: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
, Season Three, AU.Rating
: m/m slash, threesome(m/m/f), sexual situations (masturbation); language.Pairings
: Xander/Cordelia, Xander/Wesley, Xander/Cordelia/WesleyDistribution
: Please ask first. Please do not screencap this story, save it to hard drives, exchange with others, or translate into other languages without written consent.Feedback
: Con-crit is always welcome; flames are ridiculed and put on display.Disclaimer
: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, lyrics, etc. are the property of their respective owners. Snippets of dialogue may be incorporated from the original canonical episode(s) and belong to their respective authors/creators. The original characters and plot are the property of the author(s). The author(s) is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, nor should any be inferred. No profit is being made.Summary
: Wesley goes in search of Xander, and gets an eyeful of something quite remarkable.* * * * *
The Vampire Slayers Buffy Summers and Faith, for whom a last name would have been horribly anticlimactic, sat at the library table before the office of Rupert Giles, incredibly bored and anxious for the nightly meeting to begin. With them were their Watchers; Giles, of course, as well as Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.
Also in attendance was Buffy’s usual retinue: her erstwhile boyfriend, Angel, the vampire with a soul; Willow Rosenberg, neophyte witch extraordinaire; her boyfriend, werewolf Daniel Osbourne; and cheerleader Cordelia Chase, who would have been much aggrieved to have been addressed as either ‘usual’ or in any way belonging to Buffy.
“Is this going to start sometime soon,” the brunette barked, “or am I supposed to sit here until I have to dip into Giles’s wrinkle cream?”
Giles blinked and carefully removed his glasses. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me! I have things to do!”
He sneered. “Yes, as do we all, I expect. Of course, the rest of us don’t have the pressing concern of organizing tomorrow’s fashion ensemble, or the impossibly important task of endlessly droning on the phone to one of our sycophants about how some bland actor’s unfortunate haircut will end his career and thus life as we know it.”
Buffy and Willow began snickering, but ceased as Cordelia cocked an eyebrow and turned a scathing glare in their direction. Finally, she turned back to the Watcher.
“Giles,” she said sweetly, slowly
, “you might want to ask yourself if you know where your vinyl copy of Surrealistic Pillow
is. You know, the one Grace Slick signed? The one you keep locked away in that file box in the library of your apartment, next to that bottle of cheap scotch?”
His eyes grew very wide as he began spluttering.
“Er, excuse me,” Wesley interjected, “for what exactly are we waiting? There is a patrol to be had, you know. Evil afoot and such.”
“We’re waiting for Xander,” Willow said forcefully, looking around and daring anyone to challenge her decree.
Cordelia rolled her eyes and began restlessly tapping her nails on the oak surface of the table. Faith began cracking her knuckles while Angel paced, and Oz looked to be coming off a high originating either from an extraordinary session with his band or possibly some exceptional marijuana.
Buffy nodded in tandem. “We don’t patrol without Xander.”
Wesley studied both of them, considering their response. What did it matter whether or not the boy was present? There were serious concerns to which to attend!
“Very well, then,” he said with feigned patience. “Where is he?”
Buffy shrugged. “Last I saw, he was heading to the locker room to grab a quick shower. Accident in the cafeteria during detention. Something with Jello,” she said distractedly, trying to recall the details.
Cordelia snorted, as did Giles.
Wesley yanked his glasses off his face. “Honestly! There are evil demons and vampires running about snacking on the local populace, and you expect us to wait to dispatch them because your friend spilled fluorescent gelatin on one of his obscenely patterned shirts?” At both girls’ nods, he sighed and rolled his eyes, adding, “All right, then, I shall go fetch him. Where is this locker room?”
The cheerleader stood up with a sigh. “I’ll take you. Anything to get away from this carousel of losers.”
“We love you too, Cordy,” Willow simpered.
“I’m surprised you’re not volunteering, Willow,” Cordelia smoothly replied. “You passing up the chance to catch Xander in the buff? I’ll admit, it’s quite a show.” She grinned ferally at the witch, before her eyes slid over toward Oz. “Oh, but that ship has sailed.” She paused for emphasis. “Right?”
Willow colored darkly and averted her gaze, as did Buffy. Oz did nothing more than stare back evenly at Cordelia, one of the few people who ever managed to do so. Something unspoken passed between them, and the cheerleader spun on her heel and headed toward the double doors, beckoning with a hand for Wesley to follow. He sullenly trailed after her, mumbling about impending doom under his breath.
“More like she’s the one who wants to spy a naked Xander,” Buffy huffed.
“Can’t blame the bitch,” Faith drawled. “The boytoy’s a tasty one. Wonder what he looks like all...dirty,” she purred.
“Let us change the subject to something not entirely disconcerting, shall we?,” Giles interrupted. “Angel, you said you had an encounter with this demon before?”* * * * *
Wesley was discreetly following Cordelia through the deserted halls of the high school, wincing as the echo from her pumps clattered off the walls.
He certainly wasn’t paying attention to the delicate sway of her full hips. Absolutely not.
Not the way they were tightly clad in a cotton dress of deep crimson, nor their almost hypnotic rhythm, and he certainly was not entertaining any thought of reaching out for a quick cop, just to feel the exquisite curves and how they would so well fit his hands.
The girl was barely eighteen, after all. Entirely improper. Reprehensible, even!
Instead, he forced his mind to turn inward to the collective he had just left. The Slayers were quite interesting, though he resented their flouting of his authority and believed their techniques, which were actually very dissimilar, could benefit from some more rigorous training. The presence of the vampire was wholly unwelcome, despite the knowledge and power he brought to the table. And the werewolf, when not in his demonic form, looked so delicate that a strong gust of wind might send him flying, much along the lines of Mary Poppins.
Wesley began softly humming Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
, determining that, yes, the sound of it was something quite atrocious, and promptly ceased.
His thoughts shifted to Alexander Harris, a boy whose worth seemed dubious at best, and a detriment at worst.
The boy had no special powers, an intellect which appeared not too keen, and whose constant questioning and infuriating, though clever, quips often served as an impediment rather than a balm. Actually, that description also well fit Miss Chase, though he would certainly never intimate that fact.
Still, Wesley conceded, there was something rather charismatic about the young man, and his dedication both to his friends and the Fight Against Evil were quite heartening. While he would never admit it, Wesley did have a begrudging respect for the boy.
After all, he supposed that many others simply would have long ago walked away, albeit with the knowledge of how better to protect themselves on the Hellmouth, but abandoned the cause while they were still able to do so. That the boy had remained an active participant for three years and had, in fact, inadvertently spawned a second Line on his own, so desperate to keep his best friend with him, was indeed admirable.
Perhaps Wesley was slightly jealous. Despite his learning and the Council’s backing, he was seen as nothing more than an interloper, and Xander had certainly perpetuated that attitude, quite possibly because he too was insecure with regard to his position within the group.
Well, that was understandable, wasn’t it? Adolescent males were notorious in their jockeying for position, trying to establish themselves as alpha, and a new man entering the fold would of course be met with scorn, particularly with men like Rupert Giles and a rather attractive vampire already present.
Was Wesley so unsure of his own worth that he was engaging in a battle of wills with a teenager almost half his age? He realized, rather depressingly, that this was indeed the case.
Well, it was time to shift focus. Perhaps he should endeavor to pay a little more attention to the lad, maybe even groom him as a Watcher’s apprentice. The boy had spent more time in the field than many senior Watchers, and while he needed more physical training and research skills, there was a lot of quality raw material to be mined. Right, then. Time to set aside pettiness and cultivate potential.
Nodding to himself, Wesley was suddenly aware that Cordelia had halted in her tracks.
“He’s in there,” she chirped, thumbing over her shoulder at the door behind her. “I’m not going in there, of course. It’s inappropriate and it smells
Nodding again, cordially this time, Wesley floated past her and entered the humid atmosphere, which indeed smelled rather foul, like athlete’s foot cream and corn husker’s lotion. In the distance, he heard someone singing rather jauntily, yet horribly off-key that, lamentably, oops, he had done it again.
Wesley briefly wondered as to what had been done and if the consequences were something to fret over. Squaring his shoulders, he pressed forward, anxious to retrieve the boy and begin the night’s patrol.
He had no idea that the door had not swung shut behind him, nor that Cordelia had removed her shoes and was silently padding after him.* * * * *
Wesley began striding toward the showers, though the closer he got, the slower his steps became. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but to his mortification, he was suddenly overcome by a need to see Xander, to truly see
Naked Wet Xander.
Oh dear, perhaps those Eton days weren’t as far behind him as he had thought.
He chastised himself, told himself that such action was ridiculous folly. He had no right to spy on the boy, let alone in a state of undress or in so private a moment. As much as he longed to, he would never intrude on Cordelia in such a manner, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to look.
Just a quick peek, a stolen glance, just enough to satisfy his curiosity, and nothing more. It was wrong, he knew, but not terribly perverted. He would be obscenely quiet, and Xander would never even know that Wesley had seen anything.
Silently, he crept forward toward the communal showers, their white tile long yellowed and cracked, smelling faintly of mildew and bleach, of musk and soap and men. The concrete wall which he slid along was damp and reeked of mold, and the young Watcher was sure that both would seep into his exquisitely tailored blazer, but hopefully the navy color was dark enough to conceal any trace of his surveillance once he was safely back in the library. He was sure he was sweating through his tweed vest. He quickly reached in his pocket and withdrew his linen handkerchief, mopping the sheen from his forehead and upper lip.
Finally arriving at the mouth of the showers, his heart pounding in his chest and threatening to burst through his rib cage, his mouth dry as a desert and tasting like dirty laundry, Wesley swallowed heavily and closed his eyes.
Just a peek. Quite a small sin, really. Practically venial. No one ever need know.
Xander was eighteen. And so what if Wesley spent his lonely nights at his long-term hotel wondering if Xander and Cordelia had been intimate, and if they had, what they had gotten up to. Had she rode atop him? Had he taken her from behind? Had she parted those luscious lips, so often twisted into a cruel smirk, and lowered her face to the boy’s...
Wesley bit his lip forcefully, but didn’t notice it had split open until another perfunctory swipe with the bit of cloth revealed faint traces of rust-colored blood, the slight scent of iron assaulting his senses.
He hadn’t arrived on the Hellmouth while the teens had been dating, but their every interaction crackled with their violent chemistry, so explosive it was like a supernova, reducing their surroundings to ashes. He had heard Buffy and Willow whisper about the fabled broom closet and how both Xander and Cordelia would still blush every time they passed it.
What had gone on in there? Had Xander reached beneath a silk shirt and cupped a full breast in his large hand, with fingers whose nails were bitten to the quick, ragged and searching, viciously twisting a nipple? Had Cordelia ground her pelvis against Xander’s hips, searching for heat and friction? Had they argued during those moments, as well? Had it enhanced their passion and fervor? Wesley suspected it had.
He sighed and rested his head against the wall. He had been so sure it had just been Cordelia, but now he realized it was the both of them, he wanted both of them, to be between them, a beta at the mercy of two alphas, subject to their whims. Delightful cruelty it indeed would be, burying his face in Cordelia’s lush bosom as Xander reared up from behind, positioning himself and slowly pressing forward, igniting a fire which would race up Wesley’s spine, of the boy finding that secret spot and causing the long-faded stars to once again dance behind Wesley’s eyes. To feel Cordelia’s long, lean legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her face frozen in bliss, her perfect hair mussed and damp. Wesley imagined that she was far more animalistic than Xander, whom he believed would be as gentle as he was fierce. Whenever he was around either one, their hormones seemed to hover in the air like missiles, but when the two came into contact, it was Hiroshima.
Just a quick peek.
Wesley carefully turned his head around the corner, trying to keep as much of his face hidden as possible, fretting the lights above would cause his glasses to reflect and reveal his presence to the boy.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Xander was a man
All of Wesley’s blood pooled into his cock as he softly gasped at the sight now before him.
Xander Harris was using both hands to brace himself against the shower wall, his head bowed and his shoulders slightly hunched, his left leg stretched out taut behind him, the water sluicing down his long back and cascading off his body at his ass. The boy’s hair, turned raven by the onslaught of water and steam, was curling slightly at the ends, the rest hanging in soft waves from his head, waves which seemed to be dripping liquid crystal. The hot water had turned all of the boy’s skin a soft, shiny pink and vapor rose off it like fog. Wesley inhaled sharply as he noticed the play of the muscles of the boy’s back, shifting and rippling as the water made contact, contracting and expanding as they loosened themselves under the torrent.
Suddenly Xander turned and was facing him, as if sensing the intrusion, and Wesley nearly passed out from relief when he noticed the boy’s eyes had remained closed. Xander stood straight, angling his head toward the source of the spray, his hair now beaten flat and slicked back from his forehead. He opened his mouth slightly, those delectable pink lips now a deep scarlet as the heat caused the blood to rush to the surface. Beads of water slid off high cheekbones, rendered more prominent by the relaxed mouth, and trailed down a strong jaw which had a slight five o’clock shadow. Xander’s Adam’s apple bobbed reflexively as he moved his lips in silent speech, leaving Wesley desperate to discern what he was saying. A corny joke? A vicious slur? A moment of thanks? A benediction?
Wesley almost wanted the young man to open his eyes, those impossibly huge brown eyes which at one turn seemed as guileless as those of Bambi, only just as quickly to flash with a ruthless calculation or a resigned indifference, but they remained closed, their sable fringe pressed tightly against the orbits.
What would Xander do if he saw Wesley standing there, staring at him? Shake with outrage? Flush with humiliation? Offer a coy smile and beckon him closer? The Watcher had to lean sideways against the wall to keep from sliding to the floor, turning him into a puddle of goo which would just as easily pass into the drain beneath the boy’s feet.
Then Xander turned again, unconsciously presenting his muscled buttocks, and Wesley imagined Cordelia’s hands gripping them in the throes of passion, her nails, filed into talons, squeezing the soft flesh, making the boy shudder and moan, her arms sliding around the trim waist, Xander throwing his head back as her slim fingers raked down his back, leaving faint red scratch marks in their wake.
Xander then planted his legs shoulder-width apart, and Wesley finally noticed something in the boy’s hand, one of those disposable loofahs, a ridiculously bright green color. Bubbles appeared as the boy made quick, deft strokes with the sponge across his body, and the air filled with traces of his bergamot soap, suds mixing with the water and pouring off his body. He watched as Xander twisted slightly at the waist, and Wesley could see the young man as he delicately ran the implement across his broad chest, his nipples darkening and puckering at the friction, transformed into hard little nubs which just begged to be latched onto by a waiting mouth.
He watched as Xander lathered up his arms, pausing to caress his own biceps, running the sponge across his broad shoulders, rotating his neck to get the kinks out. Wesley briefly closed his eyes, thinking about straddling Xander from behind, picturing his own hands on those shoulders, rubbing and kneading the muscles, almost hearing the breathy groans they would elicit, before his hands would slowly, oh so slowly, work their magic down the broad back, thumbs digging into pressure points, Xander writhing blissfully beneath him, the generous curve of the boy’s ass bobbing up to meet Wesley’s groin.
Then Xander began soaping his stomach, the beating of the spray causing his abdominals to contact and release as the water rinsed away the bubbles. He then bent over and it was all Wesley could do to keep himself from undoing his pants and racing forward to plunge into that tight heat he knew would await him.
With deft swipes, Xander washed his feet, his hands trailing up his legs, from surprisingly delicate ankles to well-muscled calves, knees slightly knobby as they are even in late adolescence, and powerful thighs which Wesley could almost feel intertwined with his own legs. He softly gasped as he thought of Xander snaking his legs with Wesley’s own, as the boy sank into him deep, their hips rocking together, Xander’s own rolling as if oiled.
And when the boy began inching nimble fingers toward his cock, already half-hard from his gentle touches to his own body, velvety balls swinging low from the heat of the steam, Wesley slowly sank to the floor, not caring if his pants were absorbing dirty water like a sponge, because all he could think was what if Xander...?
And then, he was. The boy tentatively began stroking his length with one hand, teasing his cock until it looked almost painfully hard, gasping as it was pelted by the water, as his other hand snaked up and gently tweaked a nipple. Xander appeared as if he could barely stand, his body thrumming with energy, yet he kept his rhythm slow and deliberate, almost lazy and haphazard, as if he had nothing to do or nowhere to go, as if there wasn’t a roomful of people waiting for him. When Wesley brought himself off, there was always an element of shame involved, as if he should be above such base activities, but watching Xander now was almost revelatory: how the boy delighted in touching his own skin; the look on his face as if nothing felt better, as if it was the pinnacle of sensation; as though he was fortunate to be able to indulge in this activity.
Right then, Wesley wanted nothing more than to reach into his own trousers and free his dick; to sit there, thighs splayed, his eyes riveted to the scene before him, working his cock in tandem with Xander’s, but he dare not. What if Xander saw him? All the boy had to do was shift his gaze slightly to the left and he would see the flushing, panting Watcher staring at him. And what if Cordelia was still waiting outside for them? What if she was wondering why they were taking so long? What if someone else came in search of them? What if someone walked in and saw him watching Xander? A naughty, giddy little shiver shot up his spine at the thought.
So the Watcher sat there, staring as Xander pulled and stroked and coaxed, his respiration escalating as gentle sighs traveled to his ear, his nails digging into the cinder floor, his glasses fogging up as he quickly raised a finger to wipe them off from the inside, lest he miss a moment. And as Xander’s thighs began quivering with tension, his shoulders buckling, Wesley knew that he was so close, so very close, and he wanted to inch forward, but held his ground.
Xander backed up against the wall, using it to buttress his weight, his kneed slightly bent, head dipped low so that his chin was resting on his chest, one hand curled into a fist at his side, and when he finally came, it was announced by nothing but a small groan, and Wesley shuddered deeply as he watched the boy’s climax shoot across the stall.
“Oh, Wes,” the boy growled in a low voice, almost a purr, his eyes squeezed shut.
The older man felt all the blood drain from his face and into his feet, turning them to lead, and he scrambled to right himself while remaining as silent as possible. All he knew was that he had to get out of there before Xander finished giving himself another quick rinse. He had to leave, leave the school, possibly Sunnydale, and perhaps even the planet, because he was a hair’s breath away from crawling on his knees toward Xander and begging, not even sure as to that which he wanted.
Wesley rolled to his side and vaulted himself upright, his knee slipping out from underneath him, shoes squeaking in small puddles, wincing at the noise and praying he wasn’t overheard. He scampered back down the thoroughfare of the room, biting his lip to quell the curse as his shin collided with a particularly obnoxious wooden bench. He hurriedly limped along, completely missing a smirking Cordelia who was watching from between two rows of lockers.
When he finally got to the entry doors, his cock still stiff and angry at his denial of release, he dug into his pocket and almost sobbed at the friction of the soft fabric as it bunched around his inflamed organ. Unearthing his keys, he looked frantically to his left and then his right, and tiptoed down the hall which would lead him to his car. Fuck the patrol. Fuck Giles and the Slayers. He needed to get home and get off.* * * * *
Xander turned the spigots and shivered as the hot water vanished, a slight chill caressing him and causing his flesh to break out in goosebumps. He reached up to the adjoining shower head and plucked the towel waiting to envelop him, cinching it around his waist. He pushed his bangs off his head and sloshed toward the lockers, knowing he was late for the meeting and was probably due for a severe dressing-down from Giles, that disappointed little sigh from Willow, and pity in the eyes of Buffy, as if he simply couldn’t manage to do properly even the simplest things.
He made his way to the bench on which sat his change of clothes, only to start when a pair of delicate yet strong arms wrapped around him. He smirked and leaned back.
“Did he stay for the whole show?”
Cordelia cackled. “Of course. Who could look away?”
“So what do you think?”
“You’ve cast the net. Nothing left to do but reel him in.”
“I was mortified! I can’t believe I let you talk me into that!”
“Please,” she snorted. “Not even I’m that good. You’re a kinky little bastard. Admit it.”
He turned and captured her lips in a breathless kiss. Pulling away after a few seconds, he said, “You bring it out in me.”
She smiled and nuzzled his throat. “Don’t worry. We’ll have him on his knees faster than it takes him to polish his glasses.”
“Shouldn’t we get to the library?,” he drawled.
Cordelia wedged a finger between his hips and the towel, snatching it away while using her other hand to reach behind her and unzip her skirt. “After the first few minutes, I went back and said Wesley had to go home because he wasn’t feeling well, and that you had turned your ankle in the shower and I was going to wait and then take you home.”
He grinned. “So they’re gone?"
He sighed. “We should probably go and...”
“I didn’t ask.”
She gently pushed him down on the bench behind them and straddled her very best used-to-be.