Giles works his tongue a little deeper into Oz's hole, sour-sweet with lube and warm skin and Giles' own semen. Doing this feels closer than anything, closer even than fucking, with Oz's crack sweaty and chafed-hot against his face, all Oz's secrets open to his tongue. Giles shakes his head a little, doglike, letting his tongue twist inside Oz and his stubble scrape Oz's tender skin, and when Oz shouts again Giles answers with something almost like a growl.
Oz sounds close to coming, moves like it, urgent and jerky, and so Giles hooks his arms between Oz's spread thighs and pulls his hips up higher, keeping his cock off the mattress. With his own need satisfied, Giles can make this go on and on, bathe Oz in pleasure, dissolve him in it. He frees an arm and slides two fingers into Oz's panting mouth, then works his tongue lower, down to the sensitive spot behind Oz's balls. Looping, flickering caresses, and Oz groans, clamps his lips over Giles' fingers and sucks. With a painful stretch of his neck, Giles scrapes a tooth along the skin, just hard enough, just the way Oz likes, and then pulls away, blowing a little air over the reddened skin while Oz tenses and shakes.
Maybe this ache, maybe this thing that starts around the membrane of his heart, rattles as it beats and pounds out through him to meet Giles' mouth and Giles' fingers, maybe this is melting. What happens when you tip the balance and your cells start sliding into pure water.
Giles' fingers are in his mouth, his lips locked around the knuckles, and Oz swirls his tongue around them, tasting pads, testing the whorls of prints, thrusting his tongue as he can't thrust his cock, wanting to push out all this heat and the red-static noise of need that's swamping him.
But he doesn't want to push it out, he wants to melt into it, break apart and soak and never stop feeling this. Contradiction and juxtaposition, breaking and melting, and Oz shoves his forehead into the mattress, yearning, spreading his legs, begging.
Giles can feel Oz breaking, giving in to sensation, to Giles' tongue and hands. As Giles creeps slowly down, just brushing Oz's balls with his tongue, he can almost feel the pleasure itself, the climbing spiral of it, the dizzy unfocused need that has Oz keening, pushing his body helplessly forward and back. In a slow swipe Giles drags up tongue all the way back up, kisses and nips one of Oz's buttocks. Then, before Oz can catch his breath, before he can start to think, Giles twists to lie face-up between his legs and presses his open mouth to Oz's balls.
Maybe Oz is so far gone he's beyond shouting--he only makes a brief high sound, but his legs buckle, tumbling him onto Giles. Giles wraps his arms tightly around Oz's hips, rolling his face against Oz's belly in long wet kisses, and then rolls them both over. Every muscle in Oz's body feels tense, quivering with strain, but somehow he's loose as well, unresisting as Giles moves him. Giles lifts his head long enough to say, "Soon," and goes back to sucking on the fold of Oz's navel. Pleadingly, Oz tries to lift his hips, tries to tuck his legs around Giles' back, but after a moment he flops back to the mattress.
As he nibbles around the outline of Oz's cock, Giles finds the dressing gown and works a fold over his hand. "Do you want to come?" he asks Oz. Without waiting for an answer, he grasps Oz's shaft in his velvet-draped fist and gives it a few fast strokes, then bends and sucks it deep into his mouth.
Shivering now, tiny little pinches all over his body, coming in faster and faster rushes, a constant stream of shakes, and Oz's mouth is empty, dry, as he shouts and shoves his hips up, thrusts *into* Giles' mouth.
Numb, and shivering, so at first Giles' mouth feels cold, then steamy, and then it just feels *right* as Oz knots his hands in Giles' hair and tries to stop thrusting. He sucks in a deep breath, feels it shudder and groan inside his hollow chest, and focuses on the way Giles' forehead wrinkles as he sucks. Just feels the swipe of tongue, the snug slick insides of cheeks, just feels and holds.
He wants to make this last, make it as endless as he can, but his skin's sliding off in big, red-hot patches, pinching him upward, pouring him into Giles, so that his feet are flat on the mattress, his arms burn at the ache of holding Giles' head, and he's folding, thrusting, spinning in a molten whirl that goes white and blank and unfeeling everywhere Giles isn't.
"Want to come, want to -" It's that word, like an incantation - when Giles said it, Oz shook hard and bit his lip - that does it, that plus the dark-forest flicker of Giles' eyes, the stretch of his cheeks as he smiles, and Oz pushes again, past the heat and the melting terror, into the black-red warmth, and screams when his spine snaps in two and he flops back, shooting and crying.
Almost choking as Oz's cock hits the back of his throat, Giles swallows and sucks and swallows until Oz's thrusts stop, until he's unmoving except for the twitches of his cock and the tremors that shake through him with every breath. Without lifting his head, Giles reaches up and clasps both of Oz's hands. He'd like to hold Oz's cock in his mouth as it softens, maybe suck it hard again, suck it relentlessly until Oz comes a second time, fast enough to make up for the slowness Giles made him suffer.
Oz is pulling on his arms, though, and moving discontentedly as though he wants to slide under Giles' body. As he lifts up Giles gives Oz's cock one last swipe with his tongue, then he flops heavily against the pillows and pulls Oz close. Oz's little desperate gasps are almost sobs, and wet beads, tears or sweat or both, hang in his eyelashes. "Oz," Giles says, suddenly afraid that Oz trusts him too much, that he would let Giles push him too far and not complain. But Oz is nuzzling closer, kissing Giles' neck even as he shakes and wheezes, and if those are tears, perhaps they're good ones.
Giles pulls the duvet up over them both and kisses from Oz's temple to his mouth, opening to let Oz lick up all the tastes of his own body. "Thank you," Giles says, achingly grateful for every molecule of Oz's body, every word he's ever spoken and thought he's ever had. "So wonderful, Oz."
Tasting Giles all over again, Giles and himself, come and sweat and lube swirling together like something foreign and delicious, Oz pushes his hand through Giles' hair and kisses Giles again. It feels like years, decades, since he's gotten to kiss Giles, and he sucks hard on Giles' lower lip until they're both panting again.
The rest of him, everywhere below his neck, is heavy and remote, and it's difficult to move, even though he wants to draw closer, drape himself over Giles and sink down to stillness.
"Welcome," he whispers against the corner of Giles' lips. "But don't *thank* me. Just - wow." He wants to tell Giles what it felt like, getting fucked and riding hard, flipping over and breaking into a gushing torrent, but his tongue is thick and useless. "Love you. Love how you feel, what you *do* -"
Oz pulls back, wiping the sweat that's going cold off his forehead, clearing his eyes and blinking hard. Giles is lying there, splayed out, totally relaxed, smiling at him with pure satisfaction. Oz matches his smile, touching the curves of Giles' cheeks, running his finger down Giles' neck.
"Wish I could *tell* you," Oz says, dropping down again and tucking his forehead against the curve of Giles' shoulder. "What you do, how you make me feel." He glances up and smiles again. "How *you* feel, all strong and like, *loving*. Like that."
His chest hurts, he's hot and cold in ragged flashes, and Oz can only kiss Giles' cheek again.
"Never felt like that, not ever. Not without you. All you, Giles. Believe me."
Usually the thought of Oz without him (that is, Oz with someone else) aches like an old wound, one so deep and jagged that it'll always hitch and pain him and never come right. And it hurts now, but so distantly that Giles thinks there's yet hope of proper healing.
Oz is almost scowling, the way he does when he's frustrated with words or himself. But when Giles cups his cheek his frown smoothes out. "That is telling me. Silly boy." What Oz wants, Giles thinks, is a language without approximations, a language where words are pure feeling, unmediated and precise. And Oz blames himself for not finding it.
Oz's hand, which was meandering along Giles' neck and back, settles against Giles' cheek. Gesture for gesture, like a mirror, and their breathing is falling into rhythm too. "It's not me, though," Giles says. "It's us, together. Without you . . . nothing's ever been like this for me. We -" He pauses, thinking, absently drawing his fingertips over Oz's stubble, because he wants to say this right. Wants to give Oz something like that perfect clarity, that transparency of words.
"We fit. We suit. God knows we shouldn't, by any rational standard, but we do." Giles' eyes sting a little, his throat scratches as he speaks, and he wonders if he should be ashamed of his own sentimentality.
But this isn't really sentimentality. This is truth.
Giles sounds - choked. Almost sad. Craning up, so hard that his neck pops a little and his shoulder complains, Oz kisses each of Giles' eyes in turn, then again, cupping his neck and squeezing. Giles isn't sad, he's just concentrating and being careful, getting overwhelmed. He's just being himself. The only thing Oz can do is kiss him again and stroke back his hair.
"We fit," he repeats, nodding. Fit, suit - they're nice, simple words, and that's the best thing about being with Giles. "Like, after everything else, we're just - yeah. What you said." Giles grins when Oz breaks off and shrugs. "Rational standards, though, they're kind of for birds. Just saying."
He shushes Giles when Giles opens his mouth, and leans in to kiss him one more time. Resting his forehead against Giles', Oz inhales, taking in all the sweat and sex smells that salt and prickle.
"Want to tell you with, like. Technicolor. And surround sound. Full synesthesia and 3-D. You deserve it, that's all."
"Telepathy, then? On the other hand, judging by Buffy's experience, it's not really very jolly." Given the chance to read Oz's mind, though--only Oz's--Giles would take it in a minute. Perhaps something nice and limited, switching on only when they're holding each other like this, naked and sticky with each other's sweat and come, pressing their foreheads together and still wanting to lie closer, to touch more. To be inside, to have the thing that sex, for all its joys, only symbolizes.
Thinking about it sharpens the roiling ache around Giles' heart, the one that's nine parts happiness and one part strange, abstract grief, grief for symbols and imperfections and the endless unwinding of time. So he works his fingers through the wet roots of Oz's hair, salting his own skin, and kisses him with a slow coaxing tongue until Oz whimpers deep in his throat. "That's as good as words, you know. Maybe better. The sounds you make, and the way you touch me. The way you react when I touch you. It could hardly be more three-dimensional than that." Bodies are lovely things, after all, even if they're not quite enough. Hand gliding along the surface of Oz, soft skin wound over architectural bones, Giles reminds himself.
Three dimensions, Giles' palm skating over him and re-creating his chest, ribs, hip, and Oz closes his eyes. He knows the extent of Giles' body -- how far over his shoulder reaches, the length of his legs and span of his arms -- and he knows it without seeing, without even touching. It's a sort of wordless knowledge, deep as muscles, and Oz learned it without even trying.
"I just -- it's because --" He opens his eyes and kisses the curve above Giles' upper lip. In Sunnydale, the first time -- and he smiles, realizing that there are two sojourns on the hellmouth now -- Giles was the one with words, and Oz kept believing that they couldn't be shared, that he couldn't catch up. "Words, and stuff. They're your things --" That's not exactly the truth, not when he's three inches away from Giles' face and admiring the tilt of his eyebrows as he concentrates. "Yours, and I want to be there. Give 'em back to you."
A diagonal wedge of light from the window bisects Oz's face; Giles traces it along Oz's nose and forehead to where it scatters in his hair. "I'd like that. I can see you worrying over words, sometimes. And all too often, in the end I don't get any, because . . . I don't know. Because you think you haven't found the right ones?" Oz tilts his head to one side, forehead wrinkling as he considers, and blinks when the light hits him in the eye.
Giles shifts an arm to shade him. "There's a twenty-volume OED in the sitting room. In fact, you unpacked it and shelved it. After reading half of it." Giles had been making tea when Oz opened the box; he came back to find Oz with one volume in his lap and half a dozen more fanned out around him. "So I know you've got words enough."
Leaning closer, he kisses the corner of Oz's slight, reminiscent smile. "Yes. Be here with me. Tell me things. Everything. I . . . I think we're only now really getting to know one another." Before, he half-knew Oz, at best, and stitched the rest together with fictions he didn't even notice until too late. And that was long ago.
Oz sounds close to coming, moves like it, urgent and jerky, and so Giles hooks his arms between Oz's spread thighs and pulls his hips up higher, keeping his cock off the mattress. With his own need satisfied, Giles can make this go on and on, bathe Oz in pleasure, dissolve him in it. He frees an arm and slides two fingers into Oz's panting mouth, then works his tongue lower, down to the sensitive spot behind Oz's balls. Looping, flickering caresses, and Oz groans, clamps his lips over Giles' fingers and sucks. With a painful stretch of his neck, Giles scrapes a tooth along the skin, just hard enough, just the way Oz likes, and then pulls away, blowing a little air over the reddened skin while Oz tenses and shakes.
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Giles' fingers are in his mouth, his lips locked around the knuckles, and Oz swirls his tongue around them, tasting pads, testing the whorls of prints, thrusting his tongue as he can't thrust his cock, wanting to push out all this heat and the red-static noise of need that's swamping him.
But he doesn't want to push it out, he wants to melt into it, break apart and soak and never stop feeling this. Contradiction and juxtaposition, breaking and melting, and Oz shoves his forehead into the mattress, yearning, spreading his legs, begging.
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Maybe Oz is so far gone he's beyond shouting--he only makes a brief high sound, but his legs buckle, tumbling him onto Giles. Giles wraps his arms tightly around Oz's hips, rolling his face against Oz's belly in long wet kisses, and then rolls them both over. Every muscle in Oz's body feels tense, quivering with strain, but somehow he's loose as well, unresisting as Giles moves him. Giles lifts his head long enough to say, "Soon," and goes back to sucking on the fold of Oz's navel. Pleadingly, Oz tries to lift his hips, tries to tuck his legs around Giles' back, but after a moment he flops back to the mattress.
As he nibbles around the outline of Oz's cock, Giles finds the dressing gown and works a fold over his hand. "Do you want to come?" he asks Oz. Without waiting for an answer, he grasps Oz's shaft in his velvet-draped fist and gives it a few fast strokes, then bends and sucks it deep into his mouth.
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Numb, and shivering, so at first Giles' mouth feels cold, then steamy, and then it just feels *right* as Oz knots his hands in Giles' hair and tries to stop thrusting. He sucks in a deep breath, feels it shudder and groan inside his hollow chest, and focuses on the way Giles' forehead wrinkles as he sucks. Just feels the swipe of tongue, the snug slick insides of cheeks, just feels and holds.
He wants to make this last, make it as endless as he can, but his skin's sliding off in big, red-hot patches, pinching him upward, pouring him into Giles, so that his feet are flat on the mattress, his arms burn at the ache of holding Giles' head, and he's folding, thrusting, spinning in a molten whirl that goes white and blank and unfeeling everywhere Giles isn't.
"Want to come, want to -" It's that word, like an incantation - when Giles said it, Oz shook hard and bit his lip - that does it, that plus the dark-forest flicker of Giles' eyes, the stretch of his cheeks as he smiles, and Oz pushes again, past the heat and the melting terror, into the black-red warmth, and screams when his spine snaps in two and he flops back, shooting and crying.
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Oz is pulling on his arms, though, and moving discontentedly as though he wants to slide under Giles' body. As he lifts up Giles gives Oz's cock one last swipe with his tongue, then he flops heavily against the pillows and pulls Oz close. Oz's little desperate gasps are almost sobs, and wet beads, tears or sweat or both, hang in his eyelashes. "Oz," Giles says, suddenly afraid that Oz trusts him too much, that he would let Giles push him too far and not complain. But Oz is nuzzling closer, kissing Giles' neck even as he shakes and wheezes, and if those are tears, perhaps they're good ones.
Giles pulls the duvet up over them both and kisses from Oz's temple to his mouth, opening to let Oz lick up all the tastes of his own body. "Thank you," Giles says, achingly grateful for every molecule of Oz's body, every word he's ever spoken and thought he's ever had. "So wonderful, Oz."
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The rest of him, everywhere below his neck, is heavy and remote, and it's difficult to move, even though he wants to draw closer, drape himself over Giles and sink down to stillness.
"Welcome," he whispers against the corner of Giles' lips. "But don't *thank* me. Just - wow." He wants to tell Giles what it felt like, getting fucked and riding hard, flipping over and breaking into a gushing torrent, but his tongue is thick and useless. "Love you. Love how you feel, what you *do* -"
Oz pulls back, wiping the sweat that's going cold off his forehead, clearing his eyes and blinking hard. Giles is lying there, splayed out, totally relaxed, smiling at him with pure satisfaction. Oz matches his smile, touching the curves of Giles' cheeks, running his finger down Giles' neck.
"Wish I could *tell* you," Oz says, dropping down again and tucking his forehead against the curve of Giles' shoulder. "What you do, how you make me feel." He glances up and smiles again. "How *you* feel, all strong and like, *loving*. Like that."
His chest hurts, he's hot and cold in ragged flashes, and Oz can only kiss Giles' cheek again.
"Never felt like that, not ever. Not without you. All you, Giles. Believe me."
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Oz is almost scowling, the way he does when he's frustrated with words or himself. But when Giles cups his cheek his frown smoothes out. "That is telling me. Silly boy." What Oz wants, Giles thinks, is a language without approximations, a language where words are pure feeling, unmediated and precise. And Oz blames himself for not finding it.
Oz's hand, which was meandering along Giles' neck and back, settles against Giles' cheek. Gesture for gesture, like a mirror, and their breathing is falling into rhythm too. "It's not me, though," Giles says. "It's us, together. Without you . . . nothing's ever been like this for me. We -" He pauses, thinking, absently drawing his fingertips over Oz's stubble, because he wants to say this right. Wants to give Oz something like that perfect clarity, that transparency of words.
"We fit. We suit. God knows we shouldn't, by any rational standard, but we do." Giles' eyes sting a little, his throat scratches as he speaks, and he wonders if he should be ashamed of his own sentimentality.
But this isn't really sentimentality. This is truth.
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"We fit," he repeats, nodding. Fit, suit - they're nice, simple words, and that's the best thing about being with Giles. "Like, after everything else, we're just - yeah. What you said." Giles grins when Oz breaks off and shrugs. "Rational standards, though, they're kind of for birds. Just saying."
He shushes Giles when Giles opens his mouth, and leans in to kiss him one more time. Resting his forehead against Giles', Oz inhales, taking in all the sweat and sex smells that salt and prickle.
"Want to tell you with, like. Technicolor. And surround sound. Full synesthesia and 3-D. You deserve it, that's all."
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Thinking about it sharpens the roiling ache around Giles' heart, the one that's nine parts happiness and one part strange, abstract grief, grief for symbols and imperfections and the endless unwinding of time. So he works his fingers through the wet roots of Oz's hair, salting his own skin, and kisses him with a slow coaxing tongue until Oz whimpers deep in his throat. "That's as good as words, you know. Maybe better. The sounds you make, and the way you touch me. The way you react when I touch you. It could hardly be more three-dimensional than that." Bodies are lovely things, after all, even if they're not quite enough. Hand gliding along the surface of Oz, soft skin wound over architectural bones, Giles reminds himself.
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"I just -- it's because --" He opens his eyes and kisses the curve above Giles' upper lip. In Sunnydale, the first time -- and he smiles, realizing that there are two sojourns on the hellmouth now -- Giles was the one with words, and Oz kept believing that they couldn't be shared, that he couldn't catch up. "Words, and stuff. They're your things --" That's not exactly the truth, not when he's three inches away from Giles' face and admiring the tilt of his eyebrows as he concentrates. "Yours, and I want to be there. Give 'em back to you."
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Giles shifts an arm to shade him. "There's a twenty-volume OED in the sitting room. In fact, you unpacked it and shelved it. After reading half of it." Giles had been making tea when Oz opened the box; he came back to find Oz with one volume in his lap and half a dozen more fanned out around him. "So I know you've got words enough."
Leaning closer, he kisses the corner of Oz's slight, reminiscent smile. "Yes. Be here with me. Tell me things. Everything. I . . . I think we're only now really getting to know one another." Before, he half-knew Oz, at best, and stitched the rest together with fictions he didn't even notice until too late. And that was long ago.
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