He knows he's English. And a man. The sort of man who wears a suit. None of the others wears a suit. No, wait, the blond, good-looking, surly one does, and when he speaks, it's clear that he's English as well. Cockney. Very cockney. Too cockney--something sounds wrong about those strangled vowels
( ... )
He grins up at Rupert, who's dressed at least fifteen years older than he seems to be -- his face is handsome, and there are wrinkles around his eyes, but he *seems* younger than his suit -- and pulls out a very worn California driver's license that's a month away from expiring
( ... )
When Daniel smiles, it's suddenly clear what a handsome boy-young man-he is. Subtle good looks, not like Randy's flash dye job and swooping cheekbones, and more interesting for that subtlety. "Er, thanks," Rupert says, smiling back at him. Green eyes, or possibly blue; it's hard to tell in this light. He could tell if he were closer. "But I think that may all be a misunderstanding." Looking at Daniel, at his square shoulders under jacket and ugly green cardigan and uglier pink t-shirt, at his narrow hips and strong, agile fingers tipped with purple nail varnish, Rupert is increasingly sure that Anya's the wrong type entirely
( ... )
Keeping his eye on Rupert -- whose suit, he's realizing, is nicely-fitted and really pretty handsome -- Daniel crouches behind the redheaded girl with nice breasts and Alexander, the big jock big-brother guy, across from Joan and Dawn and the blonde woman with even nicer breasts, and they're all whispering urgently
( ... )
Memories, Daniel thinks blearily, are silly. He doesn't know why he needs memories, not now, not any more. He seems to be doing just fine without them. Compared to this, where everything's sharp and new, like spring, where the texture of Rupert's pants is soft on his palm and the hint of his hard-on like a stone under moss, where his mouth buzzes and tingles as he moves it over the hollow of Rupert's cheek and his ear boils and sings between Rupert's lips, memories are horrible. They're thick and musty, sour as rotten wine, clogged with dust and dead flies
( ... )
"We-" Rupert says again, meaning to add should be looking for memory spells. But his throat constricts when Daniel's hand skims again over his cock and the bare skin at his waist, and the rest of the sentence turns to a long, low noise. With fingers that can still feel the textures of Daniel's skin, Rupert unknots his tie, opens his shirt, and he makes another noise, higher, when Daniel presses his face to his chest, tongue swirling through the hair there
( ... )
Rupert stumbles and Daniel wraps his arm around his waist, guiding him past the crates of rabbits into the back room, not letting go, pausing to slide a finger through Rupert's belt-loops and kiss the side of his chest. There's probably a word for this, in one of the thousand languages he doesn't know, for how he knows how to walk, how to kiss and touch and make Rupert shiver with just his fingernails.
Something below amnesia, apparently. Nesia, maybe? Daniel is about to ask when they reach the door and he twists, nudging it open with his hip, wrapping both arms around Rupert and pulling him inside. Into the dusty, dim room, and the question dies without being spoken because he opens his mouth, grasps Rupert's head in both his hands, and kisses him. He knows there are different emphases to kisses and, what's more, he knows that this is most serious kiss he's ever given
( ... )
The strangely rich smell of cement and dust stirs something in Rupert's mind, a feeling that hints of memory, like the shadow of a fish gliding among reeds. And then it's gone, slick as a fish, and Rupert leans down into Daniel's clutching body, rolling his hips and groaning as Daniel responds with an upward jerk. "I know how you know that," he says, moving some more, rubbing his cock against the bulge of Daniel's. Under zipper and cloth there's naked skin, so tender over the hard swell of flesh. Skin that burns like his own for bareness, for unhindered touch, for a hand or a mouth or something, anything, and picturing it, Rupert shivers and noses the neck of Daniel's t-shirt aside, nips hard at this new bit of him. "Know how I know it, too. Want to touch all of you. See you
( ... )
Daniel knows now where words come from. Noise that sparks up from need and sensation, from the deep, blazing joy of Rupert inside him, moving around him, from the swirls of air that freeze and glow with each shake and the dense pressure of Rupert. Words come from all this, from alchemy that mixes spells of sound with the squeaking mat and his fingers scrabbling and Rupert's teeth scraping over his skin. Words shiver below sense, hovering, then crash like cymbals into language.
"God, god. You're -- you're in me, you're here and there and so -- so -- deep. So good, you're --"
Rupert's arm locks around Daniel's waist, holds him here, almost floating -- if heavy, hot things spinning between dimensions can float -- and he's so tall that he can reach Daniel's ear, suck on his earrings and hiss encouragement and endearments straight to Daniel's spine. That spine must be a silver wire, something heated and twisting fast, far past melting, gone into something else. Daniel reaches back, stretches and wrenches, and grabs Rupert's hip, palm
( ... )
"Won't stop," Rupert says, hips snapping forward again like his whole body's just an extension of his cock, like it exists to push him deeper and harder into Daniel, into this tormenting and perfect sweetness. "Not stopping. Want - want this - to go on - forever." If this could stretch out into eternity, into infinite slowness like an event horizon, then this could be the only thing he ever did, center and definition of his forgotten life. It's all solid and true, the taut expanse of Daniel's skin, the taste of his sweat, the stuttering rhythms of his body and the urgency of Rupert's own as it channels down into blind sensation, into liquidity and movement. What could any memory be, compared to this, but a limp, dusty, unnecessary thing
( ... )
Now it feels like Rupert's surrounding him, one hand gliding up and down Daniel's chest, molding and kneading it while the other tugs so rapidly on Daniel's cock that he can see his skin, flame-edged and tight, about to pull inside out. Rupert, inside him, outside, hoisting and pushing, and Daniel's back keeps bowing farther backward, his head rolling against Rupert's shoulder, his vision gone smeared and bright
( ... )
Coming, Daniel's coming, cock pulsing and coating Rupert's hand with blood-warm stickiness, hole spasming around Rupert's cock as Daniel's whole body jerks. Jerks, half-convulses, shaking Rupert until his bones feel loose in his skin, until he's pulled thin and fragile around torrenting need. Come, come, Daniel's saying, voice slick and sucking, urging Rupert on as he clutches and thrusts, hipbones bruising more with each slap against Daniel's arse, as his nerves flare from red-hot to white. Can't hold the rhythm anymore, can only shove and shove and shove, can only talon his fingers around Daniel's trembling shoulders, drag his open mouth across Daniel's back. Come, Daniel's saying, and Rupert's body finally breaks, finally floods scalding as he roars and shudders and holds tight to Daniel.
This is it, orgasm, completion, coming, this unbearable shatter into blank ecstasy and then the broken stillness afterwards, heavy and twitching over Daniel's prone body, gasping with raw newborn lungs. Coming is the best word for it, because
( ... )
Giles sounds amazed, his voice hoarse and quavery, and his arm keeps tightening around Oz. Inhaling slowly through his nose, Oz turns and kisses Giles' stubbly cheek, right over a sticky swipe of lube. It is pretty amazing, he supposes, to go toward the person you want the most. Spike went with Buffy, and Xander and Willow woke up next to each other, a new-old memory that makes Oz's chest ache for half a second, pointlessly.
"Want you," Oz whispers back, lips moving over stubble and skin. "Always. Keep telling you that." He smiles, but Giles doesn't; Giles squeezes him more tightly and his breath pools warmly against Oz's neck. It's not a joke, not anything to josh about, and Oz kisses Giles' temple in apology. "Always. Senile or at full-power, Giles. Promise
( ... )
Giles doesn't ordinarily procrastinate, but in the weeks they've been here, he never found the right time to tell everyone that he and Oz weren't staying. Easier, always, to wait for another day when the others weren't so busy or so relaxed, when they were happier or when a rare bit of happiness wouldn't be disrupted. Now it's the last possible moment, and he's tempted to just wait a little longer and ring them from London. To hell with half-measures--he might as well run away for real
( ... )
Oz rubs his chin as he checks Giles out of the corner of his eye. "It's a good point," he tells Xander, "but, I mean. You've always got Spike, right?"
Xander raises his hand to flip him off, but stops when Oz leans toward Dawn. Her arms are still folded across her chest, around the bunny who's not there, her chin pointing up to the ceiling. She's pretending nothing's happening, or that nothing bothers her, something like that. Oz slides back and squeezes Giles' hand.
"I don't know what you're so upset about," Anya's saying to Xander. "You have me, and that should be enough. I can drink many a man under the table, and that's got to count for something."
"No, but see, what I meant was --" Xander starts.
Willow's doing magic on her *friends*: Oz's brain is stuck there, needle running and rasping through the same groove. Not just her friends, not just, you know, resurrecting the dead, but going into Tara's head and rearranging it like Lawrence on Changing Rooms"Why'd Willow do that?" Oz asks suddenly, and Giles' hand tightens into a
( ... )
Giles tries to smile reassuringly at Oz, who shouldn't have to defend himself to Anya, of all people. She and Xander mean well, probably. That's the hardest thing. Giles isn't just choosing Oz over his duties; he's choosing Oz over Buffy, over Dawn, over Xander. Over all of them, and all their awkward, tentative affection. He's rejecting them, leaving them behind. And so is Oz
( ... )
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Something below amnesia, apparently. Nesia, maybe? Daniel is about to ask when they reach the door and he twists, nudging it open with his hip, wrapping both arms around Rupert and pulling him inside. Into the dusty, dim room, and the question dies without being spoken because he opens his mouth, grasps Rupert's head in both his hands, and kisses him. He knows there are different emphases to kisses and, what's more, he knows that this is most serious kiss he's ever given ( ... )
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"God, god. You're -- you're in me, you're here and there and so -- so -- deep. So good, you're --"
Rupert's arm locks around Daniel's waist, holds him here, almost floating -- if heavy, hot things spinning between dimensions can float -- and he's so tall that he can reach Daniel's ear, suck on his earrings and hiss encouragement and endearments straight to Daniel's spine. That spine must be a silver wire, something heated and twisting fast, far past melting, gone into something else. Daniel reaches back, stretches and wrenches, and grabs Rupert's hip, palm ( ... )
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This is it, orgasm, completion, coming, this unbearable shatter into blank ecstasy and then the broken stillness afterwards, heavy and twitching over Daniel's prone body, gasping with raw newborn lungs. Coming is the best word for it, because ( ... )
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"Want you," Oz whispers back, lips moving over stubble and skin. "Always. Keep telling you that." He smiles, but Giles doesn't; Giles squeezes him more tightly and his breath pools warmly against Oz's neck. It's not a joke, not anything to josh about, and Oz kisses Giles' temple in apology. "Always. Senile or at full-power, Giles. Promise ( ... )
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Xander raises his hand to flip him off, but stops when Oz leans toward Dawn. Her arms are still folded across her chest, around the bunny who's not there, her chin pointing up to the ceiling. She's pretending nothing's happening, or that nothing bothers her, something like that. Oz slides back and squeezes Giles' hand.
"I don't know what you're so upset about," Anya's saying to Xander. "You have me, and that should be enough. I can drink many a man under the table, and that's got to count for something."
"No, but see, what I meant was --" Xander starts.
Willow's doing magic on her *friends*: Oz's brain is stuck there, needle running and rasping through the same groove. Not just her friends, not just, you know, resurrecting the dead, but going into Tara's head and rearranging it like Lawrence on Changing Rooms"Why'd Willow do that?" Oz asks suddenly, and Giles' hand tightens into a ( ... )
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