entire body aimed at Spike like a pointer dog. His mouth's dry and he has to
swallow or cough when Spike starts licking the lolipop again, broad strokes
with a tongue gone candy-red in the center, curling around the treat sensually.
Then he sucks it, pushing half the stick into his mouth so the ball rests deeply
inside, lips pursed and grazing his fingers, cheeks bulging outward before being
sucked back in, cheekbones stark and sharp as his throat works, swallowing the
Then a hand whaps both of their heads simultaneously. The both choke, Spike on his treat, and Xander on his own tongue. "Buffy!" they whine.
"Stop perving on the lolipop, Spike. I am not letting Dawn see both of you with a boner!" Her blush and too-loud demeanor meant she didn't want to see them with a boner, either. Or maybe she did and she just didn't want to let anyone else know ... like two very horny boys who'd be happy to have a threesome, something they'd offered several times already ...
Xander looks around frantically, glad when Dawn seems engrossed in whatever she's doing with Willow and Tara. Spike, however, pouts fetchingly and sidles closer to his lover, oh-so-casually popping the lolipop into Xander's still-gaping mouth. "Right, love. We'll just let Xander have a ... buggering hell."
Xander ducks Buffy's next blow, making sure his lips purse the way Spike likes around the visible white stem.
She joins them a few nights later. They’re watching tv, as domesticated as can be, if you ignore the fact that both of them are naked from the waist down, sitting piled on top of each other and stroking each other’s cock. It’s a quiet night at home for Mr. and Mr. Harris, laughing at the tv and generally being touchy and sexual. They’re good like that. Spike’s still whining about the stupid lollipop, asking Xander to suck it again, or maybe his finger, but not his cock because he wants to go down on Xander at the same time and still be able to look up and see those pretty, full lips go bigger and wetter, which means a sixty-nine is right out.
Xander’s laughing—giggling, almost, little boy falsetto and happy—arguing that if Spike really wanted him to suck on a lollipop, then he should go out and get a lollipop instead of letting Buffy take theirs away.
Buffy almost smiles at that, because she knows they’re teasing, even though a tiny voice inside says maybe they aren’t, maybe they don’t really want this, and they’re just teasing her, including her in their fun without realizing how much she wants it. Not just because they’re beautiful and special and she loves them, but because they love each other with an easiness that Buffy’s never known and she wants it. Wants it badly. But she ignores that little voice, or tries to, and quietly shuts the door behind her, pocketing the key and moving as stealthily and silently as only a Slayer can.
Of course, sneaking up on a vampire kind of cancelled out the Slayer part.
Xander’s on his back now, laughing too hard to know anything but the fingers dancing along his ribs. But Spike knows, and he’s smiling knowingly when Buffy is finally close enough to see his face. It’s a perfect Spike Smirk, tm, leering and arrogant and so thoroughly sexual that her panties wet, although that started when she locked her front door, so maybe it’s not the smirk. Or maybe it’s the cause of another gush, because there’s a softness in Spike’s eyes that’s never been directed at her before. He’s tried, of course, but it took Xander’s helpless attraction to make him really fall and show the softer side he’d hidden for over a century.
She hesitates a foot from the sofa, eyes widening as she takes in Xander’s naked, writhing state, but not disapproving the way she normally does. How can she disapprove when Xander’s so clearly happy and Spike’s joyous appreciation is so close to the surface, like a layer of raspberry right under the creamy white vanilla, dark and rich enough to be blood but so much sweeter. She smiles softly, grateful that Spike is giving her this brief moment, because she knows she isn’t going to go through with it, she can’t. She’d be intruding, really intruding, and she’s got enough sights and sounds and heady-musky smells to keep her fingers busy for many nights to come.
But Spike’s still watching, and Spike can always read her better than she knows herself.
Xander’s laughter cuts out with a whine of disappointment and longing, but Buffy can’t reassure him. She’s too busy being pushed into the wall by arms that’ve suddenly gained more strength than ever before. She’s helpless, trapped, and her panties are so soaked she’s afraid they’re going to slide right off her thighs. She wants to protest, to demand Spike let her go, to shove him away and listen to the thunk of his head smacking satisfyingly against the floor, but she can’t. It’s like she’s lost all control over her body and Spike’s leaning so close, breath cool on her overheated skin, the smell of cigarette’s and Xander’s cologne making her mind swim. She inhales to speak, but all that comes out is a breathy gasp of longing, because suddenly Xander’s there, too, and his hand—so big and warm and god, how does he know this?—is sliding between her legs so the heel rests right over her clit, circling lightly.
“Lookee what I’ve found,” Spike rumbles, leaning forward while Xander leans back, moves easy and slow and so precise they could’ve been choreographed, but they couldn’t have been, could they? She knew Anya had taken a drive before she’d moved on to Giles-ier pastures, and she regularly encourages Buffy to just have an orgasm already, but Buffy really doubts that Anya ever let herself get trapped like this, helpless female while too males, startlingly bigger and broader and maler than ever before, surround her and make her feel weak. Anya wouldn’t like that, and neither should Buffy. She shouldn’t.
“Aw, Spikey, you shouldn’t have,” Xander teases, his voice just as low and rumbly and it maker her tummy quiver to hear it coming from Xander’s—sweet, supportive, niave, platonic—mouth. His hands move again, fingers tracing the edges of her labia, easily found since her panties are clinging, before dipping inside just a little. She gasps, head back and eyes closed, forgetting about anything but his fingers pushing the fabric of her panties up inside her just a little. “How’d you know I always wanted this?”
“Come on, love. You know I’ll get you anything you want.” Spike’s leering again, but Buffy can’t see it—his lips are pressed against the pulse fluttering in her neck, little bird fast and scared, his nose rubbing back and forth, and who knew a nose could feel so incredibly sexy? “Just give me time, pet, and I’ll get you the bloody moon and a necklace of stars.”
Xander laughs, easing the fabric away from her so he can touch her for real. She can’t move, can’t even breath, standing so still she could not be there. Just a random human female they’re toying with, literally, because that’s all she is, just a toy, a one night stand, a—
The swirling thoughts disappear when Xander’s lips brush over hers. It’s not a kiss, her internal Julia Roberts tells her firmly. Actually, she knows it’s not a kiss, because Xander’s looking at her, waiting for her to see him, tiny little smile amused and hopeful and just a little bit sad and knowing, too. It snaps her out of her fears, just as he eases his forefinger inside her and Spike sucks a nipple through shirt and bra.
She shrieks. It’s been too long since Riley, sensations caused by someone else overloading her system. When she can see again, body still quivering, she’s balanced between two hard cocks and two pairs of hips—padded and bony, for her comparison pleasure—with four arms wrapped around her comfortably. Cherishingly, even, but Buffy knows that’s just silly.
“You okay?” Xander’s words are low and almost worried, not a hint of the masculine pride she expected. “You kinda went blank-eyed there.”
She blushes, not looking at Spike whom she knows is leering at her, and tries to make her meet Xander’s eyes. They’re almost black in the light of the tv, which is somehow off, and when did that get turned off? “I’m fine,” she says breathlessly, looking around to find other changes. How long has she been standing here, Xander working her below while Spike played above?
“Are you sure? We can—we don’t have to do this, you know. We just kinda thought you wanted to.”
“Oh, stop being such a bloody white knight,” Spike says, the needling quality to his voice making her head snap up so she can meet his eyes. They’re still soft, though, and she can’t maintain her anger against such softness. Such. . .understanding. “She’s fine. She wanted out, she’d have us both across the room, isn’t that right, Slayer? B ut you don’t want out, do you. You want us in. Both of us at once, maybe, takin’ you, making you scream.”
Buffy trembles, unconsciously pressing closer to Xander. She feels so tiny.
“Yeah, you want it. Want me buried in your quim, hot and quivering and dripping all over my face while you let Xander play with these.” His hands cup her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples. His eyes widen when she gasps, and there’s the masculine pride she remembers, the confidence that usually makes her angry. Now it just makes her hot. Xander’s hands are framing her hips, so big his fingers almost touch in the middle of her belly, and they’re squeezing and caressing in random patterns that make her knees turn to jelly. She’s so used to being the aggressor with everyone but Angel, and it’s getting harder for her to breathe. “Sit you down between us, filled front and back, naked and glorious while you ride us.”
No one’s ever spoken to her like this, and Xander stands for it? Xander who used to be so leary of Anya’s blunt sex talk, likes these wicked, almost degrading words? But she knows he does, because his cock is thrusting up against her ass, not hard, just the random twitches that remind her that she’s bracketed on both sides, front and back, and still trapped . . .
Then suddenly she’s up, in the air, and how did Xander get to be so strong? And so tall, too, she notes as she flies toward the bedroom, body bouncing as he places her down on the bed more gently than she’d realized he could. He climbs over her before she’s ready, pushing her shirt up while Spike attacks her bra and suddenly she’s shirtless, which is only fair since they’re bottomless, and she’s got mouths hot and cold and so very sweet sucking at her nipples, occasional bites offered at just the right moments. She cries out, arching back, hands coming up to pet their heads and hold them closer to her. Then Xander’s moving down, and Spike is moving up, and somehow he knows that it’s okay for him to kiss her. That it’s not intimate the way it would be with Xander, just another form of the duel they’ve never given up, push and pull and fight and force, tongues and teeth clashing, lips caught between, and then—oh, my god, oh, my god!
Her skirt and panties are somewhere else, she doesn’t know or care, because Xander is laying between her thighs, tongue busy and perfect as he opens her up and tastes her. She doesn’t have time to be humiliated or worry about any of the girlie things she’d worried about the one time Riley had—grudgingly—offered, too lost in the heady feeling of a slick, mobile tongue finding all the good spots she’d known about a lot more she hadn’t. When he finally penetrates her, she cries out into Spike’s mouth, legs thrashing open and then just as quickly closed.
Xander gives a muffled grunt of protest that makes her moan, rasp of stubble against her thighs deliciously painful.
“Shh,” Spike soothes, freeing his lover’s head to run his fingers teasingly up and down her right leg. Xander’s holding her other leg pushed open, and Buffy doesn’t have strength enough to protest her wide open position as she’s licked and sucked, and driven closer and closer to her second orgasm in no time flat. Spike pushes her leg up towards her head now, slightly away so he can nibble and lick down her throat, biting her collarbone gently and fingering her breast, and she has no idea how he’s got her so twisted, or why her body isn’t screaming in pain, instead of singing the ‘more more more’ song.
Then Xander’s sucking hard on her clit, found so very easily, and she’s screaming into Spike’s ear, quaking and quivering and other erotic ‘qu’ words she can’t remember when her brains are being sucked out.
Xander chuckles, warm and teasing and perfectly respectful, coming up for air to give his lover a long, slow kiss. Buffy watches, entranced. It’s not the first time she’s seen them kiss before, from the quick pecks they offer before patrol to the intense face-sucking she’ll sometimes catch them at when they should be otherwise occupied. But it’s never been her flavor they were solemnly passing back and forth, and she finds that makes it even more arousing than usual. Ignoring their hands still playing with her body, she shifts onto her belly, taking Spike’s cock into her hand while she tentatively licks at Xander’s.
They immediately stop kissing. “Oh, yeah,” Spike groans, pushing her hand away from his cock. “Lemme watch you? Can I watch, pet?” Buffy doesn’t know who he’s asking, and doesn’t care. Xander tastes surprisingly good, and she wants to return the favor. Wants it a lot, actually, not because she dislikes the sheltered, helpless feeling of being the focus of their attentions, but because Buffy isn’t used to just receiving and doesn’t really like it. She’s active-girl, and physical participation has always been her thing.
Xander’s hands are in her hair, playing with the ends like he’s afraid to just grab her head. Her inner Julia Roberts, who sounds surprisingly like Cordelia, approves, so she starts to lick longer, broader swipes, often glancing upward to see Xander’s reaction. He’s panting, eyes and mouth wet-wide-dark, the shifting reflections telling her he’s looking from her to Spike and back again, which isn’t at all humiliating, because she can feel the intensity of Spike’s gaze on her back and god, she wants to be the focus. Not of him, but of them; she wants someone who wants her that much, and in the face—or back—of that passion, it’s okay to be a bystander. It’s right.
She’s just start sucking at the head, her lollipop a lot bigger and less truly circular than the one at the store, when her lower half is moved, settled into Spike’s lap. His cock is trapped between her slit and his belly, but she can tell that he’s barely interested in the way she flutters around him. His hands knead her hips and buttocks, affectionate and grounding, but absent, and that’s okay, too. They aren’t ignoring her, or dismissing her, just not necessarily focused on her.
“Beautiful,” Spike whispers, tracing between her legs to tell her he means both of them. But Buffy knows it’s Xander he really wants to see, so she leaves the lollipop teasing behind and starts blowing him for real. Xander cries out when she slides halfway down, hands petting her hair, her neck and shoulders, never holding on, but never quite letting go. Spike is rocking into her now, the stimulation of the base of his cock and the beginning swell of his balls on her clit adding the right amount of spice. Her legs lock around his back, heels bouncing against his shoulder blades. It’s fun, rocking back and forth between them. It’d be nicer of Spike was actually fucking her, she thinks, starting to really get into it, when his hand crashes down on her behind.
It doesn’t really hurt, but the sound and the shock of it makes her squeak and pull off from Xander to glare at him in indignation. Spike’s not even looking, hands fumbling to find her head and put it back on Xander’s cock, and she gets it: pay attention to Xander. So she stops drumming her heels, although asking her to stop rubbing her clit is too much, and focuses on the cock inside her mouth. It’s thick, and harder, and sticky and the more she sucks the better it tastes. Spike’s talking above her, praising her, soothing Xander, then working them both back up to a fever pitch with the things he says. It’s incredibly erotic, and she doesn’t complain when Spike leans forward, bending her back in a way it doesn’t want to bend. She’s flexible, and if she tilts her neck a tiny amount she can see them kiss which she sucks and bobs, and she’s going to come again, she knows it.
Spike’s hands on her shoulders are gentle, but she still rolls her eyes to glare at him, little and childish and not at all interested in sharing this lolly. But Spike’s insistent, eyes focused on the bits of flesh showing between her fingers, and she’s curious enough to pull off and back up. Then she squeaks, Spike diving forward to bury his nose in Xander’s groin, throat muscles working as he swallows, and for a second, Buffy is utterly jealous that her skills aren’t nearly up to Spike’s. Then she forgets about Spike, because Xander is coming.
No funny faces, scrunched up and twisted grimaces of almost-pain. No shuddering gasps, almost blowing her away, just deathly stillness and an expression Buffy tries hard to memorize, because it’s perfect. His body is jerking, thrusting up in Spike’s mouth, and Spike’s watching just as hard as she is, and suddenly her Xander-shaped friend is a beautiful man with a body she wants to touch and taste all over, to bring back this expression of pure joy and bliss and love again and again, because it’s not inward-looking. It’s outward looking, at Spike, sharing and giving and she’s caught up in it too, and both she and Spike simultaneously shudder and gasp in the face of that joy, pushed over without a touch.
The bed’s wet, soaked, but Buffy doesn’t have time to be ashamed—especially since it’s not nearly all from her—because Spike is scrabbling for lube, babbling something about not having condoms, and has she done this before? Does she mind, because it’s so perfect, so bloody perfect for the three of them, and she has to accept, really she does. And Xander’s between her legs again, calling her beautiful, pressing his fingers slowly inside, one and then the other like she’s a virgin and needs to be stretched.
And then suddenly she is a virgin, because warm, slippery-wet fingers are pressing where no one’s pressed before. Xander’s giving her puppy dog eyes and she realizes what they want when the tip of his pinky slips inside. She laughs. “N-no condoms?” she asks, giggles and manic hysteria making her shiver more than the slowly moving pinky does.
“I’m dead,” Spike explains succinctly. “Can’t spread disease. Definitely can’t knock him up, either.”
“I’m clean,” Xander adds, and oh, god, there’s another finger inside and something cooler than her own juices is easing his path, and she realizes that Spikes coating Xander’s entire hand with something that smells like root beer, and she’s laughing again, because there’s no way, no way he can fit what he wants to fit up there, let alone his whole fist. “I get tested, still, just in case. So it’s just, um. . . .”
That, and they both want her, and she’s not going to say no. She’s still laughing, and smiling, nodding agreement even though she knows they don’t understand she’s agreeing. Can’t say yes, though, not when Spike is scattering kisses over her belly and breasts, and only laughter and tears are escaping, because it does hurt, in the best, most perfect of ways. She’s built to take pain, barely even notices it anymore, and Xander’s being so careful to strum her like a guitar, a, e, and g chording together.
Then Spike is getting her to sit up and turn around so she’s facing him, sliding down easily until he’s fully seated inside, barely a whisper of protest she wants it so bad. Needs it. He’s not warm, but not cold, and memories threaten to overwhelm her completely—thinner, a little, and longer, and getting warmer, just like she remembers, oh god—as she’s filled and stretched in ways she’s needed for so very long. Spike kisses her ear, the point of her jaw, hands on her shoulders, encouraging her to shift her weight and lean onto her knees, breasts smooshed between their bodies as he leans back on his elbows, legs straight ahead. Buffy links hers around his back, around his neck, biting down viciously when she feels the first nudge.
They’re gentling her, both of them, kisses and warm touches, cool melty ice cream cones over flushed skin and soft words, almost loving and she pretends. Believes, just for a moment, that it is really her they want, and this is forever and always and there’s nothing to mar the perfection of what they have, what the share, what the can give to each other—
All three groan when Xander finally gets the head inside. It doesn’t hurt anymore, really, although it kinda burns. Not badly, just there, a sore tooth you want to wiggle because it’s an addictive kind of pain. Xander pushes forward more and more, stopping whenever she makes a noise, so careful, his hands petting her sides, her stomach, her legs, telling her that it’s so good, it’s okay, if she needs him to stop, he will. Just a little bit more, just a little. Buffy wants him to stop talking, because the stretch and burn and fullness is incredible, but she knows if he does that she’ll stop being able to pretend. So she listens, totally relaxed on Spike’s chest like it was her comfy bed, even though it is really comfy with all these nice ridges and plateaus to rub against. She doesn’t, though, not yet, letting her body adjust as Xander works in deeper and deeper. And then he’s inside, his balls brushing against Spike’s, and she can feel them both. Xander’s heat and thickness radiates through her, more pleasurable than she’d ever though this kind of play could be. The pain has faded to nothing, there’s just fullness and a kind of grasping want she doesn’t understand, nerves that’ve never existed before now tingling and sending up shivery-good messages to her brain.
“Oh god, Buffy. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy,” Xander babbles, moving just a little. “I can feel—oh, god, I can feel—”
Buffy feels it too, tiny strip of skin separating the two men inside her and when Spike jerks involuntarily, she realizes that that strip of filament has nerves too, or at least it feels like it does, because she can feel them both scraping inside her, rubbing together inside her, and it’s perfect. She wants to scream, to give in to the pressure that’s building so sweetly, but not yet. Not until they both start moving.
She must have growled, or something, because Spike gives a breathless chuckle. “Lean back, pet,” he instructs, and the world tips as Xander obeys, leaving her upright, squashed and speared and surrounded on both sides and if someone doesn’t start moving, she’s really going to scream. And then she realizes that she can start moving, that in fact, she’s got the most leverage to do the moving, so she bounces. It’s a pitiful bounce, moving her body maybe an inch up before sliding back down, but it works. Because the incredible feelings go up a notch towards exquisite and she needs Willow to figure out a big enough word to encompass the feeling of two, inside, and the noises that each man makes, the hands holding her up and the soft words that encourage her to do it again. So she does.
Time stops as she moves. Hips thrust up towards her and she grunts every time she meets them, not caring what she sounds like or smells like, because each man tells her how perfect it is. How tight she feels, how warm and wet and strong. The words are good, yes, but she doesn’t want to hear them, can’t listen when she knows it isn’t really her they’re talking about. “Quiet,” she orders, voice thin and reedy-weak. “Just—quiet.” And then there’s just breathing, three because Spike’s panting as loudly as the humans, but only two heartbeats work. The first roars in her own ears, sea-surf on acid, and it’s still not as fast as the thudding that makes her shoulders bounce and press back against it even harder. In and out and up and down and the words still escape, but that’s okay, because Buffy can hear what she wants.
There are hands all over her, pinching and fondling. She can’t touch Xander, but that’s okay, because Spike’s touching both of them, just like Xander’s touching her and Spike and she’s free suck up invisible marks on Spike’s neck, scratching her nails down his back, giving him the pain she knows he needs, because he tells her how much he likes it, and Xander tells her the best places to hurt. She responds by biting down, hard, and suddenly there are mouths on her neck, sucking up marks and she’s not surprised at all when it’s Spike’s mouth that finds the scars Angel left on her. The scars burns under his mouth and she knows that she wants him to bite her, that Spike wants to bite her—just like she knows that he won’t, would never, not even when her teeth break his skin, and it’s not a chip that stops him.
It’s dark eyes and an easy smile and warm hands are soft despite work calluses, and she’s moving so fast the muscles in her thighs start screaming, but it doesn’t matter. Everything focuses on the warmth behind her, hot breath, loud heart and when he makes that final gasp, she closes her eyes to visualize the face she knows he’s making—
When she comes back to herself—or comes to, she’s not sure she didn’t pass out—Xander is spooned underneath her, using his legs to hold her open. Spike is lying between them, doing something that feels wonderful, and she almost tells them she can’t possibly come again, that they’ve killed her. Both men chuckle, vibrations coming from above and below, and she has to smile too, even though she didn’t mean to say that out loud. Spike finally finishes wiping both the humans down, tongue finding any bits the cloth has missed, and then comes to lay in front of her, stretched out and comfortable and it doesn’t matter that Spike’s hands are on Xander’s ass, or that Xander’s clutching Spike’s waist. It doesn’t matter that tomorrow it’ll probably be awkward until Spike makes a sneering comment and Xander a self-depreciating one and then it won’t be so awkward, because that’s tomorrow. Today, there’s a hand on her breast and different one smoothing down her hair, sleep-roughened voices saying thank you and go to sleep and love you.
And for one instant, it doesn’t matter at all that they don’t love her the way they love each other. Because she doesn’t want that. She’s already got what she wants.