Touring Wonderland
by glossolalia

Oz goes to knock on the door - use the big brass knocker, even, which belongs more on a Medieval Times set than a house in Sunnydale - but Devon grabs his arm.

"Thanks for coming, dude. I really appreciate it," he says. Not letting go of Oz's wrist, he steps backward and shakes out his hair. "How do I look?"

Oz tilts his head and squints a little; he has to at least pretend to think it over. Devon looks like he's about to go out onstage, his hair gelled and crimped, his slick green shirt unbuttoned down to his nipples and up to his belly button. Pants so tight that they would make Oz worry about the MacLeish family line, except he's pretty sure Devon shouldn't reproduce, ever. "Like Disco Stu, only prettier. Maybe a white Ladies' Man. Leon MacPhelps."

"So that's good, right? She's not going to make fun of me?"

Oz turns back to the door. "She's going to make fun of you, man. That's just a fact of nature."

He knocks and knocks and starts suspecting that Devon has the time, if not the entire day of the week, wrong. No one seems to be home; the light over the door is on, but that's probably to highlight the super-heavy knocker and double-wide mahogany door, not welcome visitors. He hasn't been here since third grade; he thinks it was third grade. A long time, anyway, back before gender and age divisions meant all that much.

Finally the door opens, revealing a pretty but very tired-looking woman in the kind of gray dresses that maids wear on TV.

"She's upstairs, I'm on overtime," the maid says, the frown lines deepening around her mouth.

"Thanks," Oz remembers to call as Devon sidles him aside and takes the stairs at the end of hall two at a time. Oz takes the walk a little more slowly; it smells nice in here, like potpourri and lemon polish, kind of like one of those historical houses and museums where all the rooms are off-limits behind red velvet ropes and you have to peer inside to get an idea about How People Lived. Nice black and white photographs on the wall as he climbs the stairs, big formats in heavy black frames, and the railing squeaks under his hand as he trails it behind him.

Devon's waiting for him in the upstairs hallway, touching his hair and tugging at his shirt. Oz starts to say something, but Devon waves his hand frantically, shushing him, then pushing him forward. "You go first," he hisses in Oz's ear.

This is really becoming way too much of a production for Oz's taste. Devon's nerves seem to be catching, because Oz touches his own hair - still there, still messy - before knocking lightly on the door Devon's positioned him in front of.

"No dinner, Marta," Cordelia calls from inside. "Gracias muchly!"

Oz coughs into his hand and knocks again. "It's -"

Devon clamps his hand over Oz's mouth, so Oz reaches back to loosen it, and when the door opens, golden light spilling into the hallway, they're halfway to the ground and wrestling. So much for anyone's hair looking good.

Except for Cordelia's. Her hair's big and wavy as ever, falling over her bare shoulders. She's only wearing a slip, the color of hard cider, light gold and shimmering, and she looks amazing, towering like an Amazon over them. Oz twists away from Devon and finds his balance. "Hey, Cordy."

"God. You brought your boyfriend, Devon?" Cordy turns on her heel and Oz slaps Devon before following her into her room. "What, are you two really joined at the hip?"

Devon slings his arm around Oz's shoulders and pulls him close. "Love me, love my Oz."

She sits down in front of a table bigger than the desk Oz - sometimes - does his homework on, and it's filled with makeup and jewelry boxes and hair scrunchies. Unscrewing the cap to a lipstick, Cordy lifts her chin at the mirror. "Oh, I like Oz fine. It's you I've got a problem with."

"Thanks," Oz says. He leans in for a better look. "That red's too dark."

Cordelia arches her brow and looks at him in the mirror. "You're not going with us, are you?"

Oz glances at Devon, who just shrugs and settles onto the foot of Cordelia's bed.

"You're going somewhere?"

"The Mustang only seats two," Cordelia adds, talking over him. "And, generally, reconciliation dates? Just for the not-so-happy couple. Not the couple and the guy's best friend."

Oz slumps a little against the edge of the table, making everything rattle and click and clang. "Devon, you were going out?"

Devon is, however, suddenly terribly interested in the inner seam of his pants and he doesn't even look up.

Cordelia turns in her seat and pats Oz's thigh. "Tabu. Club in the city. Hence lounge lizard's pathetic get-up over there."

"Oh." Oz rubs his chin; he's really starting to like the meditative sound the bristle makes under his fingers. "Thought that was just, you know. Him."

"Easy to make that mistake," Cordelia says. She leans back and runs her fingers through her hair. It's weird, but only half-done-up, she looks better than she ever has. In the brighter light of the bedroom, her slip is the color of cream cheese and it clings to her chest and hips and catches the light and looks even silkier than it probably is against her dark-gold tan. Without makeup, her eyes are big and bright and her lips curve like calligraphy.

"Thought we could -" Devon starts to say and Cordy whirls on him. Oz has the impulse to edge away.

"You thought? Did it hurt? Did you cramp up and need to walk it off?"

As he leans forward, rubbing his palms together, Devon just grins. He gives her the slow, molasses-y one that he uses on Oz when he's mooching food. It's a little different from the one when he's mooching beer, but just as weirdly effective. "Thought we could start the party early. Party's not a party without a crowd. Thus, Oz."

Cordy's eyes cut over to Oz and he raises his hands. "QED?"

Devon's lying, Oz is pretty sure. He's been jumpy for a day and a half, and then, after getting all dolled up, suddenly insisted that Cordelia wanted to talk to Oz about some computer problem and Oz had to get up from his nap right the fuck now.

So Oz is here on chaperone duty, it'd seem.

Oz grabs the nearest jewelry box and sits crosslegged on the floor with it in his lap. Cordy's got a lot of rings, and some of them are beautiful. He loses himself in studying them, turning them to the light and trying them on. They all fit, but he likes the opal one on his thumb the best.

"Oh, I don't think so --" Cordy's voice cuts sharply through his concentration and Oz looks up. They're both looking back at him and it sounds like he missed something important.

"Yes?" he asks.

"No big deal," Devon says soothingly, but Cordelia is shaking her head. "Just an idea."

"No way. Not with that stuff on his face." Cordy folds her arms and Oz realizes they've been talking about him. "No offense, Oz, but it's like a mouse shed and died all over your mouth."

"None taken." He rubs his chin, then nods. "It's an experiment."

Devon's just grinning, rubbing Cordy's back and grinning at Oz like he won the lottery. He's been on Oz's ass for two weeks about the facial hair.

"I'm sorry, but it's really got to go." Cordy sits straight up and her mouth sets into a thin line. "The experiment failed. You look like a crazed carnie."

Oz sets the jewelry box onto the chair and rises to his feet. He's not sure where her objection comes from; knowing Cordy, it's a purely aesthetic thing. She just doesn't want to look at something icky. Oz gets that; standards can be good things to have. "Got a bathroom?"

"Through there."

"Cool, thanks."

Devon's mouth hangs open, and it's always a pretty kickass feeling when Oz has struck him dumb. He pats Devon's shoulder as he passes.

The bathroom looks and feels like another jewelry box, shiny and square, all red and white and chrome. Oz is half-tempted to take a bath - the tub looks deeper than any he's ever seen - but he contents himself with playing with Cordy's soaps and facial scrubs. Blueberry and lavender, sheep's milk and lime, apricot, tangerine: it's the produce aisle packed into countless delicate bottles and jars. His face has never felt quite this clean and tingly, never smelled so good.

Water has splashed all the way down the front of his Billy Bragg shirt, so he pulls it off before rinsing again and reaching for the rosewater shaving lotion. Cordy's razor is pewter, and he knows he'll catch hell for dulling the blade, so he slides a new one in before lathering up his face and neck. The razor's weight in his hand is heavy, balanced, like it belongs there.

Oz is in the zone, meditative and-or spacey - depends on who you ask - making short, careful pulls up his neck and humming a little. So he barely stirs, except for the goosebumps down his bare back, when Devon slides into view in the mirror, wrapping his arms around Oz's waist and planting his chin on the top of Oz's head.

"Hey, Dev." Oz rinses the blade, taps out the excess water, and sets to work on the other side of his neck. Devon's hold on him is loose but warm, like a sweater you don't really need except in the mornings. Oz wiggles back slightly and Devon tightens his hold. "What's up?"

"The sky," Devon says. He's watching Oz in the mirror, smiling slow and gentle. "My dick. You?"

Oz wiggles again and Dev's not lying; he's half-hard, maybe more, against the small of Oz's back. "Shaving."

"Yeah. I'm bored." Devon's fingers dip into the front pocket of Oz's pants and Oz pushes his hips forward for better access. And because the friction's nice. Little Badtz Maru tin in his pocket, four joints and a hula girl lighter that Devon gave him for his last birthday.

"Cordy cool with you getting baked in her bathroom?"

"Man," Devon says, releasing Oz for a second to light the joint, then pulling him back hard. "Cordy's not cool with --" Another inhale, then the high, wheezey stoner voice. "Much of anything. Just tune her out."

"Girl's got opinions. Standards, even," Oz says. He reaches back for the joint but, shaking his head, Devon holds it in front of Oz's mouth. Oz leans in, takes a hit, and holds it while he does a long swipe up his jaw.

"She does indeed."

They find a rhythm - Devon tokes while Oz rinses the blade, Oz tokes before making another cut - because they always do. Always a rhythm, back and forth, in and out, and they're nicely loose by the time Oz's face is smooth. He splashes off the lotion, then buries his face in a towel that smells like lemons.

Devon's definitely baked; while Oz scrubs dry, Devon bends over, nuzzling Oz's neck, his hands running over Oz's chest and stomach. He's touchy-feely when he's stone sober; Devon stoned is like a lazy, very horny octopus. Oz is all twisting and tingling inside, like he chugged one of the bottles of toner, and he shivers, grinning into the towel. He drops it and turns around, lifting himself back onto the edge of the sink and kissing Devon.

"That's what I'm talking about --" Devon whispers before kissing him back.

Oz isn't sure what Devon thinks he had been talking about, but then again, he doesn't exactly care. His face is warm and tingling inside and out, Devon's kissing him slowly, going deeper as Oz wraps his legs around Devon's thighs, and the pot-buzz at the back of his skull keeps charging up and spreading out to his tongue, down to his fingertips locked in Devon's ridiculous hair, across his chest and through his crotch. The buzz is gold and red tonight and it smells like rosewater and steam.

Kissing Devon is like coming home from scout camp. First night back, snuggling into his own bed with clean sheets, relaxing and spreading out. Oz likes camp, likes kissing new people and exploring the woods, and god knows Devon does too, but you always come home, sunburned and riddled with bugbites, and it's all the better for having been away.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Cordelia's voice. Right, Cordy's house.

Oz presses his palm against Devon's chest and turns to look at her as Devon buries his face in Oz's neck. "Hey, Cordy. I shaved."

Distraction: it's a time-honored technique.

"Looks better," she says shortly. "This place stinks. Did you open every bottle?"

"Yeah," Oz admits. He could lie; Devon would lie. Oz doesn't see the point. "Didn't know what they all were."

"Labels are helpful," Cordy says and picks up the butt of the joint. "You started everything without me? God, Devon --" She slaps him and Devon giggles against Oz's shoulder. "Rude doesn't even begin to cover it."

Sometimes, you don't know a person until you see her laugh and smile. It's that expression, wide and joyful, that shows you who the person really is. Cordy's like that, Oz thinks, except it's anger that lights her up, makes her herself and beautiful.

"Lighter?" Oz asks, digging behind him in the clutter of lotions and bottles.

"Thanks. You two keep making out," Cordy says, waving her hand and flicking the lighter. "Some of us need to catch up."

There have been other people in the room while Devon and Oz fooled around, and they've each been around while the other was with someone else. This feels different, though. A little different, not bad-different; the room is smaller, and brighter, than any party, and it's just the three of them. He thinks Cordelia's watching them closely, but Oz isn't sure, not with Devon's hand on the top of his ass and the kiss doubling, tripling, into something syrup-hot and overwhelming. Just the idea of being watched like that is hot, though. Really hot.

Cradling the back of Oz's head with one hand, Devon breaks the kiss and says, "Cordy, honey, you can't have the whole thing to yourself. S'not fair."

Oz opens his eyes and sees that Cordy's helped herself to a fresh joint. She exhales and tips up her chin. "What's stopping me?"

"Me." Devon's trying for the macho growl. It comes out kind of petulant.

Cordy snorts. "You're busy. Talk to me when your tongue's not down somebody else's throat."

"You see?" Devon asks Oz. "You see what I have to take?"

Oz raises both hands, palms out, and shakes his head. No way is he getting between two of the most stubborn and self-centered people he's ever known. "Don't ask me. I'm the UN."

"You're Lollapalooza," Cordy says, and it's funny even if it doesn't make much sense.

"Uranus," Devon says, managing both to make no sense and not be funny. Guy's astonishingly good at that kind of thing. He elbows Oz. "Get it?"

"No," Oz says and pinches Devon's waist.

"Gimme the weed, Cordy --" Devon, king of the attention deficit, lunges for her and she twists and shrieks. Cordy does all the girl things, Oz thinks, like shrieking, and whining, and caring about clothes, but it's perfectly natural on her. Like she was born like this, pretty and buxom and opinionated. Other girls dress up in those things, act like they think they're supposed to act instead of being themselves, and other people's discomfort always gets under Oz's skin, too. With Cordy, though, he's completely comfortable. You know where you stand with her. Same as he knows just where he stands - sits, gropes, whatever - with Devon.

"Hey, watch it --" Oz says, because they're wrestling now and the joint's going to get bent or worse, and he's all for the intricacies of teen mating rituals, but care has to be taken with the hydroponics.

He snags the joint from Cordy's flailing hand, and they keep wrestling, stumbling out the bathroom, rolling across the bedroom carpet. Cordy is squirming and laughing, Devon's growling and grabbing, and Oz stays where he is, bent over so he can watch them while he finishes off the joint.

They look awesome together - Cordy on top, beating her fists on Devon's chest, his shirt all raked up, and he grabs her wrists and pulls her down, kissing her - both so tan and long. The slip's stretched tightly over Cordy's hips and ass, like it was poured on, and she's really getting into the kiss, her hips rocking and thighs squeezing Devon's legs.

The ember burns his thumb and Oz jumps off the sink, swearing under his breath. He is beyond loose and baked now, all the way into gloriously stoned, his feet miles away and very heavy. He makes his way slowly into the bedroom, stepping around the tangle of Cordy-Devon, towards the vanity table.

So many colors here, in tiny little boxes and squat little jars. Thirteen different maroon lipsticks and eight black eyeliner pencils and all these shimmery gold-pink-bronze-and-rose powders in little flip-top cases.

Oz likes the pencils best. They've got soft tips and smudgy colors, and it's like arts and crafts for grown-ups. Plus, his eyes look big and green with the pencil around them.

"Doing a little Brian Slade over there?" Cordy calls. Oz twists around. They've made it to the bed, Devon stretched out onto his back and Cordy on her side next to him. They're both mussed all to hell, hair flyaway and grins kiss-stupid.

"Hope not," Oz says. He hates that movie, could barely stay awake. Devon loved it and Oz blames it entirely for Devon's sudden interest in Bowie and cross-dressing. 'Blame' isn't exactly the right word - nothing wrong with Bowie or cross-dressing, especially on Devon - but it just seems kind of cheap, maybe unfair, that it took a boring movie to convince Devon of something that Oz has known for a while now.

He's getting off-track. He blinks a bit and smiles sheepishly at Cordy.

"You'll never pass," she says, pillowing her arms on Devon's chest and peering appraisingly at Oz. "Too sharp. Angular."

"Just entertaining myself," Oz says.

"Selfish bastard," Devon mumbles, his hand moving in Cordy's hair. "Selfish, selfish bastard."

Cordy slaps him. "Only one of those here and you're it."

Devon struggles up onto his elbow and points vaguely at Oz. He gets the general direction right, anyway. "You. You're it. Could be, like, entertaining us, but no --"

Cordy slaps him again, harder, and Oz grins at her. She's messed up, breasts spilling out the top of her slip, lipstick smeared over one cheek, a flush all over her face.

"That okay with you?" Oz asks her. "You want some company?"

Cordy takes her time thinking it over. Devon helps by slipping his hand over one breast and kissing her neck, and Oz starts focusing on her skin, so tanned, darker even than Devon's, how good they look together.

"Yeah," she says slowly, drawing it out as Devon starts sucking on her earlobe, then pushing her onto her back. "God, yeah."

And that's another thing she's got in common with Devon, apparently: Cordy's not bound up and confused and limited by what's appropriate, what's normal. If she does it, Oz figures it, she makes it appropriate.

"Boy's got talents," Devon tells her, hand circling her breasts, and Cordy almost moans.

Oz kicks off his shoes and crawls across the bed. They're a tangle of limbs and hot skin and for a second, he just kneels beside them, feeling very small, pale, and cold. Devon sits up, fumbling at the little buttons on his shirt, Cordy trying to help but mostly just tickling him. Devon's eyes are hooded and he blinks hard when he sees Oz.

"Hey," Devon says thickly.

"Hey." Reaching over, Oz pops the last button on Devon's shirt, then drags his fingertips down Devon's belly. This much, he knows, how soft Devon feels, how he shivers when you touch his navel. It grounds Oz enough.

"Glad you came, you know --"

"Yep," Oz says and leans over Cordy, the silk slip rubbing his chest, her hand walking up his spine, to kiss Devon. It draws him in, the kiss and the taste of girl - lipgloss and sugar - in Devon's mouth and Cordy's tickling fingers, and Oz doesn't feel quite so weird any more.

"Excuse me," Cordy says, tugging at Oz's arm. "Hey. Share."

He loses his balance and falls, sprawling against her, kissing where he lands. Shoulder, collarbone, neck - her skin is hot, dusted with down, sweet like clover. He can almost taste Devon on her, and it's amazing, all the scents and textures going straight to his spine.

He feels like Silly Putty inside, all elastic and stretchy and clingy, as Cordy wraps her arm around his neck and pulls him up, kissing him. She likes to bite, apparently - another thing in common with Dev - and the tip of her tongue flutters against his as she sucks his lower lip. When she moans, the sound shoots down his back, so Oz twists a little, hand finding her breast, palm curving over silk and firmness and the hard point of her nipple. She moans again, kissing him deeper, and he feels Devon's hand bump his, touching the other breast as he leans in and sucks on Oz's neck.

Supposedly, it goes like this: girls are soft, boys are hard. But it's not that simple, at least not for Oz, because Devon's skin is amazingly soft, and so is his tongue, and Cordelia's body is firm and curving and strong, and Oz is just twisted up among them.

Devon bites Oz's cheek and pushes his shoulder down. Move, he's saying, my turn, and Cordelia whimpers a little when Oz breaks the kiss. He looks at her, at Devon, for a little bit. Devon's kissing her breast, then her neck, and Cordelia's almost rippling with pleasure.

Angry, she is bright and hard, and Oz thought that was her best state. But there's also - this. Her pink cheeks, tangled hair, her chest heaving against twisted-up silk, purple-rose hickeys on her shoulder and chest, and she's luscious, voluptuous, edible. No wonder Devon's still obsessed with her.

Devon's no different, no less tasty, panting through an open mouth, his eyes slitted and far away, sweat like jewels breaking out over his tan. He's in his element, and so is she, and Oz thinks, with all the fervency of the very stoned pothead, that these two should always be half-dressed and horny, that it's better than art, way more beautiful.

Carefully, he reaches up and frees one breast from the silk. Crouching there, other hand on Cordy's thigh, he rubs the nipple over his lips and watches them kiss. The sounds of it - wet, soft, emphatic - spark out over Oz's skin. He's kissing the underside of her breast now, feeling Devon's hips rocking, his hand going higher and farther up Cordy's thigh, and she's shivering, and it's another rhythm.

Different rhythm, three instead of two, but the skin in the crease under her breast is rich, a little sweaty and softer than ever, and Oz loses himself. Details filter down through him: Cordy's legs opening wider, the stuttered rasp of Devon's zipper opening, a whole orchestral movement of whimpers and gasps. Oz blows air across where he's been licking and Cordy writhes and Devon laughs.

Her stomach is flat but it's working hard as she breathes, sheets of muscle pushing against his mouth as Oz kisses downward and cups her mound. The slip is pushed all the way to her armpits and everything is hot and sliding and Cordy pushes her hips up against his hand.

Wet smacks as their kiss is broken and Oz hears her say, "God, Oz. Please. Stop teasing and do it or --"

He didn't know he was teasing, doesn't know what she's threatening; Oz is just grooving on her skin, on the proximity of Devon, on everything unfurling and spiralling around him. He looks up, his focus clattering from the tan expanse of her belly to the knot of Devon-and-Cordelia, far away up there. Redfaced and gasping, Cordy's hand wrapped around the base of Devon's cock, and Oz has to blink several times and he still can't say anything.

"Do it," Devon tells him. "Want to see you - and her --" And it's got to be intense if Devon's having trouble talking dirty.

Oz nods, licks his lips, and Devon helps him tug Cordy's panties down and off. He kisses Oz, hard and fast, before moving back up Cordy's side. Oz is dizzy, half-lying here, his cock straining against his fly and everything's so much. Sweet tangy scent, the red lips down here and dark, crinkly hair, and Devon's dick right there, like it's ogling him. Devon shifts and thrusts, and Oz licks the head of his cock, then Cordy's first finger, and the dizziness eases.

He groans when Cordy nudges his head down and he licks open her inner lips where it's so wet, sweet-salt, and he has his hands braced on her thighs, so he feels as her body tightens and shudders.

Rhythm, Oz thinks, hearing Cordy's hand on Devon's cock, Devon's dirty little grunts, tasting Cordy. Find the rhythm. She clutches at his shoulder and Oz grabs her hand and puts it between her legs.

"Let me see what you like," he says and he's stoned and hungry and feverish, so it takes forever to get the words out.

Oz watches her fingers pluck and strum at her clit, watches them part her lips and slide up and down, bring up more juice, then circle the clit again. He fists Devon's cock and they're watching together, Oz knows, four eyes but one gaze, watching Cordy get herself off, pinching and flicking and when her hips start moving faster, Oz releases Devon and grabs her hand again.

"Fuck --" Cordy stops, maybe Devon's kissing her, Oz doesn't know. He sucks all of her into his mouth, clit and lips, and Cordy rocks beneath him and he thinks he hears Devon cursing. She likes it fast, and touching the right side of her clit makes her twitch and jump, and when Oz tests one finger against her hole, Cordy's hips lift off the bed and drive up against his face.

She's quivering and won't stop and he catches fragments of what Devon's saying to her - "Want to come with you, baby, wanna see you come, come all over your hand, so pretty, Cordy" - as he slides his finger inside and locks his lips around the shaft of her clit. Cordy's rippling and writhing and the sounds of Devon's handjob are getting faster, rougher, and Oz presses another finger inside where it's hot and slick, turning his hand so his thumb grazes the crack of her ass as he rolls her clit over his tongue.

Cordy's yelping, Devon's grunting, and she must really know what she's doing, because Devon rarely lasts this long. Oz's mouth feels swollen, pricked through with tingles, flooded with the taste of her as Cordy clenches inside around his fingers, hard enough that they cross as she tightens more. He keeps his thumb stroking around her ass, half-hearing Devon - "Fuck, just like that, fuck Oz, don't stop, she's fucking crazy, so good, harder Cordy, harder".

Cordy's orgasm barrels down on him both inside, as the wetness doubles and the walls suck him farther in, and outside, as her clit stiffens against his lips. He knows Devon's close, too, hears his staccato, breathy whines, feels the rocking stop, and then, pushing the flat of his tongue harder, Oz hears Cordy shout and Devon curse, feels her tighten and buck and grab his head. She rubs herself fast and sloppy against his face and Devon's grunting, flopping around, and everything's black and red and boiling like sugar water, thick and sweet.

Gasping, Cordy shoves Oz away and he lands against Devon, all fluttering muscles and wet, softening cock. Hungry, disoriented, Oz licks him clean until Devon starts giggling.

"Slut," Devon says, pulling Oz up and grabbing at his crotch. "Such a fucking slut, Osbourne."

"Mmmm. Sluts are good," Cordy says dreamily, turning on her side and hugging Oz. He doubts she's sounded this mellow and sweet since middle school. Devon's kissing him, searching his mouth, and Oz isn't the only one here who loves the taste of sex. "I like sluts."

Cordy pets him softly and Oz has to hold his breath. It's too light, all teasing and slow, and he's sandwiched between them, desperate and hard while they're both loagy and silly from coming.

"Was I right or was I right?" Devon asks.

Oz chews the inside of his cheek.

"You're never right," Cordy says. "But about Oz? Yeah."

"Told you," Devon says smugly.

Cordy kisses the back of Oz's neck, her breasts pushing against his shoulderblades, and whispers in his ear, "You have an amazing mouth."

"Thanks," Oz says. For the first time all night, he's embarrassed; he doesn't really like being talked about, or getting compliments. It makes him wiggly.

"You so owe me," Devon says.

"No," Cordy says. "But I owe him, definitely."

Someone's squeezing his cock through his pants and Oz keeps his eyes closed. If he sees, he might lose it.

"Owe me, too," Devon says. "Taught him everything he knows."

"You've gone down on me," Cordy says. "Never felt anything like that."

"But -"

Oz starts laughing, all his horniness fizzing into hysteria, and he can't stop. "Dev, man. Such bullshit."

Devon looks offended, and hurt, all pouting mouth and rapidly-blinking eyes. Oz kisses the pout, still giggling, and Devon holds himself rigid for several moments before he relaxes into Oz, his mouth opening and warming. He's easy to please, always has been.

Oz feels his skin tighten as his muscles go loose, feels Devon roll him onto his back, fingers playing with his nipples as Cordy opens his pants. The geometry of it is too confusing, constantly sliding out of place, but Devon's kissing him and Cordy's teasing his cock and Oz wants to say - something. Ask for more, thank them, but he's melting and drowning and twisting around.

When Cordy licks the head of his dick, Oz snaps into clarity for a second, sharp sensation rocketing through him. She smiles up at him. "Bet I'm better than Devon."

Oz shakes his head. "That's a tough race --"

Devon pulls Oz's knee up, freeing him from one pantleg and cupping his balls. Oz is shaking and stupid from need, words forming then evaporating into the syrup of sensation flooding through him.

"Think it was Gandhi, or maybe Chuck D, who said," Devon starts, squeezing one of Oz's ass cheeks as Cordy does something very complicated with her tongue over the side of Oz's shaft, "Can't we all get along? Maybe it was Jesus, I don't know."

Oz knows he's wrong, but the sentiment is appreciated, very welcome, and, anyway, his tongue is too thick to be of any use right now.

"Hey, Cordy, toss me the lube --"

Cold air on his cock as Cordy moves her mouth away. Oz tries not to whimper, and fails. "What does this look like? A Reno whorehouse? I don't have any lube."

Oz opens his mouth, closes it, and the shivers careening through him kick up into a higher gear. "Sheep - sheep --"

"What?" Devon asks. It's his laughing voice, and he bites Oz's nipple, shakes at it like a puppy while he runs his thumb over Oz's balls. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Sheep - nonallergenic - milk -"

Devon snorts and blows a raspberry on Oz's sternum. "Fucking tripping, man."

"Milk," Oz gets out.

"Oh, for God's sake," Cordy says and the mattress lifts as she stands up. "My sheep's milk lotion? Is that what you want?"

Eyes squeezed shut, cock twitching against his belly, Oz nods vehemently. "Label. Says nonaller- allergen -"

"I'll get it," Cordy says and maybe she's exasperated, but Oz is way too far gone to tell.

Devon's giggling again, settling against Oz's side, rolling Oz's balls against his palm. "Got a weird beauty-product fetish, you know that?"

Oz is still nodding, opening his legs to Devon's teasing fingers, opening his mouth, hoping Devon will kiss him again. He wants to dissolve, feel all the tension singing through him snap and break and let him go.

"Gonna fuck you," Devon says hoarsely when the mattress dips as Cordy returns. The word alone is enough to knife up Oz's gut and make him groan. "Yeah. Gonna fuck you, right here --"

"You're what?" Cordy says.

Everything stops.

No one's touching him, he's naked and hard and cold, and nothing's happening.

"Not with my dick," Devon says finally, as if that should be obvious. "Duh. You want to watch or you want to help?"

Cold, not touched, the air freezing in his lungs.

"Please?" Oz croaks.

Ages before Cordy answers. "I'll help."

Devon's warm, familiar weight settles back against Oz. His breath is furnace-hot on Oz's face. "She likes watching boys kiss. Kiss me. Let her see."

Grunting, Oz nearly smashes his nose into Devon's, and Cordy starts touching his cock again, and it all starts up again, double-time. Kissing Devon, biting down on his tongue, shaking against him, trying not to thrust against Cordy's soft, wet mouth, then pushing back against the slick fingers in his crack and around his hole. Oz is fragmented, flying away and apart into mouth, cock, ass, sliding recklessly around, and Cordy's mouth is as soft as Devon's on Oz's own, sucking tight, her nails scraping his chest as hard as Devon's fingers pushing inside him.

His nerves are giving birth to new nerves, exponential sensation, sweat and sparks and syrup. The familiar - Devon, fucking Devon with the smart mouth and long, intelligent fingers - mixes drunkenly with the new - Cordelia, luscious and mindblowingly talented at his, and Oz can still taste her, expensive candy and whiskey, in the back of his throat - and he's not a third wheel.

No third wheel, and not a chaperone any more, either, but the life of the party, clutching at Devon's head, rocking against the sucking tension of Cordy's mouth and pushing down on Devon's fingers as they stroke him fast and confident.

His back arches, ass driving down as his cock pulses longer and hotter, and he's drawing tight as a bow, arching, arching, until it's long past time for him to break.

Devon bites Oz's lip, Cordy swallows hard, and Oz finally snaps.

Finally, endlessly. He comes from his gut, from the center of his spine, breaking and shooting away. Rockets, flares, illegal highway-stand fireworks.

Oz shouts and flails, then sinks. Falling into himself, and melting, as weights shift around him, voices hum, and Oz grins.

His mouth and ass burn and tingle, the air around his cock still shakes a little with after-images, and he has maybe thirteen braincells left.

"Need a cigarette," he says.

"Need a drink," Cordy says.

"Need another round," Devon says.

"Asshole," Cordy says cheerfully.

Someone pulls a quilt over Oz and he murmurs happily. Cordelia's head is on his shoulder and her hair smells like wildflowers. Happy, thick-headed and doofy, he nuzzles her hair and says, "You're a good hostess."

"But was I better than him?" she asks.

"You're a good team," Oz says. He hopes it makes sense. Devon drapes himself over Oz's other side and takes too much quilt. Oz turns his head - it takes a lot of concentration - and kisses Devon's damp cheek. "And you're --"

"Best friend you'll ever have," Devon says smugly.

"Yeah," Oz says, flexing his toes and rolling his head against the pillow. "Totally."

He got between them; that's pretty funny. He hopes they're reconciled, although Devon's second round is an idea worth considering.


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