Giles can't answer in words, only in a long rattling groan that starts somewhere behind his balls and avalanches through him, only in spasmodic, stuttery thrusts, up and up and up. Just out of his reach, just past the blacklight swirling before his closed eyes, there's something good, everything good, everything he needs, and he chases it, clutching and whimpering. A lunge and grunt and he's there, in the white flash and sweetness of it, grasping Oz's flexing shoulders and shuddering as he comes
( ... )
Bright pictures and sharper sensations keep tumbling through Oz - Giles' mouth, yelling, and the shuddering heat of his orgasm, so deep it must have been halfway up Oz's spine - as his sore knees press deeper into the mattress. His skin's half-burned away, it must be transparent by now, and his cock's so hot it's almost numb
( ... )
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
( ... )
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.
"You think?" Oz shifts downward, rubbing his head into the pillow, so he can see Giles clearly, the corona of light around his ruffled hair, the dark wrinkle between his eyebrows. Giles told him all the most important things right away the first night; Oz didn't *know* they were that important, not for a while, but he knew them. But Giles *is* right that there's something different now, something easier. Fewer worries, maybe, and less doubt. "I guess so. Not sure I know you *better*, but -- I don't have as many questions, that's true."
The velvet on the belt is starting to feel less soft and far more scratchy than it should, and Oz's balls are starting to tingle strangely. "I'm going to undo this. That okay?"
Giles' eyes go into slits at the question and Oz's chest hollows at the sight.
The belt. Jesus, the belt around Oz's balls, around his prick, which Giles forgot about until just now. Now, all at once, he remembers the fuzz of it under his lips, the glint in Oz's eyes when he tied it, Oz's grunts when Giles pulled and twisted it. And now Oz is asking permission to take it off, and-
"I'll do it." Something like a laugh from Oz when Giles pushes him back. A laugh that melts into something else, high and breathy. No, not else, but more. It still starts in laughter, in game. Oz was playing when he made that knot, as surely as he's playing now, raising his legs to let Giles work at it
( ... )
Giles' smile is *huge*, spreading wider and wider as he works a knee between Oz's legs and lowers himself more firmly on top of Oz, winding his arm under Oz's neck. Warmth is slipsliding through Oz, down from Giles, up from his own skin, doubling and melting as he laughs. Part of the heat's from the lack of the knot, like untying it let loose banked fires that glide through him and make him laugh harder even as he kisses the side of Giles' neck and folds his arm around Giles' back.
"Thanks," he whispers into Giles' ear. Giles strokes his knuckles over Oz's ribs, back and forth over the ticklish spot, and Oz nips down on Giles' earlobe. And again, when Giles' hips rock and his breath catches and snags in his throat. This is fun, fun in a way that it never was before, with other people -- Devon, other men, a couple girls -- and Oz holds Giles more tightly, hand on his hip, and tells him so. "Fun with you. So much fun."
It's strange to think of something this good, something Giles needs this badly, as fun. Fun is the Brighton seaside, candyfloss and tacky souvenirs. Fun is television comedies, films one forgets half an hour later, bands that aren't exactly good.
Fun is tickling Oz just here under the arm so that he flails helplessly beneath Giles' weight. "Love you," he says when Oz's almost-pained laughter fades back to wheezes. "And I think the fun's to your credit. Left to myself, I'm as fun as a wet weekend."
With a sudden shove, Oz rolls him over and holds him down effortlessly with one hand. "Don't-" Giles pleads, too late, already laughing as Oz hones in on his one really ticklish spot, between two ribs. Tears streaming down into the pillow, Giles laughs, keeps laughing after Oz has stopped tickling. He's needed this more than he knew, needed it as much as he needed the high and beautiful parts of love, the cathedrals and symphonies.
Oz feels the blush, the idea of a blush, first, then the heat creeping up his belly and his neck and breaking all over his face. At the sweetheart, at the gentle, coaxing texture of Giles' voice, at the thought of a tub full of hot water. Their tub, deep and long, that they can both fit in, not the gritty shower of the motel.
"Yeah," he says, sitting back and pulling Giles up. The blush is displacing, slow and sure, all the fear that froze him up, and he breathes shallowly, like something horrible just got averted. "Oh, yeah."
He wants his own endearment, something secret that means Giles, but it's not the kind of thing you can design or plan on. It's going to happen -- Oz can feel the sweetness building in his chest -- but on its own time. He shoos Giles into the bathroom to do the water, because Giles has this whole *thing* about water and heat, like brewing tea, while he rummages in his knapsack for the bag of stuff he picked up in Santa Barbara when he drove Dawn over for girls' day out. Goat's milk soap that the lady in the
( ... )
"I love you," Giles says, smiling at the handsome, which makes him think of old black-and-white films, Lauren Bacall's formidable, insouciant beauty as she trades quips with Humphrey Bogart. A world away from a naked boy with tousled hair, bright new love bites over fading old ones, a tattooed arm and multiple earrings. And yet Oz said it so naturally, without shyness or premeditation, that it sounds exactly right. He has a way of making unlikely things fit, after all.
Perched on the edge of the tub, Oz unwraps a bar of soap and opens the jars for Giles to smell. "Very nice. What other surprises have you brought back, hmm?" There's a shrug and an arch of Oz's brows, like a soundless laugh, but no answer. "All right, don't tell. But it's impossible to really surprise me--I know all about you and that knapsack and the mysterious appearance of things from it." Oz's pockets, too, Giles thinks, remembering the lube from the other day. Oz claimed he'd just picked up a bottle because they were running low and it's cheaper in America,
( ... )
Oz shakes in some more salt, then cups the jar of olive bath in both hands. "There're worse fates than smelling like pasta," he says, looking up at Giles. "Like, say --" The oil's thick and goopy on his fingers and Giles starts to say something, but Oz talks over him and dips his hand into the hot water, swirling the oil around. "Vampires. Covens of dark witches. Skin cancer from the California sun."
Giles is laughing and Oz grins. "A little pesto-baste is *nothing*, is all I'm saying."
Swinging his leg over the lip of the tub, gulping at the heat of it, Oz lowers himself inside. The water plucks and stings at the bruises on his thigh and the chafed skin of his ass, but after two breathless moments, it just feels good. Like floating in the Mediterranean or the Dead Sea's supposed to feel, thick and warm and *perfect*.
"C'mon in," Oz says, his voice gone high at the heat, and opens his arms. "Water's, um. Fragrant."
Various aches, from long fatigue and the flight and sex, twinge and throb as Giles settles carefully into the tub, intensify for a moment in the heat, then ease off. Giles slides his feet under Oz's thighs and around his hips, knotting the two of them into a seated hug. "This is not a bad fate at all, I'd say." He can't, in fact, think of anything he'd choose over this--Oz slippery and contented and making waves with his hand, water that really is fragrant and only a little reminiscent of pasta
( ... )
"I'm glad," Oz says, bumping back into Giles, twisting slightly so his head rests in the crook of Giles' elbow and he has a better angle on Giles' face. He has to prop one foot up on the side of the tub, but it's worth it to watch the thoughts crinkle and pass. "Can't imagine what it was like. In the cage, or all the times I got out."
When he sucks his lower lip between his teeth, it tastes like hot lemonade, the stuff his grandmother used to mix with liquid aspirin when he was sick. He has no memories, not in the usual sense, of wolf-time, just bone-deep flashes of urges -- run, bite, jump -- and an overload of sensory impressions, the world gone monochromatic and soaked with scent. Giles would have been one figure, redolent with need and hunger, among many, and maybe that's the worst thing, not being able to recognize Giles as Giles
( ... )
When Oz kisses gently like this he's all softness, silk and down and puppy fur, all plush warmth and comfort. It's essentially Oz, that gentleness, and so are his hungry kisses, the ones sharp with desire and teeth
( ... )
"Yeah," Oz says, as quietly as he can and still be heard, trying to match the silent, studious cast to Giles' face and quality of his voice, "I know. Which is pretty crazy." Giles blinks, and he's softened all over by the steam and the lack of his glasses, so Oz leans in, water rolling ahead of his chest, and kisses him again. "Crazy-good, I mean. Crazy-amazing
( ... )
Giles slides his hand down the ridged slop of Oz's side and thinks about not leaving, about years that add up to permanence, or as close to it as anyone ever manages. "Good." It's the only answer he can manage to what Oz said, to words that fill Giles head to toe, crowding his aching chest, threatening to spill out from the corners of his eyes. Knowing Oz loves him is one thing, but being told like this is another, far more overwhelming
( ... )
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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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The velvet on the belt is starting to feel less soft and far more scratchy than it should, and Oz's balls are starting to tingle strangely. "I'm going to undo this. That okay?"
Giles' eyes go into slits at the question and Oz's chest hollows at the sight.
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"I'll do it." Something like a laugh from Oz when Giles pushes him back. A laugh that melts into something else, high and breathy. No, not else, but more. It still starts in laughter, in game. Oz was playing when he made that knot, as surely as he's playing now, raising his legs to let Giles work at it ( ... )
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"Thanks," he whispers into Giles' ear. Giles strokes his knuckles over Oz's ribs, back and forth over the ticklish spot, and Oz nips down on Giles' earlobe. And again, when Giles' hips rock and his breath catches and snags in his throat. This is fun, fun in a way that it never was before, with other people -- Devon, other men, a couple girls -- and Oz holds Giles more tightly, hand on his hip, and tells him so. "Fun with you. So much fun."
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Fun is tickling Oz just here under the arm so that he flails helplessly beneath Giles' weight. "Love you," he says when Oz's almost-pained laughter fades back to wheezes. "And I think the fun's to your credit. Left to myself, I'm as fun as a wet weekend."
With a sudden shove, Oz rolls him over and holds him down effortlessly with one hand. "Don't-" Giles pleads, too late, already laughing as Oz hones in on his one really ticklish spot, between two ribs. Tears streaming down into the pillow, Giles laughs, keeps laughing after Oz has stopped tickling. He's needed this more than he knew, needed it as much as he needed the high and beautiful parts of love, the cathedrals and symphonies.
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"Yeah," he says, sitting back and pulling Giles up. The blush is displacing, slow and sure, all the fear that froze him up, and he breathes shallowly, like something horrible just got averted. "Oh, yeah."
He wants his own endearment, something secret that means Giles, but it's not the kind of thing you can design or plan on. It's going to happen -- Oz can feel the sweetness building in his chest -- but on its own time. He shoos Giles into the bathroom to do the water, because Giles has this whole *thing* about water and heat, like brewing tea, while he rummages in his knapsack for the bag of stuff he picked up in Santa Barbara when he drove Dawn over for girls' day out. Goat's milk soap that the lady in the ( ... )
Reply
Perched on the edge of the tub, Oz unwraps a bar of soap and opens the jars for Giles to smell. "Very nice. What other surprises have you brought back, hmm?" There's a shrug and an arch of Oz's brows, like a soundless laugh, but no answer. "All right, don't tell. But it's impossible to really surprise me--I know all about you and that knapsack and the mysterious appearance of things from it." Oz's pockets, too, Giles thinks, remembering the lube from the other day. Oz claimed he'd just picked up a bottle because they were running low and it's cheaper in America, ( ... )
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Giles is laughing and Oz grins. "A little pesto-baste is *nothing*, is all I'm saying."
Swinging his leg over the lip of the tub, gulping at the heat of it, Oz lowers himself inside. The water plucks and stings at the bruises on his thigh and the chafed skin of his ass, but after two breathless moments, it just feels good. Like floating in the Mediterranean or the Dead Sea's supposed to feel, thick and warm and *perfect*.
"C'mon in," Oz says, his voice gone high at the heat, and opens his arms. "Water's, um. Fragrant."
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When he sucks his lower lip between his teeth, it tastes like hot lemonade, the stuff his grandmother used to mix with liquid aspirin when he was sick. He has no memories, not in the usual sense, of wolf-time, just bone-deep flashes of urges -- run, bite, jump -- and an overload of sensory impressions, the world gone monochromatic and soaked with scent. Giles would have been one figure, redolent with need and hunger, among many, and maybe that's the worst thing, not being able to recognize Giles as Giles ( ... )
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