Sunnydale, 1998: Phases, continued
Continued from here.
The kiss sinks and reverberates all the way through Oz, right down the center, deep and dark and warm; Giles' words, quiet and serious, accompanied by that careful squint, just twist the sensation that much deeper, that much hotter. Oz can only nod and kiss Giles again with a dry mouth and clattering heartbeat, his hand opening and closing in Giles' hair like a beached fish gasping for air.
"Yeah, I fancy," he says. He's feeling everything so much more immediately, more sharply than usual, and it's not like he's usually dulled or anything, but with all the fear of the past several days, the occasional clutches of sudden tension, like Giles' just now, it's as if they set off the simple, good things -- laughter, lust -- and sharpen and brighten them almost unbearably.
Giles, shirtless, khaki's undone, arms bound behind him: The image grows and looms, silver-bright, and Oz can *hear* the gasps that Giles makes when Oz moves his hands over him, tastes and licks, strokes and scratches. But arranging those gasps, orchestrating them, that's something altogether different, and he's flushing again, seeing Giles' shining eyes and wet, open mouth.
"Oh -" Oz squirms; he can't help it, his skin is tightening and his breath's already rasping through his chest. "Oh, *man*. Could work both ways, yeah?"
Giles likes to hold him down, likes to draw things out with looks and the firm pressure of his hands, and now Oz is starting to think about making that explicit. About tying down and being still, and Giles moving over him, fierce and needy and in control.
"Jesus."
Oz has gone pink again, but this time it's different. Parted lips and quick breaths, hips rolling, and he's looking at Giles like he's never heard of shyness. Beautiful flush to his skin, pink and creamy like the inside of a seashell, and Giles can feel the heat of it when he kisses Oz's chest, just above the shirt button. He drags his mouth up inch by inch, pulse point, adam's apple, chin, and then Oz's lips, soft and hot and open. Wet mouth, the taste of cloves and ginger and honey, salt and dandelion stems, and Oz sucks his tongue and grips the back of his neck.
Giles tugs Oz's shirt (his shirt, like Oz is wearing his skin, wearing him) open, hearing pops and bounces as buttons scatter everywhere. Fevered, swollen skin under his hand, blush extending down and down almost to Oz's belly. All that heat, stored up and ready and freed now at the merest word, and what will Oz be like when it's real cuffs and straps?
"Oh yes," Giles says when he can break the kiss. "Both ways. Any way you want. You want me to tie you too?" Oz's head falls back and his hips jerk forward. "I will. Tie your wrists," and he catches Oz's wrists, crosses them, raises them over his head, "tie your ankles, stretch you out on the bed. And then I'll touch you"--brush of fingers over Oz's nipple--"like this, and kiss you"--lips trailing along the collarbone--"like this, and lick you"--slow swipe of the tongue up his neck--"like this. On and on, and you'll beg me to fuck you. And I will. Gentle and slow, and then hard and fast, and you'll come and come until there's nothing left."
Oz is shaking, eyes closed, and when Giles lets his wrists go he tumbles forward, clinging and panting in Giles' ear.