It's only later, in the alley, that Xander gets the edges of Oz's look. Why Grandma, what big eyes you have!

Somewhere between angry and. Hungry. Animal. He's not sure how far it's a you-are-so-dead-Harris kind of look, how far it's just the wolf coming awake.

Either way, it's not a good look.

As a matter of fact, it's exactly the sort of look he deserves. Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking? Can he blame the head wound?

No, he really can't. A trophy to the side of the head is nothing compared to. Cordy. God, and he'd taken one step toward the ambulance before Buffy just shoved him on his ass and climbed in herself.

Leaves him out in the dark, more or less. This suddenly empty alley, and however gung-ho people might have been about rescuing him, they're not going to offer him anything as useful as a ride. So. Head down, shoulders curled in. Walking. It's warm, which somehow doesn't work for him. With the generally messed-up nature of the universe tonight, it ought to at least be cold enough to give him goose flesh. Nothing like this easy, comfortable breeze.

Lot of blocks home. Part of him whispering that it's good he doesn't have school tomorrow, 'cause it'd be a bitch getting up tomorrow in time. Another part still screaming about Cordy. And Willow. And this new, kind of crawling fear that's suggesting to him that he's fucked up in entirely new and creative ways.

Finally just ducks down the next alley and crouches there for a while. Far enough out from the shadows that there isn't really cover for vamps unless they're hiding in somebody's roses. Lays a hand on the ground and tries to shake himself back into a more comfortable state of Xander-ness.

And in spite of the lack of demon-hiding cover, there's a hand on him. Startling enough to make him suck in his breath to scream. A second hand clamps over his mouth. And nose. Not enough air and for a good few seconds things are greying through the general black-and-whiteness of the dark.

Tries to relax, and maybe he's not gonna die, because the hand eases down from over his nose, and he starts to get that whoever's holding him down is shorter than him, and maybe he could run if he had enough something-or-other in his jelly legs to even hold himself up. Dried fruit, maybe. The tough kind that's like what he imagines eating skin must be like, that you get in green jell-o molds.

And oh, yeah, the Xanderbrain is firing on all cylinders tonight. He's never going to be able to look at a jell-o mold again without pulse-pounding terror, which is unfortunate, as molds are pretty much the height of his mom's culinary prowess and slowly, slowly, very slowly he calms down.

And recognizes the hand, or at least the feel of all the rings against his face.



Because this night was getting really, really high up there on the list of bad nights so it decided to get worse.

And they're just standing there.

Xander has plenty of time to notice how Oz's eyes gleam in the dimness and wonder exactly when the next full moon is. Lots and lots of time.

Anxiety crawling all over him, out from the pit of his stomach all over his body. Goosebumps. Fuck. See, because it's not that Oz could beat him up, at least not very badly.

It's that Oz wouldn't. Even though he has every reason to. Even though that's maybe the one thing short of his own painful death that could make this better.

Even if he crawled, probably. No beating. Just that intense Oz-look. Warm little hands holding him down. Until he shakes himself back into togetherness. And then lets go. Just stands in front of him and looks. Steady and god he's so little. Just a bit past Xander's collarbone. Just about the same as Willow.


Not a thing to think about. Not Willow, not Oz-like-Willow.

He looks very, very hard at the tangle of hemp-string and chains around Oz's neck, and thinks almost zen-like thoughts about the jewelry he's seen Oz wear from time to time. Safe ground.

Little body backing him gradually up against the trash cans. Not even threatening, it's just that Oz in Xander's personal space is this dense, mind-boggling force. Not sure if he can handle it.

It's really quiet, really. Little wind in the trees. Tiny ringing of Oz's jewelry. Breath.

Fingers in the hair at the back of his neck making this hissing, sliding sound. Sounds like a threat right up until Oz pulls Xander's mouth down and kisses him.

Weirdly almost something he could handle. It's Oz, and he's Xander, and there are all kinds of thoughts he hasn't been thinking that are, nonetheless, a kind of foundation for this.


Oz is small, and his kiss is. It's not soft, but it's nowhere near the bruising thing that would somehow fit this situation in a way that he's -- again -- not thinking about.

Instead. It's just a kiss. Long and slow and deep. Oz's tongue in his mouth such a shock, such a... some big ugly word like transgression.

Xander could take this if Oz was taking. But he's just being kissed and maybe, maybe tasted.

Confirmed when Oz pulls back, when Xander realizes he's been staring at Oz's closed eyes, when Oz opens his eyes and just. Pins him there.

Same anger, and an added darkness.

"I can taste her on you."

Something there isn't any real answer to. "Yes," isn't really the way to go, and "No" is just an utter lie. And instead what comes out is, "You too."

Which isn't the right thing to say either, but he's not sure he's got any hope of getting it right at this stage. And it's more or less true. It's an almost-familiar taste. Not sure whether it's because Willow tastes like Oz or because Oz kissed Willow tonight or just that Oz and Willow taste like each other. Something in common on a level that Xander doesn't entirely get.

Not exactly the same, though. Willow tastes like the ozone you get after rain, and Oz tastes like. Old, loose electricity. Both of them charged, but differently.

Wrong thing, though. Wrong thing to say and he knows it, knows it really clearly when Oz gets him around the back of the head again. Pushes him down until he's kneeling and Xander's looking up. At the sheer, bright fierceness that's got him by the scruff. Searching and fierce and, yeah, mad, but running on a couple of levels Xander doesn't think he's ever visited. Sharp little teeth showing. Sharp little thumbs against his windpipe.

And maybe not the wrong thing, because this. Well, on his knees seems like a damned good place to start. "Oz, I'm --"

"Shut. Up."

Just those two words, and the brief tightening of the grip on his throat and Xander swallows. Struggles to do it against Oz's thumbs. Looks up.

Their own little world right here. Just the two of them, Mr. Angry and Mr. Guilty, only if it was really just the two of them then there'd be no need for anger or guilt so.

Willow's here.

Willow's watching, and waiting.

Thinks about saying that. Getting it out there.

Taking things up a notch, because really, how long can they really stay here like this? Xander on his knees and Oz just this far to the right of strangling him. Would he fight? Was this a bad enough fuckup for him not to fight?


Yeah. Oh, yeah, it's bad enough.

"Oz --"

"I want what you have."

And that's. Well, it's really kind of a bizarre thing to say, because Xander is pretty much the king of not-having and he's about to ask what Oz means when he gets it.

Willow. Her easy friendship. Easy when at least one of them was in deep denial, anyway. Their history. Willow.

"I don't know how to give you that."

Pale look. And he gets another kiss. This time with Oz bent over him, just about crawling into his mouth. Like he could suck Willow out of Xander with that kiss.

Breaks it off sharp, like he's figured out that's not gonna work and he's ready to move onto the next idea. Looms over Xander for a bit, which is mostly proof of guy-on-his-knees mentality. As long as Oz is standing straight, and Xander's not kneeling right up, he's more or less face-to-belly with Oz. Low jeans in front of him. Belt just showing. T-shirt hem and something underneath making a shadow-shape, and this tiny, tiny sound.

Just way too easy to push one hand out and reach under Oz's shirt. If he were any kind of ... anything, really, he'd be cowering, or apologizing or something, but the Xanderbrain's gotten distracted by shiny somethings.

It is, actually. Little chain under his fingers, around Oz's waist. Bells on it. Like a cat's collar or something. Body-warm metal and these tiny, tiny bells. The tiny, tiny sounds they make between his fingers.

Needs to apologize somehow. For kissing Willow and for fucking up and hurting Cordy and making them look for him when he wasn't dead. Or really injured.

Leans in and presses his mouth to Oz's navel, just above the chain.

Kisses him there, and then really kisses him there, not really awake to what he's doing until the taste of Oz's sweat explodes on his tongue and then it hits, hits hard, kissing, kissing Oz.

Not even on the mouth.

Kissing Oz's body and if he stopped then he'd have to admit that he had no idea what he was doing and he's supposed to have an idea here. This is supposed to be about something, an apology, something.

This isn't supposed to count.

Slipping his tongue into Oz's navel, and doing it again.

And again.

And again, until it's the only thing that makes any sense at all. Oz's body, Xander's mouth. The thing that gets him into the most trouble so maybe it can get him out of it? No, that's lame. Beyond lame. Anything like an explanation for this would have to be lame, because there is none, but it's making sense to some part of him that maybe doesn't need reasons.

Doesn't need anything but the feel of the chain digging into his chin, and Oz's hard, hot body, so small in his hands.

And Oz's hands.

In his hair.

God, gripping him. Pushing him in. This soft, wet little indentation that's full of his tongue. Oz-body smell in his nose like something thick enough to touch. Chain against his chin, and the next time he shifts, denim bumps against the underside of his jaw.

Hard. Oz is hard.

Something that should freak him but instead just makes him want to get down farther. Open, wet kiss to Oz's belly button and he makes his hands busy underneath. Into button, into zipper, into soft, warm cotton knit. Inside.

Warm, slick in his hand. Slick on the underside of his jaw. There's something really clear about the way the head of Oz's cock bobs down and brushes Xander's throat. Slick there, too, and the hands in his hair are fierce holding him there.

Still just kissing Oz's belly. Waiting for something.

Like maybe he has a right to.

Wait, that is.

This can't be just him, whether he deserves it or not. Whether it counts or not. He's never even done this, barely got anything like permission to maybe, maybe do this for Cordy some time in the future and that's never going to happen and he hears this terrible sound and he realizes that he's the one who made it.

Just breathing against Oz now. Face slick with his own spit. Oz's cock very obviously there. Waiting.

Until Oz tilts Xander's head back and the look he gets is. Oz is. All that anger, and something like hurt, and a confusion that's maybe the scariest thing out of this whole night.

And there's the sense of questions, hovering there between them, not being asked, and Xander thinks maybe it's better that way. He doesn't have a single answer.

Xander bows his head, and opens his mouth.

Little bump against his chin, and a slide across his cheek. Hips in front of him moving, careful like someone flying for the first time, what he thinks that must be like. And just the tiny slide of the head into his mouth. Salty shock of it that makes Xander jerk back in spite of what he thought was resignation.

Soft, steady fingers in his hair. Not even forcing. Asking him, yeah, maybe holding him a bit steady. A bit more determined when he goes in this time. Takes it instead of waiting and slides his tongue across the smooth tip he gets. Salty and sour, but something about the skin, about the bodyness of this. Oz's little torn-up breaths above him. The fingers twisting in his hair at just the same speed that he's using to suck.

Just one hand, he realizes, because the other one's touching his face, and fuck, he doesn't deserve this. Girlfriend in the hospital, best friend in the same shit he's in, and the guy whose quiet, really happy little love thing he just ground into the clean, unholy Sunnydale mud is petting his face. Rubbing his jaw and rubbing at the corner of his eye. Thumb down the shape of his cheek until it reaches his mouth. Pushing at the edge for a second, and Xander gets to think for a second that he could suck that, too. That finger, that hand. Get the whole prehensile thing going. Let Oz really reach inside him.

Has to let go for it. Slide of Oz's cock across his face and this little mostly-disappointed sound, but he gets the thumb and an actual forefinger both between his lips. Rubs his tongue into the skin-web hollow between them and sucks on that thinness. Gets this little shiver in his belly every time one or the other finger rubs a nail over his tongue. Wet knees of his jeans. He didn't think the ground was wet, but maybe somebody watered their garden and it seeped through. Maybe just the wetness that goes with 'dark'. Huge wetness of Oz's cock rubbing at his face. Slick grabbingness of the fingers in his mouth.

Wants to suck them down his throat and see what they can drag loose.

Still has the fingers in his mouth when the other hand lets go of his hair. Slide of it along that belly, catching on the chain and bells and making them shimmer just at eye level. While Oz grabs himself and tugs once, somewhere between sorry and newly wanting, and tucks it back into his jeans. Not easy while he's that hard, with only one hand, but he manages. Offers Xander the hand when he's finished and gasps out something that's almost a laugh when Xander tongues the saltiness right off his palm.

Little whisper on top of his head, "Not here."

Enough to make Xander really aware of the rubber garbage cans all around them like evil mushrooms. Of the big ugly things out tonight.

Just about ready to crawl, though. On his knees with Oz's fingers in his mouth wherever he decides they're going. Only gets up because he isn't fast enough the other way. Way too tall, suddenly, not quite the way it should be for him to be this much taller. Has to let go of the fingers.

Has to follow.

Out of the alley to Oz's very Oz-ish van. Shotgun seat suddenly his and Oz's small focused being beside him, driving. Quiet in the dark and just occasional oncoming traffic that lights Oz's face up. Thinking that all they really need is somewhere quiet enough for him to do this. Back of the van, even, in something like a parking lot. Outside the school, which might work, you know.

And it occurs to Xander that he wants this. That he's hard, almost to the point of needing to touch his cock if he wants to remain sane, and it's. About Oz.

About all the Willow between them, yeah, and the way she'd felt crushed against Xander's chest and this is wrong, really wrong. Lusting after Willow while preparing to go off somewhere and suck her boyfriend's dick. Someone, somewhere, is not being fair to someone else, and it might even be him.

Only. Sense memory of Oz's fingernail on his tongue and he has to adjust himself. Can't look to see if Oz is watching, to see if Oz is thinking whatever thoughts Ozzes think at times like these and when they do finally stop it's at the typical makeout spot.

Where Xander's touched Cordy and obsessed over Oz touching Willow and somehow he's leaning in, and kissing Oz, and being kissed and it's wrong, illicit, exciting, necessary, shameful. Everything. Oz having this from him. Oz knowing this about him when Xander can't even think it without being terrified, without getting hard, and when Oz pulls out of the kiss Xander can't even move.

Can't do anything but answer Oz's stare with his own for long, aching minutes until Oz undoes his seatbelt.

Moves into the back and Xander's maybe this close to hyperventilating, closer still to doing something safe and insane like taking his cock out and coming all over the dashboard, but he follows Oz, instead.

Crouched over, tripping over something and nearly falling.

Hands on him in the dark, guiding him down onto what feels like piles of clothes, and something soft.

Oz's choice, Oz's control, Oz's decision to make this more real than any blowjob in an alley could ever be. To take Xander here, surround him with himself. Touch him and want him and make this something they'll both have to acknowledge in the morning when all Xander wants is to do this.

Make Oz come in his mouth. Run away home and jerk off violently in his own messy room and it's just not going to happen that way.

The back of the van smells like pot and Oz and warm air. Dark, warm, soft, and it takes Xander a minute to realize that this is a den. Wolf on top of him. Maybe the most laid-back wolf of the last century or so, but still. He should be scared or something. Bare his teeth? Roll over and show his belly and wait to see what gets ripped out of him?

Shiver along him at the deja-vu connection as Oz bends over him and rubs a hand up under Xander's shirt. Gets it up to his chest and holds it there. Palm spread over the soft middle of him. Little gnawing grind of teeth and Oz bends and oh god bites him.

Not hard enough to break the skin, but Xander's all of a sudden all on the outside of himself. Tense and wide-eyed, watching Oz bite him. Warm, small, very deliberate tongue massaging the skin-fold held between his teeth.

Oz's eyes are this inhuman kind of bright. Vivid enough that Xander can see him looking through the dark. Nothing like Willow's shadowy presence after dusk or Cordy's all-day smokiness. Oz lets go of some heavily bruised Xanderflesh and crawls up him. Drops between his knees with a seriousness that pushes Xander's legs apart, lies in and mauls him. Lips and teeth and stubble on his mouth, and somehow the lack of biting doesn't make it any less raw. Holding him down. And in spite of his sheer littleness, Oz has that extra-special advantage of being Older. Teenager hierarchy of grades and years and pack-mentality that he's obviously got some special insight into.

Hard-on against his bared stomach, denim and this barely-there warmth of flesh underneath. Thrusts against him with this kind of fierce, utterly male urgency. The sort of thing that makes Xander actually want to give up. Give it up. Lie there and let Oz take this away from him.

Startled when Oz slides over, jerks and pulls Xander up and on top of him. Stronger than he should be. Not just little, but all bone and very thin muscle-layers, and he looks fragile, except for the expression.

Hooks a leg around Xander's and holds him down for a minute. Then pushes up and in.

Little growl. "Move."

"What?" Like Oz didn't just put him there, on top.

"You gonna just lie there?"


He guesses not. Something about the pale littleness, the growl, Oz being suddenly sexy beyond all belief even with all of his clothes still on. Clamped onto him like a dog on a bone, like a wolverine, like one of those animals -- a pit bull? -- that doesn't let go even after it's dead.

Hands in the back of his hair again, holding his head down against Oz's throat. Both legs hooked behind his, making Oz's crotch this new kind of surface that he can thrust against. Demanded take me in it, with an edge of do-it-or-I'll-make-you-pay that makes the hair on his arms stand up.

Xander pulls back just once, pushes up on his forearms. And Oz rears up after him. Clamps both arms around his neck and opens his mouth against Xander's shoulder. Blunt teeth against the skin, hard enough that it's a threat.

A purposeful threat, and Oz isn't going to let him do anything but what Oz wants, this much is clear. But what he wants...

Pulled in tight, body to body, thrusting against each other until things are suddenly very serious, very focused and Xander catches himself mouthing Oz's throat and doesn't stop. This, too, is allowed. Wanted. Demanded.

And he gets it in this completely non-thinking way. Xander can't just be taken, punished, used. Xander has to be a willing participant in everything this is. Make it terrible, irrevocably, real that he's getting off with Willow's boyfriend.

On Willow's boyfriend.

And Christ, who is he that this is the only possible way to spend a Thursday night? Poked, prodded, bitten and threatened into homosexual sex of the sort that his cock has no objections to whatsoever.

Moving together with Oz, tasting him, wild and salt, and Xander breaks away. Loses a few tufts of hair wrestling out of Oz's grip and pulls back.

Waits to be pounced on, bitten again, but Oz only looks at him. All that anger still there, but Oz is. Hard. For him. For everything this is.

And Xander reaches over half-blindly, fumbles for the fly of Oz's jeans, knuckles brushing warm and terrifying over the length of Oz's cock. Pulls it out and strokes. Weird angle resolving almost immediately into just a different way of doing things.

He's already sucked Oz, a handjob is no more horrifying than anything else going on.

Loving the slick length of him against his palm. Squeezing a little on the upstroke and Oz gasps. Bucks into Xander's touch.

Still no threats, so Xander has to assume he's doing this right. Makes him angry. Makes him so hard that thinking's something other people, boring people do. Not people who jerk their best friend's boyfriend's cock in the back of a van.

Not people like him and what is this? Is this punishment? Because Xander... he doesn't feel punished so much as fucked with. Mind and body.

Enough that some part of him wants to get out. He wonders, if he ran, would Oz stop him. Hold him down and make him do this? Is it still an issue if he never tests it, never finds out?

Rubs his knuckles along the chain. It's still there, the little metallic line on Oz's skin, just showing under his t-shirt's hem. Bells muffled against his body. Wondering, the bit of him that's not angry, what else is under those clothes.

Reaches out with the hand that's not jerking and pushes the shirt up. Chest, neck, straining under the arms. Pushes until Oz raises his arms and wiggles out. Lays back like that, hands tangled in his shirt and just stretched back. Making his ribs and the tight line of his belly show. Pushing his cock up into Xander's next pull.

Rubs the heel of his hand along that stretched body. Down to Oz's waist, where he can get a grip on denim and soft warmth of underwear and push both out of the way. Changes hands to slide Oz's cock loose, then just hangs on while Oz gets them the rest of the way off. Sneakers kicked off into the corner and these really white bare feet, marked in a way that make Xander wonder whether Oz was ever wearing socks.

Extra little indecency in that. No socks. Bare feet. Whatever will the neighbours think?

Hell, naked Oz. Naked with this little extra self-possessed twist that makes Xander want to check whether he's naked. Naked boy is a very different thing from even boy-with-his-cock-in-Xander's-mouth-but-most-of- his-clothes-on. Less accidental.

Shocking slide of Oz's cock into the centre of his hand, making Xander shiver in a way that's just a bit too romantic.

Oz reaches out. Gets Xander by the collar and drags him down. On his side, and bites down on the round edge of his shoulder. Pulls his shirt off over his head, which leaves them with one pair of jeans and the usual single-person allotment of underwear, socks, and shoes.

Pulls him in and kisses him.

Different again. Less like some fairy-tale character coming to eat him up and more like. Well, making out. Wet and hungry and pushing towards the magic sex-place. Hauls Xander in, and he gets to really experience nakedness against him before he rolls Oz underneath.

More kissing, and touching. Hands on Oz's body, smoothing and pressing and holding and pinching and Oz doing the same.

Oz's hands between them doing raw, rough things to his nipples that make him start to thrust again. The purer feel of Oz, now that he's naked. Under him.

Gay sex. Jesus.

Xander thinks his head will explode if he does anything resembling serious thought so he just... lets things shut down. It feels good. Oz feels good.

Oz feels good in a way that makes him roll them both over again until Oz is straddling him.

Until he can reach up and twist Oz's nipples, both at once --


Just his name, in that voice. Something like magic in making Oz verbal and he wants to do it again. Sitting up awkwardly to kiss him, mouth his face and throat and show him this.

This is what he wants. To be known this way. No matter which of them started it. Yes, he wants to say, this is what I would do with Willow. Taste her touch her bite her make her moan just the way you did.

Touch her.

Slips his hand down to Oz's cock, leans back against the passenger seat. Bracing himself. Leverage to touch, using this permission and demand. Oz's sac in his palm, heavy and crinkled.

Dusting of hair tickling his hand and Xander bends awkwardly to take Oz's nipple between his teeth and. Press.

The wondering. Have they gone this far? He's never seen Cordelia naked. Not that he's seeing Oz naked now, only he is feeling him. Touching him, and he isn't moaning but he is gasping. Holding on to Xander's shoulders and just. Offering himself.

Makes no sense, nothing making any sense but the slide of skin on skin and the taste of Oz. God. He's tasted Oz.

He wants to do it again.

Shifting and moving, thumping against something painfully, getting an elbow in the ribs and Oz is flat beneath him and Xander is working his nipples. Sucking and biting and. Suckling. God. Willow. Her breasts would be soft. Her smell would be soft. Not like this, and imagining it just makes him harder and Oz is hard all over and when Xander finds himself nosing at his groin he doesn't hesitate.

Licks and kisses.

This cock, that might have been inside Willow and he has to taste again.

Has to.

Fuck his mouth on the length of it. Oz's hands settling in his hair. Oz's body. All his.

All of it?

And. It's not like he knows. Not like he's thought about. Or ever tried. Just that once, with Jesse, jerking each other off but everybody does that but not everyone.

Spreads Oz's thighs.

Runs his thumb behind his balls and. Down.

Soft little path of skin, incredibly thin. Sensitive. Oz still isn't making any noise, but he's twisting every time Xander presses. Silent, constant movement by the time Xander reaches the rest of the way down and touches him There. Rubbing the pad of his thumb against the pucker until Oz does gasp, just once. Feels the little bit of give that reminds him that it's a hole. That he could, if he wanted.

Finds his other hand on Oz's throat, rubbing up and down across the Adam's apple. Brings it up and pushes the thumb against Oz's lips. Oz takes it in, sucks once, briefly, wetly, then lets go.

Frustrated for a second until eventually he just sucks it himself. His own thumb in his mouth next to the other length. Something about the shape of it. Works on getting it really seriously wet.

Shifts and puts the hand he was touching Oz with down to support himself, and brings the other one in. Awkwardness of lefthanded exploration, but the spit-slick's exactly what he needed. Little push against flesh that gives, then a hard one. And Oz opens.

God tight around him. Xander angles his thumb to get that little hole open. Really close to it as long as he's still sucking the head of Oz's cock, enough to have a certain amount of leverage. Enough to really work it in, get it deep, make Oz twist again.

Gonna fuck him.

Thought like a hugely contained explosion right behind his eyes, thumb in Oz, pushing in Oz and he's hot there. So incredibly tight and Xander suddenly can't stand not being naked. Pulls out, pulls off and strips, not quite able to look straight at Oz, naked and spread out before him, until he can touch him with his entire body.

Legs tangling together and skin, so much incredible skin. Fine-grained and hot. Slick with sweat Xander has to lick for long moments before sucking on his fingers.

Getting them good and wet. Slippery.

Slip inside with his index finger and twist.

Fuck Oz that way and wonder with a kind of helplessness how it feels.

Wonder what's making him sweat like that. If it hurts. If it feels. Good.

Memory of particularly adventurous porn and Xander pushes his finger in to the second knuckle. Shifts and presses and moves it until Oz arches off the floor. Cries out.

Almost shocking enough to make him pull out, try speech again, no matter how badly that worked out the last time. Almost.

Instead he does it again, and again. Gets his arm in a mostly comfortable position and thrusts against that spot. This, at least, is vaguely familiar. Cordy, god, Cordy loved it when he rubbed her like this. Only a vague notion of where a clit ought to be, but apparently his fingers had worked it out.

Like they're working it out now.

Spreads Oz's thighs a little wider with his free hand. Doesn't have to, can't even really see clearly. Just the shine of the belly chain. Pale gleam of Oz's thighs. Smooth on the inside like any girl's.

Like Willow's would be.

God. God. And if Oz knew half of what was going through Xander's head he'd use the belly chain to hang him, but it doesn't look like there's going to be anything like meaningful conversation.

Just Xander. In Oz.

And somehow, he has to think about this. Not like, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing thoughts, which are wayyy too dangerous for the right-nowness of this evening, more like which-way-am-I-gonna-do-this. Thinking about the wet-slick touches he's had with Cordy, warm, wet girlness, and the lack of that here. Even his fingers were just barely slick enough.

Bumps his ankle on something and classifies it as a hallelujah when what he comes up with is that particular hollow-sounding plastic that's always, at least in his experience, hand lotion. Gets the little round bottle in his hand and upends it.

Even Xander's nostrils flare at the smell, so Oz's must be wide open. It's floral, spicy, very sweet. Like little-girl perfume. Or Willow.

It's Willow's.


But cool and slick in his hands and somehow he's using it anyway. All along his cock with both slippery hands, then two fingers pushing into Oz. Adds one from the other hand and he can feel the little tremble that gets. Distract him. Make him pay attention to Xander's hands instead of Willow's smell. Even if it's all around them. Hanging over their heads when Xander slides down on top of Oz.

Wrong angle, but he has something like a vague idea of how to do this. Get those pale little legs over his arms and lift them, make Oz's ass into a kind of offering. Get his cockhead up against the hole and. Push.

Just hissing breaths while he does it. He's had three fingers in and it's tight anyway. Different from anything female, and he should have known that, but. But. Little pale redhead under him, and at the moment it doesn't really matter to him who it is. Warm, soft-hard body that he's fucking.

Balls-deep by now, and he's got his knees on the floor for leverage. Legs on his arms like a barrier between them. Has to get in there. Kiss and bite and lick and fuck him, mouth and ass until he makes those little noises Xander just knows he'll make.

Thing is, Oz doesn't make noise. Even now, with Xander pushed all the way in and he's so fucking deep. He has to be feeling that way up inside. But Oz just sort of pulls in on himself. Shakes and breathes and shakes and Xander takes one leg and puts it behind him, around his waist. And the other one. Bends and kisses and Oz's calves hook over Xander's ass and hang on.

It's maddening, makes his scalp prickle, makes him strain for the sound of each ragged breath, holding his own so as not to make any extra sound.

Xander needs this in some way he can't even begin to examine. Something lost to be this deep inside Oz and not be able to hear him do... anything but breathe.

Slips his hand around Oz's softening cock and works it in time to his hips. Not so much thrusting as these raw little pushes that make Xander grunt.

Something like triumph when Oz starts to harden again in his fist, to pull Xander in harder with his legs, but still no actual sound.

And he knows this is just Oz, could have guessed that sex with him would be as quiet as anything else with him, but it's still.


Like Xander is nothing to be concerned about, even balls-deep in his ass with a fist around his cock. Fucking him. And he can't take these little pushes anymore. Pulls out almost all the way and squeezes Oz's cock maybe too hard before slamming back in.

And that got a noise. A little bitten off moan that makes Xander's cock pulse. God, yes.

Has to use both hands to brace himself, get a better position, an angle to that spot.

And fucks him.


Desperate little breaths under him, dragged out, almost sounds. Oz's legs are clamped around his hips, just hanging on. Riding it from underneath. Just breathing close and warm in Xander's ear, ragged whenever he goes in.

But if he changes the angle...

It's not quite a word, but it's a lot more than silence, bigger than a moan. Two-syllabled, catching in the middle. Somebody's name, but the rhythm could be his or Willow's. Fucks in like that again and just gets a wordless throat-noise in answer. Does it hard, keeps shifting. Gonna get a reaction or kill them both.

Clamped arms around his neck, dragging him down into a kiss. All of Oz wrapped around him and hanging on so tight. Pulling where Xander's pushing back for leverage.

Jerks back, losing the arms. Legs still around his hips, but that's just giving him this angle he needs. God, he can get so deep like this. Like there's no limit to the place he's reaching.

Oz under him, jerking back and forth and yeah, whimpering. Salt-skin smell that could be just sweat or sex between them. Hot when Xander bends and licks from eye to jaw. Tongue just brushing Oz's mouth. God, fuck him fuck him fuck him he's so good. Working back, getting it as deep as he can. Still twisting on the soft van floor and mouthing something over and over again, and Xander has to knock him actually back with a thrust before he can hear it.


Fuck him.

Xander bends in. Gets all his weight on one arm. Pulls those little legs tighter around his waist, lifts his hips, and drives down inside. Damn him for the bastard he's been all night, and damn him for making gardenia into the smell of sex forever. Isn't even possible that he'll be able to stand next to Willow without thinking about this. Oz under him with his mouth and eyes both open.

Leans in and kisses him. Wide-open and pushing wider and Oz does this kind of silent-scream into his mouth and laces his fingers into Xander's hair.

Best kiss of his life. Gentling it down, making it the other half of this almost-brutality. Make Oz want him.

Make Oz want him.

Slows his hips a bit. Makes the thrusts deliberate, makes the angle count. Gets little moans that Oz doesn't seem to be able to stop as long as his mouth is open, and a kind of extended sound that could be a word if Xander were willing to give him his lips back.

Not gonna. As long as he hangs onto it, it's his. Maybe the only thing he'll own tonight.

And maybe that's the point. Just a quick reminder of everything Xander's never had and never will have. Willow, who hadn't hesitated to distance herself from Xander, even though it was her, too. And she was the one. And he wanted her so badly, so close, and so beautiful in a way that suddenly he could see --

Pulls off long enough for a breath and Oz is screaming and Xander's still fucking him. Hard, hard he's gonna feel it. He's gonna remember, oh God, there's gonna be. Something like a reckoning.

Comes groaning and shuddering, still pumping into Oz and he can feel it getting hotter, getting slicker until he has to jerk with it.

Until he can't stand it anymore and he can finally slow his hips down and half-collapse, turning them onto their sides.

Wet twist and release making them both moan, Oz moaning.

Because of him.

But still so hard...

And Xander's eyes are squeezed shut despite the dark, and his hands are clumsy and only vaguely attached to the rest of him, but he still reaches between them.

Strokes Oz who's still moaning. Still. Oh, God, still feeling him and Xander has to move, change position, get down, go down.

On Oz. Salt-sour taste rocking him but he can't move his mouth. Sucking hard on the head and stroking him and maybe moaning himself until Oz comes in his mouth.

Xander chokes a little. Swallows and just keeps sucking until Oz pushes him away.

And there's a moment where, if they both started putting their clothes back on, if they both just moved then maybe this could have not happened. But they don't.

And eventually they're just lying there, breathing. Accidental touches and the vaguely raw feel of Xander's cock and whatever Oz is feeling.


Tiny nagging voice that keeps shouting that Xander hurt him. Older, smarter, stronger, but he's so little. Tight little body curled up on the pile of clothes, arms around his knees. On his side. Either tired or aching or most probably both. Curve of his shoulder catching some source of light or other, just this pale shape in the dark.

That Xander slides in behind. Kisses the back of that neck. Pets his chest and belly and doesn't touch his cock. Careful of his ass. Just nuzzling in the dark. A bit dizzy himself, but he thinks that's probably got as much to do with this evening's smack on the head as what's happened since.

Little roll that lays Oz very carefully on his back, looking up at Xander through dimly visible, serious eyes. Waiting for him to get it, whatever 'it' currently is.

And oddly, in this moment, he wants to give. Give Oz Willow, their friendship, the safety of it that's usually all the safety he's got. Give him anything. He's starting to understand why Willow loves Oz.

He wants to make Oz one of their treehouse people. Let Willow bandage his skateboard-skinned knees, because you just know he skated until he was old enough to drive. Have him play dress-up with them. The wolf-that-ate-granny- and-put-on-her-clothes. Disturbing in that hysterically cheerful kid-world kind of way.

Get Mrs. Rosenberg in one of her vaguely motherly moments to dump all three of them in the bathtub while they were still yardape-sized preschoolers, let them splash the layers of dirt off each other and touch carelessly and scramble around until somebody hits their head, and it all ends in tears, but not the fuck-you-forever kind.

Sleepover with him piled on the couch with sleeping bags and loose popcorn in their pajamas.

But it didn't happen that way, and instead they're... well, they're pretty much cuddling in the back of Oz's van, and Xander's betrayed more people tonight than he'd thought he'd ever be close to.

King of Cretins.

This is one of the times when he wonders if he was born solely to turn everyone else's life to shit. Self-serving, yeah, but right now it makes a lot of sense.

But Oz is breathing easier now, and he's not curled as tight, and maybe at some point Xander will get home and this day will end.

It has to, right?

Or maybe it doesn't. Maybe this is one of those things where someone watched Groundhog Day or something on the exact center of the Hellmouth with the moon in the seventh house and a coven eaten by demons and the planets in alignment and whatever the hell else and it'll just keep going.

Until he's so tired that it doesn't matter if anything makes sense, and he can erase himself from the world with a minimum of fuss. Heh. Suicidal ideation. Yes, Ms. Guidance Counselor, I was paying attention, do I get a gold star?

A pat on the head?

A do-over?

Right now, what he really needs is for Oz to stay exactly where he is and let Xander hold him. Pretend it's okay in some heretofore undiscovered way.

So, of course, what happens is that Oz wriggles out of his grip. Sits up with a hiss of obvious pain that makes Xander want to brain himself with a crowbar, and starts putting on his clothes.

Making it necessary that Xander begin to do the same. Fumbling in the dimness until Oz just hands him his clothes.

And Xander does his best not to shake.

Not even when Oz starts the van up with a coughing roar and they're leaving Makeout Land for Sunnydale proper.

Can't bring himself to get up there and sit in the passenger's seat like a human being. Like a friend. Just sits cross-legged in the dark and leans a bit against Oz's seat. Because apparently he can't help himself.

Follows the turns in his head. He doesn't have anything like a perfect sense of direction, but a lot of this is familiar. Well-trodden, if not exactly safe, ground.

Two streets into town, and a couple of corners before Xander's well and truly lost. But he could probably get lost between home and the mall, given the chance.

Just settles down in the loose clothes and figures he'll stay there until Oz kicks him out. Dozes some. His head hurts enough that he probably shouldn't, but consciousness hasn't done him so many favours lately.

Wakes up with Oz crouched over him. Stiff-backed in a way that screams about how much he must hurt. That makes him want to crawl up, lick Oz starting at his very bare ankles.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. I know."

Fingers tangle briefly in his hair and then Oz helps him up. Out of the van, and yeah, it's his street. Looks different, something about the light. Makes him wonder what time it is. He's so tired. Wants to sleep. Wants to sleep with Oz, if he's blunt about it, this new want he's just learning, not to be left alone at night.

Or, no. Not learning just now. He remembers it from when he was really, really small. The night he was five and he got himself out of bed and let himself outside and walked the twelve blocks to Willow's in the middle of the night, that was the first time. Even if he didn't quite get the nerve up to knock once he was there. Just sort of sat there, on the Rosenberg's patio furniture in the back yard, and tried to think of something he could say that would make Willow let him in.

Sometime in the really early morning when Willow got up and saw him. God, she was so pretty when she was little. All big eyes and tangled red hair that shouldn't have tangled, being straight as it was. Came down and let him in and took him back upstairs with her. And tucked him in with her stuffed animals. Curled up in her bed and dozed while she laid on the floor with her nightie hiked up around her thighs, reading with that way-too-smart-little-girl concentration.

Probably more like eight o'clock when she got up and crawled up and laid beside him.

Thinking about that while he looks at Oz. Who looks terrible under the street light. Bruised eyes and raw mouth and those white-raw streaks that mean he's probably been crying, though Xander thinks maybe he'll try not to notice that part.

If he could just ask.

And maybe for a minute he thinks he can. The two of them just standing there, waiting for Xander to figure out what to say that could make this. Well, not better. Xander may be an idiot, but he knows enough to understand that there's no better here.

But tolerable would be nice. Livable. But something that's probably a liquor bottle crashes just far enough behind him to be in his kitchen, and when he turns back around Oz is looking away.

Moment passed.

"I don't know if I can forgive you, Xander."

"I know."

And Oz nods, steps back into his van, and drives away.