Disclaimer: Joss Whedon is god. He owns them.
Wes/m, Wes/Angel (sort of) NC17
Notes: This story (like a lot of others I wrote) has been beta-read by the wonderful Gail. Thank you. :-)
Website: The Unholy Trinity at http://www.strangeplaces.net/trinity/main.htm
The last time he was here was four months ago. He changes places regularly, doesn't go to them too often, even drives three hours sometimes to find one outside town. Since he has known about Wolfram & Hart, he has become even more careful than in the past, when he was still in England and later in Sunnydale. He is afraid they will try to follow him one day, make pictures and give them to his friends. They would do it, yes. He is sure of that. He means nothing to the lawyers. He's just one of the hero's sidekicks you find at every corner if you search for a new one. But they'd do it nonetheless, because they are just a bunch of sick and mean bastards.
He is afraid of that, of his friends knowing about him. Gunn. Cordelia. Angel. Doesn't matter if only one finds out or all of them. Either one would be disastrous and would in any case drive them away from him. So he keeps on changing, again and again, and it makes him a face in the crowd, no one to recognize in the scene. No one to remember. But that's what he is after exactly.
When he enters, loud European dance music and thick heat push against him, his face and body, in a wave that takes his breath away. Heat and sweat and cigarette smoke, and the taste and the smell of people, men only, looking for sex and getting some, is in the air. Sweat is forming on the back of his neck immediately, soaking into his dark green, shiny shirt. But he doesn't care because he doesn't intend to wear the shirt all night long anyway.
They put a seal on his hand when he entered the club, a blue heart, and he stares down at it for a second and thinks about how later tonight when he's back in his apartment, he will start scrubbing his skin with a load of scouring agent and how it will take a long time to get the blue colour off. He would use a scrubbing brush like he did back in England. But the brush always made him bleed, and he is afraid of that now, with Angel around. Angel would smell his bleeding, and he would ask. No one ever asked about his hand in the past. No one cared then. But Angel does, and Angel could read him if he tried to lie. So he used soap instead, even if that robs him of the feeling of really cleaning himself. From the places he has gone to and the things he did there.
He enters the club while ignoring the eyes following him. He wouldn't have thought of himself as good-looking in the past, even if he pretended so towards Buffy and Giles, to everyone of that group that treated him like an outsider and the enemy itself. The sometimes even aggressive self-confidence was part of his life-long cover to hide himself. He would have *never* really thought of himself as good- looking, even if he said so. But by now, he is fairly certain that despite his skinny body and the strange clothing he wears sometimes, he has a certain kind of attractiveness. Because on every one of his evenings out in the scene, he has gotten the man he wanted.
He is just strolling around a bit at first, wandering, his drink in hand. Just looking at the people around. He doesn't dance. He never dances in those clubs. It would mean to show something of his life outside the clubs. He would never do that. It feels wrong. The clubs and his real life are two sides of one coin. They will never meet.
There are several men who fit his requirements. He counts two in the inner circle, and a further three who could be a "maybe". None of them is perfect, not tall enough, not broad enough, not dark enough, but he hasn't been in any club for over a month now, and he needs it tonight. They would do.
He decides on one, smiles and at him, and the man smiles back.
He's just standing there then, with his eyes on the other man's body, up and down. The long legs, clad in blue jeans, a dark red shirt, the brown hair. He likes what he sees and takes a sip of his beer. He knows he is being watched, and he likes that, too.
Then suddenly, he catches the eye of another man, who is standing at the bar, a glass in his hand. Wesley can feel his hand shaking a bit. He is perfect. Tall and dark and broad-shouldered and just perfect, and the lust rushes through his body in a long and agonizing shudder. His leather pants start to itch. It has been just too long. He stares until the man realizes he is there. This time, his smile is luscious, not just friendly. He wants this man, wants him badly. He is everything he can wish for. As near as he will ever get to the real thing.
It's hot in the bar, steamy, cigarettes and joints and sweat, and sex and dancing people. Too many people at one place. He needs privacy. Privacy and this man, and he needs it now, he wants it now.
Wesley drinks the rest of his beer in one long swallow and puts the empty bottle on one of the tables around. There's the ghost of a touch on his ass, pushing between his legs, but he just shrugs it off with a movement that was only half-angry. He doesn't even turn around to look at whoever tried to come after him. He has better things to do. His prey is looking back at him with open interest, and Wesley pushes his shoulders back and starts moving towards him.
He is half dancing, half pushing his way through the large masses of people. Hands and body parts and sweat and breaths full of alcohol and cigarette-smoke are brushing over his face. He is smiling now, a predatory smile that he isn't even aware of. No one he knows in his real life would ever see this smile. It is so very unlike everything they know or think to know about Wesley Wyndham-Pryce that he is sure that it would shock them half to death to see it. Everything nice, everything unsure about him is just gone. Everything there is now would be sex and confidence.
When he stands in front of the man, he likes him even more. He is just half a head larger than Wesley is, with broad shoulders and a good chest that Wes would like to touch and run his fingers over if there's the chance. The man wears dark pants and a dark t-shirt. He would have preferred a dark shirt, maybe made out of silk, but the t- shirt is tight and brings out the man's muscles, and he likes it either way. The hair is dark, too, could be dark brown or even black, but Wesley can't make it out exactly. There's hardly any light in the club. Just blinking red and green.
They look at each other for a moment, just smiling and taking in the sight. Then Wesley can feel a hand on his hip, rubbing up and down.
"It's cold outside," Wesley says. He is just loud enough for the other one to hear him, but not so loud as to be screaming.
"You don`t want to go home?"
Wesley shakes his head just once. The man nods towards the way to the toilets.
"What about that?" he says.
Wesley leads the way, moving smoothly through the crowd now that he made up his mind and everything is clear. He has stopped thinking logically a long time ago. All he does now is reacting on basic instincts.
There are ten stalls, hardly large enough for two, and three sinks. It's loud in there, too, from the music and from a lot of people talking and laughing at the same time. The ground is full of water from the sinks and of soaked tissues, and Wesley can even see a used condom in one of the corners.
He ignores it all, the dirt, the noise, the other people in the toilet, and goes to one of the empty stalls instead. The man comes in right behind him and closes the door and locks it. And suddenly, the sound, the music and the voices and the laughing, all of it, seems to be closed out, gone. It's just the two of them now, the two of them and Wesley's harsh and loud and aroused breathing.
"What's your name?" the man says. He is pressing himself against Wesley, pushing him back up against one of the walls. Rubbing. He is rubbing his denim-clad groin against Wesley's leather one. The touch makes Wes swallow hard.
"Pryce," he says.
"Martin," the man answers. "You British?"
"Yes." Wesley brings his hand between their bodies and cups the man's, Martin's, cock with the palm of his hand. When he squeezes slightly, his reward is a low groan. Martin moves his head forward to bring their mouths together, but Wesley backs away.
"I don't kiss," he whispers.
"Keeping yourself for the right guy, heh?" Martin gives him a half- mocking, half-curious look. Wesley doesn't answer. He just presses the cock in his hand a bit harder and smiles when Martin gasps and closes his eyes.
"What do you do then?"
Wesley stares at the dreamy-looking smile on the face only centimetres from his own, while his hand is still absently stroking and pressing. He likes what he feels, really likes it, and he wants to see, too, so he uses his other hand to open Martin's zipper and to push the pants down. No underwear. Wesley licks his lips.
"What do you do?" Martin whispers hoarsely.
"I fuck," Wesley answers without looking Martin in the face. He watches the cock in his hand grow and get harder now when he pulls a bit and brushes the tip. "And I get fucked."
There are people besides them in the stalls. Groaning on the one side, silence on the other. He knows someone is in there, too, he heard the door. But now there's not a sound coming from it. Someone who likes to listen, who will listen to them. He doesn't care.
Wesley looks up and into Martin's face. He is fascinated by the look of hardly constrained lust and by the drops of sweat forming on the man's face and running down on it. He wishes nothing more but to lick them off, but that would come too near to kissing. And he doesn't do that.
"I get fucked," he repeats, and he smiles, and Martin smiles back.
"Really?" Martin answers hoarsely. In the man's eyes, Wesley can see that certain fire telling him that Martin will give him what he wants and needs and that he will give it happily. Wesley doesn't want to talk any more.
He keeps his right hand clasped loosely around the cock, just to keep Martin a bit on the edge, and uses his left hand to get the condom from his back pocket. Martin has turned to Wesley's own zipper and opens it. When he gets his hand in and touches his naked skin, Wesley gasps, then pushes the condom in the other man's hand and hurries with wriggling himself out of his pants. He keeps his eyes on the other man's hands and what they are doing. He looks nice. Wesley would like to take a taste, but decides against it. No time for that.
"You do this often?" Martin whispers. He gives his hardened cock one last stroke, then rolls on the condom. "I have never seen you here before. I would have noticed. Maybe we could...you know..."
"Stop. Talking. - Please." He wants to keep this strictly sex.
With his pants around his ankles, Wesley turns and braces himself against the wall. He keeps his cheek against it. It is cool against his skin, a nice change from the heat in the rest of the whole club, and he likes it. It makes his head a bit clearer. There's still no sound coming from the next stall. He still doesn't care if they are listened to. Not now.
He waits.
There is a warm hand against his ass, just touching slightly first, then probing and pushing in, meaning to make him ready, and then suddenly a sound of surprise.
"Prepared already." A little appreciative laugh.
Wesley suddenly wishes the other man would just shut up and start. He doesn't want to hear the voice. It makes him remember that none of this is real, that this man, Martin, is not the real thing, even if Wesley tries to make himself forget that. The hand disappears, then Wesley feels something else, larger and much hotter, against him, pushing against his ass, searching and finally slowly being moved in and stretching. Behind him, Martin growls a bit.
"You look good, Pryce," he gasps. "You look so good. You..."
Wesley presses his eyes together. "Shut up. Shut up. Just shut. The Hell! Up." He pushes violently back against the other body and the intrusion. It hurts, and it burns; it is too fast, and he feels too full, and he groans loudly from pain, but the man behind him suddenly has stopped talking, and that makes it worth it.
Fingers dig hard into his naked hips, pressing the flesh together and probably leaving marks. But he doesn't care about that either, not now that he is at last where he wants to be. He opens his mouth and lets out a long, freeing sigh when the body behind him starts moving, pushing in deeper and moving out again.
He will never know if this is the way Angel would move or if this is the way Angel would touch him. But he can pretend that this is it; he can close his eyes and imagine his cold skin and his smell.
He is good at that by now. He's had enough practice because he has done the unthinkable. He has fallen in love with a vampire, and for over a year now he goes and lets dark and tall men fuck him in toilet stalls of cheap gay clubs. Just because those men have a slight resemblance to this vampire. He is being fucked hard by a man he doesn't know and will never see again after this one night and besides the turn on it all gives him, the feeling of a very tall and very broad body against him and the thought that this *can* be Angel to him, if he just imagines strong enough, he suddenly remembers what a failure he is, and he chokes.
How *much* a failure he really is. God, how much. And how sick he is and how perverted and how right his father was to lock him in the cellar. And thank god Angel doesn't know. Thank God he doesn't know. Thank...
"god."
Martin. Martin shut up. Shut up!
He is being touched hard, deep inside his body and for just that moment, the sickness vanishes, and he opens his mouth and lets out a low scream, and he presses his face harder against the wall, and his hands make hard fists beside his head.
On the other side of the wall he is pressed against, he can hear the groan of another man, answering his.
The sound momentarily makes him forget to brace himself, and when Martin thrusts into him the next time, his forehead smashes hard against the wall of the toilet stall.
For a second, he is seeing white blinking stars. The pain takes his breath away. Martin doesn't realize that. He just keeps on fucking him, every movement accompanied by a grunt. Wesley groans, pushes himself up a bit, and puts his hands back up besides his head.
His forehead starts feeling hot. For another second he is a bit dizzy, then he is back to the moment, back to the fucking, and he feels nothing but good, great really, and he is even laughing a bit.
"...touch you?...do you want me to touch you?"
A hand pushes under his shirt and over his chest, finding his nipple and pinching it. More sweat on his neck and then a tongue, kissing and lapping it away. Wesley gasps.
"Yes...," he whispers. "Yes, do that again...please."
Wide open kisses, pressed to his back. Martin pushes up his shirt with a frenzied hand and frees his skin, and Wesley suddenly likes this man even more because he's got long nails, really long fingernails, and he is scratching over his skin with them hard, leaving long, burning marks.
Angel. He thinks of Angel and his feelings for him, and Martin hits his prostate, and Wesley screams and laughs at the same time.
"Again," he urges.
So Martin grabs him around the hip and holds him hard to his own body and thrusts again, and he is near now, both of them are. Wesley can tell from Martin`s hiccupped breathing and his own hyperventilating, and then he finally decides that he really would like to jerk himself off to get over the edge now.
Somehow, time seems to stop, just like Wesley stops thinking about anything but the friction inside of his body and the feeling of the jerking when he gets hold of himself. His hands are slick from his own sweat, and he moves easily and swiftly and thinks of Angel's hands. His long and strong and cold and sometimes deadly fingers. And he wishes they would be here right now and that they would hold him. Just hold on to him and keep him. His breathing is hard from the strain of his own movements and from Martin`s fast slapping against him and from trying to keep himself together and not lose it. There's a sob building deep inside his body for a while now, but he can't do that. Can't let it out. He can't let this strange see his weakness, can't let him realize the failure he really is. A failure that can't even *fuck* without being pathetic.
Wesley rolls his head back and groans out loud, and again, there's an answering sound from the other side of the wall. This time the sound isn't diverting Wesley, it is humouring him somehow, and he laughs from deep in his throat. He feels free. He feels very free suddenly. The man behind him is whispering words into his ear about how wonderfully tight he is and how beautiful, and he is stroking his chest and closing his hand fiercely around Wesley's now and moving with him, his hand grabbing hard and adding even more friction.
But Wesley ignores all that. He is deep down in the image, the vision, of the man behind him being Angel. Of Angel, moving in and out of him and whispering words and groaning his name and Angel's long, long fingers clasped around his, and Angel moving with him and in him and all around him, sliding easily because of their mingled sweat. Angel screaming because of him. Wesley gasps out loud, and then he is there; he is coming hard over both of their hands. He can feel the other man joining him in his orgasm, and he suddenly wishes that he would bite down on his neck and draw blood, because he is sure that is what Angel would have done. He suddenly wishes for the pain of being bitten to make this real. But this is not Angel behind him. Because all the man behind him does is let go of him after he puts another kiss on his back, and it brings Wesley back to reality like a slash to his face would have done, too.
There's the sound of splattering water in the toilet besides them, when Martin throws the condom into it. Wesley is still catching his breath, with his head bent down. He doesn't want to have to look at the other man. He feels dirty suddenly. He only wants to wash himself.
"That was nice," Martin says with a smile, but still out of breath. "Will I see you here again? I'd like to do this again one day. Maybe change places?"
"No," Wesley answers. He bends down and pulls up his pants. His back aches. He doesn't look at Martin. He wants him to go away.
Martin is silent for a second. "Well," he says then, obviously pissed off. "What*ever*." Angrily, he unlocks the stall door and turns to leave, but then decides against it. "This Angel...," he says.
Wesley feels all the blood leaving his face. "What?"
"Angel. That *is* a name, isn't it? Is that who this is all about? You were saying the name all through it."
Wesley keeps his head down when he squeezes himself out between the door and Martin`s body.
He tries to arrange his shirt while he walks down to the sinks, but his hands are shaking too much. He hadn't even realized that he was saying things.
Martin stands beside him when he stops at the sinks and turns on the water of one of them. Wesley meets his eyes in the mirror over the sinks for a second, then quickly looks away. Martin sighs.
"Whatever. - If you ever want to fuck again... Maybe we'll see each other."
"That`s very unlikely."
Wesley starts washing his hands with enormous concentration. Adds soap to his hands, puts them under the water, washes, washes, washes. Doesn't look up. Just washes his hands and wants nothing more but to get rid of all of his clothes and put his whole body under the stream, get it hot, as hot as possible, and burn the dirt away he feels on every inch of himself.
Martin stays at his side for hardly a minute. Then he spits: "You are such a shit. No wonder you don't get him," and storms out of the room without looking back.
Wesley ignores him and the rest of the men in the washing room, too, who are looking at him with open curiosity. Wesley just keeps on washing his hands, adds more water and even more soap and listens to the sound of the water rushing down the sink. His back starts itching even more. He hadn't even really been aware of how hard Martin had taken him while it happened. But now it all comes back at him with a vengeance, and he groans a bit and stretches himself.
He would love to get a back-rub, but then he doesn't know anyone that close who could give him one. The thought is like a needle, stinging into his stomach.
Wesley stares into the mirror in front of himself and at his own face and the red spot on it where he hit the wall.
He doesn't recognize the man. Who is he? What the hell is he doing with his life? What the hell is he doing *here*?
He looks back down at his hands in the sink and turns off the water then.
There's a sound behind him, but Wesley doesn't look up or react in any way, except of that he grins a bit. It's just the lock of one of the toilet stalls. Probably their "fan," the one who was listening in on Martin and him. He didn't hear or see him leave earlier.
There are the sounds of footsteps coming nearer, then stopping right behind him. Wesley, still grinning, finally looks up and into the mirror, just out of curiosity. There's nothing there. No one behind him. No one he can see in the mirror at least. But he can *hear* someone breathing behind him. And he can feel the eyes of someone on his back. Wesley shudders. The grin has vanished. Only the blood is rushing in his ears.
Silence. All Wesley can hear is his own shallow breathing and the much more even one behind him.
Time seems to stop. He just stares into the mirror and the nothing he sees in it. He doesn't dare to turn around.
The someone behind him moves again, comes nearer. Wesley still doesn't look around, but he can feel fingers, cold fingers, touching his neck softly and caressing over it. Light as a feather, bringing up goose-bumps.
"Come home with me?"
Wesley closes his eyes. Then he turns, and he follows, and he never comes back.
...end...
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