Homecoming, cont'd.
Continued fromhere.
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."
*
"Want you to come -" Oz bends over, flattens himself on Giles' chest, leaving just the head of Giles' cock inside, like the center of something, deep and shivering, shaking harder and harder as Oz licks up the sweat and Giles' fingers dig into his hip. He lifts his head as he pushes back and up again, catches Giles looking at him through sweat-dark lashes and narrowed eyes.
With Giles spread out like this, dark cream against white sheets and darker velvet, face gone red and yearning, Oz feels like a sherpa, a polar explorer, pushing and cresting up some remote, mysterious, holy place never touched, rarely glimpsed. Giles' hand is splayed over Oz's thigh, pushing and pulling him in time, pressing the chain of bruises deeper and tugging on the belt, twisting Oz's cock, as Oz rises and sinks.
That's the most amazing thing, that Oz is moving, pressing down over Giles, rising up and holding until the ache becomes unbearable, and every press downward is like a bellows, blowing inside Oz's skin, making everything hotter, brighter, tenser.
"Please," Oz says, and again, his voice cracking like spider-lines through glass. "Please -" Faster now, his bones burned down to gluey ash, up and down, back and forward, the tension inside him past describing, filled so entirely that he can't move *up*, just around, as Giles grabs Oz's shoulder, forcing him down and thrusting up in fast, ragged jerks, his head rolling against the pillow, mouth working like a baby's for painful air, and it all brightens blindingly as Giles pushes deeper, faster, jerkier and Oz just keeps pleading.
Feeling Giles come, watching it like this, from up here, the knot around his cock shrinking and tightening, it's all he ever wanted. Here, at home, Giles gone red and liquid and full of need.
"Come, please, fucking *come*, *Giles* --"
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."
*
"Want you to come -" Oz bends over, flattens himself on Giles' chest, leaving just the head of Giles' cock inside, like the center of something, deep and shivering, shaking harder and harder as Oz licks up the sweat and Giles' fingers dig into his hip. He lifts his head as he pushes back and up again, catches Giles looking at him through sweat-dark lashes and narrowed eyes.
With Giles spread out like this, dark cream against white sheets and darker velvet, face gone red and yearning, Oz feels like a sherpa, a polar explorer, pushing and cresting up some remote, mysterious, holy place never touched, rarely glimpsed. Giles' hand is splayed over Oz's thigh, pushing and pulling him in time, pressing the chain of bruises deeper and tugging on the belt, twisting Oz's cock, as Oz rises and sinks.
That's the most amazing thing, that Oz is moving, pressing down over Giles, rising up and holding until the ache becomes unbearable, and every press downward is like a bellows, blowing inside Oz's skin, making everything hotter, brighter, tenser.
"Please," Oz says, and again, his voice cracking like spider-lines through glass. "Please -" Faster now, his bones burned down to gluey ash, up and down, back and forward, the tension inside him past describing, filled so entirely that he can't move *up*, just around, as Giles grabs Oz's shoulder, forcing him down and thrusting up in fast, ragged jerks, his head rolling against the pillow, mouth working like a baby's for painful air, and it all brightens blindingly as Giles pushes deeper, faster, jerkier and Oz just keeps pleading.
Feeling Giles come, watching it like this, from up here, the knot around his cock shrinking and tightening, it's all he ever wanted. Here, at home, Giles gone red and liquid and full of need.
"Come, please, fucking *come*, *Giles* --"