Wesley shrugged his clothes off in a hurry. He could feel the pressure pooling between his legs, begging him to move faster. It had been there practically all throughout the work day. It was the exhibitionist in him that made him do it. Nearly every day, spurred on by the libido that was so increased by his miracle-of-god testosterone. At work he'd think about all the dirty things he'd ever thought, standing among his friends, talking casually, fighting the good fight, all while he was soaking wet. He couldn't tell if it was sadistic or masochistic to do that to himself, and he didn't particularly care. It gave him something he needed, though he wasn't sure just what.
The last of his clothes hit the floor and he flopped onto his bed. He landed on his back, hands gliding across his skin before one dipped between his legs.
Wesley was sure Angel could smell his arousal all day long, but the vampire never said anything. The thought turned Wes on even more, if possible.
He slipped a finger inside himself and pressed another against his clit. It was hard, had been hard for what felt like eternity. He traced a faint, slow circle against it. He pictured himself riding a certain someone's face, how it would feel to have their tongue slipping between his lips, the way they would suck at his clit, hard, the way he liked it.
Wesley slid the finger on his clit slowly down and pushed it inside himself. His thumb took its place, rubbing harshly, overstimulating himself unforgivably. The two fingers inside him pumped in rapid succession, curling as they pulled out, grazing that one spot that made him arch his back and curl his toes and call out a name. Every night it was the same person, in a hundred different scenarios, positions, outfits.
The thumb ground against his clit, pressing too hard, moving too quickly. He lived his life for the divine moments of pleasure-pain that came from this, the sharp sensation that made him gasp and stretch every muscle in his lean body. Wesley moved his fingers faster, feeling the tautness of his muscles and the heat in his body, pushing himself past that last barrier to the nirvana he wished he could share with-
He came hard, throwing his head back and letting out a soft moan. He gave himself only a few moments before he began again. He would repeat this until his hand cramped and he was drenched in sweat and it would never be enough. Nothing would be, aside from actually living out every dirty fantasy, with the one person who mattered. If only he could just gather the courage to ask them out. Every night he told himself he would have the courage tomorrow, and every tomorrow he'd punish himself for not having enough courage today. All he had were his dreams and soaked sheets.