by Claire (moonlettuce at blueyonder.co.uk)
Time Setting: I was thinking end of Buffy season three when I wrote it.
It's not the first time Wesley Wyndam-Pryce has been in this club. He was here on his first night in Sunnydale, all wide-eyed and wanting to touch. And he's been back since. At first, it was just to nurse a drink in a darkened corner and watch. Then it was about grabbing hold of the nearest body and letting the music take him somewhere that wasn't here. And he's had offers, more than he can remember, but he's never taken them up. He's ignored the whispered promises, the wandering hands, the mouths that try to taste him in the darkness. And because of that he never knew this room existed. Never knew there was anything beyond the pounding of the music, driving itself through his body on the rush of his blood. Never realised the reflective wall that comprises one of the sides of the club hid another world.
Reaching out, he rests his fingertips against the smooth tinted glass, watching as the throng of people move as one. Bodies pulsing in time with the beat, each note taking them higher and closer to whatever it is they're seeking.
Tremors run through the floor at the force of the music. And a thousand men packed together, either unaware or uncaring of what is happening on the other side of the glass, rage at the world.
Men stop, preening themselves in the mirror, staring unknowingly into Wesley's eyes. He wonders how often he's been in their position, absently looking at himself in the mirrored glass while an unknown other met his gaze. Wonders how many others have been brought here, how often...
"You're the first one."
The smooth voice answers his unspoken question, hand resting lightly on his stomach, tracing idle patterns on his shirt. Giles is standing so close behind him Wesley can feel the heat coming from the other man's body, even through their clothes.
Fingers moving more resolutely now, pausing only to flick open a button on Wesley's shirt before moving onto the next one.
"I don't... I've never..." Not in public, not anywhere but behind closed doors where no one else can see.
"Trust me." Words murmured into his ear as Giles asks a question that isn't, hot breath brushing over him. And the fingers keep moving.
Trust him. Ignore what his head is saying. Trust him. Listen only to the call of his flesh. Trust him. "Yes." And he does.
Giles deals with the last button and Wesley's shirt falls open, hanging loose around his body. A hand presses against his stomach, fingers still for only a brief second before they move again.
"You're so perfect." Voice soft, certain.
Fingers dance over his skin, pressing so gently Wesley isn't even sure that they're there. So lightly that it could be the wind moving across his chest instead of another man touching him.
"Perfect. And mine." Possessive hint making Wesley harder.
Giles's hand moves lower and deftly flicks open the buttons on the tight jeans, betraying a past Wesley is sure the Watchers Council tried its damnedest to quash. He's not wearing anything under the denim, so there's nothing in Giles's way. Nothing to stop him wrapping his fingers around the smooth column of flesh and releasing Wesley's hard cock to the air.
Wesley leans forward, arching into the hand's grip. His fingers curl, sliding along the polished glass and leaving streaks behind them. His eyes fix on the dance floor, trying to stop himself from feeling the fingers moving up and down his cock, trying to stop from splattering the glass with his come like a teenager.
"Don't hold back. I don't want you to hold back." The fingers holding him tighten; thumb running over the head of his cock and smearing the pre-come gathering there before the hand moves away.
He moans with loss, the sound swallowed by the air as fingers hook into the belt loops on his jeans and pull them down, denim rasping over flesh as it slides over his skin and nestles at the top of his thighs. A hand presses into him, spread fingers on his left buttock branding the hand-print he knows he'll never see but will feel for days. Heat spreads through him, seeping from Giles's body into his and he shivers.
Wesley doesn't know what he's begging for, he just needs something, anything. He just needs Giles to move. But Giles's hand doesn't move, and Wesley's cock stays hard, almost dancing in the air in time with the music running through him.
The name snaps off as the fingers curl slightly, nails digging into his flesh.
"Look at them." Giles's voice is closer than it should be, breath hot against Wesley's neck.
"Look at them, dancing, not a care in the world. Bodies pressing against each other, unaware of anything but music and heat and the need that's going through them."
Wesley bites at his lower lip, forcefully swallowing the moan he can feel welling in his throat.
But he's not completely successful because Giles leans forward, teeth nipping at his ear.
"I told you I didn't want you to hold back."
So he doesn't; voices the moan that's been trying to escape ever since Giles laid his hands on him.
"That's better." And Wesley can hear the smile in Giles's words. "I want to hear everything. I want to *see* everything."
Giles's voice trails off as a young man approaches the wall from the other side. He looks into the glass, checking his own reflection, hand running through the hair slicked back by sweat. A hand presses against the wall as he rests, head turning and eyes skimming back over the dancing crowd. And when Wesley looks he realises the stranger's hand is over his, separated from touch by only a partition of glass. His cock twitches at the thought of the proximity. It doesn't go unnoticed. Fingers trail down the hard shaft lazily as Giles speaks.
"Do you want him to see you? He can you know. All of them can. All it takes is the flick of a switch and the glass becomes transparent."
Wesley's breath hitches at the thought, wondering if Giles would actually do that; fearing
that he will.
"One little flick and they'll all be seeing you, watching you."
The desire that floods through him with those words is stronger than he'll ever admit to anyone.
"That's what you want, isn't it, Wes? To be the one being watched for a change."
But they *are* being watched. Men surrounding them, anonymous in the shadows, groaning in time with each beat vibrating through the air. The muted sound of fingers moving over hard, slick flesh.
He can hear them, *smell* them. Want and need suffusing the air like poison.
He begs again and this time Giles moves, presses against him and swipes his tongue across the back of Wesley's neck.
"Take the jeans off."
It's not what he's expecting to hear, and the confusion stills him momentarily. Stills him until a hand lands on his flesh, sound of the slap ringing into the air, fresh heat blooming where Giles's hand had been resting.
"Don't make me say it again."
He doesn't. Kicking off boots and pushing denim over his legs until he's naked from the waist down, jeans and boots in a pile next to him. The shirt is too short to cover him, and he can feel the eyes on him, heavy and scalding.
A boot between his feet nudges his legs further apart, distance between them increasing until his thighs are burning
Fingers move across his buttocks, dipping into his cleft and lightly skimming over the entrance to his body. The hands leave him and he hears the snap of a tube opening. And the fingers that come back to him are slick, opening him and pressing in without resistance. The digits within him move, feeling and pressing and hitting him just *there* and Wesley can't tell if the colours he's seeing are because of the lights of the club or something else entirely.
The word comes unbidden to his lips and Giles answers, sliding a third finger alongside the two already in him. He can feel the burn as he's stretched, harsh and ragged and cock pulsing. And the fingers sit there inside him.
He presses back, urging Giles to move, *needing* Giles to move.
"Oh god, please."
But the fingers remain still as Giles's soft breath brushes the back of Wesley's neck.
"Wesley, I need you to listen to me."
Voice gentle, quiet, and Wesley wants to listen but doesn't know if he can focus on the words.
"I can give you more, can give you everything, but you have to agree."
And he does. Nods his head and agrees. Will agree to anything so long as Giles just *moves*.
"I need you to relax."
Words soft, murmured against his skin as the fourth finger seeks entrance to his body. There's a burn, hot and fierce and Wesley wants nothing more than to tell Giles to stop but he can't. All four fingers are inside him now, and he can feel them opening him, *possessing* him. And Giles doesn't move as Wesley's body adjusts to the intrusion. Doesn't move for the long moments it takes Wesley to relax enough. And then he pushes just that little bit more.
Wesley arches his back, eyes rolling, as his body stretches to accommodate Giles's hand. Muscles straining almost to tearing point as Giles presses his thumb alongside his fingers and pushes. Wesley feels his body cry out as it's breached by the widest part of Giles's hand before he snaps tight around the other man's wrist, enclosing Giles in Wesley's heated flesh. And Wesley thinks he screams, knows his mouth is open but can't hear anything coming from it.
The fingers that aren't inside him run up and down his leg, soothing him for long moments until his head falls forward, forehead resting on the cool glass.
"Are you ready?"
He's sure he spoke the word, felt it leave his lips even if it only fell silent into the air around him. But even if he didn't give voice to the affirmation Giles still heard it, moving his hand slowly. Fingers flex inside of him, pressing and pushing until all Wesley can see is the red haze in front of him, unable to focus. Giles, speaking with his hands instead of his voice, each finger saying the words Wesley longs for.
Time and thought and music bleed together, and all Wesley can hear is Giles's voice murmuring endearments. The fingers wrapped around his thigh steady him, stopping him from collapsing to the floor. He wants to beg for Giles's other hand on his cock, but he's afraid to, concerned that any touch would be too much. Even the air that's dancing over him with each movement of Giles's hand is threatening to tip him over the edge.
He's so focused on the sensations that he doesn't notice the other man moving closer until it's nearly too late. The stranger's fingers reach out, barely ghosting his flesh before they're forced back by the words ground out by the man crouched next to him.
"Don't touch him."
The hand retreats, instantly obeying, making Wesley wonder just who Giles is when he steps through these doors. And then Giles moves, and there's no more time for thoughts.
Giles reaches further into him, fingertips massaging roughly as his other hand reaches around Wesley's hip and grips his cock, jerking it once. And Wesley can't hold back the scream that wells up at Giles's touch, can't stop the orgasm crashing down on him, cock pulsing, come streaking the glass in front of him.
His head is spinning, and the only thing keeping him upright is Giles's hand inside him, the hand that's starting to slide out of his body.
Because he wants to keep this connection, this feeling. But Giles doesn't listen, and a flash of pain arcs through him as Giles's hand leaves his body, whimpering as the emptiness settles heavily inside him.
And then Giles is there, dropping the towel someone must have handed to him onto the floor next to them.
"Ssh, I've got you."
Giles's arms wrap around him as he's pulled back against the solid body behind him, vibrations from the music running through both of them. Giles's fingers run through his sweat-slicked hair as a kiss is laid over his shirt, between his shoulder blades.
"Trust me?" Words soft enough for only Wesley, but this time he can hear the uncertainty behind them, can hear the question Giles is asking. He doesn't have to think about it before he answers.
And he closes his eyes and smiles.