First Face


Summary: Buffy falls afoul of Wesley when she first meets him and it just keeps coming
Rating: NC-17
Story Notes: Spoilers through Season 3, Bad Girls. Inspired by Eve and the dormouse, for Minim
Disclaimer: The characters and world portrayed herein belong to Mutant Enemy/Joss Whedon. I just borrowed them to play with for awhile. I promise to put them back right where I found them.

It took three tries at getting his attention, clearing her throat, tapping, finally, a jab in the spine, before Wesley Wyndam-Pryce became aware of Buffy standing beside his desk in the back of the library, the desk he had appropriated from Giles.

"Hmm, yes, what?" He looked up from the parchment in front of him, a pen made from some sort of bone held tightly in one hand. Buffy's hair was tousled and there was dust on her nose. He blinked and focused more closely on his charge. She looked—the only words that came to mind were disheveled, or perhaps sensuous, though he repressed that one immediately. Her eyes were shining with some repressed excitement and she definitely seemed, well, lascivious, though he couldn't seem to pinpoint why. He turned away, attempting to think proper Watcher thoughts.

"I thought you'd like a report." Buffy shifted from one foot to the other. It had seemed like a good idea, to come in and tell him that she and Faith had cleared out a whole nest of vamps, but, he was just so... stuffy.

"Report? Haven't you been in class, then?"

"We, uh, had to take care of," she smiled a little, "You know, you might want to catch that."

"What? Catch?" Wesley looked around, confused.

"Your pen thingy. It's..."

"Oh, yes, quite, thank you." He interrupted her, putting one hand under the dripping nib. "I wouldn't want to ruin it. A spell, you see. A Watcher should hone all his abilities at every opportunity."

"Right. So, are you waiting for me to leave?"

He looked at her for a moment, confused, catching her glance at the pen, poised still over the parchment, with his other hand under it ready to thwart any blotting before it could occur.

"No, right, not at all. It's just that, well, the pen is made from the bone of a particularly crafty type of demon and it has to be contained."

"The bone?" Buffy arched an eyebrow.

Wesley blushed. "Exactly, yes. I believe," his brow furrowed as it tugged against his hand. "I believe it's rather taken with you."

She grinned. "I can't believe it."

Wesley, attempting to ignore her unseemly levity, wrestled the pen into a wooden box, latched it, and stood to put the box carefully on the shelf behind him. He was going to have to get the Watcher Diaries from Mr. Giles as soon as possible so he could discern the best way to handle this difficult assignment.

His back turned, Buffy took the opportunity to snatch the parchment off his desk. Huh, looked like gobbledy-gook, but, it smelled nice, like flowers or an expensive perfume. She hopped up on his desk and bent to examine it more closely.

"Annotated Demonology, Bartram's Evil Quotations, no, "Pencil Sketches of Favorite Incubi" here, I suppose," Wesley muttered to himself. "Oh," he added as he turned, "bye the bye, please don't touch the... " He looked over, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he realized, too late, that Buffy had casually perched herself on the desktop and was more than reading the spell, indeed was in the process of absorbing it as he spoke.

"I do wish you hadn't done that."

Buffy, intent on figuring out exactly what the smell was, pressed the paper against her wrist, smearing it with ink. She looked up at him, smiling genuinely for the first time. "It smells pretty. What is it?"

Wesley closed his eyes and turned his head away. "It's a love spell."

"A what?" Buffy unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, revealing flashes of upper breast and white bra strap, and rubbed the parchment along her throat. "It smells good, like, really good."

Wesley watched as the ink smears across her throat and down between her breasts, were absorbed into her skin. "This is very bad."

She smiled at him. "Why is it bad?"

"My, well, fluids, are on that paper, and the ink, which isn't, of course, ink at all, and now it's absorbing into your skin."

She stared at him, startled. "Your fluids?"

Wesley blushed. "I meant perspiration, in the parchment, and the oils from my hands, and the ink, of course, and now it's on you, only it isn't anymore."

Buffy looked down in confusion, seeing no ink. "Oh. Well, that's good, isn't it? I don't want ink stains all over me. Blood's hard enough to get out. You wouldn't believe the things I've had to tell my mother about my laundry." She unbuttoned another button, the lace trim of her bra visible in the opening.

"No," He closed his eyes again, both in frustration and because it was getting increasingly difficult to talk to her without thinking, well, thoughts that ought not to be thought at all. He could feel the heat from the spell rising. "It's not good. It's a love spell. It has my sweat, in the parchment, and the oils from my hands, and the ink which is made of, in part, the blood of the same demon from which the pen was made, and now it has your skin, your very lovely, luminous, young skin, absorbing the spell and feeding it back to me in a continuous loop." Wesley shook himself. "No, really, good is not the way I'd describe it. I'm caught in it too, you see. I don't see a way out."

He removed his glasses to polish them and discovered, when he returned them to his face, that Buffy was now leaning into him, a bare millimetre's distance away, smelling his, well, him. "Stop that. Really, we can't give in. It's a very bad idea."

She licked her lips. "It's beyond a bad idea. It's not even an idea it's so bad." She went on, changing subjects without a blink. "Faith and I killed a whole nest of vamps today. In daylight. A lot of them. It was," She reached up and toyed with the topmost button of his shirt. "It was hot."

"Buffy," Wesley reached up and pushed her hands away. "I don't think you want..." He groaned helplessly as she slid forward on the desk and wrapped her legs around his waist. "I don't think you want to do this at all. It's a spell."

She frowned in protest. "I think you talk too much. Are you sure you're not evil?"

"No, of course I'm not evil." He didn't even notice her hands, busy at his waist, as he attempted to rein in his indignation at the totally baseless charge leveled against him. He pushed up his glasses again. "I am your Watcher. I am in a position of authority over you and I am telling you this is utterly inappropriate behaviour on your part."

"Authority over me, huh?" Buffy grinned and whipped his belt out of the loops. "I could get into that."

"I don't believe you know..." Wesley's voice trailed off into a sharp whimper as Buffy's fingers burrowed into his trousers. He panted, trying to get control of himself. "What you're doing."

"Honey, there are a lot of things you ain't never seen me do, that's no sign I don't do 'em."

"What?" Wesley grabbed her hands and focused again on her face.

She pouted. "It's a movie quote. Don't you like movies?"

"You're not yourself. This spell has clearly taken over your senses." Wesley dithered, not sure what to do about the situation as Buffy twisted in his hold, wriggling, pressing her—equally white, he noticed—panties against his groin. "I don't want to do this. Buffy," He whispered. "Please, really, I don't want." He fell silent, absorbing the feel of her body against him.

"Buffy?" Her head fell back, the blouse gaped open, somehow having been unbuttoned all the way to the waistband of her very short, revealing skirt. He swallowed and attempted to regain his resolve. "Buffy, pay attention to me, if you will." Her eyelashes fluttered and she ground against him harder. "Please? Please pay attention."

Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented, she nodded. "I don't think of Xander that way, you know?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Xander. Faith asked me if I'd ever done Xander. I haven't. I don't think of him that way." She sighed, plaintively. "The only one I really do think of that way I can't, you know, do. I mean, I did, and it was bad, so I can't. I could do you though, because, you know, we're not friends and I really don't think we'll ever be friends." Her face was utterly serious, the eyes straightforward and clear.

Wesley shook off a surprising feeling of hurt and tightened his grip on her wrists, shaking her a little. "Buffy. I have a solution to this."

"This?" Her eyes had glazed again and she was back to pressing against him, undulating, really, with her slim torso moving like the waves of the sea. If he weren't careful, well, even if he were, he was very close to embarrassing himself without having done anything to actually. He shook himself, this wasn't a good train of thought.

"Yes, please," He rolled his eyes heavenward. "This, a solution. I want you to put your hands at the back of the desk and grip very hard and just stay that way, if you please."

She grinned and, when he released her, unwound her legs from his waist and struck a naughty pose, her hands gripping the farther edge of the desk, her breasts jutting forward in a most unseemly display, her legs splayed. "Like this?"

"Yes, just like that." He inhaled deeply, sweat on his brow as he contemplated what he might do next. "Don't move."

"I won't, until I do, then I might."

He shook that off and slid his hands up her thighs. My god, what lovely thighs. He forced himself not to linger, to slide his questing fingers higher until he found her panties. She sighed as his fingers skipped across the soft, white cotton, and moaned when he found the center. He pressed, gently, and she bucked against his hand.

"Oh dear." She roused, a little, half-opening her eyes, and he pressed again. She rose off the desk, pressing back. Wesley, feeling grim and somehow terribly exalted at the same time, began pressing against her rhythmically, the palm of his hand grinding against her wet panties. She moaned and moved to let go of the desk.

"No, don't let go. Be still. It will be over soon."

"Authority?" She asked in a sleepy voice.

"Yes, authority, I have authority over you." He grimaced, feeling ashamed of the sick excitement he felt rising.

His hands, seemingly of their own volition, moved to slide the panties down her thighs. She lifted a little, making it easy, and he pulled them far enough down that they made a lovely picture, clearly visible below the hem of the skirt, binding her legs. His hands slid up again, smoothed the soft pubic hair and burrowed between the slick folds of her skin to find her clit. He slid one finger against it and she moaned. A hot flush rode her skin, sweat beading on her lip. He licked his lips and fought to concentrate.

His fingers, two now, circled her clit, making wet, slurping noises. She moaned louder and he hushed her, speaking to her gently. "It will be all right soon. Everything will be back to normal, I promise you." No words of love or even affection, but he wasn't sure affection was the appropriate emotional response between a Watcher and a Slayer.

He watched her face, the fluttering of her lashes, the working of her throat. He moved faster, the other hand sliding between her legs to work two fingers inside her while his thumb joined the previous two tormenting her clit, working faster, pressing a little harder.

Her feet hooked around the sides of the desk and she rocked against his hand, her head tossing. He lost a little more control, burrowing his head under her skirt, breathing in the scent of her. God, what a lovely perfume. He pressed, probably too hard for any other girl, wanting more than he would allow himself, as he felt her body swallow his fingers, in and out, pressing deeper, until her scream split the air.

He rested his head against her abdomen, crumpling her skirt, until a fist, coming out of nowhere, punched him and he was thrown off her to land on the floor.

"Buffy?" He sat up, disoriented.

She was sitting on the desk, confusion and the beginnings of anger clear on her face. "What did you do to me?"

"What? I told you. It was a spell. I was practicing."

"You were practicing a love spell. On me." She slid off the desk, ignoring the splintered edges from the imprint of her hands, and pulled her panties up, refusing to look at him, anger clear in every line of her body.

"No, not on you! I had the ingredients! It seemed." He paused, and then continued heavily. "It seemed like a good idea, at the time, for practice."

"So, what happens now?" She stood over him, completely rebuttoned, put to rights, dismissing him and the cooling spot on the front of his trousers. He could feel it, the dismissal, and shame, oh yes, quite a lot of shame.

"Do? Why, nothing." He resettled his glasses, trying to restore some feeling of normalcy. "It was just the once."

"Once, and it's over?"

He nodded.

"Fine." She turned to go.

"Buffy?" She stopped at the door. "We really have gotten off on the wrong foot, haven't we?"

Her head came up but she refused to turn around. "You're a Watcher. Why don't you just watch from now on?"

"Where are you going? Buffy?" He rose, reaching the door of the little office just as she opened the outer door of the library. "Buffy?"

She looked back over her shoulder, expressionless but for the bite of anger in her eyes and voice. "Think I'll go find Faith. Maybe we'll go dancing."