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snoggedTitle: Note To Self (The Chocolate Candy Remix)
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t.
Pairing: Joyce/Willow (mentions of Joyce/Giles, Willow/Oz)
Rating/Warnings: FRM/R
Word Count: 1012
Summary: Band candy makes you do the wacky.
Setting: “Earshot” and “Band Candy”
Beta Crew:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.
Author’s Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash_minis “Fright Night” challenge. I was assigned to snowpuppies who requested Joyce/Willow, set during “Band Candy,” dubious consent, a hickey, and no fluff. I’ll admit that this tale did get a bit fluffy, but I hope you enjoy it anyways.
Note To Self:
Don’t look up.
Up means looking at Buffy and looking at Buffy means furious eyes and knowing thoughts and badness.
Epically bad badness. At least an 8.7 on the Richter scale of badness.
Because what Willow did was unforgiveable.
So unforgiveable that she should be fleeing the library right now before Buffy even has a chance to locate Mr. Pointy.
Don’t look up, Willow.
Instead, how about you just look down at that…
Wow.
The janitor did a really good job on the library floor tonight.
The laminate tile looks surprisingly shiny and smells vaguely of lemon.
Except for that…
Splotch.
That weird grayish-looking splotch that is only two centimeters from the toe box of her shoe.
Common sense would indicate that the splotch is just some old jelly filling from one of the six jelly doughnuts that Xander scarfed down today during their research hour, but then again common sense didn’t have to hide its face from its best friend because common sense’s best friend probably didn’t read minds…or carry sharp, pointy weapons…and look…
It kind-of, sort-of looks like a face.
A face that just-so-sort-of happens to look like Buffy’s face.
Buffy’s supremely very-mad face.
Only that can’t be right because there is enough freaky stuff going on in Sunnydale right now with Buffy acquiring that demon aspect and being all telepathic. Besides, Buffy can’t be a splotch on the floor because she has blonde hair…
Blonde hair that is almost-but-not-quite like Joyce’s hair because Joyce’s hair is curly and soft and feels ticklish-yet-kind-of-sexy on heated, bare flesh.
Note To Self:
Do Not Look Up.
*
We shouldn’t do this.
*
Teenagers grinding and groping their way around the dance floor at the Bronze is not unusual by any means. It pretty much happens on any night that ends with the letters “d-a-y.”
Adults behaving like horny teenagers on a sugar high, on the other hand, has a bit more of a fright factor. It isn’t on the same scale as getting seduced by a killer robot or having zombies crash your best friend’s coming home party, but it’s still enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.
It’s all very time-warpy and not the fun kind that Tim Curry sings about.
Especially when her doctor is attempting to crowd surf and is being very creepy and topless in his brown pants and polka-dot tie.
So, for a little while, the bathroom seems like an awfully safe space. Other than the weird vomit-bleach smell wafting out of one of the stalls.
At least adults aren’t drinking from funnels in here.
“Willow.”
“Joyce?”
Joyce shimmies her hips, her gray trench coat swirling around her ankles. She pushes out her bottom lip, pouting like a small child.
“Giles is ignoring me.”
“Giles is…. Huh?”
Confusion masks Willow’s features as she tries to interpret just what is happening right now.
Joyce giggles as she touches her hand to her neck.
“Giles.”
Her hand moves down to her chest and her back arches, pushing her breasts up and making the fabric of her blue v-neck sweater stretch almost to its limit.
“Is.”
Then, her hand strokes her stomach.
“Ignoring.”
She pauses briefly at her hips to flash Willow a blatantly sexual “V” with her fingers.
“Me.”
She takes another step towards Willow, forcing Willow to take a step back into the corner.
She’s trapped.
“But I know you won’t.”
*
Is this a spell?
*
Joyce’s hands tangle in Willow’s hair, twisting auburn locks around pale fingers. The black and white feathers lining Joyce’s collar tickle Willow’s ears, but she doesn’t push them away.
Joyce’s mouth descends on hers and Willow tastes melted chocolate and sickly sweet nicotine. She freezes for a brief moment as Joyce’s summer sheen lip gloss smears over her tongue and she can almost-but-not-quite taste the citrus accents.
Not quite lemon.
Not quite orange.
Not quite Oz.
Definitely not Oz.
Because Oz does NOT kiss like this and is it totally wrong that she now wishes that he would?
Oof.
Willow grunts as her head bumps backwards as Joyce possesses her mouth once more, their tongues battling for dominance.
“We shouldn’t do this.”
Joyce ignores her, moving her lips down to the curve of Willow’s neck, forming an “o,” and…
Oh.
Willow whimpers as Joyce’s mouth latches onto her skin, greedily sucking on her flesh. Willow trembles a little when Joyce’s teeth gently scrape over her throbbing veins.
*
This is wrong.
*
“This is wrong.”
Protests fall on deaf ears.
“You’re Buffy’s mom.”
Buffy’s mom who is currently acting like a lust-crazed 17-year old girl and who’s currently pressing her tighter against the wall in the ladies’ room and…and…
That is so freaking wrong.
Dirtywrong.
Dirtybad…
Oh.
Joyce isn’t wearing a bra.
“Touch me,” Joyce whispers, tugging on Willow’s scalp as Joyce’s fingers sink further into Willow’s not-so-thick hair. She exhales softly against Willow’s cheeks and sends warm puffs of breath across her flesh.
*
Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
*
Willow lets curiosity take hold and her fingers wander upwards. A tentative touch, feeling the heft of Joyce’s breasts against the tight fabric of her top. Cupping follows, physical need and lust overriding the neurons in her brain. Then there’s kneading, groping, and finally, grinding together to build an unquenchable heat, an unavoidable tension.
Joyce moans, grabbing one of Willow’s hands and shoving it under the hem of her dress.
Joyce isn’t wearing underwear either.
Joyce’s hand guides Willow’s fingers along the silky expanse of her thigh, coming to land at the apex. Willow can feel the soft curls, the wet slick heat that’s just begging to be invaded.
“Just like that, Willow.”
Willow feels her fingers move of their own accord and soon she’s scratching the itch that neither can control.
*
Buffy can never know. She’ll kill us.
*
Turns out, the universe pretty much disagreed with that, what with the mind-reading best friend and all, but at least her turtleneck is covering up the hickey…
Note to self:
Run.
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t.
Pairing: Joyce/Willow (mentions of Joyce/Giles, Willow/Oz)
Rating/Warnings: FRM/R
Word Count: 1012
Summary: Band candy makes you do the wacky.
Setting: “Earshot” and “Band Candy”
Beta Crew:
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.Author’s Note: Written for
femslash_minis “Fright Night” challenge. I was assigned to snowpuppies who requested Joyce/Willow, set during “Band Candy,” dubious consent, a hickey, and no fluff. I’ll admit that this tale did get a bit fluffy, but I hope you enjoy it anyways.Note To Self:
Don’t look up.
Up means looking at Buffy and looking at Buffy means furious eyes and knowing thoughts and badness.
Epically bad badness. At least an 8.7 on the Richter scale of badness.
Because what Willow did was unforgiveable.
So unforgiveable that she should be fleeing the library right now before Buffy even has a chance to locate Mr. Pointy.
Don’t look up, Willow.
Instead, how about you just look down at that…
Wow.
The janitor did a really good job on the library floor tonight.
The laminate tile looks surprisingly shiny and smells vaguely of lemon.
Except for that…
Splotch.
That weird grayish-looking splotch that is only two centimeters from the toe box of her shoe.
Common sense would indicate that the splotch is just some old jelly filling from one of the six jelly doughnuts that Xander scarfed down today during their research hour, but then again common sense didn’t have to hide its face from its best friend because common sense’s best friend probably didn’t read minds…or carry sharp, pointy weapons…and look…
It kind-of, sort-of looks like a face.
A face that just-so-sort-of happens to look like Buffy’s face.
Buffy’s supremely very-mad face.
Only that can’t be right because there is enough freaky stuff going on in Sunnydale right now with Buffy acquiring that demon aspect and being all telepathic. Besides, Buffy can’t be a splotch on the floor because she has blonde hair…
Blonde hair that is almost-but-not-quite like Joyce’s hair because Joyce’s hair is curly and soft and feels ticklish-yet-kind-of-sexy on heated, bare flesh.
Note To Self:
Do Not Look Up.
*
We shouldn’t do this.
*
Teenagers grinding and groping their way around the dance floor at the Bronze is not unusual by any means. It pretty much happens on any night that ends with the letters “d-a-y.”
Adults behaving like horny teenagers on a sugar high, on the other hand, has a bit more of a fright factor. It isn’t on the same scale as getting seduced by a killer robot or having zombies crash your best friend’s coming home party, but it’s still enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.
It’s all very time-warpy and not the fun kind that Tim Curry sings about.
Especially when her doctor is attempting to crowd surf and is being very creepy and topless in his brown pants and polka-dot tie.
So, for a little while, the bathroom seems like an awfully safe space. Other than the weird vomit-bleach smell wafting out of one of the stalls.
At least adults aren’t drinking from funnels in here.
“Willow.”
“Joyce?”
Joyce shimmies her hips, her gray trench coat swirling around her ankles. She pushes out her bottom lip, pouting like a small child.
“Giles is ignoring me.”
“Giles is…. Huh?”
Confusion masks Willow’s features as she tries to interpret just what is happening right now.
Joyce giggles as she touches her hand to her neck.
“Giles.”
Her hand moves down to her chest and her back arches, pushing her breasts up and making the fabric of her blue v-neck sweater stretch almost to its limit.
“Is.”
Then, her hand strokes her stomach.
“Ignoring.”
She pauses briefly at her hips to flash Willow a blatantly sexual “V” with her fingers.
“Me.”
She takes another step towards Willow, forcing Willow to take a step back into the corner.
She’s trapped.
“But I know you won’t.”
*
Is this a spell?
*
Joyce’s hands tangle in Willow’s hair, twisting auburn locks around pale fingers. The black and white feathers lining Joyce’s collar tickle Willow’s ears, but she doesn’t push them away.
Joyce’s mouth descends on hers and Willow tastes melted chocolate and sickly sweet nicotine. She freezes for a brief moment as Joyce’s summer sheen lip gloss smears over her tongue and she can almost-but-not-quite taste the citrus accents.
Not quite lemon.
Not quite orange.
Not quite Oz.
Definitely not Oz.
Because Oz does NOT kiss like this and is it totally wrong that she now wishes that he would?
Oof.
Willow grunts as her head bumps backwards as Joyce possesses her mouth once more, their tongues battling for dominance.
“We shouldn’t do this.”
Joyce ignores her, moving her lips down to the curve of Willow’s neck, forming an “o,” and…
Oh.
Willow whimpers as Joyce’s mouth latches onto her skin, greedily sucking on her flesh. Willow trembles a little when Joyce’s teeth gently scrape over her throbbing veins.
*
This is wrong.
*
“This is wrong.”
Protests fall on deaf ears.
“You’re Buffy’s mom.”
Buffy’s mom who is currently acting like a lust-crazed 17-year old girl and who’s currently pressing her tighter against the wall in the ladies’ room and…and…
That is so freaking wrong.
Dirtywrong.
Dirtybad…
Oh.
Joyce isn’t wearing a bra.
“Touch me,” Joyce whispers, tugging on Willow’s scalp as Joyce’s fingers sink further into Willow’s not-so-thick hair. She exhales softly against Willow’s cheeks and sends warm puffs of breath across her flesh.
*
Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
*
Willow lets curiosity take hold and her fingers wander upwards. A tentative touch, feeling the heft of Joyce’s breasts against the tight fabric of her top. Cupping follows, physical need and lust overriding the neurons in her brain. Then there’s kneading, groping, and finally, grinding together to build an unquenchable heat, an unavoidable tension.
Joyce moans, grabbing one of Willow’s hands and shoving it under the hem of her dress.
Joyce isn’t wearing underwear either.
Joyce’s hand guides Willow’s fingers along the silky expanse of her thigh, coming to land at the apex. Willow can feel the soft curls, the wet slick heat that’s just begging to be invaded.
“Just like that, Willow.”
Willow feels her fingers move of their own accord and soon she’s scratching the itch that neither can control.
*
Buffy can never know. She’ll kill us.
*
Turns out, the universe pretty much disagreed with that, what with the mind-reading best friend and all, but at least her turtleneck is covering up the hickey…
Note to self:
Run.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2012-11-07 11:25 pm (UTC)