London, 09/14/01: Still celebratory
from here
"You'd look very cool in leather trousers," Giles says, sliding his free hand down Oz's arm and lacing their fingers together. Closing his eyes, he pictures Oz in one of his faded, half-transparent t-shirts, heavy steel-toed boots, and soft leather trousers that cling to his narrow thighs and the curve of his arse. "And dead sexy. So sexy you might unexpectedly find me kneeling in front of you, undoing the flies." Oz wriggles against him, laughs deep in his throat in a way that makes Giles shiver, and then does it again when Giles adds, "With my teeth."
Giles tugs gently on Oz's hair until he tips his head back, then kisses from the point of his chin down to the hollow of his throat. Salt and the bittersweetness of Oz's skin, like orange peels, and Giles suckles at the pulse point, tasting, trying to feel the throb of blood under his tongue. When he works his way back up to Oz's mouth, Oz is smiling again, eyes half-closed and dark as a still pond. "And we could go, er, toy shopping, if you like," Giles says, remembering the not-quite-joke about anal beads. "Not back to that horrible place we went to before, but somewhere nice. If there was anything you were interested in trying."
*
Oz shivers again, remnants of images - Giles in a Tom of Finland sketch, himself done up like the Lizard King - catching and twisting at his mind, sending curtains of sparks cascading under his skin.
"You didn't like that place?" he asks, trying to sound innocent. "Not even the zebrastriped cuffs?" Giles pinches Oz's hip and Oz blinks slowly as he tilts his head. "Or the pink PVC diapers? Ruining my faith here in the depths of your perviness."
Giles frowns at that, and the expression lengthens his face, drawing down his eyes and thinning out his mouth. Oz's own skin tightens in response, cold and worried.
"Kidding," Oz says, circling his palms over Giles' chest and the tops of his arms. Slow, steady strokes, deep-tissue, reassuring. There are so many pitfalls, so many hidden spaces that look safe but drop you into dungeons; conversations are like a bad game of Mario, live-action and stressful. "Love perviness. It's a good thing," he says quietly, focusing more on the wall and corner of pillow behind Giles' head than his face. "It's a trust thing."
He can't make out Giles' eyes, can't read his expression. Oz nudges closer, tips his forehead against Giles' and breathes out slowly. "Love you. Want to dress up for you, make you feel good, do anything. Seriously."
"You'd look very cool in leather trousers," Giles says, sliding his free hand down Oz's arm and lacing their fingers together. Closing his eyes, he pictures Oz in one of his faded, half-transparent t-shirts, heavy steel-toed boots, and soft leather trousers that cling to his narrow thighs and the curve of his arse. "And dead sexy. So sexy you might unexpectedly find me kneeling in front of you, undoing the flies." Oz wriggles against him, laughs deep in his throat in a way that makes Giles shiver, and then does it again when Giles adds, "With my teeth."
Giles tugs gently on Oz's hair until he tips his head back, then kisses from the point of his chin down to the hollow of his throat. Salt and the bittersweetness of Oz's skin, like orange peels, and Giles suckles at the pulse point, tasting, trying to feel the throb of blood under his tongue. When he works his way back up to Oz's mouth, Oz is smiling again, eyes half-closed and dark as a still pond. "And we could go, er, toy shopping, if you like," Giles says, remembering the not-quite-joke about anal beads. "Not back to that horrible place we went to before, but somewhere nice. If there was anything you were interested in trying."
*
Oz shivers again, remnants of images - Giles in a Tom of Finland sketch, himself done up like the Lizard King - catching and twisting at his mind, sending curtains of sparks cascading under his skin.
"You didn't like that place?" he asks, trying to sound innocent. "Not even the zebrastriped cuffs?" Giles pinches Oz's hip and Oz blinks slowly as he tilts his head. "Or the pink PVC diapers? Ruining my faith here in the depths of your perviness."
Giles frowns at that, and the expression lengthens his face, drawing down his eyes and thinning out his mouth. Oz's own skin tightens in response, cold and worried.
"Kidding," Oz says, circling his palms over Giles' chest and the tops of his arms. Slow, steady strokes, deep-tissue, reassuring. There are so many pitfalls, so many hidden spaces that look safe but drop you into dungeons; conversations are like a bad game of Mario, live-action and stressful. "Love perviness. It's a good thing," he says quietly, focusing more on the wall and corner of pillow behind Giles' head than his face. "It's a trust thing."
He can't make out Giles' eyes, can't read his expression. Oz nudges closer, tips his forehead against Giles' and breathes out slowly. "Love you. Want to dress up for you, make you feel good, do anything. Seriously."