Heterosexual Lesbians (Enjoy Yourself)
Coming out of the girls' locker room, Buffy's wobbly. Wobbly in that overheated, rubber-cement-for-muscles kind of way. That good way.
She probably overdid it -- three miles on the track, another two in the pool, and God knows how many flights on the Stairmaster -- but Buffy needed it. She's needed it for weeks now, something to burn off, however temporarily, this crazy itch under her skin. Restlessness, and if her friends want to call it "Parker Abramsitis", that's their call.
Plus, if she doesn't work out here on campus, Giles is sure to make good on his threat to make her jog with him before the sun's even up.
She stumbles a little, damp hair whipping her cheek, and a firm hand grabs her elbow and holds.
"Oz?" she asks, blinking away the smear in her eyes. "What are you doing here?" Her vision clears and she sees that not only is it Oz, it's Oz with a flowery, quilted bag over one shoulder and an overnight case in the other hand. "With luggage?"
"Kidnapping you, actually," he says, releasing her elbow and reaching for her hand. "You game?"
His hand is dry and cool in hers, and she'd always noticed how touchy-feely he is. It's just weird to be the one touched and felt.
"All yours," she says after a moment of studying him. In the Athletics Center, he looks very small. Underfed, almost, and desperately pale.
"Coolness." He squeezes her hand and will not answer when she asks where they're going. She asks twice on the way to the parking lot, another three times when they're in the van, and Oz just smiles to himself.
He cleared it with Giles and Joyce, though, he'll tell her that. And that Xander, Willow, and Veruca are meeting them later.
"That's okay with you?" she asks, stretching out the tremors still running through her arms. Without taking his eyes off the road, Oz reaches into the back and gets her a pillow. "Thanks."
"Fine by me," he says a little later, when she's sure he's ignoring this question, too. "Sucks Giles couldn't come, though."
"You invited Giles?"
His eyes tick over to her and he almost-shrugs. All his gestures are small and easy to miss, but she dated Angel, after all. She can read the tiniest of changes in expression and posture.
"Sure," he says, merging onto the freeway. They're going north, but Buffy not only doesn't drive; her sense of direction goes totally into suspension as soon as she gets into a car. She's not even going to try to figure out where they're headed. "Man could use a party."
"True. Just don't want to be at the same one, that's all." She yawns hugely, her jaw cracking, and punches the pillow to get comfortable. "Parties with Giles tend to involve demons and bloodshed, from what I've heard."
Oz moves his hand from the gearshift to her thigh, then to her arm, patting gently. When she yawns again, he says, "Sleep."
So she does.
"Buffy...Buffy...wake up. You're gonna miss the bus." Sing-song in her ear, breath tickling her cheek, and she throws out an arm to ward off the distraction. "Bu-uffff-y."
Warm, dry kiss on her temple and gradually she realizes she's sleeping sitting up. And Oz is talking to her. Kissing her.
She smacks her lips and tries to open her eyes. "Time is it?"
"Dunno," Oz says, brushing the hair back from her face. "But we're here."
"Oh." She struggles to sit up, wiping away the drool on her cheek with a quick swipe of her hand. She sees trees, and blue sky. Not much else. "Where?"
"Here," he says, leaning over her to open the door. At her look, rolled eyes and pursed lips, he shrugs. "Uncle's cabin. Outside Tahoe. Better?"
"Much," she says, sliding off the seat onto the gravel driveway. The house is behind them, a little fake-chalet, peaked roof and silvery pine siding. "Nice."
Inside, it's tiny, just a living room, bathroom, and kitchen on the first floor, and a huge sleeping loft and second bathroom on the second. But there's a deck out back looking into the mountains, and a hot tub.
Best of all, it's quiet. Real country quiet, chattering birds and wind in the pines. Buffy stands at the railing, the setting sun warm on her face, while Oz drags in the bags and a cooler.
"You want some help?"
"No," he grunts, loaded down like a sherpa, kicking the cooler toward the kitchen. "Got it."
Coming back inside, she says, "Don't be stupid."
"That's all of it," Oz says, dropping the last bag on the couch and pushing the cooler into the kitchen.
"You pack for an apocalypse?" she asks as he starts unpacking cuts of meat, vegetables, pasta boxes, and six-packs of soda and beer.
Oz straightens up and rubs his neck. "I might've overdone it, yeah."
"We could eat for a month on that."
He looks away, into the fridge, then out the window. "Didn't know what you liked."
"Could've asked, you know."
"Yeah, but then the whole element of surprise would be blown out of the water."
He's weird. That's the best Buffy's been able to come up with, and it's been almost two months now.
Oz is weird. He's loose and ignorant of most social niceties, but then there are others that he takes way too seriously, like always opening the van door for her and buying out the grocery store just in case.
Last week over breakfast, she tried to explain it to Willow, but flubbed it, because Will just clapped her hands and said, "I know! And it's like now we're both lesbians!" Then her nose wrinkled up and she brushed the hair out of her eyes. "Except you're not dating Oz. Are you dating Oz?"
"I don't know." Buffy poked at her fruit salad and the plastic fork bent alarmingly. "I really don't."
She doesn't know how this started. She doesn't even really know what this is. She knows that Oz started running into her on her patrols more and more. That he brought her coffee like he knew he'd run into her. That once, when he slept over in the dorm room, she woke up early and found him sitting on the edge of Willow's bed, looking at her with something like curiosity on his face.
She does know that he felt sorry for her. Or that he wanted to help. Either way, it annoyed her, because she doesn't need anyone's help, and being pitied is almost as bad as being ignored. But she couldn't seem to find the right way to push him away.
She kind of liked having him around.
And then everything went to hell twice-over, he fucked Veruca-the-stalker and Veruca almost killed Willow and Buffy tranq'd both wolves. When the dust settled and everybody woke up, Will and Veruca had teamed up after lots of tear-soaked conversations with Oz, and he was alone and Buffy was still alone.
So now they're hanging out. She doesn't think they're dating, per se, but they're definitely hanging out.
Dark now, and the steam from the hot tub curls up off the restless water, disappearing against the black sky.
Buffy rubs her arms against the slight chill and hesitates while Oz steps out of his pants. He tosses his t-shirt at her and it's warm. Smells like boy and tomato sauce.
She doesn't know where to look, so she folds the shirt and asks, "Shouldn't we wait an hour?" He packed lasagna, and warmed it up in the oven, and she had three helpings.
"Just enjoy," Oz says, sinking back into the bubbles and raising his mug toward Buffy in an abbreviated toast.
Only Oz, she thinks, would drink tea in a hot tub.
"Okay," she says, because she's found it's easier to agree. Oz is usually right, weirdly enough. She pulls off her jeans and takes a deep breath before unbuttoning her shirt. Stupid to be nervous; it's Oz, who she's seen naked every month, practically, and they've already kissed and he's taped up her ribs a couple times and she's being stupid.
And she's restless, and Oz is leaning back, arms folded over his chest, his body floating in the bright water. Out here, alone, he doesn't look underfed or anything. His skin's going pink in the heat and his hair's drooping. He looks perfectly comfortable, a little smile on his lips and a faraway look in his sleepy eyes.
He kind of looks like those snow monkeys steaming and going zen in Japan.
Buffy unhooks her bra and slides into the water, bumping Oz's legs, and his eyes open at the contact, a real smile widening across his face.
"Hey," he says and it's hard to hear him over the water. But his free hand closes around her arm and pulls her closer. They're both buoyant and they bump and float as they get comfortable, Buffy between his legs, his chin planted on her shoulder. He lifts the mug to her mouth. "Tea?"
"I'm good," she murmurs. Weird how restless can flip so suddenly over into sleepy, but she's sleepy now, all the tension and aches loosening and vanishing. Above them, past the steam, the sky's picked out with stars.
"Haven't seen stars for years," she says and Oz says something below words in agreement. His arm's crossed over her belly, holding her against the water, and she's got both her arms hooked around his bent knees. They fit like this, folded in together.
Guys, she always thought, are bigger than you. It's not necessarily right or fair, but that's just how it works. Billy Ford, Angel, Scott Hope. Even Parker. Mostly Angel, though. In heels, sometimes, she'd be their height, but there was something simultaneously comforting and sexy about being smaller.
"Just enjoy," he says again, mouth on her neck, hard to distinguish from the water, the flat of his palm working a slow arc over her stomach.
If Oz has anything as official as a motto, Buffy thinks, that's it. Just enjoy. Life, music, school, sex: It all comes down for him to whether he enjoys it.
That was what prompted their first and only fight. She was skipping psych because Walsh was bugging her and she'd just seen Parker with a busty girl, like Cordelia- or Faith-busty, on his lap and she couldn't deal. Oz passed through the cafeteria patio, saw her, and dropped his bag. Went for a big cup of tea and returned, sitting across from her and smiling his weird smile.
"What?" she asked, knowing she sounded like a bitch. But his silence got to her and his smile said he had thoughts too good to share.
"Way I see it," he said, putting down his cup and slumping a little so the sun hit him full in the face, almost blanking out all his features, "you're batting 500 on personal relationships. Not so bad. Better'n most people."
"That sounds good, but isn't 500 only fifty percent?"
He nodded, just once. "Still better than most."
She briefly considered tossing her pencil at him. He wasn't far, and she could probably do some damage with it since it was freshly sharpened. But he wasn't smiling any more and his eyes opened, dark and wet in the light, and for a second, she couldn't move. "So I should be, what? Happy that the second guy I -- that I, you know --"
"Slept with."
"Slept with didn't turn into a raving psycho and murderer?"
Oz sat up and leaned over the table. Buffy grabbed back her hand, but he just lifted an eyebrow and stole a piece of lettuce from her plate. "Not saying it doesn't suck. Just that it could suck more."
"It could always suck more," she said and Oz nodded.
"Exactly."
"It's a stupid way of looking at things."
His mouth curled into another smile, but this one, she thought, was nicer. Kinder. "Never said I wasn't."
"Jeez, Oz." She didn't know what else to say and felt, vaguely, like she'd insulted him.
"Think of it as an upward swing," he said. "Where the next guy's going to be even better."
"So he'll call me the next morning? Maybe even treat me like a human being?"
"Yeah. Something like that," Oz said. Frowning, he looked down at the lettuce leaf in his hand like he didn't know what it was doing there.
"Not going to be a next guy." She'd thought a lot about it, and the whole nun thing was starting to seem really appealing.
"Sure there will." Munching on the lettuce, he wasn't quite looking at her.
"How do you know?"
Brushing off the front of his shirt, Oz shrugged. "Know you. Sort of, anyway. You're not built for --"
"Celibacy?"
"That, too. Meant bitterness, but, sure. Celibacy."
Random pep talks were Xander's specialty. Apparently, though, he'd been tutoring Oz.
"Seen you on patrol," Oz continued. This was a huge amount of words for him and even in her pissy mood, Buffy knew to let it happen. "How you fight, how you move. You and your body, you're --. Inseparable."
"That's how it works, yeah."
Squinting at her, Oz waited, shadows of clouds moving over his face. "Know what I mean. You -- enjoy it. Can't help it." He cocked his head. "It's cool."
As fights went, it wasn't that bad. Oz is hard to argue with, since he just kind of smiles to himself and changes the subject.
He sounded like Faith, actually, she thinks now, floating against him. Like a non-crazy, not-so-lewd Faith, making sure she knew the connection between slaying and sex. Or bodies and their needs, something like that. Faith understood because she felt the same way; she's not sure how Oz knows, though. How can he make the connection between how she fights, or works out, all of that, with sex, how he knows how much she enjoyed the night with Parker.
Opening her eyes, she wiggles in the water so she's lying crosswise against Oz. He's just looking at her, wide green eyes in his flushed face, and when she kisses him, he makes a soft, gurgling sound deep in his throat.
Green tea, and steam, and other bright, strong things -- that's what Oz tastes like, and he kisses hungrily, all wolf jokes aside, with his whole body tilting into hers, hands tightening on her hips, in her hair, and when she breaks for a breath, he's gasping, too.
"Upstairs?" he asks.
Buffy looks at her hand, fingertips gone wrinkly. "Yeah, probably. Prune city."
"Sultanas," Oz says mysteriously before kissing her thumb. Sucking it into his mouth, letting it curl against the back of his teeth, and the sensation's hotter than the water, moving twice as fast through the center of her. His tongue's wide and hot, wrapping around the knuckle, pulling her deeper, and Buffy suddenly feels the night air, cold as glass, on her back.
"Oz, God --"
He releases her thumb with a pop and smiles slow and sleepy as he helps her out of the tub.
Her underpants cling to her hips and Oz holds her steady as she tugs them off. Then, tipping her head against his shoulder, kissing the spray of freckles there that's light as stars, she does the same for him. His little gray briefs are waterlogged and he looks away, covering his hard-on with one hand while he grabs for the towels.
"I can still see it," she says, pushing his hand away and wrapping her arms around his waist to dry his back. Her own nipples are hard and achey in the cold air, twanging like country music whenever they brush against Oz's skin. "Not like I haven't seen it before, anyway."
His cheeks are bright red, heat and embarrassment blooming together, when he meets her eyes and kisses her again as he wraps the towel around her.
It's a soft kiss, wide and open, and she can feel the sweat at the roots of his hair when she pushes her hand around the back of his head. It's nice to kiss in bare feet, not to have to stretch her neck and go up on her toes, just press against each other and kiss without acrobatics. Oz nips down on her lower lip when she pulls back.
"Shame to cover you up," he says, plucking at the top of her towel.
"Deal," she says, breaking for the house, racing him to the stairs.
"You're going to win," he calls after her, but chases anyway. Their feet squelch over the tile and sink into the carpet and she slows down a little.
"What're sultanas?" she asks when they're halfway up the stairs and Oz is picking at her towel and making her trip. "Oz."
"Sorry," he says but doesn't stop. Blindly, she reaches back and swats him and he laughs. "What? Oh. Raisins. Like, golden ones."
"You're so weird," she says when she reaches the top of the stairs and stumbles into the loft. Three steps and the bed's right there, wide and welcoming, so she jumps on it, landing in the middle.
"Not weird," Oz says, fake-tripping and landing on top of her. "Appropriate, because prunes are big and black. Ugly. Sultanas, though. Golden and little. Plump."
"You're babbling."
"Am I?" He's tugging at her towel, mouth on her collarbone, and Buffy wriggles up the bed.
"You are."
"Must be catching, then."
He tugs one more time on the end of her towel and it comes free, and Buffy arches against the sudden warm air. Oz makes a soft noise, kind of hoarse, and licks his lips as he splays his hands over her hips to hold her still.
"I don't --" She sucks in a breath when Oz starts skating his mouth over the tops of her breasts, her nipples rubbing against his throat. "I don't babble. Oz --"
Smiling lopsidedly, he cups one breast and kisses the underside of the other, swiping his tongue and scraping his teeth.
This is the farthest they've ever gone, and Buffy thinks vaguely that maybe she should think about that. Slow them down, at least, take a breath. But Oz's mouth is doing things to her skin, like it's following the pattern of veins and sucking them full and plump, wrapping her in a red net of heat, drawing her tight. He flicks his tongue over her nipple, sucks it hard, then releases her, moves away as she groans. His weight is pressing her back into the mattress and his hands are roving up and down her sides, over her thighs, then up into her hair, and Buffy's soaked with the heat, an ache building between her legs.
She doesn't know how long Oz lies on top of her like that. She drags her nails up and down his back, over his arms, pulls at his hair, and he just murmurs and works a little lower.
"Sit up for me?" he asks later, hoarsely, his face red and wet.
That's me, she thinks, I make him look like that. And she can't think of the grimace on Parker's face or the rapture contorting Angel's, because this is different. Oz is different, and he's not rushing her, but he's asking, lifting her up and turning her around to face the headboard. On her knees, and Oz's strong hands are on the insides of her thighs, pulling her wider, and she needs him to touch her.
"Oz, please --" She grinds down and all he does is chuckle. Wraps an arm around her waist and presses against her, kissing the top of her spine and kneading one breast. She can feel his cock against her thigh, and there's a hollow ache inside her. Oz keeps pressing her forward, mouthing down her spine and muttering. Telling her she tastes good, her skin is soft, and she moans. That's all well and good, but she wants more and he chuckles every time she tells him so. Finally, she's canted against the wall, forehead pressed against one bar of the headboard, and he's licking swirls over the base of her backbone, making her grunt and shiver.
His mouth is a brush and Buffy's coated in heat that clings and seeps like oil, and when he kisses the top of her crack, she yells and tries to pull away.
"Ssshh, ssshh," he says, moving higher, petting her belly. "It's all right. Want to. It feels good, promise."
"Oz, no, I can't --"
He's against her again, both arms around her waist, mouth on her ear, his breath thunderous. Buffy's shaking and she wishes she could stop. "Showered at the gym, right?"
"Yes."
"And sat in the hot tub?"
"Yes."
"Clean," he whispers, the breath going right through her with the sound, twisting inside her, making her push her ass back against him. "It'll feel good. Promise, Buffy."
He says her name like it means something. "I -- I can't."
"You can do anything," he says and he sounds grave and so serious, like he's talking about much more than sex, much more than just this. But this feels like everything, like the whole world, his fingernails scraping her nipples and his teeth closing on her shoulder.
When she inhales, the air is cold, sharp as broken glass, but when she exhales, she feels her chest expand against his arm, and it's going to be okay. "Okay. Okay."
"Good," he whispers, and kisses his way down again, another track, another filigree of heat that sinks into the rest and makes her twist and moan. All too soon, his mouth is at the top of her crack again, tongue in a sharp little point, and he licks her gently as his hands spread her open. She's never felt anything like this, never been touched there, not on purpose, and she can only imagine what she looks like, rolling her head against the bars and gripping them until they rattle as Oz moves his tongue deeper, farther. She can't control it, the pressure of his face, his tongue dipping and delving. Her hips are moving back and forth, the hollow burn ratcheting up, and Oz just keeps going, one hand braced on her hip, mouth twisting and pushing deeper. His tongue is inside her, like a mile wide and warm, and Buffy's head falls back as she shakes the bed and shrieks. All this heat inside her, conducted directly from his mouth up her spine and out her throat, and she's not past begging now. She tries to drop her hips and grind her clit against the pillow -- she can feel her clit throbbing, swelling, untouched and needful -- but Oz holds her firmly, easing up a little to let her catch her breath.
"Do you like that?" he asks, heel of his hand pressing against her mound, fingers tickling the hair. Buffy shoves forward and he unfolds his fingers, lets her grind.
"Yes," she says, and that's not enough. She's past liking it, and when Oz chuckles again, she could slap him. "Fuck, yes."
"Good, because you taste so good. So good," he says, drawing two fingers lightly over her lips and brushing her clit. "Making you so wet, God, Buffy."
All she feels is the burn, this spreading-but-contracting burn, and when he knuckles her clit back and forth as he licks over her asshole again, she clenches her pussy and bears down, pushing back against his face.
She's going to come. She's trembling on the verge of it, the muscles in her legs and arms tightening and the heat pulling her in and down, against Oz's mouth, and forward over his fingers. She's going to come, but the orgasm is this wide, encompassing horizon. Not the usual peak, but something broad and enveloping, and his tongue thrusts inside her hole as he strokes her clit, and she's been coming for half an eon, gasping at the white light and the bright heat, spreading out and rubbing herself in it, never stopping. Oz's stubble rasps against the skin of her ass, his tongue torques and pushes, and Buffy feels sweat or tears or both soaking her face as she goes blind and falls.
Falls on her face, spread-eagled on the bed, and whimpering. Oz's hands on her back scrape and hurt as her pussy clenches and releases, again and again, pushing out her breath. He lowers himself onto her, kissing her shoulder, holding her tight, and Buffy floats as he whispers.
"So good, you taste so good," he's saying, fingercombing her hair and kissing the edge of her jaw. "So beautiful, Buffy, you're --" His voice breaks and Buffy starts to come back to herself. Feels his weight, the poke and pressure of his cock, and she tries to turn over.
"Oz --"
"Ssshhh," he says, kissing her dry, swollen mouth, moving his hips against her ass.
"I want --" She can't think of the words. She wants to go again, wants to feel him inside her, wants him to feel half as good as she does right now. "I want you."
Her voice sounds like a wind-up toy, tinny and thin, and Oz keeps kissing her. One arm under her chest, the other around her waist, he eases her back up onto her knees. "I want you," he echoes, and pulls away. She's cold and shaky without him, but he's just reaching for the knapsack on the far edge of the bed. "Want to feel you. Do you want that?"
She can only nod. Words and breath are difficult things, and she twitches as he touches her, plays gently with her clit again until she's moving again. She hears the rip of foil and squish of lube, feels his fingers press inside her, two or three, and she clenches on them until Oz grunts.
"So wet, pretty girl," he's saying, and pulling out his fingers and she whines. "Ssshh, right here."
He's not lying. Oz never lies, the head of his cock pressing against her pussy, his thumb on her clit and his other hand, wet and hot from being inside her, pushing against the cold, wet skin of her ass. Of her hole, her other one, and his cock's halfway inside her, pushing the moans out her mouth with each careful thrust, when he rotates one finger against her ass and pushes that inside, too.
Oz stills, and she knows he's letting her get used to it, but Buffy keeps moving, wants more, feels the heat prickling back into being all over her skin, pore by pore, thrusting her back onto him, finger and cock. Oz grunts again and plays his finger over her clit. Guitarist, she thinks stupidly, and moves against him, and he's in. Filling her front and back, talking to her but the words burn away like scraps of paper, and all she can hear is her own heartbeat and the squeak of the bed, rattle of the headboard, and he's inside. All the way, and they're pushing and pulling at each other, twisting their hips, and Buffy's grabbing onto the edge of the bed for leverage, thrusting herself back, looking over her shoulder.
Oz's face has gone red, twisted and intense, his eyes glittering and lips drawn back over his teeth. When he sees her, he tries to smile, but it's a grimace and she bites her bottom lip as he thrusts fast and deep. The pressure of it, slick and clenching, red coals billowing in the fire, is enough to blind her again, and she drops her head into the pillow.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he says, she can hear him now, and Buffy pushes herself up onto her hands, then all the way upright. The angle of everything changes, goes deeper and sharper, heat crushing her chest and closing her throat. She reaches back, grabbing his sharp hipbone, and hangs on.
"Harder," she says and he groans long and high, pushing and twisting inside her, mouth on her shoulder, balls clapping like an ecstatic audience. "Fuck me, Oz, so close --"
Teeth in her skin and something like a growl in his throat, Oz shoves her down, hocks and spits and adds another twisting, teasing finger as his cock fills her entirely. Other hand on her shoulder, he pushes himself all the way in, freezes as she shudders, and then cries out -- her name, God, Sanskrit, she doesn't know -- as he comes, thrusting jerky and fast. His fingers are still inside her hole and his cock is hot and swollen in her other hole and Buffy rotates her hips against his hand, rubs her clit against palm and nails until she's blind and gasping and Oz is holding her tight, biting her ear and begging her to come.
The heat pulls away in long shreds, slowly, and she should feel raw and cold as Oz pulls out and hugs her, rolls her onto her side to face him. But she just feels limp and warm, full and happy. She cranes forward, half-blindly, to kiss his stubbly cheek that smells like her, broken grass and dark moisture, and puts her arm around him.
"Cold?" she whispers.
Oz's face looks like a mask. Or like its true self, slack and flushed, and he struggles to open his eyes. "Nah, I'm good."
She bites the tip of his nose, then kisses the corner of his mouth. "That was crazy."
"Crazy insane or crazy --?"
"What other kind of crazy is there?"
He smiles crookedly and his eyes drift closed again. "Good point."
"Crazy amazing," Buffy says, reaching behind her for the quilt and dragging it over their bodies. She has goosebumps everywhere, and the brush of fabric sets her to tingling all over again.
"All you," he murmurs and smiles again when she plays with his hair. "All you."
Buffy tucks her head into the crook of Oz's arm, sleepiness stealing over her, and nudges her knee between his. Pulling her closer, Oz kisses her hair, and it's dark and smells like sex under the quilt and Buffy doesn't think she ever needs to move again.
She must sleep because the dark is different, lighter and pearlier, when her eyes open and she hears voices downstairs.
"Lasagna? All hail Oz, King of the Kitchen!" Xander is saying as the door to the patio scrapes open.
"There are underwear and a bra out here," Anya announces. "Pay up."
"Excuse me?" That's Willow, sounding offended and impatient. "What are you talking about?"
"They are dating," Anya says. "Clear as day."
Against her cheek, Buffy feels Oz's smile. He opens his eyes and regards her. This close, it's all Cubist, planes and curves and deep, mysterious green.
"Go, Oz," Veruca says. "King of the Bedroom, too."
"Hey," Buffy says softly. The skin between Oz's eyes is puckered up and she kisses it. "Morning. Your Highness."
"Morning," he says, and holds her more tightly.