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kindkit September 27 2004, 23:43:23 UTC
Oz is pitched fiercely upward, kissing him as intently, mindfully, as he does everything-reading, observing, even washing the crockery. Zen, one could say, but Oz was like this long before Tibet; it's some quality of his own, this focus that's also flow and surrender. Giles pulls him up tighter, closer, and sinks down into the kiss, the slow thrust of tongues and sudden light nips, both their bodies pushing for more contact. Sinks down into Oz, because Oz kisses like himself, unmistakable and perfect, and touching him is always deeper than skin.

When he breaks away, breathing hard, Giles can feel Oz's body imprinted on his own, down to the whorls of the seashell around his neck. "Want," he says, laughs, because he's pulling Oz's t-shirt up around his neck, grasping hard for skin, licking Oz's chest and rubbing half-stiff against his thigh, and want hardly needs a word right now. "God, yes." He raises his head and looks into the pale blur of Oz's face, the watchful shadows of his eyes. "So beautiful," he says, slowly, because this is another thing he can't bear to let Oz doubt. "Beautiful and fucking sexy." Dark as it is, he knows when Oz smiles, feels it, feels himself smiling back. "Even when we're not fucking. But especially-" - he drags the flat of his tongue suddenly down Oz's chest, flicks around the shallow dip of his navel - "when we are."

Shushing away Oz's protesting noise, Giles slips further down the bed and takes off Oz's boots and socks. His feet are warm, a little sweaty, but Giles kisses them anyway, toes and arch and bony ankles, gripping tightly when Oz tries to pull away. He pushes the loose legs of Oz's jeans above his knees and works his way up, finally wriggling his tongue into the sensitive crevice behind Oz's bent knee. "Beautiful," he says again, and buries his face in the inside of Oz's thigh, tasting denim and the faint, alluring closeness of Oz's skin.

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glossing September 28 2004, 00:21:18 UTC
Dizziness inside, twirling slowly where his bones used to be, just under skin half a size too small, and Oz draws breath like he's still getting used to the mechanism of it. He could flounder and sink in Giles' words, start worrying and wondering how Giles believes what he does about Oz, how and why, but then Giles will slide the flat of his palm over Oz's stomach, like he's doing now, and there's no worry, just heat and safety, and Oz spins up again, hooking his hands under Giles' arms and tugging him up.

In the shadows, Giles looks haunted for a moment, breathing heavily, and Oz slides downward, kissing a chain around his neck, sucking hard on his Adam's apple, rocking and twisting his hips until they're rubbing against each other on every move.

"Glorious, man," Oz breathes, reaching between them and fumbling at Giles' fly. Giles takes compliments about as well as Oz does, but he's got the upper hand in giving them, in the size of his vocabulary and the breadth of his confidence. Oz breathes in the sweaty air off Giles' chest and looks back up. "Like, like - handsome and the whole world and *you*."

The button pops and he works the fly down and grins at Giles. "But your pants are kind of in the way."

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kindkit September 28 2004, 01:08:19 UTC
Such clever fingers, agile, insinuating into Giles' flies, skimming over the cloth of his pants, brushing his cock and then suddenly tightening, and Giles' "Are they?" comes out breathy and faint. Oz laughs soundlessly, a heave of shoulders and chest, and delves down for Giles' balls, fondling through cotton. All of him small and nimble, moving in Giles' arms, under his frantic tongue and his hands that can't quite catch and hold.

Giles tips himself forward and straddles Oz flat on the bed, untangles their arms long enough to pull Oz's t-shirt the rest of the way off, and kisses him. A little rougher than before but still slow, and Giles' hands travel Oz's trapped body, tugging his hair and circling his wrists, sliding down the insides of his raised arms, finding their way to the waistband of Oz's jeans and then under, nail-flats and knuckles teasing on thin fabric.

"You know," he says, starting to crawl down Oz's body, licking and gently biting, "in the way . . . isn't . . . necessarily . . . bad." Oz's cock is a high ridge in the denim, and Giles lowers his face to it as Oz bucks up, pleading. Open mouth to the cloth, drawing a wet outline of the shaft, and Giles murmurs in echo as Oz groans.

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glossing September 28 2004, 01:29:37 UTC
It's nothing as concrete and literal as an order - stay still, do what I say - nor any particular gesture that Giles gives that holds Oz here, hovering inside his own skin, breath raking rustily through his chest, hips' rocking freezing painfully. It's Giles, and the need and want flowing over his face, through his hands and out his mouth. Scrape of lips rasping on denim and the fierce glint in his eye, and it's nothing like an order.

It's more like asking for *permission*. Let me, please, let me feel this and help you feel this. Just like the first night, when he smothered Oz with his mouth and hands and taught him, almost secondarily, what it can feel like to accept pleasure, that it's okay, welcome, desired. It's how Giles changed Oz from the very first.

So Oz listens to himself moan and brings his knees up and raises his head and watches Giles nibble a track down the side of his fly, and the sensation is sharp but muffled, a carnival staining the sky with lights and noise, but it's around the corner and Oz can't stop it when his hips rise again and his hand pushes through Giles' hair.

"Giles, please, *god* -" Long, drawn-out suck on the head of his cock, too much and not nearly enough and Oz's head falls back and the ceiling swings into view. "Giles, amazing -"

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