Hazy Solos

Somebody's been set up. Who? Only Xander knows for sure.


Giles hasn't done this in years.

It's completely irresponsible, he supposes, when he bothers to think about it. But he's got no responsibilities any more. None. Not a Watcher any more, not even a bloody librarian. What he is, is a man with a body he's spent the last three years denying. And if Oz is going to roll one, right there bold as brass on his couch, and Xander is going to carry it over to him and offer it, Giles is going to take it. And inhale deeply, and hold his breath while he passes the spit-wet joint back to Xander. Xander, with his dark dark eyes framed by those thick lashes, the little smile curving his lips as he takes it back from Giles. His secret smile, whose meaning Giles has been learning in the last few weeks.

Giles breathes out blue-gray smoke. His living room is hazy already, with sweet smoke from herb and incense and the colored light from his desk lamp. He relaxes back into his armchair and lets himself feel his body. The buzz. The pleasure. He shuts off his mind, as much as he ever can, and soaks into the feeling. Relaxes, floats downstream.

Xander is flat on his back in the middle of the floor, humming to himself as he burns the joint down to the roach end. Oz is curled in the corner of Giles' couch. Even his sprawls are compact, neat. Giles wonders what they'll want to do next. Probably eat him out of house and home. Xander does that when he's sober, never mind now when he's red-eyed and giggling.

Oz sighs. "Hey. Giles. Can we spin some tunes? Maybe that VU?"

Giles has a better idea. "Hold on a tick. I went to LA last weekend, and had a little moment in the shop. Went in to buy some strings, the Rotos I like, and came out with this."

He gets up and goes to his hall closet. Little moment, forsooth. A big moment, of utter cap over the windmill madness and wild impulse. The moment ended with him holding his new guitar grinning like a loon in the shop. Then he flushed with shame and hid it away again, and he's had enough of that. Time to be who he is. Giles finds the guitar case and the amp, and carries them back out. He lays the case on his coffee table, right across the demonology he was supposed to have been indexing this evening. What a dull evening that would have been. This is better. His fingers tingle in anticipation.

Giles opens the case. Oz gasps. Giles understands. Flamed maple, tobacco burst paint, and deep gloss. Stylized birds inlaid in the fretboard. Rosewood and maple and mahogany and gold hardware that's perfect against the wood. Giles is still sick with lust for it. Oz touches the bridge gently.

"May I?"

"Be my guest."

Oz picks it up, balances it on his knee as he sits on the couch. He unthreads the pick from the strings and plays an E barre, fiddles around for a bit. Giles watches his fretting hand. Oz is a grunge guitarist, all fuzz and crunch and downstroke. He's got a heavy right hand.

"You held out on me," Xander says. "Didn't know you bought anything on that trip."

Giles flushes. Xander comes up close and hands him the stubby joint. Giles inhales again, and lets the smoke wreathe Xander's hair. Xander's lovely dark hair, shaggy and untamed. His sweet Xander. He hands the joint back and Xander grins like a loon.

Oz stops playing and shakes his head. He gets up and hands the guitar to Giles, then flops back again. "Sweet. You know it's sweet. I don't deserve a guitar this good. Maybe you do. Play. Never played for me before."

Giles settles back in the armchair, the solid weight of the guitar against his stomach. Yes, sweet. That was the word that occurred to him, when he stood in the shop, lusting. Frets like butter. Chunky. He does some pentatonic runs up and down the fretboard, loosening up. His once-broken fingers have a tendency to stiffen, though he did a lot of playing as part of their rehab.

Oz plugs him in with a crack. He's powered on the amp. Giles tweaks down the bridge volume with a pinkie and digs into some random riffing around the A box.

"Shit," says Oz. "Shit. You have chops."

"Been playing thirty years," Giles says. "Spent summer hols locked in my room with a crap Strat and a stack of records."

He plays a blues lick and moves into a little slow Clapton thing. He closes his eyes. The strings seem to vibrate all through his body. The guitar is a living thing in his hands. He hasn't played stoned in years. It feels good.

Oz has never done this before.

What he's doing is slouching on Giles' couch, already a little spindizzy, trying to roll another joint with tingling fingers. He really ought to learn to do this ahead of time, when he's sober. Which hasn't been so often, this summer. Not now that he's hanging out with Xander. Xander has always been relaxed, but he's become total hedonistic id man recently. Oz dates it from before graduation. Though counting backwards through the weeks is tricky, in his current state.

Oz sums infinite series in his head, to demonstrate to himself that he can, but gets tangled up. Limit as n approaches infinity... screw it. Mind turn off, please. He inhales deeply and brings the smoke over to Xander.

Xander's on his back on the middle of Giles' floor. The man himself is in his armchair, showing off his new guitar. Electric, PRS Custom, plays like a dream, and Giles is sitting there with a look on his face Oz has never seen before. Hazy dazy silly-happy, while he plays Clapton and grooves on his own music.

Oz is feeling hungry. Xander said, when he steered them here earlier, that Giles would feed them something good, something ten times better than the corn chips and refried beans Oz was planning to eat. Giles likes cooking, Xander said. They'll con him into cooking for them, Xander said. No food forthcoming. Oz considers getting up and raiding the kitchen. He doesn't want to disturb Giles, though.

Xander rolls onto his back on the floor. "Sweet mother of smoky things," he says, to the room at large. "I am horny."

Oz giggles. Subtlety is not Xander's strength. Nor discretion. Nor sneakiness. Thoughts spark in Xander's brain, then they're immediately broadcast, as if Xander is afraid he'll lose them if he doesn't reify them. Not that Xander's lust needs to be made more real: it's a concrete-hard thing that precedes him as he walks. Oz learned in the last couple of weeks that Xander walks around in a near-constant haze of desire. For everything that moves and some things that don't.

"Sweet mother," Xander says again. "This stuff makes me crazy."

"Better do something about it, then." Giles' voice, husky. Sultry. Not a Giles voice at all. How much has Giles smoked? This is interesting. Oz sits up.

Xander has his hands down his pants. They're baggy enough for it, though not so baggy that Oz can't see how he's moving his hand in there. His face is squinched up already. Going for the land-speed record, Oz guesses.

Giles segues from Clapton to Marc Bolan. Oz watches how it changes Xander's rhythm, slows him down, and stifles another giggle. Giles isn't touching Xander at all-- he's five feet away. But he's playing Xander with just as much skill as he has with the guitar. Xander's got his eyes closed, one hand gripping the waistband of his jeans, the other moving inside.

"Stop. Not like that," Giles says. Xander freezes, hand still down his pants. "Do it properly. Take your clothes off. Shirt first."

Xander grins, and wriggles his t-shirt off. He tosses it aside.

"Kneel up. Leave your jeans on. I want you to play with your nipples."

"You always want that. Boring."

"I like watching it."

Oz pulls his legs up onto the couch. "You two have done this before! The hell." This shouldn't shock him, but it does.

Xander shrugs. "Yeah. Not often enough. But Giles' lame excuses aren't gonna work any more, are they?"

"Mmm," Giles says. He plays the "Jeepster" riff and vamps around it, keeping his rhythm steady. His foot is moving, where he's got it propped up on the edge of his chair cushion.

Oz shakes his head. "I thought I was corrupting Xander. I'm the naive one. Huh."

Xander's playing with his chest, running spit-moistened fingers around his nipples. It's way hotter than Oz would have expected, though maybe that's being stoned. Oz's pants are baggy, and it's a good thing. He slides a hand over himself, striving for all the discretion Xander lacks, out there in the middle of the floor with his hands all over himself.

"Slow down," Giles says, and Xander does it. Oz gets the idea that it's a game they play all the time. Xander on show for Giles. Watcher kink, he guesses, and the thought makes him giggle. Mistake. They've noticed him again.

"Hey!" says Xander. "I don't wanna be the only one strutting my stuff here. You too."

Xander stops, and they're both looking at him. Oz shrugs. What the hell. He can always blame las drogas tomorrow, if he regrets it. But he doubts he will.

"Old-fashioned circle jerk, huh?"

"Big fun," says Xander.

"I didn't tell you to stop," says Giles, and Xander picks it up again.

So Oz shucks the shirt, shows off his nipple rings for the first time, watches Giles' face when he sees them. The guy has a little fetish going. Not that Oz can blame him. These things feel good. Oz gets into that for a while, then gets tired of the clothes and kicks his cargo pants off.

Giles' playing is getting ragged, though he's gamely struggling through "Bang a Gong". Giles can't make up his mind which one of them he wants to watch. He's flicking his gaze back and forth. Oz decides to watch Xander, who's stripping off his jeans and is therefore more interesting right now. He's never seen another guy do it, not in person anyway, so Oz is fascinated. Fascinated by the flush on Xander's chest, by the way his hips are moving almost unconsciously synched with Giles' tapping foot, by the way Xander's mouth falls open as he tips his head back.

"Yeah. Like that. Just like that. Now stop. Stop!"

Xander swears, but he stops when Giles tells him to. Impressive. Oz doesn't think he could have stopped, not that close to coming. He doesn't feel like stopping right now. Keeps going with the hand in a familiar groove, while Giles focuses on Xander.

"Good, good," Giles says, almost crooning. "Now I want you to play with your balls. You can only touch your balls. Squeeze and rub, just like that, until I tell you to stop."

"Fucking kill me," Xander mutters, but he's doing it. Oz can see the sweat trickling down his chest, under the tooth necklace.

"Beautiful," says Giles. "So hot. So bloody hot. What do you want, Xan?"

"Wanna come, you big dope."

"Really? So soon? Doesn't it feel good right now? Your body buzzing? All your skin alive to touch? Nothing in the world but my voice, and your cock, and your hands on yourself?"

"Fuck fuck fuck, please!"

"Go. Finish yourself, slowly. Do it, come on, Xan..."

Giles trails off, then smoothes back into the groove of the Bolan riff. He starts singing. He's got a nice voice. A sweet light voice, with that accent, telling them both they're dirty-sweet. Yeah.

Xander is groaning, louder than Giles' playing. His breath is ragged, and he's lost the beat. Faster and faster. Giles holds steady, but Xander doesn't. He's coming. Oz has never seen that before. It nearly sends him over. He slows down. He's with Giles, here. This feels too good to want it to be over. He could do this for hours.

Oz watches Xander mop up the mess with his t-shirt.

"You know," Oz says, casually, "I have just figured out that I've been set up."

Xander laughs like a hyena. So Oz has never done this before, and he doesn't know if he'll ever do this again, but he's with friends. And it feels good.

Xander loves doing this. He loves pushing Giles right up to his limit, then coaxing him past the limit to something wild. Every time he does it, Giles gets that look on his face, the look that says he's having fun for the first time in a long time. Too much grim in that guy's life. Too much grim all around, in Xander's opinion. His opinion is also that you have to make your own fun, and Xander has put every ounce of skill he has into hand-crafting fun this summer. With Giles, and now with Oz.

Oz is hand-crafting some fun right now, moving a hand on himself slowly, as if he's thinking about every stroke and deciding its meaning in the universe. Xander hops up on the couch next to him, to watch more closely. Sweat on his face, mouth open. Xander likes the wooden beads around his neck, the leather bands around his wrists. Earthy, man. But he's hard to see, wedged into the corner of the couch like that. Xander stops Oz long enough to get him to kneel up, facing Giles. A better show for the stuffy voyeur guy. Xander snugs himself up behind Oz and bites at his shoulder, reaches around to play with one of those rings in his nipples. Oz shudders, so Xander does it some more.

"Holy fuck," says Giles. "Yes. You're both so bloody--"

Giles breaks off. His voice is hazy-thick now, and he's stopped playing. He's humping his guitar, slowly, rocking his hips. Giles is on slow simmer.

Xander grins and turns his attention back to Oz, who's definitely steaming. Nearly at a full boil. He's moaning with each stroke now, thrusting himself up into his own hand. He's muttering something under his breath. Xander reaches down and takes Oz's balls in his hand and squeezes, with careful fingers.

That does it. Oz goes very still, wire-tense, then he says, "yeah", and Xander feels him pulse, watches him come onto the couch. Making a big mess. He falls back into Xander's arms. Xander holds him and kisses his neck, letting him come down slowly from his orgasm. He's so tight and slim, a compact guy, in Xander's arms. Not like Giles, who's taller and broader than you'd think from watching him hunch around in those baggy clothes. Giles is an armful.

Xander lays the panting Oz down on the couch and kisses his forehead. Time to coax the big guy past another limit.

Xander goes over to Giles, who looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Smoke-reddened eyes, an obscene mouth quirking up at the corner, hands that know everything. Xander takes the guitar away and sets it carefully out of the way, revealing exactly how hot all this makes Giles. Stuffy guy, hiding himself again. Only guy still dressed in the room. It took Xander ages to get him to take his clothes off for the first time, but when he finally bared himself it had been fantastic. Giles lies back in his armchair now and lets Xander undo his belt buckle and pop the top button of his jeans. He's smiling to himself, faintly. Xander doesn't know what he's thinking. If it matters, Giles will say it. Xander knows how to make him talk.

"So, what does Giles do now? Does he do what we did? Do you two fuck?" Oz sounds casually curious.

Giles shakes his head and swallows before he can manage to speak. "That's not my, ah, paradigm."

"Huh. What is your paradigm, then?"

Xander laughs. "Giles is oral man. Lollipops, cigarettes, reading aloud, singing, kissing, sucking me off, getting sucked. That's Giles."

"I think you know what to do about that," Giles says, even more ragged and husky than before. He's panting already. Xander bets he's about to pop, right there in his jeans.

"Cool. You gonna? I think I like this watching thing."

"Am I gonna," says Xander, and he shakes his head.

The whole evening has been leading here, as far as he's concerned. So yeah, he's going to do it, going to go down on Giles and make him swear and dig his hands into the arms of his chair and, if Xander is very good at it, beg. Xander is going to make his brains leak out his ears, because that's exactly what the big guy needs.

Oh yeah, Xander loves doing this. It makes him feel good all over.

Hazy Solos

giles/oz/xander adult

2838 words; reading time 10 min.

first posted here

on 2007/05/06

tags: authors-favorite, c:giles, c:oz, c:xander, drugs, guitars, kink:piercing, season:04, f:btvs, p:giles/oz/xander