"Here," Oz says. Giles' eyes are on every inch of him, gaze sinking into him like the warmth of sunlight, churning and glowing inside him. Inside, it's the rich softness of Giles' voice, of his robe, but outside, along his skin, it's tension and heat, hard things. His palm's sticky with sweat and his cock feels, for half a second, alien to his own touch. Too hard, so hard and warm, and then his hand curves and fits into the most familiar thing. He strokes once, upward, crooking his thumb, and then again, downward, squeezing lighter than he'd like.
Lighter, just fingertips up the shaft and a loose hold all around, because he wants to make this last, even if Giles' eyes and weight are speeding everything up. "Like this?"
Giles opens his mouth, says yes silently, and Oz tries again. It's inside-out, private masturbation on display, *for* Giles, and his bones rattle with the effort of controlling it. Putting embarrassment out of his mind -- as much as he can, this is always going to be slightly embarrassing -- and looking at GIles, smiling tightly at him, stroking time with Giles' breathing. Up on the inhale, down at the exhale, and there's a puzzle, some sort of contradiction, in all this. Something about performing what's real, showing off what's secret, and the confusion of terms makes him shut his eyes again and just *feel*. Inside, hot and melting, outside hard and tense, and when he opens his eyes again, he sees Giles looking all over again.
"Didn't miss anything," he tells Giles. "Thought about you the whole time, thought about that summer, and last night in the shop, thought about your mouth on me and your hands, *fuck*, your *hands* --" That's it, that's what's missing. "Giles, touch me, please, I --"
But Giles won't, not for a while -- he's got that intense set to his face, the slitted eyes and deep, almost chuckling breaths going, where he's going to tease Oz to tears and then, only then, make it all better, so much better than seems possible right now -- and the more Oz thinks about it, wanting those long fingers up the inside of his thighs, twisting his balls, stroking hard and relentless until he comes, the more he needs it, the more it hurts.
Oz pulls harder, twisting his shaft, slapping it against his belly, opening his mouth to ask for more.
"Want to come, Giles, come for you, on you -- in your hand, your mouth, want --"
His legs are bent now, briefs stretched tight between his knees, feet braced on the floor, and his hips are lifting, showing Giles, asking with his whole body. Asking that shades into greed, and he's got no time now to worry about selfishness, his skin's shrinking by the second and he *needs* Giles, and it's coming out whiny and angry.
"Could tackle you," he says, lifting his head off the floor, then pounding it back, telling the ceiling all his secrets, all his frustration. "Push you down and fuck you, flip you over and push inside until you're weeping --" He twists his hips, he knows he has to slow down, but it's all quivering and out of his control, and that's the worst-best thing of all. "Fuck, Giles, just -- *touch* me. Make me -- fuck you so hard, or fuck me, *please* --"
Pleasure, pushed out to its edges, starts to look like other things--fear, loneliness, pain. Pushed farther, it can become those things. Oz's face is contorted, the tendons in his neck and arms stretched rigid, and it could be misery or the approach of orgasm.
Either way, Giles wants to stop it. He grasps Oz's wrists, pushes his hands to the floor, and Oz freezes, not even breathing for a few moments. "Anything you want," Giles says, and repeats it when Oz opens his eyes. "Anything." There's no telling, from Oz's narrow-eyed stare and shallow, staccato breaths, if he's really heard. Still holding Oz's hands, Giles sinks down on top of him, trying to make himself a stone, an anchor, solid and trustworthy.
"You could fuck me," he says, dragging their interlocked hands up to either side of Oz's head. "You could hold me down and fuck me so hard." Imagining it, imagining Oz using all of that strength on him, taking him, Giles shivers at the knotted heat that crawls up his spine. He groans, low and rough, when Oz trembles too and wriggles his hips, his cock, against Giles' belly. Giles wants, with the painful imperative want of sex, to bury his face in Oz's neck, kiss and bite him, thrust into the hot crease of his thigh and come without even taking his pyjamas off. But he holds still, watching Oz's face, where pleasure is clarifying again, becoming recognizable once more. "Or you could get on your knees for me to fuck you." Oz sucks up a breath and opens his mouth; before he can speak, Giles kisses him, wetly, luxuriously.
All Oz's bones are tattooing their impressions on Giles' body, Oz's cock pokes and stabs, but his mouth is slick and infinitely soft. Giles licks along Oz's jaw until his stubble glistens with their mingled spit, then whispers in his ear, "Or you could let me do this. Touch you like this. Slowly. We could take our time." In the sunlight, with his cropped hair wilder than usual, Oz looks boyish, and Giles remembers their first night. They were both so nervous, impatient, as if they already knew their year was ticking away second by second. Loosing Oz's hands, Giles strokes his hair, his face, and sighs when Oz's arms slide around his back. "No need to hurry. Not anymore. We're got all day." He smiles. "In fact, we've got forever."
There has to be a happy medium. Oz feels like a little kid, so worked up he's almost teary, but each breath that Giles takes presses him down further, reassures him more.
Giles' weight sinks Oz into the velvet, flattens and spreads him *inside* as well as outside, and Oz feels -- not calm, he's still superheated and prickling all over -- but something close to security bubbling through that heat and friction. Giles slides the kiss back to Oz's mouth and it hovers there, warm and wet, slipping in time with Oz's heartbeat and the motion of his hands up and down Giles' back. He can feel planes and bunches of muscle and bone moving as Giles settles even more firmly on top of him.
"Not hurrying," Oz says thickly, right against Giles' upper lip. His body begs to differ. Contradictions, need and luxury, urgency and slowness, spiral and sizzle through him, right beneath his skin and deep in the center of his bones. He brings one knee up, pressing it against Giles' hip, holding him here, tight and close and heavy. "Just...get worked up. You work me up, you and --"
He doesn't know how to finish the thought, if it even has an end. It sighs out with his breath, and he sucks on the edge of Giles' jaw, feeling his hips move slowly. Like he's little more than the robe, texture and warmth rippling around, clinging to, Giles, and one hand drops to Giles' waist while the other pushes up the back of Giles' hair. Giles smells like *home*, and he's here, here and happy and breathing hard in Oz's ear, and when Oz crooks his fingers and tickles the base of Giles' spine, they both chuckle.
"Can you --" He plucks at the hem of Giles' pajama top. "Want to feel you. All of you?"
Every time's a first time, he thinks, nibbling down Giles' throat, tasting heat and soap, making Giles shiver.
Oz's mouth warm and slippery on Giles' neck, Oz's fingers slipping down from his lapel to curl in his chest hair, and Giles wants his pyjamas off as badly as Oz does. The flannel, soft but absolutely unlike the satin and fuzz, scratchiness and smoothness and pebbliness of Oz's body, frustrates Giles' skin. "Of course," he says, kneeling back and fighting the buttons. Oz watches him, sometimes swirling a fingertip along Giles' leg or his wrist, as he works his arms out of the top and struggles awkwardly free of the bottoms. Tables turned, and Giles feels himself reddening with arousal and an unexpected shyness. It's easier, though, after he takes off his kiss-smeared glasses and Oz goes a little blurry around the edges.
Naked, his knees sore and cold on the linoleum, Giles draws a fold of the velvet down Oz's thigh and up again. The rich, deep plushness of it, then the roughness as it pulls against the nap. "I love to touch you." He tugs off Oz's underpants, which are stretched shapeless, and slides his hands from the soles of Oz's feet to the insides of his thighs. Hairs are soft, fluffy, under his palms, and crinklier over Oz's balls, where Giles strokes a light fingertip. Oz quivers and makes a sound that's half breath, half cry, and he clenches his hands around the knobs of Giles' shoulders. Blurred, he's still beautiful. Almost more beautiful, the colors of his skin more vivid with the outlines a bit indistinct. The head of his cock is bright red against his pale belly, magnetically, hypnotically red, luring Giles to bend and hover over it, open his mouth and breathe softly on it. He knows exactly how it will feel to his tongue, hot metal wrapped in silk, but when he gives it a slow, firm lick, it's still a surprise. Always a surprise.
Oz wakes up, some mornings, so tightly curled around and over Giles that he's not sure where his hands are for several moments. He feels that right now, a quick, sharp *stab* of that physical amnesia, when Giles licks him. One hand on Giles' shoulder, the other in his hair, and he rockets around trying to find his ground, to grip and hold still and just moan without folding up like a switchblade like his body wants to.
Giles lifts his head, smile curving slowly over his face, and Oz brings up his knees as he gets his hands under Giles' arms and tugs. So much strength and resistance there, and Oz tries again while Giles' grin widens, and he finally gives up, just thrusting into warm air while his hands run down Giles' sides. Thumbs in his chest hair, seeking his nipples, and they could draw this out all day. His brain knows that, but his mouth is aching and his skin's stretched too tight and thick, sweet heat is clogging his pores.
"Like that," he says and Giles nods. No ground, just Giles' expressions, and Oz twists his waist and raises his ass so his cock brushes along Giles' stomach. He wants to touch Giles back, and his thumbnails dig hard into Giles' nipples as his fingers pop and tighten on Giles' ribs. "Like that, more and --"
Closing his eyes as Oz's nails incise burning crescents (cuneiform, Giles thinks, language that presses and reshapes, that lasts) into his nipples, Giles braces himself on Oz's ribs to keep from tumbling forward. Bright moon-slivers glow and fade inside his eyelids, as though Oz's fingers reach there too, as though his body only exists where he and Oz are touching. "God," he says, not meaning to. "Oz-"
Oz scores a line, quick and sharp as a scalpel-cut, down to Giles' navel, and redness--pain and tooth-grinding pleasure--vibrates out from it, sets Giles' spine shaking, tottering. Nothing of him is steady but his cock, which hardens more with every scrape and dig of Oz's fingers. Giles looks down and sees it, a purplish length next to Oz's red-and-pink cock, Oz's beautiful cock that Giles can still taste down the center of his tongue, and then he breaks and falls.
"Need you," he says into Oz's neck, words gasped out between nips and sucks at the taut skin. "Need to - more, Oz, I need - more, yes -" He's echoing back Oz's word, more, as though it's crawled inside him and multiplied, taken him over, and it's always like this. Together they make a circuit, a feedback loop, amplifying each other's desire, passing it back and forth until there's no distinction.
Somehow, before Giles is aware of moving, he's on his feet and pulling Oz up by the arms. Tangled in the dressing gown, Oz trips, but Giles is holding him so tightly that he doesn't fall. "Come on."
In the bedroom, Giles spreads the dressing gown over the sheet and pushes Oz down onto it, open-limbed and inviting. "I like how it feels," he says, answering Oz's grin. "And I know you do." A long look at Oz's body (maybe pictures aren't a bad idea, then he could touch and still see), and Giles folds himself down into Oz's reaching arms. "Yesterday I wanted to fuck you right there on the plane. It was so hard, waiting. I was so hard." Oz laughs, or maybe gasps, because Giles is rocking his hips as he talks, slow glides of his cock against Oz's, and Oz is pushing up towards him. Giles finds the lube and waits until Oz's eyes focus on it, then squeezes a dollop out into his hand. "Finally I can fuck you. Come inside you. Drive you mad like you drove me mad." With Oz watching, Giles slicks his own cock, and Oz is shuddering and panting even before Giles spreads his arse open and plays two slippery fingers over his hole. "I love you so much, Oz," Giles says, setting the tip of his cock against the opening and pressing in, slowly, slowly, taking all the time in the world.
"Owe you," Oz says without any breath. First pressure, the original kind, fingers then cock, pushes all the air out of him. "Owe you big-time --" Giles replies with a tiny choked sound, deep in his throat, and more pressure. Oz goes up on one elbow, sliding his free hand down Giles' waist and over the outside of one thigh, and he grips at the straining muscle there as the angle changes and Giles pushes in more deeply. Friction and pressure that pushes words out Oz's mouth before he thinks them. "Owe you, owe --"
Giles is *gliding* in, everything else paling and withdrawing in comparison to the slick heat and *pressure*, and Oz flops back, pushing up his hips and spreading his legs until one hooks around the back of Giles' thigh. Over him, Giles is poured upward, broad chest and sweat-shining face, all light and heat, and Oz reaches up, impossibly far, to touch Giles' cheek. To hold on and dig in, pull himself up as the heat fills him, pushing out to his fingertips and scorching the soles of his feet.
Hovering and fierce, Giles' face twists with each push, mouth opened as if he's panting though he's *not*, not yet, and Oz pushes his thumb between Giles' teeth, pulls him down, shifting the angle almost horizontal and unbearable, to kiss him.
"Love you --" he whispers against Giles' tongue. Blue-edged sparks travel and double through him when Giles thrusts again and Oz tilts back and clenches. "Feel that? Wanted you so much on the plane. Everywhere, all the time --"
From deep inside, like the sound's dragged through blood and over bone, Giles grunts when his balls slap Oz's, and the sound reverberates against Oz, down his chest, wrenching his cock even harder.
"So good, so fucking *good*, Giles, when you're inside and I -- so much --"
He thrusts back against Giles and brings his other knee up to his chest. Rocking his hips, Oz feels sweat sting his lips and his pelvis crack and complain, and it's the best thing, the only thing.
Slowly. He's meant to be going slowly, giving this miracle of homecoming and time a good, long, leisurely exploration. But Oz is spread underneath him, pulling one thigh back to let Giles in deeper, and he's talking, and then Oz clenches again like a slippery-soft fist around Giles' cock. So tight, knocking Giles' breath out with a wheeze, and Giles shoves Oz's hips up and thrusts fast and hard. The wet sounds, squelch and slap, make a rapid counter-rhythm to Oz's groans and his own rough gasps and grunts.
"So good," Giles is saying indistinctly through a sticky mouth and lips that quiver and flop. "So good, yes, so - we're good - you and me -" Sex has never been like this with anyone else, never so exquisite and shattering. Chemistry, people say, and that's it really. Something beyond the cliché, some obscure catalysis and fusion, their bodies reacting and joining. Making this, pleasurelovepleasure bound together, heat and light and the anticipatory sweetness swelling through Giles' gut, the flush lapping and brightening across Oz's chest with every bedspring-creaking push.
At every thrust Oz flails, spine twisting impossibly as he shudders and pushes back and tugs at the velvet sleeve that's wrapped around his hand, and his leg slips up to Giles' waist and the other hooks over Giles' shoulder. Giles grabs him by the elbows, moves against his weight, and the new angle makes Oz cry out, head and fists hitting the mattress like muffled stones. Oz tightens again and white-hot ripples gust up from Giles' cock like bonfire sparks. "Fuck - don't - oh fuck," Giles says through his teeth, not moving except for the trembling he can't help. Too soon to come yet, too soon to let this end.
"Oz, Christ, you -" Carefully, straining with the effort of will, Giles pulls out, almost losing his resolve when Oz whines and reaches for him. "Shhhh," he says, to Oz and his own complaining body, and slides down between Oz's legs. He kisses the delicate skin inside Oz's thigh, thinking about the smoothness of the skin and the fine softness of the hairs and not about the touch of the sheet under his aching cock. Oz is so pale here that each hair looks brilliantly red. So pale that the skin comes up scarlet when Giles scrubs his bristly cheek over it. So pale that when Giles sucks and bites he leaves a perfect oval bruise, and then another, higher, and another. A ladder to Oz's balls, or breadcrumbs marking the trail, and Giles follows it back down, licking the blood-swelled skin, kissing each bruise as Oz swears and pulls at him. Someday he'll work his way over Oz's whole body like this, covering him in marks like flowers, making Oz a trellis for red-and-purple love bites.
Giving in to Oz's tugs and inarticulate pleas and his own sudden dry-mouthed hunger, Giles comes back to Oz's cock and kisses its base. "So hard, Oz. Jesus, you get hard like this for me, and it's so . . ." No words for the miracle of it, the daily amazement. Giles draws the kiss slowly up the shaft, using the wet insides of his lips, twisting his neck sometimes to mouth it sideways. At the tip he pauses, looks up at Oz, whose lips and eyes are glittering-wet, and then takes just the head in his mouth. All that heat and strength under paperthin skin, and the taste of it, like some strange sea creature, and Oz shouts and thrusts and Giles holds still and lets him move.
Just for a moment, and then he pulls away. "I'll make you come in my mouth, Oz. I promise." Oz shivers when Giles kisses him and sucks his tongue hungrily. "Soon," Giles adds, although he's not sure how soon he means, not when he's slathering fresh lube on his cock and raising Oz's legs and entering him again, feeling Oz's hole open around him. "Soon," he promises again, splaying his fingers over the bites on Oz's thigh and pushing, pushing, and he never wants to come, never wants to leave Oz's body.
"Soon? Liar," Oz says, grinning, or maybe grimacing. He means to grin, anyway. Giles' eyes are heavy-lidded, his face red and his hand like a vise on Oz's thigh. And he's pushing in, and in, holding Oz down as he crouches and it's all so much. Oz grabs at Giles' wrists, slips, and grabs again, squeezing and lifting himself up. "Don't stop, don't stop --"
He repeats it as Giles' eyes fly open, the whites gleaming, and Oz hangs there, pinned and grasping, letting Giles fill him entirely. Fully, entirely, and he has to stop and breathe. He has to think of atoms, how each one's as big as a galaxy, the electrons whirling like planets around the nucleus, to offset the hugeness inside him, pushing him out to the bounds of his skin.
"Slow down, right? Not stopping, never stopping." Sliding his hands up Giles' sweat-sticky arms, grasping his shoulders, Oz heaves in another breath, holds it, and pushes until Giles breaks and falls, rolling over to his side.
His cock slips free and Oz exhales at its loss, feeling hollow, malformed, *empty*, so bad that his eyes water and lips pucker together. "Your turn," he says, smoothing out the robe, tugging Giles on top of it, and throwing his leg over Giles' hip and settling on top of him. He rubs the edge of the robe over Giles' chest, then braces one hand on Giles' shoulder, circles the other around the base of Giles' cock, and lowers himself painfully, slowly, downward.
They're both grunting when his ass meets the tops of Giles' thighs, and when Giles cups Oz's ass and *squeezes*, Oz shudders vertiginously, remembering their embrace back in the shop, how Giles' hands explored him, measured him, found him and gave him pleasure all unknowing.
So full, atoms and galaxies and threatening implosions at every pore, and Oz leans back into Giles' hands, takes the thrusts and goes up on his knees with each push. He liberates the belt of the robe from where it's smushed into one pillow and holds it in both hands until Giles' bleary gaze fixes on it.
"Not coming yet," Oz says, and drops forward, kissing the wet hairs curling like spilled commas over Giles' chest, before he leans back again and runs the tie under his balls, around the burning shaft of his cock, and loosely loops the knot. More pressure now, so much sweet-red *heaviness* filling him and flaring up his spine he can hardly focus his eyes. "Don't want to stop. Never want to stop --"
He wraps the end of the tie around Giles' right hand and closes his fingers in the hair on Giles' chest. Pushing up, forward, forward and up in time with the thrusts, rocking into the red glaring heat, Oz feels the air drying out his open mouth, hears himself wheezing and praising and begging, but all he sees, feels, hears, is the thrumming rush of Giles' blood and the heat he's pushing deeper and deeper inside.
"Oz," Giles says, an almost-whisper that's lost in the words spilling from Oz, bubbling and rushing like water from a boiled-over pot. Oz always changes during sex, always boldens and loosens, but now he's transfigured, rapt. He's moving over Giles in slow waves, arch and hunch, a squeezing heat that sinks, pushes, drags agonizingly away. Moving without stopping, without hurrying, without the least mercy for Giles' groans, and Oz's eyes are narrowed to dark slits, his face clenching and easing as his body flows. Sliding along Giles cock, taking it, working it like it belongs to him, like it's tied in velvet and given to him.
Giles heaves up his head and looks along his own body, sees Oz's cock jutting and bobbing over his belly, exposed for him where his own is hidden inside Oz. And Giles can taste it, feel its shape on his tongue and in his hand, feel the stretch and pull in his gut from the last time Oz fucked him. In and on him, his. Always inside him.
With Oz, fucking is metaphor, is love in friction and fluids. Just as this Oz, the Oz who wrapped a belt around his cock and put the end in Giles' hand, the Oz's who's red with the slow boil of sex and hissing dirty words between his teeth, is the same Oz who blushed and stammered to touch himself with Giles watching. "Oz," Giles says again, lifting and grinding his hips to Oz's rhythm, spooling the belt around his hand and giving it a light tug that makes Oz jerk and dig his fingers into Giles' ribs. He tightens around Giles' cock, shivering, and Giles' nerves spark, firecrackers and smoke and need. "Keep - yes, fuck, keep going." Gripping Oz's hipbones, Giles pulls him tightly down and rocks against him, deep slow pressure that Oz always loves, then looses him to move again. "So good, Oz. Want to come, let me come inside you."
Lighter, just fingertips up the shaft and a loose hold all around, because he wants to make this last, even if Giles' eyes and weight are speeding everything up. "Like this?"
Giles opens his mouth, says yes silently, and Oz tries again. It's inside-out, private masturbation on display, *for* Giles, and his bones rattle with the effort of controlling it. Putting embarrassment out of his mind -- as much as he can, this is always going to be slightly embarrassing -- and looking at GIles, smiling tightly at him, stroking time with Giles' breathing. Up on the inhale, down at the exhale, and there's a puzzle, some sort of contradiction, in all this. Something about performing what's real, showing off what's secret, and the confusion of terms makes him shut his eyes again and just *feel*. Inside, hot and melting, outside hard and tense, and when he opens his eyes again, he sees Giles looking all over again.
"Didn't miss anything," he tells Giles. "Thought about you the whole time, thought about that summer, and last night in the shop, thought about your mouth on me and your hands, *fuck*, your *hands* --" That's it, that's what's missing. "Giles, touch me, please, I --"
But Giles won't, not for a while -- he's got that intense set to his face, the slitted eyes and deep, almost chuckling breaths going, where he's going to tease Oz to tears and then, only then, make it all better, so much better than seems possible right now -- and the more Oz thinks about it, wanting those long fingers up the inside of his thighs, twisting his balls, stroking hard and relentless until he comes, the more he needs it, the more it hurts.
Oz pulls harder, twisting his shaft, slapping it against his belly, opening his mouth to ask for more.
"Want to come, Giles, come for you, on you -- in your hand, your mouth, want --"
His legs are bent now, briefs stretched tight between his knees, feet braced on the floor, and his hips are lifting, showing Giles, asking with his whole body. Asking that shades into greed, and he's got no time now to worry about selfishness, his skin's shrinking by the second and he *needs* Giles, and it's coming out whiny and angry.
"Could tackle you," he says, lifting his head off the floor, then pounding it back, telling the ceiling all his secrets, all his frustration. "Push you down and fuck you, flip you over and push inside until you're weeping --" He twists his hips, he knows he has to slow down, but it's all quivering and out of his control, and that's the worst-best thing of all. "Fuck, Giles, just -- *touch* me. Make me -- fuck you so hard, or fuck me, *please* --"
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Either way, Giles wants to stop it. He grasps Oz's wrists, pushes his hands to the floor, and Oz freezes, not even breathing for a few moments. "Anything you want," Giles says, and repeats it when Oz opens his eyes. "Anything." There's no telling, from Oz's narrow-eyed stare and shallow, staccato breaths, if he's really heard. Still holding Oz's hands, Giles sinks down on top of him, trying to make himself a stone, an anchor, solid and trustworthy.
"You could fuck me," he says, dragging their interlocked hands up to either side of Oz's head. "You could hold me down and fuck me so hard." Imagining it, imagining Oz using all of that strength on him, taking him, Giles shivers at the knotted heat that crawls up his spine. He groans, low and rough, when Oz trembles too and wriggles his hips, his cock, against Giles' belly. Giles wants, with the painful imperative want of sex, to bury his face in Oz's neck, kiss and bite him, thrust into the hot crease of his thigh and come without even taking his pyjamas off. But he holds still, watching Oz's face, where pleasure is clarifying again, becoming recognizable once more. "Or you could get on your knees for me to fuck you." Oz sucks up a breath and opens his mouth; before he can speak, Giles kisses him, wetly, luxuriously.
All Oz's bones are tattooing their impressions on Giles' body, Oz's cock pokes and stabs, but his mouth is slick and infinitely soft. Giles licks along Oz's jaw until his stubble glistens with their mingled spit, then whispers in his ear, "Or you could let me do this. Touch you like this. Slowly. We could take our time." In the sunlight, with his cropped hair wilder than usual, Oz looks boyish, and Giles remembers their first night. They were both so nervous, impatient, as if they already knew their year was ticking away second by second. Loosing Oz's hands, Giles strokes his hair, his face, and sighs when Oz's arms slide around his back. "No need to hurry. Not anymore. We're got all day." He smiles. "In fact, we've got forever."
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Giles' weight sinks Oz into the velvet, flattens and spreads him *inside* as well as outside, and Oz feels -- not calm, he's still superheated and prickling all over -- but something close to security bubbling through that heat and friction. Giles slides the kiss back to Oz's mouth and it hovers there, warm and wet, slipping in time with Oz's heartbeat and the motion of his hands up and down Giles' back. He can feel planes and bunches of muscle and bone moving as Giles settles even more firmly on top of him.
"Not hurrying," Oz says thickly, right against Giles' upper lip. His body begs to differ. Contradictions, need and luxury, urgency and slowness, spiral and sizzle through him, right beneath his skin and deep in the center of his bones. He brings one knee up, pressing it against Giles' hip, holding him here, tight and close and heavy. "Just...get worked up. You work me up, you and --"
He doesn't know how to finish the thought, if it even has an end. It sighs out with his breath, and he sucks on the edge of Giles' jaw, feeling his hips move slowly. Like he's little more than the robe, texture and warmth rippling around, clinging to, Giles, and one hand drops to Giles' waist while the other pushes up the back of Giles' hair. Giles smells like *home*, and he's here, here and happy and breathing hard in Oz's ear, and when Oz crooks his fingers and tickles the base of Giles' spine, they both chuckle.
"Can you --" He plucks at the hem of Giles' pajama top. "Want to feel you. All of you?"
Every time's a first time, he thinks, nibbling down Giles' throat, tasting heat and soap, making Giles shiver.
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Naked, his knees sore and cold on the linoleum, Giles draws a fold of the velvet down Oz's thigh and up again. The rich, deep plushness of it, then the roughness as it pulls against the nap. "I love to touch you." He tugs off Oz's underpants, which are stretched shapeless, and slides his hands from the soles of Oz's feet to the insides of his thighs. Hairs are soft, fluffy, under his palms, and crinklier over Oz's balls, where Giles strokes a light fingertip. Oz quivers and makes a sound that's half breath, half cry, and he clenches his hands around the knobs of Giles' shoulders. Blurred, he's still beautiful. Almost more beautiful, the colors of his skin more vivid with the outlines a bit indistinct. The head of his cock is bright red against his pale belly, magnetically, hypnotically red, luring Giles to bend and hover over it, open his mouth and breathe softly on it. He knows exactly how it will feel to his tongue, hot metal wrapped in silk, but when he gives it a slow, firm lick, it's still a surprise. Always a surprise.
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Giles lifts his head, smile curving slowly over his face, and Oz brings up his knees as he gets his hands under Giles' arms and tugs. So much strength and resistance there, and Oz tries again while Giles' grin widens, and he finally gives up, just thrusting into warm air while his hands run down Giles' sides. Thumbs in his chest hair, seeking his nipples, and they could draw this out all day. His brain knows that, but his mouth is aching and his skin's stretched too tight and thick, sweet heat is clogging his pores.
"Like that," he says and Giles nods. No ground, just Giles' expressions, and Oz twists his waist and raises his ass so his cock brushes along Giles' stomach. He wants to touch Giles back, and his thumbnails dig hard into Giles' nipples as his fingers pop and tighten on Giles' ribs. "Like that, more and --"
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Oz scores a line, quick and sharp as a scalpel-cut, down to Giles' navel, and redness--pain and tooth-grinding pleasure--vibrates out from it, sets Giles' spine shaking, tottering. Nothing of him is steady but his cock, which hardens more with every scrape and dig of Oz's fingers. Giles looks down and sees it, a purplish length next to Oz's red-and-pink cock, Oz's beautiful cock that Giles can still taste down the center of his tongue, and then he breaks and falls.
"Need you," he says into Oz's neck, words gasped out between nips and sucks at the taut skin. "Need to - more, Oz, I need - more, yes -" He's echoing back Oz's word, more, as though it's crawled inside him and multiplied, taken him over, and it's always like this. Together they make a circuit, a feedback loop, amplifying each other's desire, passing it back and forth until there's no distinction.
Somehow, before Giles is aware of moving, he's on his feet and pulling Oz up by the arms. Tangled in the dressing gown, Oz trips, but Giles is holding him so tightly that he doesn't fall. "Come on."
In the bedroom, Giles spreads the dressing gown over the sheet and pushes Oz down onto it, open-limbed and inviting. "I like how it feels," he says, answering Oz's grin. "And I know you do." A long look at Oz's body (maybe pictures aren't a bad idea, then he could touch and still see), and Giles folds himself down into Oz's reaching arms. "Yesterday I wanted to fuck you right there on the plane. It was so hard, waiting. I was so hard." Oz laughs, or maybe gasps, because Giles is rocking his hips as he talks, slow glides of his cock against Oz's, and Oz is pushing up towards him. Giles finds the lube and waits until Oz's eyes focus on it, then squeezes a dollop out into his hand. "Finally I can fuck you. Come inside you. Drive you mad like you drove me mad." With Oz watching, Giles slicks his own cock, and Oz is shuddering and panting even before Giles spreads his arse open and plays two slippery fingers over his hole. "I love you so much, Oz," Giles says, setting the tip of his cock against the opening and pressing in, slowly, slowly, taking all the time in the world.
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Giles is *gliding* in, everything else paling and withdrawing in comparison to the slick heat and *pressure*, and Oz flops back, pushing up his hips and spreading his legs until one hooks around the back of Giles' thigh. Over him, Giles is poured upward, broad chest and sweat-shining face, all light and heat, and Oz reaches up, impossibly far, to touch Giles' cheek. To hold on and dig in, pull himself up as the heat fills him, pushing out to his fingertips and scorching the soles of his feet.
Hovering and fierce, Giles' face twists with each push, mouth opened as if he's panting though he's *not*, not yet, and Oz pushes his thumb between Giles' teeth, pulls him down, shifting the angle almost horizontal and unbearable, to kiss him.
"Love you --" he whispers against Giles' tongue. Blue-edged sparks travel and double through him when Giles thrusts again and Oz tilts back and clenches. "Feel that? Wanted you so much on the plane. Everywhere, all the time --"
From deep inside, like the sound's dragged through blood and over bone, Giles grunts when his balls slap Oz's, and the sound reverberates against Oz, down his chest, wrenching his cock even harder.
"So good, so fucking *good*, Giles, when you're inside and I -- so much --"
He thrusts back against Giles and brings his other knee up to his chest. Rocking his hips, Oz feels sweat sting his lips and his pelvis crack and complain, and it's the best thing, the only thing.
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"So good," Giles is saying indistinctly through a sticky mouth and lips that quiver and flop. "So good, yes, so - we're good - you and me -" Sex has never been like this with anyone else, never so exquisite and shattering. Chemistry, people say, and that's it really. Something beyond the cliché, some obscure catalysis and fusion, their bodies reacting and joining. Making this, pleasurelovepleasure bound together, heat and light and the anticipatory sweetness swelling through Giles' gut, the flush lapping and brightening across Oz's chest with every bedspring-creaking push.
At every thrust Oz flails, spine twisting impossibly as he shudders and pushes back and tugs at the velvet sleeve that's wrapped around his hand, and his leg slips up to Giles' waist and the other hooks over Giles' shoulder. Giles grabs him by the elbows, moves against his weight, and the new angle makes Oz cry out, head and fists hitting the mattress like muffled stones. Oz tightens again and white-hot ripples gust up from Giles' cock like bonfire sparks. "Fuck - don't - oh fuck," Giles says through his teeth, not moving except for the trembling he can't help. Too soon to come yet, too soon to let this end.
"Oz, Christ, you -" Carefully, straining with the effort of will, Giles pulls out, almost losing his resolve when Oz whines and reaches for him. "Shhhh," he says, to Oz and his own complaining body, and slides down between Oz's legs. He kisses the delicate skin inside Oz's thigh, thinking about the smoothness of the skin and the fine softness of the hairs and not about the touch of the sheet under his aching cock. Oz is so pale here that each hair looks brilliantly red. So pale that the skin comes up scarlet when Giles scrubs his bristly cheek over it. So pale that when Giles sucks and bites he leaves a perfect oval bruise, and then another, higher, and another. A ladder to Oz's balls, or breadcrumbs marking the trail, and Giles follows it back down, licking the blood-swelled skin, kissing each bruise as Oz swears and pulls at him. Someday he'll work his way over Oz's whole body like this, covering him in marks like flowers, making Oz a trellis for red-and-purple love bites.
Giving in to Oz's tugs and inarticulate pleas and his own sudden dry-mouthed hunger, Giles comes back to Oz's cock and kisses its base. "So hard, Oz. Jesus, you get hard like this for me, and it's so . . ." No words for the miracle of it, the daily amazement. Giles draws the kiss slowly up the shaft, using the wet insides of his lips, twisting his neck sometimes to mouth it sideways. At the tip he pauses, looks up at Oz, whose lips and eyes are glittering-wet, and then takes just the head in his mouth. All that heat and strength under paperthin skin, and the taste of it, like some strange sea creature, and Oz shouts and thrusts and Giles holds still and lets him move.
Just for a moment, and then he pulls away. "I'll make you come in my mouth, Oz. I promise." Oz shivers when Giles kisses him and sucks his tongue hungrily. "Soon," Giles adds, although he's not sure how soon he means, not when he's slathering fresh lube on his cock and raising Oz's legs and entering him again, feeling Oz's hole open around him. "Soon," he promises again, splaying his fingers over the bites on Oz's thigh and pushing, pushing, and he never wants to come, never wants to leave Oz's body.
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He repeats it as Giles' eyes fly open, the whites gleaming, and Oz hangs there, pinned and grasping, letting Giles fill him entirely. Fully, entirely, and he has to stop and breathe. He has to think of atoms, how each one's as big as a galaxy, the electrons whirling like planets around the nucleus, to offset the hugeness inside him, pushing him out to the bounds of his skin.
"Slow down, right? Not stopping, never stopping." Sliding his hands up Giles' sweat-sticky arms, grasping his shoulders, Oz heaves in another breath, holds it, and pushes until Giles breaks and falls, rolling over to his side.
His cock slips free and Oz exhales at its loss, feeling hollow, malformed, *empty*, so bad that his eyes water and lips pucker together. "Your turn," he says, smoothing out the robe, tugging Giles on top of it, and throwing his leg over Giles' hip and settling on top of him. He rubs the edge of the robe over Giles' chest, then braces one hand on Giles' shoulder, circles the other around the base of Giles' cock, and lowers himself painfully, slowly, downward.
They're both grunting when his ass meets the tops of Giles' thighs, and when Giles cups Oz's ass and *squeezes*, Oz shudders vertiginously, remembering their embrace back in the shop, how Giles' hands explored him, measured him, found him and gave him pleasure all unknowing.
So full, atoms and galaxies and threatening implosions at every pore, and Oz leans back into Giles' hands, takes the thrusts and goes up on his knees with each push. He liberates the belt of the robe from where it's smushed into one pillow and holds it in both hands until Giles' bleary gaze fixes on it.
"Not coming yet," Oz says, and drops forward, kissing the wet hairs curling like spilled commas over Giles' chest, before he leans back again and runs the tie under his balls, around the burning shaft of his cock, and loosely loops the knot. More pressure now, so much sweet-red *heaviness* filling him and flaring up his spine he can hardly focus his eyes. "Don't want to stop. Never want to stop --"
He wraps the end of the tie around Giles' right hand and closes his fingers in the hair on Giles' chest. Pushing up, forward, forward and up in time with the thrusts, rocking into the red glaring heat, Oz feels the air drying out his open mouth, hears himself wheezing and praising and begging, but all he sees, feels, hears, is the thrumming rush of Giles' blood and the heat he's pushing deeper and deeper inside.
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Giles heaves up his head and looks along his own body, sees Oz's cock jutting and bobbing over his belly, exposed for him where his own is hidden inside Oz. And Giles can taste it, feel its shape on his tongue and in his hand, feel the stretch and pull in his gut from the last time Oz fucked him. In and on him, his. Always inside him.
With Oz, fucking is metaphor, is love in friction and fluids. Just as this Oz, the Oz who wrapped a belt around his cock and put the end in Giles' hand, the Oz's who's red with the slow boil of sex and hissing dirty words between his teeth, is the same Oz who blushed and stammered to touch himself with Giles watching. "Oz," Giles says again, lifting and grinding his hips to Oz's rhythm, spooling the belt around his hand and giving it a light tug that makes Oz jerk and dig his fingers into Giles' ribs. He tightens around Giles' cock, shivering, and Giles' nerves spark, firecrackers and smoke and need. "Keep - yes, fuck, keep going." Gripping Oz's hipbones, Giles pulls him tightly down and rocks against him, deep slow pressure that Oz always loves, then looses him to move again. "So good, Oz. Want to come, let me come inside you."
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