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A while back I wrote a threesome fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lovesbitca; Faith/Giles/Wesley, Second Time of Asking . It's set post NFA, Wes died and is back again human, thanks to Cordelia, Buffy is dead and Giles is Faith's Watcher.
And Wesley isn't happy about that but there's shower smut and hey, Faith could use two of them watching her, right?
It was a one-off and yet... was it too easy? Happy endings in the Buffyverse? Please!
Here's a bit more, with more to come very soon because I've finally worked out what's going to happen.
ETA The whole fic is now archived on my web page here
Third Time Lucky
Part One
"You're too hard on her."
They both are, but it's not like she's complaining, so why Giles has that edge to his voice is a mystery. She shifts position and the butterfly-wing pattern of bruises across her body tears and shreds and darkens just a little and her teeth meet the soft bulk of the pillow and tear at that.
"I'm doing what needs to be done, and if you can't see that --"
Wesley's voice... God, the two of them sound so fucking pretty with their English accents. She giggles sometimes when they're telling her to do stuff, filthy, depraved, delicious stuff, in those plum-perfect voices that make it all sound even worse.
Or better.
Depends on where you're coming from, doesn't it, and by then she's usually just coming, and in her accent, if she had one, which she doesn't, the thickly tumbling words are just hoarse and demanding and desperate and she might as well be speaking in tongues for all the notice they take of her.
Although last week, yeah, Giles must've been paying some attention to her because he slid his hand into hers when she needed that, and the fingers that are tracing the edge of a bruise, marking off hurt skin from clean and having to take the long way 'round because there's not much on her ass that isn't a rainbow of purple shading to black, got squeezed until they both heard something crack.
She's high-maintenance, yeah, but they all know that.
"I can see that my -- that she's going to be missing patrol again because you've trained her to the point of --"
Oh fuck, Giles. Not that again. Not now. Because when they're fucking and Giles and Wes are kissing, eyes open, hands busy, making even guttural grunts sound classy, it's fine, it's more than fine, and when she's kneeling between them, each hand filled with a cock, hard and slicked, and the two of them are staring up at her with identical expressions of near-feral intensity, it's way past fine and heading to perfect, but when Giles says 'my' he'd better not ever follow it with a word that rhymes with -- oh, whatever the fuck 'Slayer' rhymes with -- because it pisses Wesley off and he's no fun like that.
And Giles can take him, yeah, in more ways than one, but that's one fight she never wants to see because now, three months after Wes turned up resurrected and looking like hell chewed him up and spat him out, she's not Giles' and she's not Wesley's because she's never going to be able to choose, but they're both hers, and damn if she wasn't so fucking stiff and sore she'd remind them of that.
"--trained her as she's supposed to be trained and if your methods hadn't been inadequate she wouldn't be --"
Out of line, there, Wesley, she thinks, feeling a stirring of anger because Giles' hand twitches against her ass and that dig hurt him, she can tell.
When Wesley's down there sucking Giles' cock like it's his favourite chew toy, pulling sounds from Giles even she can't get him to make, below the belt's fine, but in a fight? Not so much. And telling a man who thinks Buffy died because he let her down that he's inadequate is just fucking cruel.
That's her Wesley...
And they're fighting now. Fighting over her, but it's not as much fun as it should've been because she's not some fucking symbol, not some prize.
She's Faith and they're losing her as they jostle and shove for position.
Three of them, all on top.
Getting crowded.
Too much to prove, all of them.
Giles, that he's not past it.
Wes that he's not dead.
And she's just looking to believe that she matters to them both and she's starting to wonder.
"You're fired," she says clearly, but with her face mashed into the pillow it comes out as a mumble and the tennis-ball back-and-forth of polite, razor-slash-sharp comments don't slow at all.
"Fucking fired, -- now get the hell out!" she screams, and that works, that makes it past cotton and whatever the fuck the pillow's stuffed with.
She can't even turn her head to look at them because it's mean picking a side to turn to and choosing is what she won't do, ever.
She'd lose them both before she'd do that.
Maybe she already has.
"Faith?"
Wesley's hand strokes her hair, damp with tears she didn't shed, tears that slid treacherously out of disloyal eyes. It's clinging in wet strands to her face but maybe he thinks it's sweat, which is gross but doesn't seem to be putting him off. He's not squeamish, Wes. Not at all.
"Don't tell me that you're sorry," she says thickly. "You had fun. Loved slamming me against walls. Loved watching me fall to my fucking knees."
With her hands tied behind her back and her feet hobbled, she'd been... limited in her response, to say the fucking least. Going to her knees had been deliberate though; she'd arched and wriggled and worked her hands under her ass and out, getting them in front of her as the blows from the staff he held had punished her for trying. When her bound hands became a doubled fist he'd been the one to step back...
... and then he'd taken her feet from under her and been on her before the breath had filtered back into violently-emptied lungs, hurting her and only stopping when the timer in the corner had gone off with a cheery chirp, thirty seconds after Giles had come in, sworn and started to scream at him.
"And I don't care," she carries on. "You hearing me, Giles? Because he's right. I need to get hurt sometimes. Need to remember what it's like so I don't fuck-up when I'm slaying." She closes her eyes and whispers it, but they're both listening now so she can be as quiet as she wants and know that they're still hearing every word. "But not every time. You know? Not every fucking time, Wes."
She starts to cry properly. Never cries. Never. And they're all over her, gentle hands, clumsy kisses, frantic, hissed whispers like she can't hear them...
"No, it is not my fucking period!"
Nearly kills her, but she rolls over and sits up, pushing hanks of hair back off her hot, sticky face and glaring at them.
"It's you two. It's you fucking two and I can't fucking do this --"
Astonished eyebrows. Puzzled exchanged glances. Oh, yeah, they'll bond over how to unscrew the inscrutability that she turns into every now and then, but they won't do it any other time, when their dicks aren't hard and their hands and mouths aren't hungry.
Bastards.
Oh, sorry, was that aloud?
"Faith, perhaps you could simply tell us what the matter is?"
Giles' eyes are tired but there's always enough strength of will to keep him going just another minute, and another. He doesn't give up, doesn't quit. Hasn't given up on her, has he, which sorta proves that.
"Could, Giles, but maybe I don't want to. Ever think about that? Ever think I might get fucking sick and tired of playing mommy to you two?"
Their noses twitch in a synchronised wrinkle and it's enough to take her anger down a notch. Barely.
"I think I speak for both of us when I say that we don't find you particularly maternal, Faith," Giles says, solemnly, a smile lurking far back and deep in his eyes.
"Do you know how much I want to slap that grin off your face, love?" she says, kneeling up and placing her hands carefully on her thighs. She's naked; they're not and it doesn't matter. They're staring at her tits off and on, but that doesn't matter either. For once, she's too tired to fuck. Too beaten.
"Faith, I think I should just point out --"
"What, Wes?" She's in his face now, and she's angry enough to make his face the first her fist meets, but she keeps her hands flat and touching her skin, just hers. "Point out how you two aren't a team and so there's no way the three of us are? Point out that if we're not fucking, we're fighting, and even the fucking isn't going so well these days?"
"It isn't?" Giles' voice is quiet and calm. He's been close to her for longer and it shows sometimes. He's backed off already whereas Wesley's still fighting.
"Been faking the 'oh, oh, God yes!' bit for a couple of weeks now," she admits. She holds up her right hand and wiggles her fingers. "Meet my best buddy. That and the vibe in the top drawer over there."
Wesley's blushing, he really is, but it's mortification, not embarrassment and Giles isn't looking too happy either.
"The ... sexual element to all this isn't ... if you're unhappy... "Giles loses it and gives her a look that comes close to breaking her. "Faith, I'm so sorry."
"Not enough," she says huskily, before she breaks down and crawls into his lap to be cuddled, which isn't something anyone else could do to her and live to tell the tale, same way Wes is the only one who can stroke her hair and not have her twitching and snarling. "You two -- fighting. All the fucking time. Who's senior Watcher. Who makes me scream higher, come harder. Who matters most to me." She takes a deep breath. "You know what? It's time you two remembered something."
"And that would be?" Wesley murmurs, his gaze taking a wander over her body.
"I'm the Slayer. I'm the Chosen One. Me. Fucking me." She glances between them. "You two are fucking replaceable and don't think I won't ask for one if this carries on. Maybe then you'll quit with the power plays and give me some fucking time --"
"We give you all of our time!" Giles says, starting to get on the defensive.
"No." She's really certain about that. "You're so busy keeping an eye on him to make sure he's not getting anything you're not, that you barely know I exist." She holds out her thumb and forefinger, an inch apart. "See that? That's how close I was to falling in love with you two. That's how fucking close I was to being happy. You've spoiled it, both of you and I fucking hate you for that."
They swap glances again and she screams in frustration, hammering her fists against her leg, even though it hurts. "See? See that? That thing you do? You're close. You fuck like you care so why don't you trust each other when your cocks aren't standing to attention?"
Silence. Deep, painful silence.
"Get your fucking act together, or get the hell out," she says finally, when she's sick of waiting. "Now I'm going to sleep. And I don't want company."
The door closes behind them and she's asleep before it's stopped quivering.
Her eyes are closed, but she knows it was Wes who slammed it.
TBC
lovesbitca; Faith/Giles/Wesley, Second Time of Asking . It's set post NFA, Wes died and is back again human, thanks to Cordelia, Buffy is dead and Giles is Faith's Watcher.And Wesley isn't happy about that but there's shower smut and hey, Faith could use two of them watching her, right?
It was a one-off and yet... was it too easy? Happy endings in the Buffyverse? Please!
Here's a bit more, with more to come very soon because I've finally worked out what's going to happen.
ETA The whole fic is now archived on my web page here
Third Time Lucky
Part One
"You're too hard on her."
They both are, but it's not like she's complaining, so why Giles has that edge to his voice is a mystery. She shifts position and the butterfly-wing pattern of bruises across her body tears and shreds and darkens just a little and her teeth meet the soft bulk of the pillow and tear at that.
"I'm doing what needs to be done, and if you can't see that --"
Wesley's voice... God, the two of them sound so fucking pretty with their English accents. She giggles sometimes when they're telling her to do stuff, filthy, depraved, delicious stuff, in those plum-perfect voices that make it all sound even worse.
Or better.
Depends on where you're coming from, doesn't it, and by then she's usually just coming, and in her accent, if she had one, which she doesn't, the thickly tumbling words are just hoarse and demanding and desperate and she might as well be speaking in tongues for all the notice they take of her.
Although last week, yeah, Giles must've been paying some attention to her because he slid his hand into hers when she needed that, and the fingers that are tracing the edge of a bruise, marking off hurt skin from clean and having to take the long way 'round because there's not much on her ass that isn't a rainbow of purple shading to black, got squeezed until they both heard something crack.
She's high-maintenance, yeah, but they all know that.
"I can see that my -- that she's going to be missing patrol again because you've trained her to the point of --"
Oh fuck, Giles. Not that again. Not now. Because when they're fucking and Giles and Wes are kissing, eyes open, hands busy, making even guttural grunts sound classy, it's fine, it's more than fine, and when she's kneeling between them, each hand filled with a cock, hard and slicked, and the two of them are staring up at her with identical expressions of near-feral intensity, it's way past fine and heading to perfect, but when Giles says 'my' he'd better not ever follow it with a word that rhymes with -- oh, whatever the fuck 'Slayer' rhymes with -- because it pisses Wesley off and he's no fun like that.
And Giles can take him, yeah, in more ways than one, but that's one fight she never wants to see because now, three months after Wes turned up resurrected and looking like hell chewed him up and spat him out, she's not Giles' and she's not Wesley's because she's never going to be able to choose, but they're both hers, and damn if she wasn't so fucking stiff and sore she'd remind them of that.
"--trained her as she's supposed to be trained and if your methods hadn't been inadequate she wouldn't be --"
Out of line, there, Wesley, she thinks, feeling a stirring of anger because Giles' hand twitches against her ass and that dig hurt him, she can tell.
When Wesley's down there sucking Giles' cock like it's his favourite chew toy, pulling sounds from Giles even she can't get him to make, below the belt's fine, but in a fight? Not so much. And telling a man who thinks Buffy died because he let her down that he's inadequate is just fucking cruel.
That's her Wesley...
And they're fighting now. Fighting over her, but it's not as much fun as it should've been because she's not some fucking symbol, not some prize.
She's Faith and they're losing her as they jostle and shove for position.
Three of them, all on top.
Getting crowded.
Too much to prove, all of them.
Giles, that he's not past it.
Wes that he's not dead.
And she's just looking to believe that she matters to them both and she's starting to wonder.
"You're fired," she says clearly, but with her face mashed into the pillow it comes out as a mumble and the tennis-ball back-and-forth of polite, razor-slash-sharp comments don't slow at all.
"Fucking fired, -- now get the hell out!" she screams, and that works, that makes it past cotton and whatever the fuck the pillow's stuffed with.
She can't even turn her head to look at them because it's mean picking a side to turn to and choosing is what she won't do, ever.
She'd lose them both before she'd do that.
Maybe she already has.
"Faith?"
Wesley's hand strokes her hair, damp with tears she didn't shed, tears that slid treacherously out of disloyal eyes. It's clinging in wet strands to her face but maybe he thinks it's sweat, which is gross but doesn't seem to be putting him off. He's not squeamish, Wes. Not at all.
"Don't tell me that you're sorry," she says thickly. "You had fun. Loved slamming me against walls. Loved watching me fall to my fucking knees."
With her hands tied behind her back and her feet hobbled, she'd been... limited in her response, to say the fucking least. Going to her knees had been deliberate though; she'd arched and wriggled and worked her hands under her ass and out, getting them in front of her as the blows from the staff he held had punished her for trying. When her bound hands became a doubled fist he'd been the one to step back...
... and then he'd taken her feet from under her and been on her before the breath had filtered back into violently-emptied lungs, hurting her and only stopping when the timer in the corner had gone off with a cheery chirp, thirty seconds after Giles had come in, sworn and started to scream at him.
"And I don't care," she carries on. "You hearing me, Giles? Because he's right. I need to get hurt sometimes. Need to remember what it's like so I don't fuck-up when I'm slaying." She closes her eyes and whispers it, but they're both listening now so she can be as quiet as she wants and know that they're still hearing every word. "But not every time. You know? Not every fucking time, Wes."
She starts to cry properly. Never cries. Never. And they're all over her, gentle hands, clumsy kisses, frantic, hissed whispers like she can't hear them...
"No, it is not my fucking period!"
Nearly kills her, but she rolls over and sits up, pushing hanks of hair back off her hot, sticky face and glaring at them.
"It's you two. It's you fucking two and I can't fucking do this --"
Astonished eyebrows. Puzzled exchanged glances. Oh, yeah, they'll bond over how to unscrew the inscrutability that she turns into every now and then, but they won't do it any other time, when their dicks aren't hard and their hands and mouths aren't hungry.
Bastards.
Oh, sorry, was that aloud?
"Faith, perhaps you could simply tell us what the matter is?"
Giles' eyes are tired but there's always enough strength of will to keep him going just another minute, and another. He doesn't give up, doesn't quit. Hasn't given up on her, has he, which sorta proves that.
"Could, Giles, but maybe I don't want to. Ever think about that? Ever think I might get fucking sick and tired of playing mommy to you two?"
Their noses twitch in a synchronised wrinkle and it's enough to take her anger down a notch. Barely.
"I think I speak for both of us when I say that we don't find you particularly maternal, Faith," Giles says, solemnly, a smile lurking far back and deep in his eyes.
"Do you know how much I want to slap that grin off your face, love?" she says, kneeling up and placing her hands carefully on her thighs. She's naked; they're not and it doesn't matter. They're staring at her tits off and on, but that doesn't matter either. For once, she's too tired to fuck. Too beaten.
"Faith, I think I should just point out --"
"What, Wes?" She's in his face now, and she's angry enough to make his face the first her fist meets, but she keeps her hands flat and touching her skin, just hers. "Point out how you two aren't a team and so there's no way the three of us are? Point out that if we're not fucking, we're fighting, and even the fucking isn't going so well these days?"
"It isn't?" Giles' voice is quiet and calm. He's been close to her for longer and it shows sometimes. He's backed off already whereas Wesley's still fighting.
"Been faking the 'oh, oh, God yes!' bit for a couple of weeks now," she admits. She holds up her right hand and wiggles her fingers. "Meet my best buddy. That and the vibe in the top drawer over there."
Wesley's blushing, he really is, but it's mortification, not embarrassment and Giles isn't looking too happy either.
"The ... sexual element to all this isn't ... if you're unhappy... "Giles loses it and gives her a look that comes close to breaking her. "Faith, I'm so sorry."
"Not enough," she says huskily, before she breaks down and crawls into his lap to be cuddled, which isn't something anyone else could do to her and live to tell the tale, same way Wes is the only one who can stroke her hair and not have her twitching and snarling. "You two -- fighting. All the fucking time. Who's senior Watcher. Who makes me scream higher, come harder. Who matters most to me." She takes a deep breath. "You know what? It's time you two remembered something."
"And that would be?" Wesley murmurs, his gaze taking a wander over her body.
"I'm the Slayer. I'm the Chosen One. Me. Fucking me." She glances between them. "You two are fucking replaceable and don't think I won't ask for one if this carries on. Maybe then you'll quit with the power plays and give me some fucking time --"
"We give you all of our time!" Giles says, starting to get on the defensive.
"No." She's really certain about that. "You're so busy keeping an eye on him to make sure he's not getting anything you're not, that you barely know I exist." She holds out her thumb and forefinger, an inch apart. "See that? That's how close I was to falling in love with you two. That's how fucking close I was to being happy. You've spoiled it, both of you and I fucking hate you for that."
They swap glances again and she screams in frustration, hammering her fists against her leg, even though it hurts. "See? See that? That thing you do? You're close. You fuck like you care so why don't you trust each other when your cocks aren't standing to attention?"
Silence. Deep, painful silence.
"Get your fucking act together, or get the hell out," she says finally, when she's sick of waiting. "Now I'm going to sleep. And I don't want company."
The door closes behind them and she's asleep before it's stopped quivering.
Her eyes are closed, but she knows it was Wes who slammed it.
TBC
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