Fic: Slow and Easy (Oz/Devon Ficathon)
Title: Slow and Easy
Author: Moosesal
Rating: NC-17
Written for: katemonkey for the Oz/Devon ficathon as part of the year_of_oz community. Kate wanted nail polish and suntans, but no angst.
Beta: Many thanks to silvertedy. You really helped me keep this clean and streamlined. Thank you, babe.
Note: This is pretty short. 999 words. I just couldn't quite reach 1,000. But it's pretty dense for something so short. So hopefully it feels like more.
This is my first time writing Devon, and I don't know that I really wrote him. This is really all about Oz, with Devon. But I hope you all like it.
Also, I had challenged myself a little while ago to write something with no dialogue and this ended up being that piece. It just felt so natural to write Oz's perspective and not use any dialogue. Enjoy.
Time for a new coat, Oz thought as he glanced briefly at the chipped polish on his fingers before dropping his hand back down to the top of Devon's head. They'd been lazing in the sun all day, drinking cheap wine and smoking pot. He was sure that the next day would find Devon's skin golden brown while Oz would be lucky to escape with no more than a few new freckles on his chest, even with the protection of SPF 45.
He sighed and relaxed on the blanket, letting the sand beneath mold to his body, enjoying the attentions of Devon's lips, teeth, and tongue. The microphone wasn't the only thing Devon knew how to work with his mouth.
Oz felt as though he were floating, looking down on his body and Devon's. He could see himself -- head thrown back, stomach arching toward the clouds, mouth open, chest heaving as he exploded into Devon's throat for the third time in twice as many hours. After the first two times, he'd returned the favor. They really hadn’t done much else all day.
He could still taste the salty tang of Devon in the back of his own throat. It was different than his own flavor. Oz knew he was more earthy and metallic and wondered if it was from the wolf. His own taste reminded him of pennies or blood. Devon tasted like potato chips. The old-fashioned, kettle cooked kind, but not as crunchy. He grinned at the thought, and stifled the laughter bubbling up from his gut.
Devon looked a question at Oz's grin, but Oz just shook his head and let his eyes fall shut. It was nothing important. No need to break the silence, the pervasive stillness surrounding their movements, with trivial words about body fluids and potato chips. Instead, Oz shifted his legs open and bent his knees as Devon moved up and over him.
He relaxed into Devon's touch as he felt slick fingers seeking entry into his body. When he looked up, he found Devon staring at him in wonder. No matter how many times they did this, each time was in many ways like the first time. Oz was continually amazed by the look of surrender he'd see below him when in Devon's place. He imagined he must look much the same right now.
He breathed deep and opened himself to his lover as Devon had opened himself so many times before. He closed his eyes against the sun and let the sound and smell of the ocean invade his senses. He could feel it. Feel the sun warming him and the waves cooling him as the sun’s rays burned through him and the water crashed over him and Devon eased inside him and he grew hard again.
The push and pull of their bodies reminded Oz of being on stage--the press of his body like the weight of the bass in his hands, Devon's hips twitching and his body swaying as he made love to the microphone and the audience and now Oz. But the music here was better than anything they'd ever performed on stage. It was during these moments on the beach that they were in harmony, in tune, in sync. Oz wondered briefly if they'd be better on stage without the rest of the band, if it was just the two of them.
Or maybe the band would be better if the rest of them were here right now. If he and Devon took the time to learn the rhythm of everyone, instead of only each other. But then Devon was pushing against him and he was pushing back and thoughts of the band left his mind as he felt lips against his own, teasing his mouth open. A warm tongue tangling with his own. The taste of apple wine and pot and himself pulling him out of his reverie and into the now.
He brought his knees up and tucked them against Devon's waist, shins grazing hipbones. He loved how those beautiful hipbones peaked out when he danced. The way his shirt rode up when he raised his arms, working the crowd, moving his body to draw them in as Oz drew him in now. Oz tipped his head back, baring his throat, and Devon traced thin blue lines with his tongue and nipped at his jaw. On the beach, under the sun, seemed to be the only time it was safe to bare your throat in Sunnydale.
With his knees up and his head back, Oz stopped pushing against and began moving with Devon. Sand shifted as Devon slipped an arm beneath his lower back and pulled their bodies closer, tighter. Oz's only connection to the blanket became his shoulders and the crown of his head as Devon pulled him further onto and into and unto himself. Oz went willingly, giving himself over completely.
It was only with Devon that he felt so free, so able to let go and be possessed. With the wolf inside him, he knew he'd never have this with anyone else. Oz imagined it was Devon’s ease, his flow, that left the wolf calm within him. He could see the wolf in his mind, rolling onto its back and stretching out, belly to the sky, exposed much like Oz was right now. With Devon, the wolf didn't pace, didn't chafe. It lay there, drunk on the comfort, stoned by the gentle touches, waiting for the leisurely release they’d share before drifting back to sleep for a few hours before doing it all over again.
The pace and movement of Devon's body remained slow and steady despite his increasing heartbeat. He kept his thrusts long and easy and brought Oz gently over the edge with him. Then he rolled off and onto his back while Oz turned over onto his stomach to even out their tans -- or freckles -- relaxing into the sand and sleeping in the afternoon sun.
Author: Moosesal
Rating: NC-17
Written for: katemonkey for the Oz/Devon ficathon as part of the year_of_oz community. Kate wanted nail polish and suntans, but no angst.
Beta: Many thanks to silvertedy. You really helped me keep this clean and streamlined. Thank you, babe.
Note: This is pretty short. 999 words. I just couldn't quite reach 1,000. But it's pretty dense for something so short. So hopefully it feels like more.
This is my first time writing Devon, and I don't know that I really wrote him. This is really all about Oz, with Devon. But I hope you all like it.
Also, I had challenged myself a little while ago to write something with no dialogue and this ended up being that piece. It just felt so natural to write Oz's perspective and not use any dialogue. Enjoy.
Time for a new coat, Oz thought as he glanced briefly at the chipped polish on his fingers before dropping his hand back down to the top of Devon's head. They'd been lazing in the sun all day, drinking cheap wine and smoking pot. He was sure that the next day would find Devon's skin golden brown while Oz would be lucky to escape with no more than a few new freckles on his chest, even with the protection of SPF 45.
He sighed and relaxed on the blanket, letting the sand beneath mold to his body, enjoying the attentions of Devon's lips, teeth, and tongue. The microphone wasn't the only thing Devon knew how to work with his mouth.
Oz felt as though he were floating, looking down on his body and Devon's. He could see himself -- head thrown back, stomach arching toward the clouds, mouth open, chest heaving as he exploded into Devon's throat for the third time in twice as many hours. After the first two times, he'd returned the favor. They really hadn’t done much else all day.
He could still taste the salty tang of Devon in the back of his own throat. It was different than his own flavor. Oz knew he was more earthy and metallic and wondered if it was from the wolf. His own taste reminded him of pennies or blood. Devon tasted like potato chips. The old-fashioned, kettle cooked kind, but not as crunchy. He grinned at the thought, and stifled the laughter bubbling up from his gut.
Devon looked a question at Oz's grin, but Oz just shook his head and let his eyes fall shut. It was nothing important. No need to break the silence, the pervasive stillness surrounding their movements, with trivial words about body fluids and potato chips. Instead, Oz shifted his legs open and bent his knees as Devon moved up and over him.
He relaxed into Devon's touch as he felt slick fingers seeking entry into his body. When he looked up, he found Devon staring at him in wonder. No matter how many times they did this, each time was in many ways like the first time. Oz was continually amazed by the look of surrender he'd see below him when in Devon's place. He imagined he must look much the same right now.
He breathed deep and opened himself to his lover as Devon had opened himself so many times before. He closed his eyes against the sun and let the sound and smell of the ocean invade his senses. He could feel it. Feel the sun warming him and the waves cooling him as the sun’s rays burned through him and the water crashed over him and Devon eased inside him and he grew hard again.
The push and pull of their bodies reminded Oz of being on stage--the press of his body like the weight of the bass in his hands, Devon's hips twitching and his body swaying as he made love to the microphone and the audience and now Oz. But the music here was better than anything they'd ever performed on stage. It was during these moments on the beach that they were in harmony, in tune, in sync. Oz wondered briefly if they'd be better on stage without the rest of the band, if it was just the two of them.
Or maybe the band would be better if the rest of them were here right now. If he and Devon took the time to learn the rhythm of everyone, instead of only each other. But then Devon was pushing against him and he was pushing back and thoughts of the band left his mind as he felt lips against his own, teasing his mouth open. A warm tongue tangling with his own. The taste of apple wine and pot and himself pulling him out of his reverie and into the now.
He brought his knees up and tucked them against Devon's waist, shins grazing hipbones. He loved how those beautiful hipbones peaked out when he danced. The way his shirt rode up when he raised his arms, working the crowd, moving his body to draw them in as Oz drew him in now. Oz tipped his head back, baring his throat, and Devon traced thin blue lines with his tongue and nipped at his jaw. On the beach, under the sun, seemed to be the only time it was safe to bare your throat in Sunnydale.
With his knees up and his head back, Oz stopped pushing against and began moving with Devon. Sand shifted as Devon slipped an arm beneath his lower back and pulled their bodies closer, tighter. Oz's only connection to the blanket became his shoulders and the crown of his head as Devon pulled him further onto and into and unto himself. Oz went willingly, giving himself over completely.
It was only with Devon that he felt so free, so able to let go and be possessed. With the wolf inside him, he knew he'd never have this with anyone else. Oz imagined it was Devon’s ease, his flow, that left the wolf calm within him. He could see the wolf in his mind, rolling onto its back and stretching out, belly to the sky, exposed much like Oz was right now. With Devon, the wolf didn't pace, didn't chafe. It lay there, drunk on the comfort, stoned by the gentle touches, waiting for the leisurely release they’d share before drifting back to sleep for a few hours before doing it all over again.
The pace and movement of Devon's body remained slow and steady despite his increasing heartbeat. He kept his thrusts long and easy and brought Oz gently over the edge with him. Then he rolled off and onto his back while Oz turned over onto his stomach to even out their tans -- or freckles -- relaxing into the sand and sleeping in the afternoon sun.