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Mr. Self Destruct Xander stopped himself from squeaking as the music in the background changed and came back full force, but just barely. He felt Oz draw away from their embrace, if that's what you wanted to call a sweaty groping session that had the both of them panting and unconsciously writhing together on the bed. His eyes weren't to be trusted, because it looked for all the world as though Oz seemed about to say something, and even Xander knew that talking at this point would be a bad idea. Leaden, he lifted his hand to cover the other boy's mouth, feeling the weight of his lust in every precious shiver when their skin came in contact. Oz, as he himself had done before, licked at his palm, nipping gently and carefully so he didn't break the flesh. He could appreciate that, since he had no plans of becoming a werewolf at any point in the future. Trading his mouth for his hand, Xander ran his fingers down the side of Oz's face, enjoying the rasp of stubble against his fingertips. Oz rolled them over again, pinning Xander to the bed and unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that seemed eerily steady when compared to the wild look in his eyes. Xander wanted to say "stop", or maybe "Hurry up", but instead he lay there below his friend, his maybe-something-more, silently awed by the simple act of his own undressing. It was still too good, and while he expected it to go wrong at any moment he was terrified of being the one to ruin it. He had to sit up to rid himself of his shirt, and his less than agile fingers made a task out of pulling Oz's t-shirt over his head. He met the other boy's eyes with a small smile when his head popped through the neck, though he couldn't imagine where he'd found it to begin with. Terror seemed to lurk more closely than anything resembling happiness, but he could hide all of that under lust. Lust was one of the pre-approved Harris emotions. The song changed in the background, and Xander stood up to drop his pants. Oz did the same, fluid and compact grace as the denim hit the ground. Boxers, which Xander had known already, and his own underwear patterned with black sheep. He stopped just short of actually pulling them off and left his knuckles resting against the thin line of ginger hair that trailed from Oz's bellybutton to some undiscovered point below. Oz didn't seem to have the same hesitation that he did though, and before he could draw the air to protest his underwear was somewhere near his ankles, and he was stepping out of it by instinct. He hadn't known Oz was going to speak, and didn't have the chance to stop him again, so it was a surprise to hear the normally concise voice lend itself to a sprawling wealth of inflection, even if it the words were still few. "Are you into this Xander? 'Cause you're shaking, but you're gorgeous, and I really want you." Oz's eyes met his, warmly questioning as small, perfect hands traced gooseflesh patterns into his heated skin. He was too ready for this, too easily convinced by the simple kindness of Oz's delicate explorations. He wanted to answer in some way that would save them both from this, from whatever it was that could take a tender new thing and silence it's mewling pleas for more than it had any right to. He wanted to, but instead he nodded, silenced always in the minutes when he needed to say the most. Bolder now, he tugged the other boy's shorts down and stepped closer, feeling himself against skin that was nothing like any he'd known before. He waited for Oz to push them down again, and when he didn't move quickly enough expedited the matter by falling back on the mattress and pulling the short young man with him. They landed gently, an off of sound lost in the soft jolt of pleasure that small friction had created. Oz was kissing him again, and then he was kissing Oz, and the sweet tang of cinnamon toothpaste was lost in the back of his mouth. Xander's tongue slipped across Oz's, looking the answers the other boy would never give him in words. They moved together, closer and closer, taughtly strung across the cotton sheets, and when Xander turned onto his stomach it was an offering. He couldn't give truth, he couldn't give love, and he didn't know what else Oz would take from him, but he thought this might be it, and he was right. Slick and warm, twisting and making his breathing into the pillow under his chin a ragged wind in harsh counterpoint to the suddenly gentle music. Soft lips on the knobs of his spine, licking away at sweat he'd earned with an alarming lack of effort, and the keening whimper as he lifted himself was anything but innocent. He didn't know what he wanted, but Oz knew, Oz had always known, and there had to be a way to steal some of that calm assurance. There was another kiss, a solemn condemnation to relax, and then pain, dull and sharp and fire inside him, and he suddenly knew and it was gone. The pain had been familiar, closer to him than any of the pleasure, and his own irregular timing was a search for more. Clarity came with pain, making him accept that Oz was doing this, that he was doing this, that he wanted to. It wasn't so much, the pain, just enough to make it sex, to bring him back from the half-detached place he'd gone where things had seemed unbearably clear. He'd fought with Willow, he was sleeping with her ex-boyfriend, and somewhere in all of it there was revenge and desire and the possibility of something he refused to call love. Love was not one of the pre-approved Harris emotions. It was all gone from his head a second later when he forced his lungs to let go of the strangled moan he'd caught when Oz first entered him. It left him with his orgasm, a shaking release over Oz's hand, when he hadn't yet realized that it was there. Oz came minutes later, his fingers gripping Xander's shoulder with a force that spoke of bruises and apologetic backrubs. They were silent when it was done, silent in the shower they shared and barely conscious when they returned to Oz's bed. Xander felt a wave of shyness, too apparent to lie about as he hung back at the doorway. It had been sex, and now it wasn't anymore, and he didn't want to find out if it was more. Oz raised an eyebrow at him, and stopped smoothing out the sheets. "Going to stay? I won't even make you sleep in the wet spot." Xander found another smile, even his voice for an answer, and the last of his energy to practically trip across the littered floor and collapse in a naked heap. An arm snaked across his waist, and the sheet pulled over them smelled of Oz but more strongly of them. The ache inside him was a tripwire between his head and his chest and every other place he had nerves or blood or maybe a soul, and he wrapped himself in that as securely as he had Oz's arms. If he didn't think he would sleep, and if he slept he would dream, and in his dreams, sometimes, Xander Harris actually escaped his pre-defined misery. Maybe tomorrow would be the morning where he woke to a world that didn't rock under his feet. If not, it would at least be one where his lover didn't try to kill him, and all things considered, that was a pretty drastic improvement over the past. Oz's breath on his neck, the same spot he'd so fondly explored with his mouth before, sent him off to sleep. |
