Lessons In Cool: That Music Thing
by Dessert First & Tesla321

Cordelia, man. Cordelia. Cordelia Chase kissed him. Cordelia Chase made out with him. Cordelia Chase deigned to be seen in public with him, blowing off her so-called friends and social status.

That kinda puts a lot of pressure on a guy, actually.

Xander's spent a lot of time thinking about Cordelia this summer, picturing her in exotic vacation spots, trying to be cheerful and unaffected when Willow and Oz are being all WillowandOz. Which is cool, of course. Not weird or anything.

Actually, in a deep, dark, secret and never spoken-of corner of his heart, Xander... kinda likes it. Having Oz around, the three of them hanging out... it's not like he doesn't miss Buffy, because he does, it's just that. Well.

Let's face it. Xander is seventeen and has hormones and Buffy is... Buffy. So, yeah. Xander has to kinda work the friend vibe. It's not the easiest thing he's ever done. And it's not like he ever stopped missing...


Missing the other member of his and Willow's threesome. Non-sex- related threesome. Threesome he never ever had sex-related thoughts about, ever.


There isn't a grave or anything.

But Jesse's gone all the same.

And now it's Joyce drifting through town like a ghost, asking him if he's heard anything, instead of poor Jesse's folks. And Buffy's probably hiding out in Belgium or something, for all he knows, while he and WillowandOz do their best not to get their asses too badly kicked out there, cutting down on Sunnydale's more unfashionably pale population. And Xander's not even gonna think about the non- Belgium, much less fun possibilities about where Buffy might be. Or. Or not.

Except she is, so that's okay, because she couldn't not be.



WillowandOz. Not weird. Almost weirdly not-weird. And it's not at all like having Jesse back, because Oz is so very unlike Jesse, and so very Oz. But it's kinda comfortable, having another guy around. Especially someone like Oz, with that whole Zenmaster thing he's got going.

So Xander almost didn't feel incredibly lame when Oz saw his cousin's old guitar. Xander had snuck WillowandOz up to his room to find non-graveyardy clothing to wear home after patrol and the guitar was just sitting there, bracketed by dirty laundry. And Xander had been forced to admit the most he knew about it was that it was, in fact, a guitar, and not, like, a banjo or something.

So now Xander is sitting on his front steps, guitar in hand, waiting for Oz to pick him up and teach him a few other things about guitars. Like maybe how to play one.


Oz likes playing the guitar, likes jamming, likes lying on various basement and bedroom and den floors and listening to old LPs and new CDs and Devon's basement has an old 8-track. Have to pull out the cassettes and whap them on your knees to make them sound right, but it's fine doing that when you're stoned. Music is fine all the time.

Teaching, he isn't so sure about. Xander, though, he's fine about hanging with Xander, showing him a couple of chords or three. Show him that, show him how to tune it first, and if he doesn't want to learn any more, cool.

But then, Xander might like it, have some fun with the guitar.

Music is good to focus on, a way to derail the crazy train. Good excuse for not paying attention to things, painful things.

Oz grins to himself. Could be talking about himself, here, and not Xander.

Kind of interesting that Xander wants to hang without Willow as his guide and interpreter to All Things Oz.

He pulls the van up to the curb, and Xander shoots up and to the passenger door before Oz can kill the engine. Oz leans over and unlocks it. It's not too safe driving around Sunnydale with unlocked doors, even in daylight.


"Okay," Oz says, getting his own guitar out. "You're tuned. I'm going to show you a couple of chords." Xander's already holding his guitar a little more confidently.

It would really pay to get to know Xander, to find out why Xander is so unaware of how strong and good he is.

Music. Xander wants guitar lessons, not---anything else.

"Jeeze, Oz," Xander says, startled. "Did I do that right?"

"Sure. That's what it's supposed to sound like."

Xander's grin is wide and guileless. "Cool."

He strums again. It sounds good, again.



A lot of Xander's thinking time is spent strenuously not thinking about certain things. It's not as easy as it sounds.

The music, though, that Oz is teaching him... that helps. And it's cool just to be able to hang out with Oz, soak up some of that Ozness. Xander plays the chord one more time, lets its dying echo linger in his head until that's all there is. Yeah. Xander could definitely get used to this.

Oz's head is bent over his own guitar as he coaxes out another chord. "Okay," he says. "This one's a little trickier. You ready?"

"Yeah," Xander says. He is.

Oz shows him the chord, watches Xander wrestle his fingers into the right positions, and smiles. Xander feels absurdly pleased. He plays the chord, and it's like magic. Like chemistry, only the reactions the chemicals make with each other make sense.

Oz bends his head over the guitar again, and Xander has a moment's peaceful meditation on the reddish blondish brownish spikes of Oz's hair. Oz used to dye it all the time, a different color almost every week, it seemed, to go with the nail polish on his small, neat hands. Xander wonders if it's the Willow factor that curtailed the colors, or maybe a band-related type thing, like Devon no longer wearing those hot pink vinyl pants to school. Or maybe Oz just got tired of having to explain it to his parents every time he dipped into the Kool-Aid stash for purposes not intended by the manufacturers. Not that Xander really knows anything about the Osbourne clan.

He meditates some more on the colorful spikes. Maybe Oz just decided he had enough colors all on his own, and who could argue with that? A person could spend hours just trying to sort out the shades of all the different strands. Xander wonders if the hair would be soft to the touch, if Willow ever winds her pale slim fingers through it, if it's tacky with gel. It doesn't look tacky. Oz moves his head again, and the sunlight streaming in through the window catches the colors, makes them dance.

"Okay, this is more of man's chord, but I think you can handle it," Oz says, jerking Xander's attention back to the matter at hand.

Guitar lessons. Right. Xander nods vigorously. He fingers the frets on his guitar and pauses, needing Oz to lay out the chord for him again. "Why'd you stop dyeing your hair?" he asks instead.


Oz's fingers slip on the strings. A personal question. Very bold of Xander. He looks up into Xander's face, and just smiles.

"No, really..." Xander begins, then trails off.

"Oh, sometimes the inconsistency gets too consistent," Oz tells him, strumming. "Sometimes you have to have a baseline."

Xander looks suitably impressed, so Oz has to add, "And you have to stop for a while so your hair isn't baked."

Xander flashes that wide sweet smile again, and Oz catches his breath for a second. "Okay," he says. "Listen to the chord. Now see if you can do all of them, right after me." Oz plays them, slowly, listening to Xander's fingers on the strings. "Good. Now we do a tune." Oz plays a little riff, and Xander follows, not quite right. They do it again, and Xander makes the same slip.

Oz set his guitar down. "Your hands are bigger than mine," he said easily. "You don't have to reach as much. Here, let me."

He moves Xander's fingers into the right position.

"Sorry," Xander says, "Sweaty."

Xander takes his hand off the neck of the guitar, wipes it on his pants leg, and then holds his hand out again.

Oz positions Xander's long strong fingers on the strings. His hand still on Xander's, he looks up slowly. He thinks he might be falling into Xander's wide brown gaze.


Xander blinks. That... that wasn't a Moment, was it? With Oz? With WillowandOz Oz? Why would Willow's Oz want to have a Moment with Xander? Oz, Xander reminds himself firmly, is not a yellow crayon. There will be no breaking or sharing of Oz.

Oh, and also, Oz is a guy.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. Oz is an exceptionally cool guy, and if Xander was gonna have Moments with a guy, it would definitely be someone like Oz.

And it's not like Cordelia had asked for, like, a vow of chastity or anything when she left for the summer. Her exact words had been, "Yeah, well, take care or whatever." And then she scrunched up her nose and kissed him, put her hand on his cheek for a bizarre split second, and left.

So Xander is officially footloose and fancy free, even if he can't imagine a girl he'd rather be with than Cordelia. Well, he can, but he tries to stuff that kind of thinking about Buffy in the Not Thinking About It box which he routinely padlocks, buries, and loses the treasure map to. Even though it has an uncanny ability to pop back up at inappropriate times. Not that there's ever an appropriate time to be inappropriate, but--what was that about Oz again?


Oz's hand is still delicately perched on Xander's, fine boned and rough with callouses. Those green, green eyes look right into him, and Xander thinks again, momentarily, of all the colors in Oz.

He wonders if it would really be that bad to just...

He's not even sure how to complete that sentence.


"You're a pretty strong guy," Oz says, and is surprised at his normal tone of voice. "You don't need to press as hard as I do. Probably don't need to do anything as hard as I do?"

He taps one of Xander's fingers, and lets go.

"So you wanna try it?" he asks, deliberately watching to see if Xander colors up. "The chord?" Oz adds, since he's not trying to flirt. Much.

"Oh, sure," Xander says, blinking, and somehow Oz feels like Xander is agreeing to a whole lot more. The house is quiet around them, a house that has only a teenager living in it for long periods of time. Oz could do lots worse than bring a guy over for music lessons, but somehow it's never more than the odd doobie smoked with Devon. Oz takes up his guitar, sitting sideways on the bed with Xander, and the liquid notes of the strings are the only sound.

"You're a natural, man," Oz says, setting his guitar aside for a second, and smiling over at Xander.

"Really? You really think---okay, babbling. So what do you think I should do next?"

Oz considers this. "I think you should kiss me," he says. "See how that goes." Funny, now that he's said it, he feels completely calm and pre-destined to have said it.

Xander slowly removes the guitar strap from his neck. "But, Willow. You're WillowandOz," he says, and puts the guitar carefully on the floor at the other end of the bed.

"Nope, just Oz," Oz says. "Just Oz, just a guy who thinks you need"-- -he leans forward and kisses Xander---"this."

He leans back, and looks gravely at Xander, whose brown eyes are huge and pretty. Pretty brown eyes, pretty boy. Prettier than a skinny little music geek, by a long shot.

Xander doesn't move away, just opens his mouth a little, tilts his head slightly. "Okay," he says.

So Oz leans in for a real kiss, long and surprisingly hot, and Xander certainly is not pushing him away. In fact, Xander's hands are suddenly in Oz's hair.


It's soft, is the first thing that pops into Xander's brain. A little stiff around the roots where the gel is anchoring the spikes, but Oz's hair is actually really soft. It feels all feathery underneath Xander's fingers. He wants to keep petting at it forever. The other thing that pops into his head is "Oh," which, granted, doesn't say much, but. Oh. Oz is kissing him.

Oh, god, Oz is kissing him!

He kisses back, and now there's tongue, real Oztongue in his mouth and it's all so soft and slick and wet and good and ohdeargod do that swirly thing again. Oz bites him, just a little grab to his lower lip with blunt white teeth, but Xander is suddenly aware of an almost imperceptible quiver in Oz's body. Oz's body, when Xander slides one hand down a wirily muscled arm to check, is tensed, like he is poised on the brink of something. Or like he's holding on, exerting all his will into not-- Oh.

Xander grasps, for just a moment, an tiny bit of what it must feel like to be Oz, and it's not the shinyhappycoolguitarguyzen kind of thing he'd imagined, because Xander can feel just how much it's costing Oz to hold on. Not to just take what he wants. Xander's only ever really messed around with Cordelia, who doesn't mind a little rough stuff if they're careful not to leave any marks on each other, but he just knows Oz is reining it in, and has to. Because as much as Xander wants--and he really, really wants, for some reason--to give Oz what he needs, he's just not ready to be furry three nights a month. And he knows it's not the same, but he wonders...

He presses his fingers into Oz's bicep just under the sleeve of his faded indie-rock t-shirt. Lets his fingernails bite into the skin, just a little bit. Feels Oz swallow a whimper.

He pulls back and cups Oz's face in his hand, marvelling at the contrast between his own tanned fingers and Oz's fine, pale skin. He looks into those green eyes framed by ginger lashes, cards his fingers through Oz's hair. "You're so beautiful," he says, and it's okay, even though he can feel his ears heating up with a blush.

Oz smiles, just a little bit, and his pupils are wide. "You're beautiful, Xander."

Well, that's just silly, because Xander has a mirror at home, thank you very much, and he's aware he's not the Elephant Man, but he's no Cary Grant. As long as Cordelia likes it, though, he's okay. She mostly just complains about his wardrobe, but she's let a few sweet things slip late at night in her father's car when she's kiss-dazed and glowy. So he knows he won't be turning anyone to stone any time soon, which is all a guy really needs.

Xander looks at Oz for just a little longer. He's so small and quick and deft, not an inch wasted on him, like Oz is pared down to the bare essentials, stripped bare of artifice. He lets himself fall into those green eyes, and it's surprisingly easy.

Then he pushes Oz down onto the bed.

Oz just lies there for a minute, blinking up at him. Xander almost doesn't want to touch him because touching so often cancels out seeing, and Oz is so beautiful to look at. Oz doesn't say a word as Xander lowers himself down on top of him, settles himself over the lithe, compact body, and braces his hands on either side of Oz's head. Xander drops down that crucial bit, nestles his face in the sweet-smelling cloves and sunshine and bit of weed smell of Oz's skin, and bites down.

When Oz's hands come up to grip Xander's shoulders, Xander lifts back up again, and presses their groins together. Oz lets out a little cry and Xander grinds down harder, swallowing the cry with a kiss. When Oz arches up to meet him, it feels better than anything. It also feels like there's something Xander ought to remember, but he can't think what it might be.

"Hey," he blurts as his gaze falls on the open door. "Your parents aren't coming home anytime soon, are they?"


Oz feels his face get a little tight. "Nah. They're in Mexico. Have a condo down there."

"Uh. Wow." Oz sees Xander processing this. Xander is still poised over him, and Oz wishes that he'd stuck to the guitar lesson, holding the guitar, his sword and shield against the world of words and wishes.

Xander looks like he thinks Oz is slumming, like he's thinking that he's from the other side of the tracks or whatever Xander tells him self in his daily self-deprecation.

Oz looks at his hands on Xander's wide shoulders, smallish hands with chipped nail polish. Not the hands of a hero. "I'm not good at this," he says, looking up into Xander's face, watching the play of his expressions. "Not good at talking. It's easier to show someone. I'm not as good with people as you are. Instrumentals, not vocals."

Xander is still looking at him, his long-lashed eyes blinking slowly as he listens. Oz grips his shoulders a little, feeling the muscle.

Xander has been pursuing another line of thought, though, and he says, now, "Your parents aren't here a lot, are they?"

"No. But it's cool." Jesus, Oz doesn't want to go there.

"I wouldn't like being by myself, that much," Xander says simply, his face concerned.

Oz's eyes burn at Xander's tone. "Hey, I'm good with it. Used to it." He isn't going to cry like some little kid.

"Oh, some things you never get used to," Xander says, with a world of experience behind the words. He bends and kisses Oz softly, little kisses around Oz's mouth, then his eyelids, and Oz finds himself clutching Xander's shoulders, kneading them like a cat.

"Really think you can learn to play the guitar," Oz says, between kisses. "Wouldn't lie to you about that, you know."

"I know," Xander says. "Want you to show me some more chords." He rubs his face against Oz's, and Oz makes a noise in his throat. "You okay? You okay, here, Oz?"

"Yeah," Oz says. "You---I feel---" he can't quite form the words, because Xander has lowered his weight on him, covering him like a firm blanket of boy, and Xander's hot mouth is investigating his neck.

"Too heavy?" Xander murmurs. He has one hand on the side of Oz's face and Oz thinks he may lose it from the sweetness of it.

"No--I feel---safe," and he has to turn his head and capture Xander's mouth with his. Xander breaks it off after a moment.

"I make you feel safe?" Xander asks quietly. He leans on his elbow and traces Oz' lower lip with one finger, his face openly confused. "Why would you be afraid of me?"

Oz turns his head to the side. "No! Not you, it's just--I'd never--" He tries to get up. "I'm sorry. I'm stupid. You're right, I'm stupid."

"Shh, shh," Xander says, so not freaking out at all. "Wait a minute. I really make you feel safe? I like that." He pets Oz, strong palm on the side of Oz's neck, another kiss on his temple.

Oz squeezes his eyes tight. "It's because you're not worried about the wolf." He opens them, knowing his eyes are wet. "You're the only one."

Xander frowns at him a second, then he gently kisses both Oz's eyelids.


Never in a million years would Xander have imagined a Sunday afternoon would end up like this, draped on top of Oz in Oz's bed in an echoingly empty house, guitars forgotten on the floor, half hard and almost shaking out of his skin from excitement. He kisses Oz's eyelids once more for good measure, pulls back to check that the glimmering of moisture he'd seen earlier is gone. It is, but when Oz opens his eyes they are just a touch more open than they'd been before. Xander wonders, not for the first time, what could be going on in Oz's head.

"You're a magical mystery tour," he murmurs half jokingly. Bracing himself on one arm, he trails the other hand down Oz's chest. Another kiss, and Xander doesn't have a lot of basis for comparison, but this feels somehow... more. Like maybe Oz isn't holding out on him, the way people who kiss Xander usually do. Like Oz isn't afraid to let him in. Or like he is, a little, but that doesn't mean he won't.

And that's... wow.

Xander knows he's probably got some goofy kind of grin on his face, but wow. He lets his hand wander a little further, both feels and hears Oz stifle a gasp. Oz's body is sweet, firm and hard, wiry muscles wrapped around delicate bones. Oz could be a... what was it? Pixie. He could be, but werewolves probably eat pixies for breakfast, so maybe not so much.

When he lightly rubs his fingers over Oz's taut stomach, just above the waistband of his worn jeans, he feels that small, tight body give a deep-seated shudder. Xander smiles, delighted. He does it again, and the shudder is repeated, this time with a small catch in Oz's breath. He dips his fingers a little lower, skimming just underneath the waistband. Oz writhes distractingly, and Xander just has to have another kiss.


Xander's touch is easing a hurt Oz didn't remember having. Like he had been walking around, his thoughts all knotted up, and Xander's hands are pulling him loose. Never would have thought it, because Oz's default mode is caretaker, being careful, taking care, and that's what he thought they'd be doing. He'd (oh, ego again) show Xander some chords, show some affection, never thinking---

He can't think, with Xander leaning over him, settling him down and stirring him up all at once, with Xander's large neat fingers running over his belly, with Xander smiling down at him, all hot brown eyes and generous mouth. Soft black hair under his hands as Xander leans in and kisses him, and Xander's tongue flicks at Oz's lower lip as Xander's palm settles under his shirt tail, fingers dipping under the waistbands of his jeans and boxers.

Xander hums to himself, kissing the corners of Oz's mouth. All aboard...for the magical mystery tour, Oz's music-geek brain fills in, uninvited. Xander's humming stops abruptly and he looks up at Oz. "Hey, are there any Beatles tunes I could learn?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Could play you some. Know some Harrison," Oz says, kind of gratified that they can talk and do this. It's...friendly.

Xander beams at him, seemingly delighted. Delighted to be here, with Oz,like this, and that's fine. Oz slides his hands down Xander's back, lets his fingers settle in the small of Xander's back. When he traces circles in that hollow, Xander presses himself against Oz, his hand sliding further down, and Oz's hips buck.

He's starting to feel hot all over, and he presses his hands into Xander's back again.


Oz's hands feel weirdly intimate on Xander's skin, even through two layers of shirts, like they're burning through the fabric. They're nestled in the hollow of Xander's back, pressing down, pressing him into Oz. Xander's mouth burns with the sting of Oz's slight bit of stubble, but somehow even than profoundly strange experience seems just swell right about now.

Xander jams his hand just a little further under Oz's waistband, enough so he can feel the very tip of Oz's hard and tantalizingly wet cock. Oz chokes back a moan and it occurs to Xander that he can put his hands... well, anywhere. Anywhere at all, anywhere he feels like touching, because in this moment no part of Oz's body is closed off to Xander. Xander looks down at Oz's face, eyes shut and jaw straining, and the thought that he can have this, all of this, just for the asking, is almost too much.

And suddenly it's not enough, not nearly enough, having all these clothes between himself and Oz's body, brimming with promise. Xander wants, wants all of it, everything Oz will give him, and he desperately wants for Oz to like it. Xander pulls his hand out, swallows Oz's little cry of dismay with a kiss. Scrambling back a little, Xander concentrates on wrenching open Oz's fly, stopping only to press a kiss on the taut, pale slice of belly revealed as Oz's t-shirt rides up.

"Oz?" Xander asks, nudging the shirt up a little further with his nose, brushing his lips against the soft skin. "Oz?"

Those green eyes snap open, and Oz's gaze sharpens for a moment, meeting Xander's, reading the silent request. "Yeah," he says. "Oh, yeah."

Together, they concentrate on the incredibly important, absolutely imperative goal of removing Oz's clothes. Xander has to look away as Oz strips off his t-shirt, the move exposing more skin than Xander can take right now and still have enough control left to help Oz slither out of his jeans and boxers. Oz's fingers fumble at the catch of Xander's fly, but Xander pulls away.

"No," he says, feeling his ears heat up even as he says it. "Can I just--can I just look at you, for a minute? Is--is that okay?"

Oz blinks. "Sure," he says, and lies back on the rumpled bed, head on the pillows and a little smile on his face.

Xander backs away a little, sits back on his heels and just. Looks. Just fills his eyes with the sight of Oz, Oz's body, small and tight and perfect, just the way he'd pictured it when he'd explored it with his hands earlier, but more. Better. Like Xander's imagination didn't come equipped with three-D glasses or an HDTV screen or whatever, lacking enough information to compile a really accurrate image.

How fine and strong Oz's collarbones look, for example, is a revelation. How firm and smooth the skin looks over them, the exact dusky rose shade of his nipples. The unexpected little ripples of his abs, the innocent indentation of his navel. The exact shape of the muscles in his arms, the precise architecture of skin and bone and sinewy muscle in his hands, culminating in his iridescent blue fingernails, which strike Xander as the height of adornment, profoundly arousing; Oz lying there completely naked save for that bit of paint demurely covering his nails.

His toenails are bare, Xander skips ahead to note, but the feet are shaped as gracefully as the hands, the arches high, the toes long. Oz's legs are as sleekly muscled as his arms, the calves and lean, strong thighs dusted with coppery hair. His hips alone are worthy of longer study, and Xander itches to cup them in his hands, rub his thumbs in the little hollows just below the bone, curve his fingers around to Oz's ass. And there between his legs, nestled in a thatch of ginger curls, the long, sure length of his cock, flushed and ruddy, bowing under its own weighted arousal, gleaming wetly at the tip.

Xander is amazed all over again that he is allowed to touch all this, kiss and lick and nibble and caress wherever he wants, and if he bites a little, all the better for Oz, because he can tell Oz still wants that. Oz is lying there patiently, indulging Xander's whim, and Xander just has to make this good for Oz, has to make Oz feel as drugged as Xander feels right now, high on the understated elegance of Oz's beauty, of Oz's openness.

Oz is looking at Xander, unblinking glass green gaze steady on Xander's face. "Okay?" he asks, and that's just--just something else.

Xander nods. "Um, I've never--with another guy," he warns.

Oz smiles, reaches up and cups Xander's jaw in his calloused musician fingers. "I know," he says. "Do you want to stop?"

That one touch is electrifying--Xander's sure he can feel a few synapses burn out, but he probably didn't really use those anyway. He closes his eyes, savoring the touch, struggles to remember the question. "What--no! No, I was just, um, making an observation." He grins, and he knows it's the wide and silly kind that makes people think nobody's home, but he just feels a little loopy from all the-- all the everything. "No. I really, really, really don't want to stop."


Xander's wide, delighted grin relaxes Oz. Xander looks at him like he is some unbearably prized treasure. Oz doesn't think anyone has quite looked at him like that. It could have been weird, being naked and having someone just stare at you, but it wasn't. It was...erotic.

Xander's expression seems to be saying that he can't believe his good fortune, which is cool, because Oz can't, either. Can't believe that someone this beautiful is lying next to him, exploring his skin with such sure possessiveness in his touch.

Xander leans on one elbow, brushing his fingertips across Oz's jawline, his neck, tracing the lines of his collarbones, his breastbone, laying a warm hand over his heart as Xander dips his head for his mouth to trace the same route, baby kisses over his jaw and throat, until Oz is quivering, having to clench the bedspread to keep from grabbing Xander by the hair.

"Xander," Oz says, "just looking?"

"For a minute, I said." Xander touches the tip of his tongue to one of Oz's nipples. Oz groans, and puts his hands in Xander' hair, stroking the softness. Xander is still talking as he kisses his way down Oz's chest. "I'm exploring. Observing, making mental notes, getting ready for the final exam, my fine...fine...oh, Oz, you taste so fine."

"Final exam?" Oz asks breathlessly. He gets his hands on Xander's shirt and hauls him up to his mouth. Xander settles down between Oz's legs, his cargo pants not disguising that he is just as hard as Oz. He's amazing Oz, amazing him all over again with his warm hands and pretty eyes and hot mouth.

Which is currently sucking on the sweet spot behind the hinge of Oz's jaw. "Hm?" Xander murmurs. He reluctantly leaves his delicate exploration by tongue of Oz's earring. "Oh, my final exam in Oz. I wanna make a passing grade."

Oz captures Xander's wandering hands in his own. "Hey. I think you should know, that my grading is wildly subjective. Often inappropriate." He slides his hands under Xander's shirt. "No points," his fingers tracing the long line of Xander's torso. "But, can't take the exam wearing too many clothes. Hate to be harsh, man, but---" he grinds against Xander's erection---"you know. Gotta."

He tilts his head and kisses Xander until they are both shaking and Xander's tongue is stabbing into Oz's mouth.

Oz looks long and intently at Xander. ""Okay," Xander says hoarsely. There's a little lag as they knock hands, Xander peeling his shirt off while Oz is unbuttoning and unzipping, and Xander's choice of pulling his pants off over his high-tops delays things a bit, but finally, Oz has Xander stretched out on the bed.

"My turn," Oz says, and reverently begins to kiss Xander, trailing the slightest scratch of fingernails as he works his way down Xander's lean chest. "Xander," he says. "Xander," until he takes Xander's cock in his mouth.

Xander's eyes open impossibly wide. "Oh, fuck," he says, his voice surprisingly deep. "If this is the exam, then what do I do to get an 'A'? Because---oh, JesusGod. I so can."

Oz raises his head. "No grades, no tests, nothing to pass or fail. Just be. Here. With me." He gently bites the inside of Xander's thigh, for punctuation. "Let it all go, man." He rubs his cheek against the coarse dark hairs, adjusts his hold on Xander's hips, then starts sucking on Xander's balls.

"Ohmygod," Xander gasps."It's go. I'm letting go. It's gone." His hand is gripping Oz's shoulder hard enough to bruise, and when Oz traces the thick vein on the side of Xander's cock, Xander gets incoherent.

Oz thinks Xander is promising to give him his first year's salary, if Oz will only suck him, but Xander must mean, when he gets a salary. Doesn't matter; Oz is going to suck him off, anyway. Because Xander, gleaming with sweat and wild-eyed with arousal is irresistible, helplessly thrusting his hips up into Oz's hands, all flushed and--

"Gorgeous," Xander says hoarsely. "You're gorgeous."


Oh, sweet holy mother of--Ah! Xander had never imagined--well, Xander is seventeen, of course he's imagined, frequently. But he'd never imagined anything like... he'd never. Oz is wonderful and fabulous and fucking gorgeous and Xander has some vague notion he might be saying all those things out loud but oh, dear Lord, Oz's mouth. It's necessary, it's fucking air, and Xander needs it. Words are flying out of his mouth faster than he can possibly keep track of, because it's all sensation, and it's all so good.

Oz's deceptively strong hands are pressing him down into the mattress, and that's good, because Xander can't trust himself not to just shove his way into that hotwetsilky fucking brilliant mouth that's rightthererightthererightthere and it's all too much. Xander casts about desperately for horrible, disgusting, unarousing thoughts--and he lives on the Hellmouth; he has a lot to draw from-- but it's a losing battle as Oz finally takes pity on him and swallows



"Holy fuck!" Xander yells, and Oz's murmur of agreement vibrates through Xander's cock down to his balls and almost triggers another yell all on its own. How is it possible that Oz is this sexy, how can it be legal for Oz to be this sexy, how do random strangers stop themselves from grabbing Oz in the streets and begging him to dothatthingrightthereohfuckyes!

Reanimated sewn-together corpses. Vampires with blood mustaches. The Master--that one really helps, actually.

But then Oz does this thing where he dips his tongue into the slit of Xander's cock and purses his lips around the tip and flicks a few times and oh slides back down again. And Xander is lost. He clenches his hands in the bedsheets to avoid clenching Oz, beautifulwonderfullovely Oz who is clearly a freaking genius because holy fuck how does he do that?

Xander bites his lip, concentrating on all the things it is imperative he not do, like, oh, for instance, come. Yank Oz's hair. Push Oz's head down. Thrust into Oz's mouth. No one has ever, ever done anything like this to Xander, and he wants it to last as long as possible, and not embarrass himself, or break blowjob etiquette or something. Fortunately, Cordelia has trained him to hold off during their frequent makeout sessions, so he has, like, skills he can draw upon.

Oz increases the suction and Xander whimpers like a lost little girl. He sucks desperately on the fingers Oz slips into his mouth, licking and tonguing them, frantic for something to do, some way to communicate to Oz that yes, God, yes, please, more. Xander knows he's way past the point of coherence, like coherence winked at him, waved, and sailed off for parts unknown, never to be seen again.

Oz removes his fingers from Xander's mouth and presses one just behind Xander's balls, which he gently cups with the other hand. His mouth never pauses in its steady lickslide down and suckpull up on Xander's cock. He sets up a simple rhythm, massaging the balls with one hand and the spot behind them with the other, until Xander sees starbursts and colored lights when he closes his eyes. One particularly firm press of that exploring finger rips a scream from Xander's throat. He has no idea, absolutely no idea what he might be saying, but he knows it's coming fast and furious and from some place other than his brain.

Another particularly hard suck, a slurp, a wicked slidingpress at that magic spot and Xander is grabbing at Oz's hair now, trying to pull him away, or warn him because "OhmyGodOzIcan'tcan'tcan'tI'mgonnacum" is the best he can do right now. Oz ignores him, removing the hand cradling his balls to lace his fingers with Xander's, repeats the slidingpress paired with another suckingslurp and Xander makes a noise probably only heard by dogs and werewolves.

When Xander floats back down and manages to open his eyes, the room is filled with sparkles. And Oz, all shiny lips and hungry eyes, resting his head on Xander's thigh, is the most beautiful thing Xander's ever seen.


Xander has practically thrown Oz off the bed. Oz is content to lay there for a bit, while Xander tries not to hyperventilate. When he opens his eyes, Xander says, seriously, "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." And he squeezes Oz's hand.

"Naah," Oz says, squeezing back. "That's the endorphin rush."

"Come up here," Xander says. Oz does, sliding up under Xander's hands until Xander has him in the crook of his arm, Xander's other hand stroking his hip, Oz's cock nudging Xander's leg. Xander still looks like he's calling in from Nirvana, which is all kinds of great. Oz can't quite believe he had that effect on someone, on Xander, and he's stored up the things Xander said for remembering. Later. When Xander's not here.

Xander looks him in the eye. "What do you want?"

"This," Oz says. Xander almost smiles, but his eyes are dark, dark and deep.

"No," Xander says, as he puts his face very close to Oz's, "stop being" he kisses Oz, softly, and then hard, putting his tongue and teeth into it, "all cool."

But Oz can't say anything.

"Okay," Xander says. He bends his head and worries at Oz's earlobe with his teeth. "Can I do this?" his breath loud and moist in Oz's ear. "Can I?"

"Yes," Oz says, letting himself be pushed on his back. Xander in charge. Hot.

Xander is hot, Xander's skin is hot under Oz's hands, and Xander trails kisses and bites down Oz's neck. "Can I do this?" he asks, biting Oz's upper arm, "hard?"

"Yes," Oz says. Xander takes his time, and kisses the inside of Oz's elbow, nips the underside of his forearm. All this time, Oz is quivering like a plucked string, and Xander is running his fingernails up and down his chest and sides, biting his nipple.

"Can I do this?" Xander repeats. He's not really asking.

"God--yes--" and Oz's head bounces on the headboard, he writhes under Xander's hard hands and mouth. How did Xander learn how to touch him so surely? How does he know that Oz craves a little roughness? He can't lie still, but Xander doesn't seem to care. He bites the other nipple, his thumbs gripping Oz's hips, he trails his open mouth down Oz's belly, grazing the skin with his teeth, nails biting into Oz; he knocks Oz's shins with his knees, sliding down the bed.

Oz doesn't realize he is moaning until Xander is back, holding Oz's face in his palms. "Oz," he says urgently. "Tell me. Tell me what you want." He kisses Oz, slowly, seriously, every kiss telling Oz that he is precious, that he is valued.

It's not the endorphins, he thinks Xander says. He's not sure, because Xander keeps saying, "Tell me," and sliding his tongue between Oz's lips.

"Suck me," Oz gasps, and Xander gives him a tiny smile, and the next thing Oz knows, he can't breathe. Xander has his cock in his fist and has decided that its a Popsicle, fisting it roughly, slurping loudly, letting just the edge of his bottom teeth tease the head. He wraps his mouth around it, and looks up at Oz.

The sight of his cock in Xander's mouth makes some go off in his chest, and he comes, and the next thing he sees is Xander's face on the pillow beside him.



"So that was sex. That, uh, that was sex, wasn't it?"

"I'd say so."

"Oh. Wow."


"Didn't think I could make you wait," Xander says, again with that tiny smile. "You're incredible, you know that, right? So was it okay?"

Oz rolls his head back and forth. "You saw what you did," he says, touching Xander on the cheek, his hand still unsteady. "More than okay."

"I think I'm the kind of guy that likes to talk," Xander says, contemplatively. "I couldn't help talking."

"I liked it," Oz says.

Xander sighs and puts his arm around Oz's waist. Oz sighs back, and it sounds like music.


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