Looped, pretzelled, tangled - Oz's arm around Giles' leg, Giles' hands in Oz's hair, and Oz circles and nudges his finger, tip to knuckle, rocking it against the soft, slickened skin and its wrinkles whorling down to the dark center. Caverns, he's thinking, and currents swirling through shadows, sending up streams of cries from Giles' mouth. Rocking in time with the heartbeat clattering in his ears and through Giles' arteries, faster and more urgently until he's inside and Giles is lifting, pulling him deeper, and everything careens forward
( ... )
It's so much, the spread and pressure of Oz's cock, filling Giles to his tight-stretched skin, displacing his own flesh and nerves and everything until all that's left is Oz. Oz inside him, pushing deeper and deeper as Giles hooks his knees over Oz's shoulders, letting him in, taking what's given. Fullness and burn, shimmering between pleasure and pain, start down behind his balls and twist through his cock, up his spine in looping white ribbons.
So much, so full, and then Oz moves, face clenched and eyes ember-bright, arms circling Giles' thighs. Giles groans as Oz pulls back, a long whimpered complaint at the emptiness, the lonely hollowed-out space in his body, and then again when Oz instantly stills and looks at him, reaches a hand up to stroke his belly soothingly. "I'm all right," he says, laying his hand over Oz's and guiding it down past his navel, over the deep inner ache where Oz's cock was, down into rough hair and along the hot, thin skin of his own cock. Oz echoes his moan, trembles, and Giles says, "Please. Need you so
( ... )
As many times as he's replayed the several times they did this, Oz is certain he's never seen Giles quite like this, tense skin stretched over shaking, tugging need, his face entirely open and throat working as he swallows air greedily. He's stretching out, back, farther and farther from Oz, long ribboned expanse of shining skin, even as he cants his hips and claws at Oz, bringing him closer. A face like grief, washed with light and sweat, open, so open, but Oz has seen enough grief to know that this is its opposite, need and love and joy
( ... )
Giles wants to answer, but the words are squeezed to nothing, pinpricks, atomic nuclei, black holes, by the pressure of Oz's cock inside him. Rough, fast pull and slide, every thrust burning up through his gut and chest and throat, scraping him empty and filling him, and he wants to pull Oz down and in, break his own skin open and take him inside, everywhere
( ... )
Giles is a long, twisting glare of sweat and skin, whipping up, then falling back as he comes in hard, rapid bursts, spatters so hot they burn like ice.
Beauty and terror surge over his face, then slap back, numbingly hot, against Oz, sweeping him forward. Release and freedom, a rush of air and light, and it's like Oz is seeing him for the first time, fully human and naked. Like Giles, in the full sluice of pleasure, is calling him, winding around him, urging him on.
Nets and sirens, and Oz collapses, banging his face and elbows on Giles, the mattress, the corner of a sidetable, as Giles' body swivels beneath him. The pulses of his orgasm jolt along Oz's cock, up his spine, yanking him inside out, and he comes with a pleading howl against the salt and heat of Giles' chest. Yowl, twist, push, coming until black hearts throb against his eyelids.
This is another home, familiar already even though it's new, Giles wrapped around him, flarebright and wet, aftershocks staggering and twitching through him. His skin is rent, his mouth
( ... )
From the deep ocean to the tidal pool, shallow and still, warm with the sun. Giles' body is heavy and loose, even though his legs creak and twinge when he unwinds them from around Oz's waist and stretches out. Pleasure flutters and ripples under his skin, jolts into echoed heat whenever Oz moves, even when he pulls out. Giles kisses him, rubs his face in Oz's hair, and even the separation, the emptiness, is bearable. Oz is here, heavy and solid on his chest, almost as close as he can be, and Giles' body still remembers the rest in tingling soreness and dark, drifting pleasure.
He drags a corner of the duvet over Oz, who's getting goosebumps, and works his fingers slowly up through Oz's hair, from his ear to the crown of his head. "Christ, Oz, you - so good. It felt so good having you inside me."
Where did you learn to fuck like that? he thinks, because Oz wasn't a shy boy this time, nervous of hurting Giles, nervous of failing in obscure or obvious ways. He was confident, adult, experienced. But the one thing, the only thing, Giles
( ... )
Oz ducks his head and rubs his face against Giles' chest before answering.
"I know," he says, pulling himself up a little higher, curling his arm around Giles' waist. "Anything, everything. Like telling you, you know." Giles grins slowly at that, half-hungrily and half-laughingly, and amid the aches and throbbing afterimages, Oz feels a flood of warmth through his body at the sight. "Tell you, show you, ask you."
Giles squirms down a little, eyes scanning Oz's face, and Oz breathes in slowly as he draws his palm down the center of Giles' chest, swabbing away sweat and come, smoothing over the scars.
"Meant it -" Oz squints a little, making sure he doesn't look away, feeling the stories and words regroup and solidify in his mind, form in the back of his mouth. "Love your body, love how it feels -" He kisses the hollow of Giles' collarbone across to his throat and looks up again. "Love touching you and fucking you. Pleasure and all that stuff, trying new things. You gave me that, showed me all of that
( ... )
Giles blinks hard, swallows once and then again, and concentrates on smoothing nonexistent lines around Oz's eyes and tracing the angled plane of his cheekbone. He's been crying too much these last few days, overflowing with tears that have gone blocked and unshed since Angelus broke his hands, his courage, and his self-respect. Oz has borne it all, tender and infinitely strong, talking Giles out of his shame, letting him weep himself sick and helpless. But he's not going to make Oz see him cry again now, when they're happy.
Oz must see the shine of his eyes and the working of his throat, but he just rubs a knuckle along Giles' jaw, kisses him, and doesn't say anything.
It's not so long, really, before Giles can answer, although his voice wobbles scratchily. "You were so young." Young enough that Giles formed him, changed him forever. Wouldn't be me without you. But Giles was himself before Oz, and for a moment that seems unfair, selfish. "I'm much too old for you. If I were twenty years younger I'd be too old for you, or nearly
( ... )
Giles' words thrum inside Oz's mouth and Oz kisses him again, sliding his palm over sweaty hair, kisses him until he feels Giles relax underneath him. Just a fraction, a slip and settle against the pillow, and Oz smiles as he draws back.
"Just love you," he says quietly. "Don't be sorry." He's said that more times than he can count in the last few days, holding Giles, feeling him weep his guts out, shake and cry so hard that Oz was half-convinced Giles was being shredded from the inside out, and there were so many apologies, for so many sins, to so many people, gushing, flooding them both. Oz couldn't do anything but hold on, tell Giles he was safe, tell him it wasn't all his fault. I'm sorry, he wants to say now, wants to give Giles everything he needs, wants to erase four years of absence
( ... )
Someday, Giles hopes, it will be amusing to remember how they stumbled and floundered, tangled in dragging iron fears. How Oz's fears were the inverse and corrective of his own, so that each held the other's key if only they'd had sense enough to know.
Slowly, Giles draws a hand down the length of Oz's body, the dip of his neck and the sudden cliff of his shoulder, the long ridge of arm, side, and hip. "I never thought of you as a kid." Half-belying his own words, he tickles Oz's arse until he laughs and squirms, then splays his fingers through the soft, fine hair on his thighs. "You were never childish. Not like Xander, or . . . or the others." Neither of the names he nearly spoke, Willow and Buffy, would be good to mention now.
It's getting dark; Giles moves his hand away long enough to switch on the lamp, then settles it back on Oz's hip, thumb curved over the bone. Oz sighs and moves infinitesimally closer, his breath warm on Giles' cheek. "I worried that you would notice I was more than twice your age. That you'd-" And then he
( ... )
Oz tips his head forward, memory creeping slowly as a blush over his face and chest, and his hips roll under Giles' touch. When he sighs, because Giles' fingers are warm and strong, Giles chuckles a little. Giles is playing the game he did at lunch, straining for relaxation, ignoring pain - you left - and Oz takes up his side, wraps his arm more snugly around Giles' waist
( ... )
This is better. Every kiss and touch, every naughty joke and answering smile is another stone in the wall they're building between themselves and the unbearable past. Let that past be another country absolutely, let it go to wild and waste and roaming barbarians, so long as he and Oz are safe here, behind the wall. Giles nips at Oz's lower lap, rolls it between his teeth, raises the wall a little more. Razor wire, guard towers, minefields--Giles wants no sorrow creeping over in the darkness
( ... )
When Oz laughs, his chest hurts and his eyes water, and he can't stop. The image of Giles in chaps and Sam Browne belt, wielding a flogger and glaring over the top of mirrored sunglasses is both ridiculous and so awesome that he wants to double over.
"Not bullwhips, no," Oz says when he gets a few breaths in. Giles is looking at him, puzzled and amused, eyes narrowing in mock-frustration. "But what would you say, Mr. Giles -" He nudges Giles' shoulder backward and throws his leg over Giles' waist until he's straddling Giles again, laughing and dropping kisses randomly. "To a discreet, tasteful string of anal beads?"
Laughing, Giles slides his hands up Oz's arms, resting them on Oz's shoulders, smiling up at him. Such big hands, long-fingered and graceful, and Oz kisses one thumb, sucking on the pad as he grins. He remembers walking with Willow, when he came back, and she said this feels like a dream. He told her then it was real, but he thinks now that he lied. This is real, this is all that's ever been real, the taste of Giles and
( ... )
"Always?" Giles settles one arm across Oz's back and goes hunting for the duvet again with the other. "Even when you didn't believe in eating the poor defenseless cows?" With a growl, Oz nips the side of his neck. "Now that didn't feel at all vegetarian. Wicked boy
( ... )
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So much, so full, and then Oz moves, face clenched and eyes ember-bright, arms circling Giles' thighs. Giles groans as Oz pulls back, a long whimpered complaint at the emptiness, the lonely hollowed-out space in his body, and then again when Oz instantly stills and looks at him, reaches a hand up to stroke his belly soothingly. "I'm all right," he says, laying his hand over Oz's and guiding it down past his navel, over the deep inner ache where Oz's cock was, down into rough hair and along the hot, thin skin of his own cock. Oz echoes his moan, trembles, and Giles says, "Please. Need you so ( ... )
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Beauty and terror surge over his face, then slap back, numbingly hot, against Oz, sweeping him forward. Release and freedom, a rush of air and light, and it's like Oz is seeing him for the first time, fully human and naked. Like Giles, in the full sluice of pleasure, is calling him, winding around him, urging him on.
Nets and sirens, and Oz collapses, banging his face and elbows on Giles, the mattress, the corner of a sidetable, as Giles' body swivels beneath him. The pulses of his orgasm jolt along Oz's cock, up his spine, yanking him inside out, and he comes with a pleading howl against the salt and heat of Giles' chest. Yowl, twist, push, coming until black hearts throb against his eyelids.
This is another home, familiar already even though it's new, Giles wrapped around him, flarebright and wet, aftershocks staggering and twitching through him. His skin is rent, his mouth ( ... )
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He drags a corner of the duvet over Oz, who's getting goosebumps, and works his fingers slowly up through Oz's hair, from his ear to the crown of his head. "Christ, Oz, you - so good. It felt so good having you inside me."
Where did you learn to fuck like that? he thinks, because Oz wasn't a shy boy this time, nervous of hurting Giles, nervous of failing in obscure or obvious ways. He was confident, adult, experienced. But the one thing, the only thing, Giles ( ... )
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"I know," he says, pulling himself up a little higher, curling his arm around Giles' waist. "Anything, everything. Like telling you, you know." Giles grins slowly at that, half-hungrily and half-laughingly, and amid the aches and throbbing afterimages, Oz feels a flood of warmth through his body at the sight. "Tell you, show you, ask you."
Giles squirms down a little, eyes scanning Oz's face, and Oz breathes in slowly as he draws his palm down the center of Giles' chest, swabbing away sweat and come, smoothing over the scars.
"Meant it -" Oz squints a little, making sure he doesn't look away, feeling the stories and words regroup and solidify in his mind, form in the back of his mouth. "Love your body, love how it feels -" He kisses the hollow of Giles' collarbone across to his throat and looks up again. "Love touching you and fucking you. Pleasure and all that stuff, trying new things. You gave me that, showed me all of that ( ... )
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Oz must see the shine of his eyes and the working of his throat, but he just rubs a knuckle along Giles' jaw, kisses him, and doesn't say anything.
It's not so long, really, before Giles can answer, although his voice wobbles scratchily. "You were so young." Young enough that Giles formed him, changed him forever. Wouldn't be me without you. But Giles was himself before Oz, and for a moment that seems unfair, selfish. "I'm much too old for you. If I were twenty years younger I'd be too old for you, or nearly ( ... )
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"Just love you," he says quietly. "Don't be sorry." He's said that more times than he can count in the last few days, holding Giles, feeling him weep his guts out, shake and cry so hard that Oz was half-convinced Giles was being shredded from the inside out, and there were so many apologies, for so many sins, to so many people, gushing, flooding them both. Oz couldn't do anything but hold on, tell Giles he was safe, tell him it wasn't all his fault. I'm sorry, he wants to say now, wants to give Giles everything he needs, wants to erase four years of absence ( ... )
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Slowly, Giles draws a hand down the length of Oz's body, the dip of his neck and the sudden cliff of his shoulder, the long ridge of arm, side, and hip. "I never thought of you as a kid." Half-belying his own words, he tickles Oz's arse until he laughs and squirms, then splays his fingers through the soft, fine hair on his thighs. "You were never childish. Not like Xander, or . . . or the others." Neither of the names he nearly spoke, Willow and Buffy, would be good to mention now.
It's getting dark; Giles moves his hand away long enough to switch on the lamp, then settles it back on Oz's hip, thumb curved over the bone. Oz sighs and moves infinitesimally closer, his breath warm on Giles' cheek. "I worried that you would notice I was more than twice your age. That you'd-" And then he ( ... )
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"Not bullwhips, no," Oz says when he gets a few breaths in. Giles is looking at him, puzzled and amused, eyes narrowing in mock-frustration. "But what would you say, Mr. Giles -" He nudges Giles' shoulder backward and throws his leg over Giles' waist until he's straddling Giles again, laughing and dropping kisses randomly. "To a discreet, tasteful string of anal beads?"
Laughing, Giles slides his hands up Oz's arms, resting them on Oz's shoulders, smiling up at him. Such big hands, long-fingered and graceful, and Oz kisses one thumb, sucking on the pad as he grins. He remembers walking with Willow, when he came back, and she said this feels like a dream. He told her then it was real, but he thinks now that he lied. This is real, this is all that's ever been real, the taste of Giles and ( ... )
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