Early s1 Jazz!porn for Kit.
"Where the *fuck've* you been?" Devon lifts himself up off the beaten-down couch as soon as Oz steps into the garage.
"Around," Oz says, setting down his case and rolling his shoulders. Devon scowls and knocks his arm, hard. Sighing, Oz grins up at him. "Here, there, everywhere. Better?"
"Fucking Beatles." Devon gets Oz in a headlock; his pit's sweaty and sweet and he scrubs his fist over the crown of Oz's skull. "No, it's not better. Haven't seen you in like a fucking *age*. Eon, era, kind of thing."
"Hasn't been that long," Oz says and squirms free. It's been -- he sucks on his cheek and tries to think. Hmmm.
These days, Oz isn't sure how to count time. There's the calendar, okay, which says it's been over two weeks. Eighteen days since he met Giles. Then again, they've only been able to get together eight times. Plus twelve phone calls, which kind of count but not as much as in-person. And three of the times they did get face-to-face, literally, with a lot of spit, was in the first week.
Before Buffy came, that is. Since she came, they're in a whole new era: Slayer era. Slayera. Time moves fast for Giles here, keeps him running from danger to danger, ducking threats and accumulating bruises, but slower than slow for Oz. Because the pauses between evil hijinks come rarely and end way too soon.
Devon grabs him again, lifting Oz up to his toes and shaking him. He's antsy today; it's not like he's ever *calm*, but this is still fairly unusual. This is several shots of espresso on top of being pissed-off and hurt, thrown in a blender with several slugs of tequila and mixed.
"*Eons*, dude. Creosote to the, the --"
"Cretaceous," Oz murmurs and Devon drops him. Doesn't let go, just smiles wide and mean and yanks Oz closer. Chest to chest, face coming in close, and all Oz can see is Devon.
Like the back of your hand, people say when they're talking about something you know better than anything else. Oz has never looked at his own hand; it never occurred to him. But Devon's face, long lashes and faint rosy tinge on the tip of his nose and how his upper lip's thinner but pinker than the lower one, Oz *knows* all that, features and expressions and everything.
"Fucker," Devon says, right up against Oz's lips so the vibrations run out all over his face and down the back of his neck. One hand slides down Oz's side, to his waistband, then squeezes him there as the other dips under the neck of his shirt, fingers stroking up the vibrations, keeping them bright and sharp. "Disappear on me? No fucking way."
"Right here." Oz's nose fits right into the hollow under Devon's jaw, right *here*, and his hands slip up Devon's back, up to his shoulderblades, as they shuffle and shimmy in place. "Get your eyes checked."
"Check your head," Devon says, and then his mouth's moving down Oz's throat, soft and warm, way too slow, as they back up and up and tumble onto the couch.
It's a disgusting thing, this couch. Devon's mom threw it out years ago -- green and gold upholstery and coated with cat hair, condom's foil packages down in the cushions with a buffet of snack food and guitar picks.
Devon's got one knee up on the cushions, pushing into Oz's crotch as he nudges up Oz's shirt and sucks hard on the curve of his shoulder. Devon's hungry, always hungry, and Oz is always here, wrapping his arms around Devon's neck, teasing at the fuzz of hair on the nape of his neck, his hips starting to rock up and down against Devon's thigh.
With Giles, every touch is new. Brand-new, factory-direct, shining and strange. Touching Devon's like touching himself, grooves and textures, flexing shoulders and soft golden hair just like it's always been.
Devon hauls up Oz's left leg, making sure it wraps around his waist even as he moves his mouth to meet Oz's, and then they're kissing again. Still arguing, just silently now, but bickering all the same. Nipping down on tongue and lips, throbbing and thrusting, twisting around. Oz scrapes his nails up Devon's arm and gets a hard bite and grind in return.
Bracing his arm on the back of the couch, Devon pushes up and away, leaning back and looking Oz over. His lips are swollen, darker than usual, and his lids are heavy over his eyes. He licks the corner of his mouth, then tilts his head the other way.
Nervous under the scrutiny, Oz glances away. Devon shakes his shoulder and drags his chin back. "The hell is up with you?"
"Nothing," Oz says. Nothing, everything, he doesn't know. His hands move restlessly up and down Devon's arms; Devon's almost as tall as Giles, even longer-limbed, but the shape, the feel of him, is totally different.
Eight times. That's all; it's nearly nothing. Devon, on the other hand, has *always* been here. Right in arm's reach, chewing his lip and doing that side-to-side grind that goes straight through Oz's dick and starts melting the bottom of his spine.
Devon's permanent and who knows what'll happen to Giles tonight? Or next week, sooner or later, something bad's going to go down. It doesn't even have to be evil. It could just be that he'll wake up some morning and realize just how much better he could do.
Hmmm, Giles will say. An adult life, quiet and book-lined, or the stoner kid who keeps coming around?
Like that.
"Stop *thinking*," Devon says against the base of his throat, sliding lower, knees hitting the floor with a crack and groan. He glances up at Oz through those lashes, longer than anything, and his mouth curves up. "Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you?"
"Billions and billions," Oz says, working his fingers through Devon's loose curls. They break into smaller curls, stubbornly waving. "Apparently."
"Think I know how to stop that --" Devon's working his way downward. His chin scrapes the skin on Oz's belly as his mouth works warm and moist in random patterns.
Oz could lie here. Kick back, like countless times before, legs open and hands gripping the cushions. Gaze down at Devon, just like *that*, lift up his hips, wiggle a little, and feel fucking *great*.
And he wants to. Beyond habit, he just *wants*. He wants Devon's mouth all over him, red lips and gold hair, hands that know where to press and scratch, tongue curving around Oz's dick just like that, and then *that*. He wants to lose himself here, go flying out his skin and gasping in the outer atmosphere, flying high and fast deep inside Devon's mouth.
His hands are cold. Cold and stiff, anatomy and skeleton, as he tugs at Devon's hair and shoulder, pulling him back up.
Devon's breath comes hard and shallow and he shakes his head. Weird, Oz knows he's being weird. "C'mere?" Oz asks. His voice is thick, hard to hear. His throat hurts, closing up, and he has to close his eyes, wrapping his arms around Devon's waist and pulling, rolling, until he's lying across the couch and Dev's on top.
Itches gathering in his throat, like hay fever coming on, and his eyes burn when he opens them. There's Devon's face and Oz kisses him. His lips are numb, thick, but warming fast under Devon's.
Maybe this is what he wants, the narrow, unrelenting weight of Devon's body, pushing him into the upholstery. They're kissing until they gasp, chests heaving up and chins bumping. Devon keeps making those soft little squeaks that mean he wants to get down to business.
The first time they kissed -- gotta practice for the chicas, Devon said, C'mon, not like it means anything -- their noses bumped hard and Oz bit Devon's lip. By mistake, but it's always been like that, going farther and hurting a little in the midst of all the heat and neediness.
Their shirts are pushed up, rolled out of the way, and their pants are open. Devon's commando, like always, and he mutters something about stupid modesty when he tugs down Oz's boxers.
"Gym day," Oz says, lifting his ass, wincing at the scrape of elastic down his cock.
"Like you went to school."
"Did."
Devon's brows go up and he grinds down. "What for? Wasn't chicken parm day, was it?"
"Vegetarian, asshole."
"Yeah, you are." Grinning, Devon slides one hand around to the small of Oz's back. He's got big hands, long fingers and wide palms; he ought to be the guitarist, but then Oz'd be the singer and that would never work. He palms Oz like a basketball, like Magic Johnson, and sucks hard on Oz's collarbone as they wriggle and get their dicks lined up.
That intensifies the buzz of friction that's moist, that's everywhere, wrapping around Oz, stifling and perfect. He pushes closer, draws one knee up and rocks.
Oz can't quite breathe. If he keeps up like this, he will stop breathing, he won't have any air and maybe then he'll be okay. He yanks lightly on Devon's hair and buries his face in Devon's chest.
Giles has hair there, soft gray curls like frost on a window. Devon's hairless; sometimes Oz suspects he shaves it, but there's no stubble.
Inside all the warmth, happy-humming cock and short breaths, Oz is still cold. His throat's swollen and everything inside is numb. Giles' skin is taut but worn, something rubbed down and well-cared for; Devon's skin is tight. Soft and tan, but behind his lids, Oz can see the silver tracery of scars and feel their textures, like Braille, a whole history of danger survived and overcome.
Devon's tongue is caught in his teeth as his head rears back and he shoves against Oz. Like he can get inside through sheer effort, will and habit, and Oz rocks up to meet him, squeezing Devon's ass, dragging him as close as he can. Sweat spangles Devon's face, changes it into a picture, rapid-fire still pictures of pleasure. Glowing and cursing and he drops back on top of Oz, breath going like a thunderstorm in Oz's ear. So close and loud that it could be Oz's own pulse.
"Dev --" Oz skates two fingertips down the length of Devon's nose, taps his lips and pinches his chin. "Dev, I *can't*."
Simple as that.
"Huh?" Devon wipes his face on Oz's bicep and blinks slowly. "Dude, did you even come? *Oh*."
"Yeah," Oz says.
Devon's expression settles down, his eyes narrowing and mouth thinning out; he looks almost sad. "You're, like, what? Impotent?"
A single shiver, bone-deep and frigid, runs up Oz from soles to skull. "No, I meant --"
"Said you can't," Devon says. His voice is flat. Argumentative. It's ridiculous, though, because he's trying to push himself up but his arm's not taking the weight. He's always klutzy and spazzed-out after coming. It takes a couple tries, but finally he's sitting up, Oz's legs across his lap. "What's up with that?"
Eight times isn't much, however you try to count and add it up. In the grand scheme of things, Oz is a kid and Giles is a grown-up. Meeting him was an accident, a grain of sand. But it's become something like rocks skipped over a pond, seventy or eighty of them arcing out all at once. Concentric ripples that keep spinning. Radiating outward, bumping into each other, interrupting and rebounding.
"Can't," Oz says. "Not physically can't, but --"
"I *showered*," Devon says. His voice sounds really far away and Oz wonders if he is coming down with something. There's a roaring in the back of his head that he can't seem to shake.
"Not that. More like --. I --" The words aren't coming. They're stopping in Oz's throat and he can't look straight at Devon. And he's cold. And his throat *aches*.
Giles. Just tell him about Giles, he thinks, but of course he can't do that.
There's that butterfly in Tokyo; it might be proverbial or real, Oz isn't sure, but it's responsible for California's storms. It's got *nothing* on Giles. Giles is no butterfly, nothing tiny and delicate and inconsequential.
He's motherfucking *Mothra*. In pupal form, though, miles and light-years of silk wrapped around and around, hiding him, cocooning him in secrets.
"Met somebody," Oz says at last. Devon's head whips around, his eyes so narrow they're just slits, and he gives Oz half a smile.
"So?"
"I --" Oz swallows. "Forget it." He tries to sit up, but Devon's on top of him again, arm over his chest, nearly at his throat, pressing him down. "Dev. Let me up."
Now Devon's eyes are wide. Dark blue, sharply edged with greenish gold. "Who is it?"
Secrets wrapping up Giles, and Oz with him, like a mummy, like a pupa. Monsters *and* librarians, the world of evil and the day job. So many secrets great and small that proportion's out the window. Oz can't tell time any more, it's all in free-fall, and most of the time, he's about two feet off the ground.
"From the college," Oz says, remembering Giles' lie that first night. "Older."
Devon's scowl twists into a smirk. Maybe a leer. "Yeah? Go, Oz."
Definitely a leer. Oz huffs out a short breath. "Yeah. He could, like. Get in trouble, so I'm trying --"
Devon eases back, pulling Oz with him, slinging his arm around his shoulder. Oz is older by four months, but for some reason Devon's believed, ever since his growth spurt in sixth grade, that the height difference means a maturity differential.
"Scamming on the teachers?" Devon says, more to himself than Oz. He nods. "That's what I'm talking about."
Oz's face is half-frozen, slushy mud, and it aches when he smiles. "Yeah. Scamming."
Laughing loudly, Devon plants a sloppy kiss on Oz's cheek and shakes him hard. Like a Christmas present before it gets unwrapped. "That's my boy."
My, mine, ours, all this possession, everything they've shared. History and touch and habit and the closest thing to love that Oz can imagine. "About that, see, that's the thing --"
"What?" Devon's voice goes sharp again and Oz draws one more deep breath.
"Think I want to be with him." Oz sneaks a glance at Devon and sees confusion on his face. "Like, all the time. Well, not all the time, 'cause of his job. But only with him?"
"Fucked him?" Devon asks. The sound of it is sour. There are still some things they haven't done together. "Or, wait. He fuck you?"
Things they're not going to get to do, and the sadness of that, a fact as hard as marble, slams into Oz's chest.
"No," Oz says when he gets his breath back. He hasn't done anything with Giles he hasn't done with Devon and other people. He's in a whole new era, foreign country, but the gestures are still the same. "Not yet, anyway."
Devon's not confused. His face is slackening out, relaxing, mouth opening. He gets it, but it doesn't make any sense to him.
Not like it does to Oz, either. It's not like he's talked about any of this with Giles. For all he knows, Giles is cool with this, fine with the thought of Oz keeping himself occupied. It's only been eight times, after all, two sleepovers and twelve phone calls.
For all he knows, *Oz* is the one on the side and Giles has lots of other...whatevers. Boyfriends? Lovers? Something Oz isn't, anyway.
He closes his eyes and pulls up the memory of Giles' face. In the morning, the first morning, when Oz came out of the bathroom and found Giles in the kitchen. He was just leaning against the counter, hands planted in front of him, staring out at the apartment like he'd never seen it before. In profile, the lines around his mouth were soft and deep. His hair was all messed-up and he squinted a little, even though he wore his glasses.
There were no secrets then. Everything was bare, soft, beautiful, and Giles sighed when Oz touched his arm. Sighed and smiled, gazing down at him and drawing him close.
Giles, Oz thinks, and it's a total guess, a wild one, but it *feels* right, isn't the kind of guy who keeps a big stable of boy- and girlfriends.
"Fucking bullshit, Oz," Devon says softly. Oz draws away, further into his skin, pulling down his shirt and working out the crick in his neck. "This is such fucking *bullshit*."
"Yeah," Oz says as he stands up. He's still hard, his balls tight and going numb, and he has to get out here. "Probably is."
Simple as that.
His overshirt's where he left it, on top of his guitar case, and he yanks it on over his head. Leaves the case where it is; their next practice is Thursday and it'll be safe here.
Besides, he can't quite imagine lifting it right now.
Devon's still staring at him. "Bull. Shit."
"I'll -- I'll call you." Oz leaves through the house; he can barely keep himself upright, let alone pull up the garage door.
Outside, it's still daylight. For some reason, Oz was expecting it'd be the dead of night, all shadows and vampires, but it's just a bright sunny afternoon like any other. Hot, but the sun just sits on his skin and doesn't penetrate any deeper.
At home, he takes the cordless phone out to the backyard and lies down in the sun. Closing his eyes makes everything red and bloody. The afterimages of trees and Devon's face float like green monsters over the red.
But he's warming up, the slab on his chest lifting away in time with the rings over the line.
"Hey," Oz says when Giles answers the phone. "Miss you. What's new?"
Simple as that, leap of faith, and he's grinning like a *fool*.