|RSA Main||Fiction by Title||Fiction by Author||Fiction by Partners||Slash Subplots||Familiar Faces||Links|
Reply to The ShiverPosted to the RoswellSlash mailing list July 22, 2001
Title: Techno Opera
Author: The Shiver
E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org, email@example.com
Summary: Devon and Michael have sex.
Spoilers: Uh. None, pretty much.
Category: Slash, crossover
Disclaimer: Not our people.
Archiving: DWYC. Others please ask.
HTML version: http://www.tentative.net/sascha/stories/techno.htm
Date: July 12, 2001
[Archivist's note: I only started watching Buffy last year, and didn't know who Devon was. For the rest of the Buffy-impaired, I quote Sascha, "I believe Devon appeared in season two and possibly later. He's the lead singer of Dingos Ate My Baby (Oz's band), and did at one point date Cordelia. He's also one of Oz' oldest friends."]
This is a... weird place.
Devon doesn't really mind weirdness, but he is used to a more subtle kind. Sunnydale often actually pulls off the lovely small town guise, if you don't hang too much around Oz's friends. Which isn't really his scene. Here, though, the cafe has a really wrong feeling to it, the burger is worse than anything the Bronze has ever managed to whip up, and a blond girl in an antenae headband keeps sending weird looks at the guy slouched across the table from him. Also, it is the middle of the day, no vampire-sufficient shadow for miles and no way into the diner from underground -- he's checked, Sunnydale born and raised -- and the nape of his neck is still prickling like a stoned, step- dancing ant nest.
Money is money, though. He raises an eyebrow at the guy across the table, looking him over. Pretty. Huh. "I've got your pics."
He's still not sure why he couldn't have just mailed them instead of gone all the way to godforsaken Roswell, of all places, but the costumer knew best. Probably. Maybe. Well, he is here now at any rate. With a pile of photos of the old house on Main and Hagen. Dev has no idea what the guy wanted with those, and was fairly sure he didn't want to know either.
The guy, around Dev's age, possibly a bit younger, nods. "Show me."
Faintly incredulous look. "No way. I want to see for myself first. Make sure these aren't fake or anything."
Customer may always be right, and insulting him's not really a productive idea, but there *are* limits. "Why would I fake pictures of an old house?"
The guy looks vaguely mistrustful, or he might just be having cramps. "Okay, tell you what. You show me two. No touching, you hold'em. Then I give you the money, you give me everything. We have a deal?"
"Deal." He puts his hand into the envelope and pulls out two pictures. Half of the photos are in black and white, the rest are in colour. The guy wanted it that way. God knew why. Those Dev fishes out of the envelope are black and whites. He holds them up for the guy to see. "Okay?"
There's a startled look on his face, and he leans forth, almost pressing his face against the first photo. Dev pulled back a little. The guy drops back down in his seat, and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that's perfect. Look. Here's the thing... I haven't got your money."
The guy looks vaguely uncomfortable. "I don't have your money."
"I got that part the first time." He's not really sure how to handle this. This is a business transaction. He did what he was supposed to do. No fondling the merchandise, no anything. Locos are supposed to pay up without a fuss.
The guy sighs, tilts his head. "Look, I don't have the kind of money that makes people make interstate drives, okay? And this was really important." he hesitates, briefly, than shuts up, pursing his lips unhappily. He really is kinda gorgeous, Devon reflects, now that more of his attention is on the kid and less on the money and the prospects of getting the hell out of dodge, effective immediately.
"Well," Devon says slowly, putting the photos back into the envelope. "Then, I'm keeping the photos. And you better come up with some way to repay me. For gas, at least. Otherwise, I'm gonna make your life very uncomfortable."
Dev isn't quite sure how he'd manage that threat, but he figures a threat is better than no threat at all, and might make the guy discover some cash he hadn't been aware of having.
The guy looks uncomfortable. Not quite squirming, but definitely uncomfortable. Good. At least Dev isn't alone about it. Doesn't help much, but it does make him feel slightly less ridiculous.
"Listen. Even gas, that's a lot of money," the guy says.
Devon does his best to glare, which is kinda off, probably. Been a while since he's last tried being actually annoyed at someone. Oz is the kind of person who, sooner or later, rubs off on you. Sneakily. And then he's gone, and you're left with more laid-back attitude than you know what to do with.
But that's never been the plan. And rubbing off, that shoulda been a good thing. But laid back, while it's a good thing, doesn't solve all problems of life, like, you still have hungry kids in, like, Japan, and shit. And this kind of crap would never happen to Oz. -- Deep inside, he knows if it did, Oz would just smile, shrug, drive or hitch hike or walk out of town. Be okay. But Oz, he kinda believes, is at least half animal. Part cat. Always landing on his feet. We can't all be Oz; the laid back thing without the stuff to back it up, that's just fake, pale imitation. Unless you have the original by your side to back you up, and he doesn't have that anymore.
He misses Oz. It's very simple, really. There is no Oz around -- haven't been for a while now -- and so Devon misses him. "Look, bottom line is, I don't get my money, I'm stuck here." Devon plays with the salt shaker on the table, needing something to occupy his hands, and he's not sure if smoking's allowed here. He glances up at the kid.
The guy runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He shakes his head. "I'm broke, okay? I mean. Seriously broke. I've, like, five dollars to my name or something."
"Okay. Hand'em over."
The guy looks him over, apparently trying to surmise how much chance he has to get off even this lousy hook. Devon ponders plans. Find out if the kid can play, sing or dance and go out to sidewalk-play. Oooh, maybe he can get him to strip-dance to really early Nirvana. That's pretty sure to draw a few looks. Definitely from that blond girl, now wiping down the counter, who's much, much past the limits of good taste by now, even by Devon standards, which are more or less 'do what you feel like, man.'
Maybe he can take him to Sunnydale with him, hitch hiking or something, and sell him to the vampires as a slave. Or, since the vamps don't really need any slaves or any help getting their snack food, as a lab rat for Oz's ex girlfriend and her new squeeze.
Having apparently decided that he can't get out of this, the guy sighs deeply and pulls out a very worn wallet. He opens it and turns it upside down on the table. A few dollars flutter slowly down. "Here."
Dev picks up the dollars and counts them. The guy'd been mistaken. He'd had seven dollars. Which would get Devon absolutely nowhere. It's his turn to sigh deeply now. He rubs the bridge of his nose, then looks over at the pseudo-costumer. "What's your name?"
He blinks in surprise. "Michael. Why?"
Devon shrugs. "Well, Michael, we better think up some pretty good way for you to get me that money. I'm even willing to help. I don't really like your digs. No offence."
"None taken." The kid -- Michael -- looks more distressed every minute, and Devon wonders if it's any show of how much he believes that wonderfully vague threat from before. How long it takes before he decides to just take the risk and leave this toothbrush-less out- of-town guy to his own. It's not a nice thought.
"Look." This is the voice of a man trying to sound Calm and Reasonable. "If I could get that kinda money, I would have a long time ago. What do you think we can do, wash dishes for ten bucks a plate? I don't know what kinda place exactly Sunnydale is, but here, there's not all that many choices around." And then, Devon can see something pass through his eyes, like maybe he remembers something he *did* hear about Sunnydale or maybe it's just that the blond girl threw him another look, now serving table behind Dev's shoulder so it's not like he can turn and check, and his ability to pretend she doesn't exist is wearing thinner all the time. Something. His voice gets a little lower than before, whatever it is, and a lot more urgent. "It's not like I'm going to rob the bank or steal a car for you, okay, because no way can you make my life *that* uncomfortable. I can't *do* anything, I mean if you want I'd blow you behind the bushes or whatever to make it up to you, but I just don't have that kind of money --"
Devon looks thoughtful.
Michael catches his look and stutters to a stop. Incredulous. "You...You want me to BLOW YOU?!"
Devon can't help the grin that spreads on his face, and then the blonde girl is there, frowning at them. "Is there a problem here."
"No," Michael says. "Go away."
The girl's look changes, wary glare at Devon becoming indignant glare directed at Michael. "Look, I just thought --" And then her face changes again, tightens. "Whatever."
She stalks off.
"Huh," Devon says, and watches her ass as she reaches the counter.
"You want her to blow you?"
When Devon turns back in surprise, he sees a calculating, and, quite frankly, disturbing look on Michael's face. Dev frowns. "What?"
"Because I could arrange for that. If I get the pictures."
Devon maybe stares a little. It's not the first time he hears something like that, per se, but never before so... bluntly put. Shameless.
He could dig this kid, although he doesn't think he ever wants him to ever get anywhere near Devon's back.
Right now, though, the guy needs something from him, and is maybe a little afraid still. That's a good power balance. But --he can see something in those eyes shift again, and this is nothing Oz ever taught him, although in some other way Oz would probably have seen this too. Devon recognizes, more gut reflex than anything, the tentative confidence starting, like Michael is somehow feeling he's starting to regain some control of the situation.
Shoulda made sure you don't give away all your cards if you wanted to have a good hand, he probably would have said if he ever gave thought to metaphors like that. As it is, he says, instead, "Nah. I like the first option better." And he smiles, maybe something in his own eyes shifting, maybe something different he learned from Oz, or maybe he's just imagining. The guy looks a little startled.
Michael blinks. "You. Seriously?"
He shrugs lazily. Not all serious, but not all kidding, either. He does need the money, he wasn't joking about that, but Michael is... pretty. Intense pretty. And the offer is tempting.
There's a lot going on behind Michael's eyes now. His face doesn't show much more than Oz ever does, so Devon's fallen back on old Oz habits of keeping focus on the eyes. Dev's not sure if he believes the saying that the eyes are a window to the soul, but at least he can keep track of the shifting emotions that way. Michael shows mostly calculation and fear. Odd mix. If the fear part becomes too obvious, Dev thinks he might back off.
He's not the type to force people. Scare them. Never done anything for him, and this isn't worth it.
The calculation seems steady for now, though, in to stay, and he thinks maybe hey can talk business. Wasn't him who brought up sex, after all.
Not pushing, though. He raises an eyebrow. Watches things shift and melt behind unreadable expression, waiting for something to settle.
Finally, the guy furrows his brows, just a little, takes a breath. Steady, self contained, barely registering Devon's even there, not even wondering how he looks. Whether he puts off fear. Strange, something in Devon's head says, towards the back of his mind. Strange in someone who seems so settled on getting out on top.
"You're sure," Michael says, and his eyes are steady. Strangely enough, Devon feels like he's the one being given a last chance out.
"No," Devon says, before he's even aware of saying it. Michael doesn't look entirely surprised, and Dev feels the urge to explain. "I need the money. I came here for the money, not..." He gestures. "But if you haven't got it. Look, I want SOMETHING out of this deal, right?"
There's a small pull at Michael's lips that might be a grin. "Right. And since I really don't have the money..."
"Where's the bushes you were talking about?"
"Actually, there aren't any." Michael looks considering. "Would a bathroom do?"
Devon looks around him. Subtle grease and crusts decoration on a few tables, Antennae-adorned girl brunette behind the counter, one mightily pissed off blond waitress. And a turkey in a pear tree. "What, here?"
Michael looks thoughtful. Looks around him, too, and the corners of his mouth twitch. Good not-really-smile. "Know what? Actually, I know a place. I, uh, have a key."
Devon gives him a wary look. There's something reassuring about how calm he's looking, but also something -- bothersome. Like maybe this is not the kind of guy you want to give any kind of control of any situation you're in, even if you have nothing to lose.
Devon rarely has anything to lose, though, either another thing he's learned off Oz or just a natural trait, and he reminds himself that if he's going to put his dick in this guy's mouth not so long off, maybe there's place for some medicorum of trust. "How far?"
"Not far," Michael says, getting up. He nicks a small tabasco bottle on the way, Dev notes with some surprise. What does he need tabasco for? Mental images of the obscene kind immediately assaults him. "You coming?"
Devon really, really can't help himself. "Not yet."
Michael archs an eyebrow at him and quite pointedly does not sigh.
Devon grins and gets up. "Let's go."
It's a nice house. Classy. A little bigger than his own. Michael doesn't seem to fit in here, for some reason Devon can't really pinpoint. It bothers him a little, that sneaky something, the off factor. Which is strange, because he usually can't say why he thinks anything about anyone, usually doesn't bother to. Why does CJ Davis look too good for you in the exact same dress that makes Jenny Francis look like a slut? She just does. No point trying to explain it. It usually doesn't bother him.
He ignores that fact that, in Sunnydale, ignoring off feelings about people can get you in trouble very fast. This isn't Sunnydale, and as long as he has to stay here, he might as well enjoy this perfectly normal town, freaky diner vibes or not -- and besides, it's broad daylight. And he has a stake in his bag.
They're walking towards the front door, him looking around, Michael presumably taken up with his own thoughts. Then, an arm blocking his way. "Wait here a sec."
Devon lifts an eyebrow. Michael fidgets. "Um, I want to make sure they're not home."
He nods. Waits. Takes the opportunity to check out Michael's ass.
Then he back-tracks. 'Make sure THEY're not home'? Who're they? His parents? Or are they breaking in to some poor unsuspecting folks place? ...With the help of a key. Maybe not. Devon decides to stop worrying about it. Especially since on the worry-o-meter this is rather low. There are so many other interesting things he could worry about. Like, exactly HOW he's going to get the hell out of here.
He tilts his head down, studying his shoes for a moment.
"Come on." Michael sticks his head out through the door. "There's no one here."
Devon follows Michael inside and up the stairs, gazing appreciatively at Michael's arse the whole time. There's a faint blush on Michael's face when he turns around after opening the door into a room, which is a bit surprising.
"So, how you wanna do this?"
Devon shrugs. Doesn't really matter to him, usually. But, coming to think about it, he does have a whole day, and a blowjob does not a full schedule make.
Sure, he can get off and go looking for solutions to the gas situation. But, then, he could also do his level best to get off in a more interesting way, spend the evening or, at worst, tomorrow finding the solution, and leave them both a little more cheerful about the whole thing.
He's always been a generous-spirited individual. Also, he distinctly remembers at least three people telling him, each in their own way, that he could melt the pants off a nun.
He doesn't take the time to try and ponder the logistics of that.
"C'mere," he says instead, and his voice is still regular, a street voice, not a sex voice. He can already feel it in the back of his throat, though, if he swallows, a voice that makes both moans and headboard decoration observations sound like something sexy, feel sexy on the inside of his lips, going out. He's a singer. He knows about voices.
Michael furrows his brows again, looks wary, a little uncertain. Devon doesn't give all that much shit right now about giving ground, though, so he takes two steps forward and kisses him, carefully, one hand fluttering over his hip, one just barely holding his head still. Enough room to back off, and Michael doesn't, just gives a tiny startled gasp against his mouth and stays there.
Devon smiles against Michael's lips, sticking his tongue out to meet Michael's, tastes him. He tastes like tabasco sauce. Mainly that and something that's all Michael probably. Something all sweet and sour and assaulting his senses. Devon gasps and clutches Michael's arse tightly.
Michael makes a small sound and pulls away. He looks. Bewildered, almost. "This isn't a blowjob."
Devon laughs out loud, the hoarseness of his voice confirming that, yes, all brain power on 'sex' now.
Michael pouts. An actual pout. Sexy pout. Devon's attention is fixed on Michael's lips. He licks his lips, unconsciously, then decides, quite consciously, to lick Michael's lips.
The licking of lips causes more startled gasps from Michael.
Devon pulls his head back a little, looking at the somewhat dazed looking face in front of him. "I think you owe me a little more than a blowjob, don't you?"
Michael startles back, eyes blinking the haze away. The hand on his arm, only-just-barely clutching at muscle, is suddenly an iron bar holding him off. "That wasn't the deal --"
Voice going up a little in the end, an almost shout, incredulity and protest. Still kinda breathless, though.
He finds time to wonder what the hell this kid was thinking, going into an empty house with an unfamiliar guy who certainly has some weight on him, not to mention some good reason to be more than a little pissed, fully prepared to get naked and on his knees. Not a lot of time, though. The world is full of the crazy and the thoughtless. Spend a night in Sunnydale, learn some basic truths about life.
"I'm not talking one way here," he says, and moves forward again, not letting the hand on the back of Michael's neck tighten. This is where things get risky. Take the wrong path now, guess wrong, he might not even get his blowjob.
His hand slides up from the hip when Michael fails to move away again, up to smooth a circle on his back, Devon's tongue slipping back in through half-responsive lips. And then he licks Michael's teeth, his palate, and there's another gasp, and he grins against a mobile pretty mouth and lets his hand slide down again, nails just skirting the waistband of the other man's jeans.
The gasp is harsher, now, when he lets one fingertip dip down, just a little, just where it counts most, trail sensitive skin in a promise of where it could dip next.
"I...We..." Michael pulls his face away, tries to talk. Coughs and tries again. "They'll be gone all day."
Devon is still clueless to who They might be, but the whole day part sounds good. He smiles, touching Michael's shoulder with one hand, absently caressing Michael's stomach with the other. Michael shudders against him, eyes glazed. "Good. Um. SOME two-way action might be nice, you know."
Michael's eyes turn sharply focused again and he nods quickly, moving his hands. One ends up on Devon's arse, the other touching his face.
The way Michael's suddenly watching him, makes him self-conscious, not really uncomfortable, just more aware of what he's doing. He tilts his head to share another kiss, lazy, open-mouthed. Michael's good at this when he's not caught unaware.
Devon wonders what else Michael might be good at.
He had contemplated taking leather pants when he left the house, ended up settling on jeans. He's been happy about that for long, long hours now, ever since he realized that yes, home was warm, here was a variation of hell. He's even happier now.
Takes advantage of the very efficient distraction Michael's providing for both of them, takes a tiny step forward, big as he can manage. Full-body meld. Michael doesn't protest, groans into his mouth when he grinds a little, just a little, and denim on denim must be the most unbelievable sensation in the world.
He slides his hand into that ridiculous hair again, applies a subtle suggestion for the other guy to tilt his head a bit. Michael complies, lips curled in a slight, bemused grin, and he can't really see but he has fun imagining the grin change and fall away when he mouths that jaw, swipe of tongue and hint of teeth, slides down to lick a pulse point. Anchoring himself with a hand on Michael's hip and it's really time they got to that nice bed over there.
He wonders how small the chances of scaring Michael off are by now, if the inclusion of furniture before it's absolutely necessary might prove a factor.
Swipes his tongue across the left shoulder, using one finger to stretch the collar as far as it'll go. Salt and sweetness and smooth under his tongue.
And when Michael lets his head fall back just a little further, exposing his neck, and *bucks* against his hips, he figures it's worth it, worth even the possibility of cutting this off, just to see the look on Michael's face when he asks. Draws himself back up, kissing a pulse point with wet sliding lips, and smiles right into the kid's eyes, an achingly slow grin, knows he looks just like he feels, good, and well-placed inside his own skin, and perfectly willing. "So. You feel like fucking?"
And Michael's head jerks back a little in surprise again, but he can actually see his eyes get just that bit darker, and that's a damned good look on him.
Everything's a good look on him, seems like. Hair messed out of all recognition and stupidass styling, pupils dilated, flushed and breathing this one bit more shallowly, and staring at him.
"Yes..." Michael breathes, wide, dilated eyes staring at him. One of Michael's hands slide down Devon's torso, pausing upon reaching the top of his jeans. A slight uncertainty appears in his eyes. "I haven't... got anything."
"I do." Being somewhat of a slut, and Devon knows he is, has taught him that the Boy Scout motto is a good thing. He puts a hand in his jacket pocket and fishes out a condom and a somewhat used tube of strawberry lube.
He holds the items up for inspection. Michael blinks, then nods. He moves his hand to cover the bulge in Devon's pants, stroking, then starts to unbutton them, fumbling a little as he does. Devon tilts his head back, trying to take deep breaths and failing miserably. Michael apparently finds standing up a little difficult and gets down on his knees before he finishes unbuttoning the jeans. He pauses, then touches Devon lightly.
Devon gasps, stumbling back a little.
Michael jerks his hand off, wide eyed. "...What...?"
"Bed," Dev bites out, heading there himself. If there's one thing he can't do, it's stay upraised in the middle of a room while getting a blowjob. Not that he'd ever tried all that hard.
He sits down heavily at the end of the bed, and pulls off his jeans. When you buy them around two sizes too small, they don't slide off by themselves. Michael comes over, kicking a sleeping bag under the bed on the way. He stands there looking down at Dev, breathing quickly.
Devon carelessly tosses the jeans on the floor and reaches out to Michael, pulling him to him by the belt loops of his jeans.
"Shirt," he says, and Michael gives him a blank look. Devon tugs at Michael's shirt -- military green, looks rather good on him, would look better off -- and Michael gets the idea.
The shirt is quickly discarded, and Devon's jacket and white shirt follows before Michael steps out of his pants.
He wants to stop and look all this skin over, he really does, but he's pretty fucking sure if something isn't done *soon* he is, numerous previous proof to the opposite nonwithstanding, going to die. And Michael is folding down again, graceful and completely unaware, jeans still on, and fuck, but that doesn't seem like a very important fact now.
And then mouth on his stomach, hot and wet and unrelenting, and as many times as he has been through this it never gets old, ever, none of it. And fuck, but has Michael done this before, because gentle teeth on the edge of his belly button and he's either drawing on experience here or seriously gifted.
And that just brings up questions of further skills again, and he can feel his brain short-circuit, trying to handle both coherent thought and a hundred thousand nerve endings all screaming at once.
Long fingers tighten on his hips, dig in, and Michael nuzzles lower, deeper, almost into the slit in his boxers. He squeezes his eyes shut, head thrown back, and wishes he's gone commando.
Opens his eyes again a burst of warm breath, probably not strong enough to be intentional and he can't believe he's still capable of making conclusions of any kind. He stares up at white white ceiling and fluorescent light, sees the nonexistant afterimage of the grooves those fingers are digging in his hips, the marks they're going to leave on pale skin. Not strong enough to hurt, but he marks easy.
And then actual contact, just the flutter of lips on the side of his dick, and he can't hold back a moan, head and shoulders rocking to fall forward again in some fucked up almost-prayer.
The kid's head raises, and he actually *grins* at him, bemused and delighted. Devon would have loved to smile back, but he hasn't really got the will power right now, or the muscle control, and he finds himself almost *growling*.
Doesn't have the requisite control to give directions, either, to ask or to *beg*, none of which he has much problem with in general and most definitely not right now. Something in his eyes much pass the almost-pleading desperation well enough, though, because Michael moves in again, still grinning.
Michael mouths him, clawing at his stomach like a cat, testing out his technique, figuring out what Devon likes by his moans... and the helpless gripping at his hair might've been a hint too, Devon realises and forces his fists open and let go of Michael's hair.
The tight grip on his hip lightens. Oh, that's going to leave marks. He doesn't care. Michael certainly doesn't care.
Light scrape at his dick and he yelps. "No teeth!"
Michael licks him in apology, and Dev leans back. Way back. On his back, in fact. And it's probably a sign of how far gone he is, when he finds that line of thought amusing.
Michael crawls on top of him, placing still jeansclad thighs on each side of his torso and muscular arms on each side of his head, before leaning down to kiss him.
Devon can taste himself and tabasco sauce. Interesting combination. He licks Michael's mouth to get a better taste.
"Fuck you..." Michael says, and it takes Devon at least a few seconds to realise it's a question. He nods, placing his hand on Michael's jeans and tugging.
Michael rolls off him and wriggles out of the jeans. Oh look. Commando. Brave kid. Or stupid. Devon really doesn't care. He reaches out to Michael and pulls him on top of him again, groaning at the skin to skin contact. Devon puts his hands on Michael's waist. "This way?"
Michael is panting, head buried in Devon's neck. He pulls back, raising himself up on his arms again, looks down with eyes that are even more dazed than before. "What? -- Oh. Oh. Sure. Um."
Devon waits patiently as Michael chews on his lip, not moving, looking down at him. Not much he can do with the other body pinning his to the mattress. He manages to give a little pump with his hips, encouragement, starts to ask what's going on, when Michael snaps back on line. "I don't -- How?"
Devon stares. He can't really tell if the boy has ever so much as made out with a guy before, but this is the twenty first century. Everybody knows how gay sex goes.
Michael actually laughs, sounding embarrassed and turned on and perplexed. "Shouldn't you turn around, or something? I'm not gonna hump your navel."
Devon is surprised to find himself laughing back, since he's pretty sure he can't remember how his throat works. How any of him works but joints and dick, maybe tongue. Not quite *at* Michael, but that's a distinction he's not really up to making right now.
And really, can't spare the time right now for any sort of demonstration, and he reaches down to stroke Michael's cock twice, squeeze it once, and the questioning grin becomes a groan, edges ragged, and he starts to turn around, then decides not to take any chances of more hold ups and reaches for the condom.
A glazed look follows his hand, then Michael catches on to what he's trying to reach and leans over him, giving Devon ample opportunity to appreciate Michael's chest and wonder how the hell the condom and the lube ended up by the headboard.
Michael dips his head down for a kiss on the way back.
Then crawls off him to let him turn around, which is what he does, making a face of half pleasure, half pain when his cock comes in contact with the bedspread. Michael licks and kisses his way down Devon's back, pausing when he reaches his arse. Devon wiggles it enticingly, hopefully. He jerks slightly in surprise when a warm, wet tongue circles him though. He hadn't really expected... Not that he is complaining, mind you. He gasps out loud.
Michael backs off. "You okay?"
What kind of fucked up question was that? Devon blinks. "Yeah. More."
Michael laughs, hard, ragged... delighted? And (the Gods like Devon, he decides) puts his tongue right back where it was.
It's the most incredible sensation, somehow both not quite enough and too much and *just right*, and then Michael's tongue hits his sweet spot, right deep in there, and he knows that he screams and bucks, knows it in a vague way, except for where his dick bumping against rough fabric isn't really vague at all.
He's nerve endings. That's all he is.
He can hear Michael breathing, here and there, between his own breaths roaring through his ears. He draws back a few times, momentarily, and Devon will maybe really get off later on the image of him licking his lips, swallowing, going back. Later.
His technique might be sloppy, or he might not have any technique at all but excellent instincts, or he might be just great all around, or... no question of evaluating this, now. Tongue smoothing across his prostate again, and the seas shake and there's fire in the sky, gold and purple fire.
Devon moans, maybe screams again, throat tight in a way that's maybe pleasant and maybe painful. Oh god.
He knows he can come this way, right here, and somewhere in the back of his brain he wants to remind Michael about the actual fucking, wants to feel it, Michael smooth and close against his back, all that skin glittering against his own, screaming by his ear when he squeezes down. He bets he can make this pretty boy sing.
Or would have bet, if he had the brain power. As it is, he can just about choke out, "Michael --" And doesn't care at all if it sounds like a wail.
"Do you... Should I...?" Michael says against his back, caressing his arse with his fingers.
Devon shakes his head, panting. No. No, it's not necessary. Not now, for christ's sake.
And Michael pulls away completely, and Devon whimpers at the loss of skin contact. He hears the tear of the packet the condoms in and thinks 'yes'.
"Fuck me," he says, impatient. Not all together clear whether he's actually speaking the words out loud until Michael smoothes a hand down his side, muttering, "Yes."
Michael's inside him a few breaths after. Devon closes his eyes, smiles, bending his head down and pushing back. Michael's leaning forth over his back, biting his shoulder lightly. Devon shudders.
This is good. This is... He almost doesn't regret not getting the money.
Michael's breath is warm, and the shallow, quick breathing matches Devon's perfectly.
And then almost at once there's a hand on his dick, a mouth on the back of his ear, and Michael is shuddering against his back, labored breath escaping from between wet lips trailing his earlobe.
One last surge forward, the hand squeezing, slippery, incredible, teeth at his ear, prickly and light. He comes with a grunt, half muffled against the pillow, and the body against his takes another pump, another -- he can feel himself squeezing down, all his muscles inside and out wanting to clamp with the unbelievable rush moving all over him and through and through. Clamping down, one more grind, and then Michael goes rigid against him and oh, oh yeah, he knew he could make him scream.
Harsher pants against his ears now, both of them trying to catch their breath, and the kid must not have even one bone in his body with the way he manages to lay melted against Devon's back.
He turns his head, finally, already feeling the heaviness setting in. That tongue, familiar enough by now, swipes a lazy trail up his neck. He's sweaty all over, realizes it when the pelvis above his own moves, and Michael pulls out, and after a few seconds all of Michael lifts up and disappears from the bed. He wants to offer his help, but he's too damned sleepy, and by the sound of it Michael must have screwed enough to, at least, know what to do with a used condom.
He's spent most of today driving, the rest arguing or fucking. This bed is so fucking comfortable.
Michael comes back to the bed, and he realizes he'll probably be told to get up, that he needs to get up anyway, start working on that miracle gas money. But Michael just settles in again, touching-not- touching, just far enough. Devon feels the sweat pulling in the small of his back, down the backs of his thighs. They should have turned on the air conditioning.
On a whim, he coaxes his cement heavy head up one more time, leans forward and kisses the kid full on the lips, licking at them until he's granted entrance. Michael goes still, as though from everything they had done this is the most surprising, but he relaxes against him once Dev catches hold of his lower lip, the pouting sexy one, and nibbles on it. Kisses him back, moves along, some noise in the back of his neck suspiciously akin to purring.
Once they pull back, though, he moves away again, not attempting any contact, and Devon figures it doesn't really matter much.
He falls asleep with Michael's breath fanning across his mouth. Sharing breath, he remembers that. Probably some song. They're not, though, they're each breathing their own, and he knows this because he's felt each of their breathes enough that they're utterly familiar, and he can recognize the taste.
Just before he drifts off he hears Michael's voice, low and a little ragged and fucked out, calm and content, saying, "Well, this should be fun."
He sleeps right until the door opens again and even past that, sprawled by a naked Michael on sheets stained both by his cum and their sweat, in a bed that might be Michael's and might be some total stranger's, in a city that isn't his own and that makes his spooky sense tingle in ways he doesn't recognize.
Michael's breath tastes good, and when his arm ends up resting against Devon's stomach, somewhere in the night, it's heavy and warm and comfortable.
Send comments to the authors
Return to Top