breath hitched in her throat. Doubting that Oz loved her- doubting that his flag for her Nation was still flying high- was a terrifying thought, one she so did not need to be having tonight. What she needed to do instead was focus on other things, non-Oz things. Luckily for her, she had stumbled upon the library’s only copy of Freud’s published interpretation regarding his client Dora: “Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria.”
But it wasn’t long after she started thumbing through the text that the dry translation proved to be fruitless as a distraction.
Maybe a Chai tea would help?
She’d always been a sucker for the tantalizing scent of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves; the touch of caffeine never hurt either.
Better to be alert than buried in six feet of dirt.
Lucky for her, there was an Espresso Express tucked in the far corner of the library’s basement. So she packed up her pens and her book and headed down the short flight of stairs.
That was when she spotted the king of the Poopy Heads, Parker Abrams, departing from the coffee counter with a steaming mug of the beverage she sought.
Once upon a time, Parker had been a nice guy who wore blue sweaters and played pool and had nice eyes and a soft smile that had only been for Buffy. Now, he was guilty of the same thing Oz was.
Making googly eyes at other women.
It wasn’t cool.
It would not stand.
She might not be able to communicate those feelings to Oz just yet; but her id, her irrational mind, was more than happy to lash out at Parker because Parker wasn’t her boyfriend. Heck, he wasn’t even her friend.
“Hey Willow.”
He sounded so casual, so laissez-faire and it just made her angrier. When did the male gender decide to start sucking so much?
“I want to give you a piece of my mind,” Willow said, crossing her arms over her chest in an attempt to give herself the aura of intimidation that her red snowflake sweater really wasn’t providing at this moment.
“Go right ahead,” Parker replied, taking a seat at a table that was currently home to an array of his Psych notes.
She sat down across from him and quickly launched into a diatribe about how he had hurt Buffy, how he should be confessing his guilt, how he should be groveling at Buffy’s feet, asking for her forgiveness.
To her surprise, he listened intently, patiently waiting his turn before he could defend himself.
Which he did.
In perfect philosophical form.
She couldn’t help but think that the greats- Freud and Nietzsche, especially- would tip their hats to Parker and his explanation of why casual sex shouldn’t be prefaced with “just so you know, I’m never going to grow old with you.”
Hell, even she couldn’t stop herself from nodding because she was no stranger to the fire of sexual intimacy. She knew full well what the heat of two bodies rubbing together felt like. She knew the passionate intensity of a man inside of her - Oz - not man.
Man meant she was willing to think about other men. Other men like Parker who didn’t deserve to find himself inside of her – filling her, driving her to the brink, as sweat dampened her hair….
Willow inhaled sharply, feeling almost afraid of where her mind was taking her. She couldn’t help but think that thinking about sex in front of someone like Parker was like waving a giant red flag in front of a bull.
It was bound to lead to badness.
Epic badness.
Willow nervously bit down on her lip to keep herself in check as she watched his eyebrows rise ever so slightly and his tongue run across the seam of his bottom lip. Somehow, he’d figured her out and now that he’d found a hook, he wasn’t going to let her off the line too easily.
“Sure. Those chairs over there look like they would be…um…more comfy than chairs that aren’t these ones.”
Parked smirked and quickly swept his belongings off the table and into his messenger bag. “Lead the way.”
Willow rose to her feet and headed towards the corner of the basement where two large armchairs were placed at a ninety-degree angle to each other. He let her have first pick and as soon as he sat down, he leaned towards her, pressing his body against the armrest and keeping the distance between to a minimum.
Part of her wanted to lean back, wanted to make the distance between them greater than the distance that currently existed between her and Oz, wanted to show Parker that he was still the enemy here…but that part wasn’t driving right now.
Instead, the wheel had been stolen by whatever part of her was entranced by his silver tongue and the smooth words that tumbled from his soft, pink lips.
“You know, Buffy’s not like you,” Parker mused, peering at her through hooded lashes.
“Oh really?” Willow asked, arching a questioning eyebrow. There were so many different ways he could spin a comment like that –
…She’s blonde…
…She’s perky…
…She didn’t take this long to open up her legs for me…
Given his ability to be slicker than hair gel, she was almost afraid to find out how he would because it wasn’t often that any man picked her over Buffy. Even Xander, who had engaged in several flukes with her last year, had still chosen Buffy first.
“Really,” Parker replied, reaching out to touch her hand. Instinctively, she knew she should try to pull away, but instead she allowed him to linger there, letting his fingers warm the skin of her knuckles.
“You’re not the magazine cut-out that Hollywood tries to shove down the throats of men. You’re a woman that any man could warm up to, any man could talk to. I don’t feel like I have to go out of my way to impress you because you’re real with me. You make me want to be real with myself, you know? No bullshit.”
This was it.
This was his lead-in so he could jump her bones and this was her cue to reject him. This was her time to call him out for being led by his id, for being led by his cock.
But “no” was not the word that left her lips.
“Oh.”
“A woman of few words,” Parker replied, chuckling softly. “I like that.”
“Um…,” Willow started, attempting to regain her composure despite knowing that she had basically accepted his oily compliments, granting victory to him.
“I have a proposition for you,” Parker replied, smoothly interrupting her as his hand transferred from her hand to her knee. The thick denim of her skirt did nothing to diminish the heat that passed between them and although she wanted to fight it, her resolve was melting away like an ice cube that had been tossed in a furnace.
“What’s that?” Willow asked hesitantly, begging her mind to come up with an image of Oz, a reminder of the love she had with him, something that would stop her from doing something so primal, so…stupid.
But the only image that came was *her.*
Veruca.
Stealing Oz out from underneath her with the bat of an eyelash.
“One night with me. No secrets. No bullshit. Just a wonderful night between two people who just need to forget the shit piles of life.”
He paused, leaning in close enough to hear her panicked gulp.
“No harm. No foul.”
It wasn’t exactly a proposal that made Willow feel weak in the knees, but the way his hand was moving up her thigh sure was.
Could she say yes?
Could she forget Oz? Could she forget Parker’s crimes against Buffy?
Could she check her Ego and Superego at the door in favor of keeping her Id in her pocket?
Was she really so desperate? So in need of validation that she was desirable?
Seven minutes.
That was all it took for her to end up here.
In his bed.
Making the same stupid mistake that Buffy had.
Parker’s hands explored her body, his nails dragged across her flesh, spelling out her sin as his tongue found that sensitive spot in the hollow of her throat.
She arched her back as he found her center, driving into her over and over (and over again). There was no hitch in his thrusts, no recognition of guilt. They were just two bodies linked together, locked together, teetering forever on the edge of oblivion until—
Willow cried out, in pleasure and pain, in distraction and shame, in remorse and finally, in the hope that tomorrow…
Would never come.
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Co. own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t. Title taken from the song: “Someone Like You” by Adele so I don’t own that either.
Pairing: Willow/Parker
Word Count: 1990
Overall Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; ** angst, infidelity, some adult language, sex
Setting: Season 4 – “Beer Bad”
Summary: What if Willow had let Parker take advantage of her?
Beta:
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.A/N: This was written for
whichwillow, aka the amazing, annual Willow fic-a-thon run by the incredible dragonydreams. This is my first time writing this pairing and I must admit I’m a bit nervous about how this fic will be received so please take the time to leave a comment. Thank you and enjoy!Artwork made by
snowpuppiesA young woman walked into a bar and the bartender asked: “Got an ID?” She grinned and responded: “Nope, but I’ve got my Ego and my Superego.”
The Freudian joke that Riley had casually written on a note that he’d attached to the A+ paper he’d handed back to Willow after Maggie’s psychology lecture this morning had reduced her to a fit of giggles.
Luckily for her, that little message had fallen out of her Psych binder the moment she had pulled her books from her messenger bag. Before spreading the rest of her notes across the library table, she permitted herself to read it again and barely stifled a chuckle, much to the chagrin of the librarian on the staff.
The psychoanalytic humor was just the thing she needed to distract her thoughts from swinging full-tilt into worry territory. Not that she shouldn’t be worried about Buffy’s new-found drinking and sandwich-stealing problems because they were certainly things worth worrying about and as Buffy’s best friend, Willow knew it was her job to be in Buffy’s corner during her time of need.
But she was also Oz’s girlfriend and lately…Oz had moved to the top of her list of people to worry about because of that girl.
The one with the stupid hair and the stupid clothes and the stupid raspy sex voice.
The one Oz hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from last night.
The one he was choosing to spend tonight with instead of spending it with her.
Says she who still shops in the clearance aisle at Target and didn’t mind so much last year when Xander Harris, also known as not-your-boyfriend, was shoving his sloppy tongue down your willing throat….
Willow flinched, stunned by the disparaging tone of her inner voice. Instead of letting that negative message sink immediately into the marrow of her bones, Willow grabbed hold of her knowledge of one of Freud’s favorite theoretical constructs and began to rationalize.
First of all, shopping at Target wasn’t a bad thing. The clearance racks helped her maintain her skirt-wearing, shawl-draping look while allowing her to maintain fiscal responsibility. As far as Xander was concerned, she felt she had more than paid back karma for their fluke, hadn’t she?
Then she paused, putting the brakes on her soon to be derailed train of thought and got back to what was really worrying her.
Come on, Willow, you’re in Sunnydale. Clearly, that Veruca chick is a demon and once you tell Buffy, the problem will be insta-solved with a stake through the heart and Oz will be free and yours again.
Satisfied with this optimistic prediction, Willow unzipped her pen/pencil pouch and slipped her fingers inside, pulling out the highlighters and colored pens that would serve her organizational style well. It wasn’t long before the angsty thoughts about Oz started up again, ruining her attempts to focus elsewhere with the increasingly distressing refrain of chugga-chugga-choo-choo.
Oz wouldn’t just throw everything they had in the dumpster just for some cheap, pretty thrill, would he? Even if he was demonically possessed?
Willow’s breath hitched in her throat. Doubting that Oz loved her- doubting that his flag for her Nation was still flying high- was a terrifying thought, one she so did not need to be having tonight. What she needed to do instead was focus on other things, non-Oz things. Luckily for her, she had stumbled upon the library’s only copy of Freud’s published interpretation regarding his client Dora: “Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria.”
But it wasn’t long after she started thumbing through the text that the dry translation proved to be fruitless as a distraction.
Maybe a Chai tea would help?
She’d always been a sucker for the tantalizing scent of cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves; the touch of caffeine never hurt either.
Better to be alert than buried in six feet of dirt.
Lucky for her, there was an Espresso Express tucked in the far corner of the library’s basement. So she packed up her pens and her book and headed down the short flight of stairs.
That was when she spotted the king of the Poopy Heads, Parker Abrams, departing from the coffee counter with a steaming mug of the beverage she sought.
Once upon a time, Parker had been a nice guy who wore blue sweaters and played pool and had nice eyes and a soft smile that had only been for Buffy. Now, he was guilty of the same thing Oz was.
Making googly eyes at other women.
It wasn’t cool.
It would not stand.
She might not be able to communicate those feelings to Oz just yet; but her id, her irrational mind, was more than happy to lash out at Parker because Parker wasn’t her boyfriend. Heck, he wasn’t even her friend.
“Hey Willow.”
He sounded so casual, so laissez-faire and it just made her angrier. When did the male gender decide to start sucking so much?
“I want to give you a piece of my mind,” Willow said, crossing her arms over her chest in an attempt to give herself the aura of intimidation that her red snowflake sweater really wasn’t providing at this moment.
“Go right ahead,” Parker replied, taking a seat at a table that was currently home to an array of his Psych notes.
She sat down across from him and quickly launched into a diatribe about how he had hurt Buffy, how he should be confessing his guilt, how he should be groveling at Buffy’s feet, asking for her forgiveness.
To her surprise, he listened intently, patiently waiting his turn before he could defend himself.
Which he did.
In perfect philosophical form.
She couldn’t help but think that the greats- Freud and Nietzsche, especially- would tip their hats to Parker and his explanation of why casual sex shouldn’t be prefaced with “just so you know, I’m never going to grow old with you.”
Hell, even she couldn’t stop herself from nodding because she was no stranger to the fire of sexual intimacy. She knew full well what the heat of two bodies rubbing together felt like. She knew the passionate intensity of a man inside of her - Oz - not man.
Man meant she was willing to think about other men. Other men like Parker who didn’t deserve to find himself inside of her – filling her, driving her to the brink, as sweat dampened her hair….
Willow inhaled sharply, feeling almost afraid of where her mind was taking her. She couldn’t help but think that thinking about sex in front of someone like Parker was like waving a giant red flag in front of a bull.
It was bound to lead to badness.
Epic badness.
Willow nervously bit down on her lip to keep herself in check as she watched his eyebrows rise ever so slightly and his tongue run across the seam of his bottom lip. Somehow, he’d figured her out and now that he’d found a hook, he wasn’t going to let her off the line too easily.
“Sure. Those chairs over there look like they would be…um…more comfy than chairs that aren’t these ones.”
Parked smirked and quickly swept his belongings off the table and into his messenger bag. “Lead the way.”
Willow rose to her feet and headed towards the corner of the basement where two large armchairs were placed at a ninety-degree angle to each other. He let her have first pick and as soon as he sat down, he leaned towards her, pressing his body against the armrest and keeping the distance between to a minimum.
Part of her wanted to lean back, wanted to make the distance between them greater than the distance that currently existed between her and Oz, wanted to show Parker that he was still the enemy here…but that part wasn’t driving right now.
Instead, the wheel had been stolen by whatever part of her was entranced by his silver tongue and the smooth words that tumbled from his soft, pink lips.
“You know, Buffy’s not like you,” Parker mused, peering at her through hooded lashes.
“Oh really?” Willow asked, arching a questioning eyebrow. There were so many different ways he could spin a comment like that –
…She’s blonde…
…She’s perky…
…She didn’t take this long to open up her legs for me…
Given his ability to be slicker than hair gel, she was almost afraid to find out how he would because it wasn’t often that any man picked her over Buffy. Even Xander, who had engaged in several flukes with her last year, had still chosen Buffy first.
“Really,” Parker replied, reaching out to touch her hand. Instinctively, she knew she should try to pull away, but instead she allowed him to linger there, letting his fingers warm the skin of her knuckles.
“You’re not the magazine cut-out that Hollywood tries to shove down the throats of men. You’re a woman that any man could warm up to, any man could talk to. I don’t feel like I have to go out of my way to impress you because you’re real with me. You make me want to be real with myself, you know? No bullshit.”
This was it.
This was his lead-in so he could jump her bones and this was her cue to reject him. This was her time to call him out for being led by his id, for being led by his cock.
But “no” was not the word that left her lips.
“Oh.”
“A woman of few words,” Parker replied, chuckling softly. “I like that.”
“Um…,” Willow started, attempting to regain her composure despite knowing that she had basically accepted his oily compliments, granting victory to him.
“I have a proposition for you,” Parker replied, smoothly interrupting her as his hand transferred from her hand to her knee. The thick denim of her skirt did nothing to diminish the heat that passed between them and although she wanted to fight it, her resolve was melting away like an ice cube that had been tossed in a furnace.
“What’s that?” Willow asked hesitantly, begging her mind to come up with an image of Oz, a reminder of the love she had with him, something that would stop her from doing something so primal, so…stupid.
But the only image that came was *her.*
Veruca.
Stealing Oz out from underneath her with the bat of an eyelash.
“One night with me. No secrets. No bullshit. Just a wonderful night between two people who just need to forget the shit piles of life.”
He paused, leaning in close enough to hear her panicked gulp.
“No harm. No foul.”
It wasn’t exactly a proposal that made Willow feel weak in the knees, but the way his hand was moving up her thigh sure was.
Could she say yes?
Could she forget Oz? Could she forget Parker’s crimes against Buffy?
Could she check her Ego and Superego at the door in favor of keeping her Id in her pocket?
Was she really so desperate? So in need of validation that she was desirable?
Seven minutes.
That was all it took for her to end up here.
In his bed.
Making the same stupid mistake that Buffy had.
Parker’s hands explored her body, his nails dragged across her flesh, spelling out her sin as his tongue found that sensitive spot in the hollow of her throat.
She arched her back as he found her center, driving into her over and over (and over again). There was no hitch in his thrusts, no recognition of guilt. They were just two bodies linked together, locked together, teetering forever on the edge of oblivion until—
Willow cried out, in pleasure and pain, in distraction and shame, in remorse and finally, in the hope that tomorrow…
Would never come.
