Other Fish
by Glossolalia

As he makes his way up the walk, fumbling in his pocket for his keys, Giles hears music leaking toward him and smiles to himself. Oz is early, it seems; Willow has the key to the flat, which means, of course, that Oz does, too. Only Oz, moreover, has permission to touch his records.

Still, it's odd that Oz would be here quite so early. Giles is back from San Diego at least three hours before he had planned.

Oz has made himself at home — thankfully the sun is still high in the sky, because the door's slightly ajar, and as Giles pushes it the rest of the way open, the music jumps in volume and the bittersweet tang of marijuana smoke seeps up his nose.

Luckily for him, Giles is too surprised by all of this to say anything as he steps inside.

Luckily, that is, because otherwise he would not be seeing —

This. Them.

Oz and Xander. On the couch, entwined and undulating. Shirtless, both of them, Oz on top, rosepale skin against syrupdark, Xander's large hands sweeping up and over Oz's narrow, twisting back. Their faces are obscured, mashed together, wet sliding smacking sounds coming more and more loudly as they move faster. Flies undone, their trousers around their thighs.

At their age, Giles was in the same position more times than he can count, or even remember. Hungry and hot-skinned, pushing against another boy (Ethan), another bony, desperate boy.

He freezes.

Two boys, similar, so young, their skin fresher than anything, nearly glowing, but they are opposites as well. Dark and light, broad and slight, tall and short. Oz wears the small white briefs Giles favors him in, the yellow and blue stripes on the elastic distorting as Xander pushes his hand beneath the waistband. Oz rises on his knees, back arching, and Giles glimpses Xander's dark tartan boxers, rucked up high on his thighs, stripe of tan skin between tartan and the tugged-down waistband of his jeans.

Same and opposite, rocking together, Oz kissing a line down the side of Xander's neck, whispering something in his ear that makes Xander groan and buck.

Giles is stock-still, dead-still, fearful that even his breathing is too loud, will betray him.

One and one is two, and they are complete, whole, lips on lips, hands on hips, their arms around each other bars to a prison.

They are free, he is locked away.

Xander presses Oz's shoulder down, urging him down, but Oz shakes his head, whispers something else. More loudly, but all Giles can hear is the rush of air, no words. Xander stills and stares as Oz pushes Xander's arms above his head, catches them there with one hand and rises more, up and up, small clever hand reaching inside his briefs, knuckles bumping Xander's chin.

Xander just — liquefies. Wide blind eyes, mouth opening, a single long endless ripple running down his body, wrists to knees, as he lets himself be held.

Giles is the one trapped, his cock heavy in his pants, lips cracked and dry, eyes unblinking.


"What the bloody hell is going on here?"

One second, Xander's full and slow and heavy and sugary, like Kool-Aid without enough water, too-sweet and a little gritty, the next second, he's frozen and small.


He shoves Oz away, off him, and maybe Oz hits the floor but Xander's scrambling to pull up his pants and looking around wildly for his shirt. The room's reeling like a sick possessed carousel he can't jump off of.

Giles, yelling. "Of all the impositions, the godawful bloody rudeness —! You come into my home, break in, and —"

Xander's pulling a cushion over his chest, leaning forward, rocking, trying to hide his nakedness. Naked. In front of Giles. A royally-pissed-off Giles. "Let me explain, God, it's not like that, it was —"

"Nothing to explain," Giles says, sitting down heavily, the chair creaking. His voice brittle, high, angry. "I can't tell you how disappointed I am —"

"Sorry. Really sorry. God, so sorry. Thought you —"

Hand on his forehead, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, Giles shakes his head. "Thought what, exactly? Thought I wouldn't return in time? Thought I'd never know? How could that possibly make this better?"

"No, I meant —" Wild West winds blowing through Xander's empty head; he has no clue what he meant, he's just too freaked out to even try to figure it out. "Sorry? So sorry."

"You're sorry. I see. Oh, that helps enormously, Xander. Quite helpful, I feel so much better now. Thank you."

Xander opens his mouth, then closes it. There's sarcasm, then there's British sarcasm, and only then, then there's Giles's sarcasm. It's hard and sharp, razorblades and scalpels.

Giles's face is pinched, bloodless, but his eyes are dark and flat. Kind of glittering.

"But I am —" Xander tries, gulps air, waves his hands around before remembering he's shirtless. "I —. I mean, we —"

We. He finally remembers Oz. Wait a minute, Xander's not the only delinquent here. Where's Oz?

Whirling room, green-cream-sick swirl of color, as he looks around. And there's Oz, leaning against the wall, elbow up on the bar beneath the cut-out window to the kitchen. Shirtless, his half-unbuttoned pants hanging low on his hips. He's drinking a glass of water.

Jesus. While Giles yelled and Xander flailed, Oz got a glass of water? He's more comfortable in Giles's place than Xander could ever dream of being. Maybe more comfortable than Giles himself.

"Oz, man. Help me out?"

"Yes," Giles says. Flat and hard, his tone even and straight as an interstate. "What do you think, Oz?"

"Hmm," Oz says. He takes another sip of water, scrubs his hand over the side of his hair, then sets the glass down on the bar. "Think you're not angry we're using your place —"

Xander's throat is dry, sandy, and he starts coughing. Fucking Oz, he's just going to make it worse.

"Think, actually," Oz continues, "you're just pissed we started without you."

Xander holds himself very, very still. Everything in the room goes quiet and bright. Really bright, everything sort of glowing from inside and outlined in black, like a cartoon. He's too freaked to look at Giles, doesn't want to anticipate the storm that's coming. Giles is a quiet man, and it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for. Everyone says so. And Giles is strong, too, Xander's seen him fight, all long strokes of the sword and quick steps almost too light for someone a little taller than Xander himself.

But he can't look at Oz, either. He always ends up doing weird-freaky-unimaginable shit with Oz. Something about all the quiet and confidence about the guy, it ends up daring Xander to try the new. Mr. Alternative in every possible way and somehow Xander gives it a shot. Kissing him, say, going down on him. Smoking up, buying a Radiohead album.

Freaked is Xander's usual state, but this, this is especially freaksome. He hasn't figured out how to be around Giles. Not that he ever knew, but especially not after dragging him out of the mansion, mostly broken and gray-faced.

Freakiest thing of all is that he's half-naked, shivering, caught out by Giles of all people, but Xander's still hard.


Giles looks back and forth between Oz — quietly smiling, returning his gaze steadily, waiting for an answer — and Xander, flushed and trembling, eyes darting, chewing his lip.

Pink skin, tan skin, slight and large, and Giles shifts in his seat.

"You're not entirely mistaken," he finally says, quietly, to Oz.

Xander looks up, startled, choking on a gasp, but closes his mouth when Giles straightens up and shoots him a look.

"Which is not to say," Giles goes on, "that I'm not disappointed in you. Both of you. And if you're as sorry as you claim to be —"

That gets a vigorous nod from Xander and an interrogative cock of the eyebrow from Oz.

"Then it might be in your interests to, shall we say —"

Oz exhales pointedly and pushes off from the wall. Giles loves watching him move, all lean, compact grace within that unearthlily pale skin, taking his own sweet time. He stands before Giles, leaning in, hands sliding down Giles's cheeks, and kisses him. Long and slow and too softly, his lips barely parted, just enough for his tongue to lick the edges of Giles's teeth.

"See, though," he whispers, breaking the kiss but speaking right against Giles's lips, "I'm not sorry."

"I am!" Xander says and Oz draws away again, out of Giles's reach, the secretive smile back on his lips. "Really sorry."

"Yes," Giles says. Bitter tang of Oz, marijuana, and Xander on his lips, and he's harder than ever. "So you say, Xander."

He lets that sink in, lets Xander tremble a little more, before continuing.

"What I'd like to see, however, is you prove that. How sorry you are."

"I will —" Xander's still a boy, despite the height, despite the depth of his voice and the shadow of hair on his arms, down the center of his chest, and he nods, intimidated and trapped. "I want to."

"Good," Giles says and reaches for Oz, managing to brush his fingertips against Oz's hip. Oz moves forward, his eyes hooded. Still smiling vaguely. Secretly. "I believe you were about to — what was it, Xander? Were you going to suck Oz's cock?"

Brown eyes, wide. Frightened but hot, the flush in Xander's cheeks burning behind his eyes as well. Giles closes his arm around Oz's waist, rubbing his hand up and down the sharp jut of his hipbone.

"You were, weren't you?" Giles says. "Good of you. Helping a friend in need out like that. But I'll wager it wasn't entirely selfless, was it, Xander?"

Every time he says the boy's name, Xander twitches, his hands clenching then relaxing. Giles smiles and softens his voice fractionally; Oz's skin is warm, damp with sweat under his palm, and even Oz is not so unflappable that he doesn't grunt a little when Giles unbuttons his jeans and eases them down his hips.

"No, you like doing it," Giles says, turning Oz to face Xander, propping him against the edge of the desk. "Don't you, Xander? Like putting your mouth on his cock, licking the head so he moans, sucking hard, then slow?"

Xander doesn't reply. He just stares, first at Oz, pale and languorous against the desk, then at Giles.

"Answer me," Giles says.

"Uh —"

"Xander," Giles says again, dropping his voice. "Answer me. You like sucking cock?"

Xander's eyes dart everywhere and he almost crumples in on himself, clutching his waist as he nods. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes. Yes, sir?" Xander can barely speak above a whisper, but he relaxes when Giles gives him a small, indulgent smile. "Yes, I do."

"Good," Giles says, that sir an unexpected gift, just adding to the frisson of heat running up and down his spine and burrowing through his gut. "Then here's what you're going to do. You're going to sit there and you're going to watch how a real man sucks cock —"

At that, Oz draws in a breath, shallowly, and, smiling, Giles cups his prick through the thick soft fabric of his briefs.

"And you're not going to move a muscle. Is that understood?"

"You —" Xander tries. "You —. You're going to —"

Giles yanks loose his tie, then pulls his shirt, still buttoned, over his head and tosses it behind Oz. "Xander. Answer me."

"Yes, sir," Xander says. Red lips, wet dark eyes, and he's already leaning forward, seeking a closer view. "Watch. Don't move."

Oz touches Giles's hair, his face, bonewhite fingers dropping and skimming randomly as Giles bends, kisses his collarbone, gnaws up a bruise on the center of his chest. Kissing, murmuring low, getting Oz's replies in hitches of breath and jerks of the hips.

He loves the taste of Oz's skin, boysweat and sweet herbs, bouquet garni and the zest of something stronger, saltier. Like tequila. Loves its texture, featherdown soft, stretched over lean, still developing muscles, impossibly firm. Loves how Oz sighs, his stomach hollowing and ribs vaulting, when Giles licks and bites his way down below his navel. Loves how just the pressure of Giles's hands and nudge from his chin is enough to communicate to Oz to turn around, pillowing his head on his arms, raising his ass.


Bet Giles knows what he's doing.

Oz had said that to Xander a couple weeks ago; they were just lounging around, hot summer day, in the back of the van, Pablo Honey playing low, idly discussing how good their acquaintances would be in bed.

Yeah, Xander's thinking now, Giles sure knows what the fuck he's doing. He's got Oz bent over and he's nipping and sucking on his lower back and Oz is giving out these — Jesus. Little breathy whimpers Xander's never heard before, and, fuck, it's Giles.

Giles on his knees, large bookreading hands spreading Oz's little ass, and he's just wearing trousers and a white undershirt and his hair's kind of awry already and he's damn well built.

"Beautiful, isn't he, Xander?"

Giles's voice, steady and low, edged with something bright and sharp, cuts right through Xander, makes him square his shoulders and tighten his fists. He's not allowed to move, but Giles's voice feels like it's wrapping around his dick, just increasing the pressure.

"Um," Xander starts to say when Giles glances over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Yes," Giles says. Turns back and bites Oz's ass, makes him yelp and grunt, then buries his face between the cheeks and —.

Holy fuck. He's like licking and kissing the crack, muttering wetly, and Oz is writhing and Xander's feeling this wildfire catch and jump all over him, just under his skin, sparks skipping crazily, burning hot and bright and he's never seen anything like this.

Giles turns Oz around and Oz is staring, unseeing, mouth hanging open, his hands on Giles's shoulders, gripping and rubbing. The blush that Xander loves to see is spreading over Oz's narrow chest, and his eyes are a brighter green than Xander's ever seen. Giles's head bobs up, his hand on the base of Oz's dick, the head running over Giles's cheek and lips.

Like he's tasting it, soaking it in, and Xander wants to writhe, wants to touch himself, wants anything to break this huge, ever-growing heat and pressure on him, in him, but he can't. And now Giles's cheeks hollow and his lips close around the head of Oz's cock and push downward and Oz has a hand in Giles's hair, brushing it, pulling it.

Oz is staring at Xander, moving his hips faster and faster, his mouth opening, and Giles is groaning — which means, Xander realizes dimly, that it's cool to enjoy this, even if you're not getting touched in return. Oz claimed it was, but he doesn't necessarily trust Oz on everything — and Xander can't take it any more.

Slowly as he can, he moves his right hand over his chest, down his belly, cups himself through his boxes, then pushes three fingers inside. He has to bite his lip to keep in the grunt that jumps up his throat at the first touch.

But this is better, so much better, just a little, slow as he can —.

Oz's hand squeezes Giles's neck, pulls him back, turns his head. Giles's lips are swollen, but he narrows his eyes and shakes his head when he sees what Xander's doing.

"What did I tell you, Xander?"

Christ, his voice is not helping things. Xander yanks back his hand and swallows hot spit. "Uh —?"

"Not to move," Oz says, and he might be amused, or helpful, or just plain horny, or some mood that's particularly Oz. Xander's not exactly able to analyze things right now.

"That's right," Giles says.

Giles slides Oz's pants and briefs down his legs and helps him step out of them. He hands the briefs to Xander.

"Put these on."

Xander's already obeying when it occurs to him to wonder why. Plus — "Um, they're kinda small —"

Giles nods. "They'll keep things in place, don't you think?"

Jesus. He's like the librarian of perviness. He knows everything, all these little pieces of kindling under Xander's skin that Xander didn't even know he had but Giles is torching them all at once. He tugs the briefs on, and they're tighter than a Speedo, the elastic already cutting into his crotch and waist, but Giles looks — pleased, maybe? So Xander gives him a brave smile.

"Turn around, Xander," Giles says, and catches Xander's hands behind his back. Loops something around them, scratchy but silky — oh, his tie — and knots it nearly as tight as the briefs' elastic. Then Giles hugs him, hard and warm, pressed against him, and kisses his neck. Whispers. "Being good, Xander. Doing very well."

Xander nods. He can't speak; there are flames in his throat, smoke in the place where his brain used to be, and Giles is sucking on his earlobe now.

"Go upstairs," Giles says as he pulls away and Xander pitches forward against the back of the couch. "Wait for us."

"But —?"

Giles helps him stand. "Go upstairs and think about what you've done."

"Huh?" Xander asks before the words resolve out of sound into sense. "Yeah, okay, Dad."

He was trying for sarcastic, but got something else. He's not sure what it is, but it wrenches the fire in him hard, twists it around, and Giles nods. Once, short, then kisses Xander. On the mouth. And he tastes like precum and other salty bitter things and he kisses like a god, but then he's pushing Xander gently toward the stairs and Xander's stumbling, his mouth hanging open and empty and tongue still working silently like he's still kissing.


Oz can barely stand. Blue balls, the heat of Xander's eyes, the sight of Giles embracing Xander. Their kiss.

Everything, all of it, tilts through him, throws off gravity, and the fact that he's still upright is some kind of little miracle.

"Come here," Giles says, taking Xander's seat on the couch, opening his arms. Oz comes, takes his favorite position. He loves this, loves the smell of Giles, sweat and strength, the firmness of him below Oz's shaking body. He straddles Giles's lap, kissing him hard, petting his hair and thrusting against the hard heat in Giles's groin.

"Dear, dear boy —" Giles murmurs in his ear and Oz smiles.

"Back early," Oz whispers, pushing one hand up under Giles's t-shirt, spreading his fingers and gripping the muscles over his ribs.

"Good thing, too," Giles mutters as he tilts up his hips.

Oz just smiles. He brings Giles's hands to his waist, then down, until they grip his ass, until they, with his knees, are the only thing holding him up. "Want you —" he whispers against Giles's neck. It sounds, in Oz's own ears, like someone else's voice, like he's eavesdropping. "Need —"

Giles's chuckle runs up from the center of his chest and Oz feels its entire route as he twists his hips, thrusts harder, fumbling at Giles's fly until he finally wrenches the zipper down and shoves his hand in. Heat in his palm — Giles groaning, his head dropping back — and the cold of drying kisses on his ass, and Oz wants more, wants Giles to feel everything, to catch up, wants and wants.

Giles kisses him again, working his knuckle against Oz's hole, laughter in his eyes as they crinkle up at the corners and Oz stares at him, bucking in time with his hand on Giles's dick, thrusting, then jerking, until they're moaning together, the sound passing like wine back and forth between their mouths. He's falling forward into the complex dark of Giles's eyes, the bottomless pupils dragging him in. Giles's hips work under Oz, their long, rocking rhythm as familiar as his own skin and just as necessary.

"Love you," Giles breathes into Oz's ear, then shoves up, hard, into his hand and Oz starts to come as Giles bites his ear. "Yell for me. Let him hear you —"

Oz yells, banners of light, orange and yellow, streaking down his spine, his cock, out his mouth. Yells curses and nonsense and Giles just holds him tighter, kissing the side of his face, lapping at his cheek like a hungry cat.


Xander's trying to be good. He really truly is. He's locked into Oz's underwear and they're just getting smaller and his dick aches and his hands are tied. Literally. So it's not like he has anything else to do. He's trying.

Trying to think, like Giles said, because apparently even if his brain hates it when Giles tells him what to do, his dick really likes it, so he's thinking. Trying, anyway.

What was he supposed to be thinking about? He's always thinking about sex, so maybe this doesn't count, but he's thinking about sex. He can hear the moans downstairs, wet sex sounds, and he's wondering what they're doing, wondering what Giles is telling Oz to do, wondering what Giles looks like naked.

Xander can't get comfortable. Every position he tries, lying down, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs together, legs spread, is uncomfortable. Doesn't matter what he tries. He's harder than marble and trapped in the fucking briefs and the numb prickle of pins and needles is spreading through his hands.

And he can't turn off the thoughts of sex, and he hopes that's okay, because he used to think he was a pretty with-it guy. Apparently, evidently, obviously not, because he's not only been making out with Oz every chance he gets, but now he's kissed Giles and let Giles tie him up and he's here, in Giles's bedroom, and he wants to come so fucking bad.

And he called Giles 'Dad', and that's just so wrong, he doesn't think of Giles like that any more, not for a while now, but it turned him on to do it and he thinks it turned Giles on, and it's fucking sick, it's almost as sick as those thoughts he has late at night, the ones where he puts Oz in one of Willow's dresses and fucks him like a girl, or where Angel comes back and chains Xander up and makes him do — things, or where Cordy shows up in a strap-on and fucks Xander like a dog.

He has lots of bad thoughts.

They're all swirling around him now and he's on fire, incandescent at this point, and then he hears Oz yell.

Oz never yells, but — "Fuuuuuuuuck" and "Yeah, yeah, fuck" and "Jesus" — that's Oz and he's yelling and coming and Xander's dick hurts. His chest is tight, the tie on his wrists tighter, and he can't catch his breath.


In the loft, Giles finds Xander just as he'd hoped to find him: Flushed brickdark, nearly panting, twitching with need, his eyes wet with unshed, desperate tears. Prettier than even Giles's own overactive, overwrought imagination could ever have predicted.

His shoulders bowed, and Xander still hasn't assumed his full body yet, so his shoulders are almost too broad, his arms usually dangling like coatsleeves on a too-large hanger.

Giles goes to him, kneeling on the bed before him, palming the sweat off the boy's impossibly hot, smooth skin, undoing the tie and easing Xander onto his back. Xander clutches at him, mouth opening like a beached fish, and Giles lets him kiss and grope, messy and fumbling, for a bit until he feels better.

"Good boy," Giles says, smoothing the hair off Xander's forehead.

Oz has slipped into the loft and stands against the bureau now, watching intently, chest rising and falling. He wears Xander's boxer shorts, and they're absurdly large on him, and Giles is sunk into the power that Xander has granted him, so he can't help but admire the skinny boy body playing dress-up in men's drawers. With Oz sex is, has always been, naturally and excitedly, give and take, driving each other to the brink and jumping together, but with Xander here, breathless and wanting, Giles is reeling between the familiar passion and intoxicating role.

"Yeah?" Xander asks and everything — voice, held breath, twitching muscles — tells Giles that Xander is sincere. He needs to know.

"Yes," Giles assures him, rubbing his obscenely hard cock through Oz's briefs, kissing him deeply. "Yes, Xander. So good. You're doing so well —"

"Want to," Xander pants, bucking up against Giles's hand, fingers digging into Giles's shoulder. "Trying to. Want to, please —"

Every 'please', every question, every blink of wide eyes, twists the need inside Giles a little more, ratchets it up, and he wants to fuck this melting boy right through the mattress. Wants, and knows now, that Xander will beg for it, do anything, give him everything.

"Beautiful boy," Giles says, rolling onto his back, pulling Xander with him. He nips at Xander's lower lip, sucks it wet and full as Xander mewls and thrashes. "So polite. Doing so well, Xander —"

Xander tosses his head back, then buries it in Giles's neck, teeth scraping over the skin there. Giles shudders and groans; he hasn't felt a bite since Oz's lycanthropy, had forgotten just how sharply it plucks at his every nerve, sets them twanging.

"Please —" Xander chokes as he wraps his legs around Giles's, pushing and thrusting. "Please, Gi —. Daddy. Please —"

That word's electric trail, secret and harsh and so powerful, scorches Giles from skull to balls, flashes white then black in front of his eyes. He pushes Xander onto his back again and rises a little, bracing one hand on Xander's muscular shoulder. "What do you want, boy?"

Xander shakes beneath him, eyes rolling; vaguely, Giles hears the boxspring squeak, feels Oz crawl up the bed next to them. Xander — eyes red-rimmed, breath harsh and fast and hollow — is pleading. Pleading and writhing, begging him and calling Giles 'Daddy', and this kind of power is brilliant, dangerous, moths to flamethrowers.

"Want to come, please —"

Giles nods, pulling up, reaching for Oz and interlacing their fingers. He and Oz sink downward and Xander spreads his legs.

"Good boy," Giles mutters, the words thick in his mouth. Care and caution war with desire, and desire can be such an ugly thing, and he needs to shield Xander from that, return the trust that granted him this power in the first place. "We're going to take care of you."

Together, he and Oz tug the briefs off Xander and Xander squeals when his prick slaps up, free, smacking his stomach, pre-cum spattering his chest.


Mouths. Wet and slick, hotter than furnaces, hot like glass blown liquid and shaky in the furnace, sliding over his dick, and Xander fists his hands into the sheets, trying to keep still, but he can't, he's shaking all over and Giles and Oz are licking his cock, going down on him at the same fucking time, and tears are stinging his eyes.

"S'cool, Xan," Oz whispers, leaning even closer, closing his lips around one of Xander's balls.

Xander can't see, he can feel, but it's so much, it flashes into numbness, and he can't tell the difference between Giles's mouth and Oz's, it's like two giant mouths inhaling him, sucking him dry, shrinking him down to the size of his cock, taking him inside.

"God —. Fuck, please, gonna come, please, Christ fuck please —"

Ripcord whiplash heat as the flames consume his spine and Xander jackknifes, coming and coming, shooting wildly, and somehow they're following him, insatiable mouths that stay on him, kissing and licking him, cleaning him, even as he falls back and shudders.

Oz and Giles crawl up either side, holding Xander, their hands almost frigid, his skin feels so hot, and they're kissing the sweat away, then sharing kisses over him, until finally they're holding him, pressed close, hands stroking him calm in unison.

He doesn't know how long he lies there, crazystupid and pricklyhot, trying to kiss back, mostly just shaking, blind and empty. He thinks maybe Giles says something, Oz answers, but Xander's too out of it to care.

"Mmm," Xander tries to say a little later, opening his eyes, and he sees Giles kissing Oz, hand cradling the back of his head. Experimentally, he raises his own hand, touches Oz's sharp little shoulder, then his shoulderblade, and Oz breaks the kiss, smiling at him. Oz has the sweetest smile this side of the gender line, and he kisses Xander like they're in love or something. Xander wraps his other arm around Giles's arm and pulls both of them close.

Oz's kisses always give him that strong Kool-Aid feeling, so much sugar and heat, and Xander wonders if Giles's kiss will do the same thing. So he tries, and kisses Giles again, and, no, Giles's kisses are sharper, stubble scraping Xander's chin, and they make Xander feel prickly and hungry, like he's yawning, begging for food.

That's interesting. Like the Pepsi challenge, only better.

Giles says something about renaissances and boys and being indomitable. Oz chuckles into Xander's mouth, then pulls away.

"Lack of endurance," he says, "made up for by lots of energy."

"Indeed," Giles says and he cups Xander's dick, and, God, even just his hand makes Xander gasp and want to give him his first-born. "Miraculous, really."

Oz chuckles again.

"Tell me something, Xander," Giles says like they're having a conversation, like he's not stroking Xander's rapidly rehardening dick and letting Oz do the same to him. "You've fucked Oz, yes?"

"Um —" Xander says. Confused again, heat picking up all over again, flames in his lungs. "Yeah."

"And he's fucked you, I'll wager." Giles scrapes a knuckle around the ridge under the head of Xander's dick and he squeals and thrusts before he can help it.

"Yeah —" he gasps. He can barely think straight at the best of times, so now? With Giles's demanding hand on his dick, the sound of his voice knotting up Xander's gut, and the sight of Oz's white hand, black nails, wrapping around Giles's redpurple cock? He can barely remember to breathe.

"Thought so," Giles says, lying back down on his side, rocking his hips into Oz's hand, jerking Xander nice and slow. "Like it myself, you know. He does it so well, doesn't he? Hard and fast, his prick stretching you open, going in deeper and deeper —"

Xander squeezes his eyes shut. When Oz fucks him, Oz goes red in the face, slit-eyed and grimacing, and now Xander's picturing that, but with Giles underneath him, thrusting, fucking himself back on Oz's cock.

Broad soft tongue, Giles's tongue, up Xander's throat as fingers tighten on his cock, then a broken whisper: "You want to fuck, Xander?"

The sound of it, the idea, jumps through Xander's body faster than electricity, and he grabs Giles, unthinking, pushing him down, swinging his leg over until he's straddling Giles, thrusting against his dick, kissing him.

So many hands on Xander's back, Giles's hands, Oz's hands, and Xander has to pull up, gasp for breath.

"Yeah," he manages to get out, past flames and pictures in his head and need spiralling through his dick, "yeah, Giles, gonna fuck you —"

Chuckle, short, then the room's whirling and Giles is flipping Xander onto his back, pinning him down. "Silly boy, silly, silly boy."

Voice of authority and it holds Xander still despite himself. Giles's face is drawn and severe, hovering above Xander.

"You're not going to fuck me," Giles says.

Xander twitches up, opens his mouth. "But —"

"I'm going to fuck you."

"But —"

Giles just shakes his head and grinds down against Xander. "But nothing. I don't let boys fuck me."

Xander chokes on something and writhes against Giles.

It's shame and it tastes like sour milk but feels strong as vodka as it runs through Xander, fills up his throat. Yet he's still hard as ever, wrapping his leg around Giles's thigh. He shouldn't be surprised that shame and lust can coexist like this, but he is, and it's even freakier, dirtier, wronger (righter) that they're kind of reinforcing each other. Freeing him to touch and beg.

"But you —" Xander tries. He's not trying to be insolent, but he really is fucking confused. "You said Oz —"

Giles kisses him, then pulls back to watch as Oz runs his palm over Xander's nipples. "Oz, as I'm sure you know, is an exception to many things. Now, Xander. What do you want?"

He sounds reasonable, eminently rational and in control, and Xander's skin pinches tighter, hotter, at the sound of it. "Want —"

Giles nods encouragingly.

"Want you to fuck me?" Xander asks, and he's never actually said it out loud before. Those last two words. Fuck. Me. They wrap like snakes around him, squeeze and twist him so tight that Giles's face recedes in a white haze.

"And...?" Giles says quietly, stroking Xander's cock again, bringing Xander's hand to his own cock.

"And, and, um. Please? Want you to fuck me, please?"

Giles strokes him more roughly at that and Xander guesses it's a sign he's doing well, so he keeps going.

"Please, sir? Fuck me. Fuck me, please?"

Giles groans — it's too deep, too crazed, to be Oz — and gets off Xander, pulls him up onto his knees. "Yes. Fuck, yes."

He pushes Xander down, fist in his hair, holding Xander's face up. Xander blinks fiercely against the sting and the haze. He's on his hands and knees. In front of Giles. Giles. Giles, whose dick is bumping Xander's chin, whose nails are digging into Xander's scalp.

"Please?" Xander says. Every time he says one of those words, his dick gets harder and Giles grunts and even Oz reacts, moans a little, pinches Xander's nipple. It's kind of cool. "Daddy. Please. Fuck me, please?"

"You're going to suck my cock," Giles says, rubbing it over Xander's face. "Get it good and wet, make me feel good. Oz's going to get you ready, slick you up and stretch you out, and then I'm going to fuck you. Xander —"

Xander sucks Giles's dick into his mouth as he speaks, tasting the bitter salt, groaning and thrusting against the mattress. Giles's voice is doing this to him, the hard look in his eyes, his fucking strong hands and big dick, and it's all hot and spiky inside Xander, driving him fucking crazy, making him want things he usually locks away.

He saw Giles do this earlier, heard him moan around Oz's dick, so as Oz touches his ass, lube rubbed warm on his hands, Xander grunts, trying to tell Giles how good this feels, how grateful he is, how amazing he tastes.


"Good boy," Giles says, combing Xander's hair, when he grunts. "Just like that. So good, Xander, get it wet —"

He has Xander gazing up at him, cheek bulging, like Giles is some kind of primitive demigod, and the boy's practically lying down, his arse in the air, and desire crackles insistently through Giles.

Oz may joke about his endurance, but even Giles has limits, and he's far surpassed them. Two boys, dark and light, Oz's beloved face tight with concentration, Xander's pretty face full of need.

The limits are long gone behind him. Xander's mouth is sloppy and amateurish but enthusiastic on his prick, and Oz is watching them, watching Giles, as he pushes two fingers inside Xander.

Xander moans and Giles joins him.

"How's he feel?" Giles asks, need half-strangling him, his cock burning in Xander's mouth.

Oz just shakes his head and raises an eyebrow. "Radical."

Giles has to close his eyes, find a center of gravity, however, tenuous, before he loses control. When Xander's head bobs up to suckle just his cockhead, Giles opens his eyes, abandoning any hope for control, and see Oz press his cock against Xander's arse.

"Oz —?"

"Said to get him ready." Oz manages to shrug and push inside and Giles yanks hard on Xander's hair, pulls his cock free, and Oz is smiling that secret knowing smile at him again, and Giles pinches the root of his shaft, shaking with the urge to come. He's tried to imagine this, Oz, his Oz, fucking someone like this, hips bouncing like a rutting bunny.

Xander's practically sobbing, air pushed out of his lungs with each thrust from Oz, and Giles has to bite the sides of both his cheeks to retain his self-control.

"There," Oz says, pulling out of Xander so quickly that the boy cries out and Giles wants to, as well, overcome with need. They switch places and Oz grabs his shoulder as they pass, kisses him hard. "Think he's ready."

As Giles pushes inside, Xander gives out a long, almost satiated sigh, and Oz settles beside them, mouth on Giles's chest, hand on Xander's cock. Giles is dying, this must be dying, every nerve flaring hot and white before burning out, as he enters Xander, and this is where Oz was as well as the tightest, sweetest spot he's ever been and knowledge and sensation battle and flash against each other, against him, burning him to a crisp.

"Talk to him?" Oz asks quietly as Giles digs his fingers into Xander's hips and thrusts short and deep. Oz is settling against the headboard now, hand on his own dick, watching. "He'd like that."

Giles could not refuse Oz anything, not even in the best of times when he's clearheaded, so he just nods and Xander whimpers as he pulls out.

"Fucking you, boy —" he growls and Xander squeaks and pushes back, lifting his hips higher.

"Yes, please, sir, please —"

Giles is far, far gone now, solarbright need consuming him from within, overcome and swept out to space by the dark tension of Xander's hole drawing him, the beautiful curve to his back, the sight of Oz touching himself, mouth half-open, eyes locked on Xander and Giles's bodies where they join.

When Xander shudders and drops his chest to the mattress, Giles hauls him back, hands rough on smooth young skin, and for several long moments as Xander's orgasm clenches his prick and he just keeps fucking, harder and harder, he loses himself. Sees black and red and white, fucking like an animal-father-god, shouting and spewing foul words, burning and dying again and again.

Giles collapses, ragered and firehot, atop Xander, muttering urgent apologies in his ear, kissing him blindly, rubbing his burning skin.

Gradually, as time passes, as he calms, as Oz works his cool white hands over him and Xander, Giles regains himself. His skin starts to stretch and refresh, his breathing slows, his mind begins to clear. Oz rolls them over, stroking them clean with his bunched-up briefs, and Giles captures his hand. Kisses his knuckles, then Xander's mouth.

Xander murmurs and kisses him back, wrapping his arms around Giles, and Giles holds him close, his guilt seeping away at the sweet, dopey look on Xander's face, the soft kisses, the trust.


Xander and Giles fall asleep like that and Oz kisses both their heads, pulls the quilt over them, and pads down the stairs. Both of them are big on passing out after sex and it always reminds him of little kids who play until they drop.

He's hungry, though, so he fixes a sprout and havarti sandwich in Giles's kitchen, then tidies up the living room.

Oz showers quickly; he and Xander already washed off after scouting out the Mirvog nest this morning, before retiring to Giles's for other fun.

Now he feels better, clean and sleepy and full, so he pulls on Giles's abandoned shirt before switching off the lights and stereo and making his way upstairs. He'd rather not admit it, but he's relieved as fuck that this went all right. He'd never be able to convince Xander to try it, and as for Giles, he's been incredibly antsy about the whole polyamory suggestion. Still, he was chancing more than he'd like to think by just making it happen.

Things are looking up now, though. Well, especially right now, as he steps up into the loft to see Xander spread-eagled on his back, snoring raucously, and Giles sitting up against the headboard, rubbing at one eye like a cranky baby, his other hand in Xander's hair.

"Hey," Oz says, sliding behind Giles and the headboard, wrapping his arms around Giles's waist and planting his chin on Giles's shoulder. "Smell good. How's it going?"

"Mmm," Giles says and leans back as he slips a little further toward horizontal. "That was a hell of a surprise."

Oz smiles against Giles's neck and kisses the tender skin behind his ear. "Yeah, about that —"

Giles twists around, his hand moving up Oz's shoulder, so they can see eye to eye. He is smiling, and sleepy, his eyelids fluttering open and closed. Oz drops another kiss on the bridge of his nose.

"Something of a troublemaker, aren't you?" Giles murmurs.

Oz sighs. Trouble was what he was trying to avoid; he figured, bringing them together would be good all around, let Xander explore the newfound boundless pastures of his sexuality and ease Giles's crampiness over the whole open-relationship thing.

"Joking," Giles says and curls his hand around the nape of Oz's neck, tugging him down and kissing him.

Oz relaxes there, tangling his other hand in Xander's damp hair, molding himself against Giles's back.

"Never saw you like that," Oz whispers, gesturing at Xander. "All, like, butch and leather man-y."

"I —"

"Intense," Oz says.

"I may have gotten carried away."

"Not at all. Every orgasm's the last, best one," Oz says, smiling a little, then licking the rim of Giles's lips. "Someone really smart told me that once."

Giles's brows draw together as he frowns. "You're not hurt? Not something I usually indulge —"

It's so silly a thought that Oz laughs. "Hurt? Nah —" He tugs gently at Giles's hair. "Everybody's different with different people. Kinda what I've been trying to say —"

Giles nods, his eyes moving with slowreading care over Oz's face. He's taking his time, making sure he agrees, and Oz smiles again. "All right, then."

"Cool," Oz says and grins.

"God, that smile —" Giles says and pinches Oz's nose.

Oz nips, lips covering his teeth, at the side of Giles's palm. "Not to say I wouldn't mind playing a little naughty Daddy sometime."

Startled, Giles just stares for a second before he grins back, eyes narrowing and brows lifting, and squeezes Oz's bicep hard enough to bruise. Oz struggles to release his arm and reaches over to switch off the lamp before wiggling between Xander and Giles and throwing his arm over Giles's chest.

"Love you," he says before he closes his eyes.

Giles whispers it back and Xander murmurs at the same time something at the same time that could be love you or oven flue.

Oz is still grinning as he sleeps.