The pimply-faced adult at the counter takes his cash with a leer, and Wesley grasps the proffered key, returning a tight smile. He briefly wonders if there are any hidden cameras in the room, as he's gotten far more paranoid than he ever expected to be, then mentally shrugs and figures the clerk will get a damn good show if there are. With that thought he nearly runs back to the car.
He wrenches open the rear door, not pausing as he grabs Buffy's head and fastens his mouth to hers, while Faith looks on hungrily.
His hand trails down her shoulder to brush against her navel, to feel where her thigh meets Faith's, to where their groins are grinding together, inspired all the more for the deft flick of Wesley's hand.
Wesley threads his arm around Buffy's waist and pulls her from the car, locking her frame to his while meeting Faith's eyes as she climbs out of the car. Were it any other man, in any other situation, both Slayers would kick his ass, but at the moment it simply succeeds in making the situation all the more intense. They stumble through the parking lot, up the stairs, hands dipping into waistbands and short breaths echoing off the walls.
Wesley digs the key from his pocket as Faith's hands clamp onto his ass and Buffy mouths a mark onto Faith's shoulder. The key fits crookedly into the lock, and Wes curses softly and fiddles with it to the point that it breaks off into his hand. Faith chuckles behind him and brings her leg up into a strong, sharp kick that snaps the lock and opens the door wide into the darkened room.
He gives a whuffling laugh and tries not to think of the damage its done, choosing instead to lead them inward and turn to look at them. He doesn't really have any words; he just wants to look at them, drink this in, realize it for the insanity and precious thing it is.
He sees his own feelings reflected back to him: hunger, need, and lust integrated into something that is frightening and compelling and irresistible.
They understand, and Buffy pushes at the door, moving the desk in front of it to keep it barred. Then Buffy and Faith move towards him, dark intent clear in their eyes, their strut and purpose synced in a way that defies analysation.
They move to either side of him, their hands running up and down his chest, over his dick, down his legs and up to brush through his hair. Faith carefully places his glasses on the table, and Buffy begins to unbutton his shirt. He lets his eyes feast, his fingers catching in their hair, watching the brown and blonde strands mixing and falling away and remixing in a dizzying dance.
Faith fastens her lips to Buffy's neck, and Wesley notes the moan it elicits as he realizes the exact placement of mouth over scar. It's worth noticing that such an action apparently makes Buffy permanently malleable, as Faith propels her backwards towards the bed, bumping with care at the edge of the cheap comforter.
Observant as he is, it feels as though there should be music playing something low and deep with a strong base line, like in those terrible pornographies he'll never admit he's seen. For a moment he feels like the token male in such a movie, until Faith fists the waistband of his jeans and wrenches them open, and Buffy pulls him down for a hot, engrossing kiss. Somehow, though, even that does not stop his mind from replaying the theme from Victor Victoria in surround sound in his head.
He doesn't know how he feels, though he tries to catalogue each sensation, save for the low pounding in his groin, which he realizes will be alleviated somewhat soon, as Faith has moved to a kneel, bringing his zipper down with carefully timed action.
His shirt disappears, and then his pants are pulled down with his underclothes. Faith motions for him to step up with one foot, then the other, and then he realizes he's standing in this ugly room with the curtains wide open, bare naked with two mostly clothed women.
Buffy and Faith take a step back, wrapping their arms around each other and making no pretense towards looking at him, up and down. This only serves to make the tense situation that much more unbearable, and he thinks faintly that this could not be more perfectly disturbing and exceptional.
Rather than thinking, he makes himself as comfortable as possible in a truly uncomfortable chair and motions for them to commence with the undressing. Faith rolls her eyes, but moves to lift Buffy's shirt. Buffy gives him a fierce grin and lifts her arms.
He watches, eyes roving, at the almost-dance they work at. They bump and grind at every spare moment, and he can tell they're choosing to put on a show for him--not that he minds. Clothes are shed like spare skin, falling to the floor with soft thumps amid low moans as skin brushes against skin. They are feeling each other out, and Wesley decides to take part in the proceedings.
Buffy has flipped Faith over to lie on the bed, and she tongues down between her breasts to her navel. She'd holding Faith firmly in place with strong hands that match the power beneath them. When Buffy goes lower, dipping into her and flicking her tongue right *there,* Faith writhes like a vampire with holy water poured down its throat.
Wesley is more interested in the dips and creases of Buffy's back, and he puts his mouth wetly on her skin after considering a spot for several moments. He notices how the skin has become tight and drawn as the years have passed, and he kisses he knob of her vertebrae reverently, as if apologizing, or trying to suck the sorrow that caused this from her bones.
Buffy moves, fitting herself to his hips, and he sucks in a breath as he tightens his hands on her waist. She is intent on the body laid out before her, but part of her attention is now focused behind her. Wesley slips a finger inside her, to test the waters, so to speak, and is rewarded with an insistent twist.
He fumbles with the rubber he'd grabbed from the pocket of his pants moments before, pushing it on with impatience before he positions himself and takes her. He uses her like the offering she is, because she wanted to and he was just desperate and alone enough to agree for the split second it took for him to get his keys. Without history or future they use each other for sensation and oblivion while Faith oversees from a bad angle with glassy eyes.
His motion pushes Buffy forward, and the rewarding noise Faith makes from that is entirely worth the spare purchase he has on this noisy bed. The entire sensation is enough for his overtaxed mind that it takes very little to bring him off, but his climax is preempted by Faith arching from the bed, and Wesley sees that she is indeed very bendy. Buffy tightens around him as Faith spasms around her mouth and tongue, and a chain reaction forms, from Faith to Buffy to Wes.
When it's over, and the moment has passed, tension settles over them like a dull chill on their skin. They gather their clothes and dress carefully, as though anyone who sees them walking out of this room wouldn't know its purpose. Buffy straightens Wesley's collar and brushes Faith's hair behind her ear. It's a muted thank you, and she gives them each a strained smile. They're all thinking about what she has to go to back to, and what she was escaping while she was here. What they all were.
Buffy leaves first, moving the door to prop against the wall and quietly exiting. Faith gives Wesley a hard look before she follows, and he knows that she and Buffy will go in opposite directions.
He leaves a crumpled ten for the maid and a crisp one hundred dollar bill for the door, and straightens his shirt incrementally. As he leaves, he takes his keys from his pocket and they jangle loudly against the odd clang of a loose hinge.
fin
And... more HH/FF crossover. Now with added snarky!Star Wars.
- - -
"We picked them up, same as Ford and Arthur," Trillian replied without looking up. "They were floating free in space—their ship had just exploded—and the ship picked them up all on its own, while we were moving. A slightly lower probability this time, although still quite high. That's why we haven't met them before. Less coincidence to be accounted for."
"What does that mean?" Simon asked. River was listening carefully, and seemed to be understanding every word.
"It means you're very lucky to be here," Trillian replied.
"Wouldn't something have to set it in motion from the other end?" River asked. "This isn't our world—it's all different. Alliance not here. No blue hands; we've moved a long long way."
Trillian frowned. "This isn't your universe?" River shook her head. "I suppose that if the string theory of the nature of matter is correct, that's a possibility… computer?"
"Hi guys!" chirped the computer, chucking up ticker tape by the metre. "What can I do to help you relax and bond today?"
"Just work out… what the hell?" Trillian was staring at something on a small screen. "Computer, give me a full-screen visual on… that thing on our left."
The screens on the main bank lit up, displaying a round sandy-yellow object. "What you're looking at is the planet Tatooine," Eddie told them cheerfully. "No data in the banks."
"Pretty," River said. "Start the story."
Everyone else made noises that boiled down to "never heard of it."
"Try the Guide," Ford suggested, waving his hand vaugely in Arthur's direction.
"Okay," Arthur said, and tapped the name in.
Tatooine: A small desert planet in the Outer Rim, Tatooine has frequently been branded the Most Boring Planet ever. Strictly speaking, this is not true, as Alderaan has consistently won the Most Boring Planet Award, Space-Dust category. Due to some sort of looping effect, referred to by laymen as 'wobbles in the odjamaflip' and by scientists as 'a strange looping effect caused by immeasurable forces', people who visit the planet inevitably arrive at significant moments in the life of the Skywalker family.
Little is known about the Skywalkers. They claim to be powerful beings, capable of twisting space and time, but all available evidence (such as that provided by notable Guide researcher Han Solo, the first person to give a full report on how to eat lunch while encased in carbonite) points to them being irritating small creatures with an inevitable attraction for eating garlic. This is his explanation for the strange suit and breathing apparatus favoured by at least one Skywalker.
He reports that there is nothing on Tatooine for the discerning hitchhiker, but much for those who choose to gamble. Pod racing is very big here, and if you want to be killed in an exciting battle of wits between yourself and a stupid alien, this is the place to go. Reported sightings of Zaphod Beeblebrox are probably, though not necessarily, exaggerated. Reported sightings of a …
"Vogon spaceship!" Ford shouted. "Dammit!"
The large yellow monstrosity had been hidden by the colour of the planet, but now it floated out into space, blatantly on a collision course and coming very fast.
"Computer!" Zaphod said, "Get us out of here!"
"I'm sorry, we seem to be trapped in a spiral timewarp," Eddie told him. "You'll have to fly yourselves out of this. Shall I provide some background music?"
"No. And why can't you fly it? You're the computer; I'm not supposed to have to do work!"
"I have no idea. Classical or popular?"
"Neither!" Zaphod yelled. "Can *anyone* fly this thing?"
"I'm a pilot," Wash said, calmly. "Give me manual control."
Ford got out of his seat, and Wash sat down, peering at the labels on various levers and buttons. And, worryingly, frowning. "What sort of a ship is this? It doesn't even have…"
"Love?" Zoe said. "Just fly us out of here already."
"I'll try," Wash told her, and pulled a lever apparently at random. The ship jerked, throwing everyone across the room.
"Ow!" Arthur yelped. "I already had a bruise there!"
"Shut up and hold onto something," Ford advised. "No, not me, you fool. Something attached to the ship."
Wash was pressing buttons and pulling levers here and there, sending the crews rolling back and forth across the room. The ship lurched back from the Vogons, slide slightly towards them again as Wash made a mistake with the unfamiliar controls, and then started moving purposefully out away.
Purposeful, however, wasn't fast, and speed was essential.
"We're all going to die," Arthur said, quite calmly given the circumstances, with the unmistakable note of hysteria in his voice.
This moment of high tension is interrupted to bring you the news that bad things are going to happen. Wash's attempts to get them away from the Vogons will, as a matter of narrative imperative, fail. Things are going to turn out okay, in the long run, but please fasten your seat belts.
"No we're not," Mal told him. "Right, Wash?"
"Um.. yes, captain. But… err… we are going to be taken captive by these guys."
"They're transmitting something," Trillian said. She climbed up the floor, which was sloping more steeply than normal, and managed to flick a switch.
A voice boomed through the room.
"Resistance is fu… fu… what's the word? Fertile? Febrile? Oh, just give in already. This planet is due to be blown up, along with everyone in the locality."
"Why?" Mal asked, doing his best not to lie on Simon as Wash threw the ship around, and failing.
"Orders," replied the Vogon voice.
"Oh, great, orders. It's always orders, isn't it?" Arthur couldn't seem to stop talking, until Ford helped by putting a hand over his mouth.
"We really are in trouble, people," Wash said, watching the controls owlishly. "They've got hold of us with some sort of grappling hook—we're going to be eaten alive. Oh my God. Oh God. Oh God."
"Shut up," Mal said, and Zoe crawled across to hold her husband's hand. She considered trying to keep him quiet another way, but decided this probably wasn't the moment.
Somewhere, deep in the ship but closer than any of them liked to the bridge, a series of bangs sounded, doors opening and then footsteps echoing in metal corridors.
Jayne took Vera's safety off.
