by Glossolalia

Afterwards, they lie in a tangle, their breathing slowing and sweat cooling, and they doze a little. Oz is in that half-state of near-wakefulness, his body loose and heavy as uncoiled rope, where he thinks, slowly, that he might be dreaming but he might not.

It's early yet, the light in the loft still near sunset, warm and darkly orange, like good marmalade; there's still dinner, ravioli tonight, to cook and then an entire evening before them. Unless the phone rings, unless Buffy calls and Giles has to rouse himself, dress quickly, and kiss Oz on the forehead before sending him home.

Oz arrived straight from school, and they talked, and kept touching, and talking, and everything sped up, a flurry of hands and kisses and laughs that shifted into a stumbling, hasty climb to the loft. And now here they are, Giles on his back, shirt still on though unbuttoned, one tail twisted up beneath him, and Oz might be dreaming.

He's visited Giles' apartment every chance he's had in the last couple weeks, and Giles doesn't seem to be getting sick of him. Opposite of "sick", actually, and Oz can't stop thinking about Giles, when they're apart, when they're together. Whenever he sees Giles — here in the apartment, down the hall at school, anywhere/everywhere — he wants more. The man is amazing, handsome as hell, all long lines and soft eyes and hoarse accent, smarter than anyone Oz has ever known, and hungry. He touches Oz like he needs to, like he's compelled to, and that's the kind of thing that Oz thought only happened right before you come, that blazing unshakable hunger to get closer, feel more, touch further. It's not about coming; Giles lives in that hunger, it's in his face when he opens the door, in his touch when he hugs Oz goodnight, and it's as reassuring as it is bewildering.

Oz lies here on his side, leg over Giles', looking at him. Half-moons of his closed eyelids, the tuft of soft spiky hair over his forehead, his entire face slack and mouth almost-but-not-quite smiling.

Everything is different with Giles, everything about Oz — how he speaks, what he wants, how he thinks — and everything around him. Giles touches him with certainty, and Oz arches up into it, seeks more, even if it's just a brush of Giles' fingertips across the back of Oz's neck.

Oz can't pretend to understand this hunger, can't imagine what Giles sees in him to spark it, but he can't refuse it, either. He wants to touch Giles even more than he wants to be touched, and that's so headspinningly new that he doesn't know what to call it.

He lies here, watching Giles doze, and his body throbs in slow, irregular bursts. His lips are sore and swollen and if he concentrates, the memory of Giles' big, soft hand on his dick sparks back into life. He's getting hard again, just watching and musing.

Oz brushes his knuckles over his cock, teasing himself, drawing it out, watching Giles' face and repeating Giles' words to himself. Love tasting you, sherbet and clover, sweet and salt. Taste so good, let me taste you — and he rolled Oz onto his back and knelt over him and his kiss was like liquid glass, spinning hot and fast into Oz's mouth, its heat streaming into his chest and through his veins, branching and beating and growing.

He wraps his hand loosely around the base of his dick, tugging gently as it swells into his palm and he tastes the kiss again, feels Giles lower his weight over him and whisper in his ear. Words out of books, words that Giles insist mean Oz: lovely, beautiful, delicious. His heart rattles inside his ribs and heat springs out over his skin as he jerks a little faster, firming his grip, feeling the weight and shape of Giles' cock in his mouth. Bitter-salt and heavy, and Oz has to slow down. He wants to make this last, make this stretch out like naps and dreams, so he releases his cock, cupping his balls and rolling them in time to the memory of Giles' mouth travelling down his chest. Tongue, then teeth quick and sharp over a nipple, then a hard, bruising suck on the edge of his hipbone. Giles' face nudging Oz's thighs apart and the tip of his tongue dipping behind his balls, underneath, right down...there.

Oz takes hold of his cock again, thumb crooked over the head, and squeezes shut his eyes, embarrassed all over again. He had tensed then, gone absolutely still, and Giles raised his head.

"Want to taste you there," he'd said, calmly but hoarsely.

Oz shakes his head again now, confused and embarrassed as much as he was then. His legs were thrown open, heat and need pushing them wider, but his mind said no, shrieked about it — dirty and embarrassing and what if he wasn't clean?

"Ssssh, ssshhh," Giles whispered, kissing the tops of Oz's thighs, hand on his chest circling and soothing. "It's all right."

It wasn't all right, that's the thing. Oz wants that, wants everything, and he's jerking faster now, a little rougher, safe here where it's just fantasy, where anything can happen. Giles' hunger takes him over, lets him feel his own; his hunger's as great as Giles', maybe even bigger, he just doesn't know as much as Giles does about how to feed it, how not to worry.

Opening his eyes — he wants to see Giles, pick out details of his collarbone and mouth and hand, while he does this — Oz finds Giles looking back at him, slight amused smile and intent eyes.

Oz drops his hand, heat sliding over his face, embarrassed again.

Giles doesn't say anything, but the bed creaks as he shifts and takes Oz's hand off the mattress and places it low on his belly. Permission and encouragement, flick of the tongue at the corner of his mouth, and Oz's hips lift at the touch, the look, Giles.

He can do this. He wants to do this. His body's stiff with embarrassment, but he wants this and Giles is shifting onto his side, drawing closer, watching. He wants Oz to do this, too.

When Giles starts to smile, it's almost imperceptible, just a deepening of the lines around his mouth and his eyes narrowing.

Oz moves his hand down, dragging it numbly, brushing his fingers over his cock and Giles does smile now, full and wide as he leans in and cups Oz's cheek.

"What do you think about?" he asks, sliding his own hand down Oz's chest, trailing bright sparks, tweaking a nipple. He licks his thumb, then touches the nipple again. "Hmmm?"

"You," Oz says, and he wants to close his eyes, retreat to where it's safe, but he can't. "Touching — ah."

Giles runs his thumbnail around Oz's nipple, sharp but slow and Oz chokes a little when he tries to inhale. "Me? What am I doing?"

"Touching — me. And touching you, kissing you, touching you — your, your —" No words, just images, Giles' body and the texture of his skin, hot and flannel-tight.

Giles thrusts lazily against Oz's hip, and he's half-hard. Oz rolls onto his back, head turned toward Giles, willing his fingers to keep pulling at his cock. Doing it the way Giles does, long sure strokes.

"So lovely," Giles says. "Love watching you."

"I —"

"Ssssh. Just feel good. Don't have to talk, just touch yourself, make yourself feel good. Let me watch."

Oz swallows twice, then again. His eyes are burning with the need to blink, his cock is aching, and he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Giles pushes in, kisses him hard and deep, and Oz's whole body jerks up, folding into the kiss.

Giles is murmuring against Oz's lips as his hand drops to Oz's thigh. "Don't stop, love. Keep going."

"I —" Noise, white static in Oz's brain and he twists toward Giles. Giles' grip on his thigh tightens and he presses Oz onto his back again.

"Want to see," Giles says. "See what you look like so I can think about it later. Want to film you, replay it over and over. Would you like that?"

"God. God —" His hand's speeding, shaft burning, hunger billowing through his hollow skin. His own hunger, and also Giles', double-strength, sharp as starvation edging every syllable.

His hand's not enough, much as he wants to show Giles, spread himself out like some porn star and just show off, he wants more.

"Kiss me?" Oz asks. Wheezes. "Down there? Try it, try again?"

Silent now. Giles looks at Oz for a long time, his eyes steady and dark while his hands rove and pet Oz's legs.

"Want to feel it —" Oz says and has to bite the inside of his cheek. Pain calms him. "Just, you know. Scared."

"Shouldn't be scared of me."

"I know. Not you, just —. I know."

Giles dips his head and licks a trail up Oz's ribs. "Going to make you feel so good. Want you to feel good, want to see you come —"

Oz's skin shrinks and wrenches at that, jerks him to side. Giles is there, holding him, kissing his neck, whispering so low that Oz can't make it out over the roar of his own breath and heartbeat.

Every night, Giles teases him like this, coaxes him past embarrassment into open, gasping need, holds him there, then pushes him over the edge and catches him when he falls.

And Oz is shaking, trying to lie still but he can't, as Giles' mouth tracks down him, way too slow, so hot and wet he's melting Oz, sculpting him into new shapes.

New shapes, the shape of someone who deserves this, who Giles wants, who is the person Giles talks to, speaks of, wants. Not Oz who skips school and gets stoned too much and can barely play four chords or speak four words, but someone like a boyfriend, a lover, a real friend to Giles.

Giles' mouth is on his balls, sucking them, lips closing on hair and tugging until Oz starts babbling, strumming them with his tongue and Oz is sure he's going to explode. So much heat twining and steaming through him, everywhere, and then Giles glances up, smiling, handsome. Hovering there.

"Yes," Oz mutters and opens his legs farther. Giles' eyes close for a second, like disbelief or wonder. "Yes, please. Giles, please, let me feel it —"

Fast as anything, rain sheeting out of gutters, Giles is kissing down below Oz's balls, one hand on Oz's updrawn knee, the other on his hip, holding him down, steadying him, and his mouth's going farther, and —.

And this isn't heat any more, this is more, so much more Oz is thrashing inside his skin, desperate to get out, gulping at the air and breathing, whinnying, for more. This is crimson oil paint, liquid but dense, bright and spiralling up from inside Oz, meeting Giles' mouth and shimmering faster. Oz goes still, shrinking down to just the wet stripe where Giles touches him. His hips try to work, he needs to thrust, but his cock's only got empty air around it and Giles is holding him down, more firmly, pressing him into the mattress as he works his mouth into Oz's crack. Sucking, nibbling, and sensation's flowing and shining like stained glass, crayon-bright but molten, pouring up and over Oz.

Giles murmurs, speaking right against Oz's skin, into him: delicious, taste so good, Christ, Oz, taste wonderful, sweet and —

Trying to hear, trying to focus, Oz freezes and Giles just pushes his face harder, against him, the tip of his tongue huge, blunt and heavy, and then Oz is nothing. Steam and some moans, nothing more. Through sweat-stung eyes he can make out Giles between his legs — on his knees, face buried under Oz's balls, shoulders Atlas-wide and hair dark and curling with sweat.

Oz drives his hips down into the mattress, lifts them again, opening wider as he clutches at Giles' hair. Slippery hair, slippery Oz, ripples of heat spinning concentrically through him, cyclones and need, and Giles is pushing his tongue inside and in and in.

"Fuck me —" Oz gasps and everything stills. Words like scalpels, rusty and sore. "Fuck. Please —"

He needs more, he's hollow and aching and clenching.

Giles tilts his head back, spit shining all around his mouth, and rubs Oz's stomach. Even that touch is too much, or not enough, it stings and snags and makes Oz grunt.

"Oz?" Giles asks, quietly, and how can he be so calm?

"Fuck me. Something, fingers, don't care —"

They've tried this a couple times, but Oz has always been too nervous, so tightly-wound by worry and embarrassment that not much happened, just burn and frustration. Last time, though, last weekend, Giles did it on himself and let Oz watch. Lay there in front of Oz, propped up on pillows, jerking himself and working two fingers bright with lube in and out of his hole, and the look on his face — surprise and joy, blushing and sweating — that's what Oz wants. What he needs to feel, now, before, soon. Giles groaned, squeezed his eyes shut, when Oz sucked wet his own index finger and traced it around the hole, back and forth until Giles started to come. Groaning, like an animal, Oz thought then, and he mimics the sound now.

Giles' eyes widen and he nods, painfully slowly. He drags his right hand up the length of Oz's body, knee to neck, so lightly it aches and burns, then brushes his fingers over Oz's mouth.

Oz opens his lips, bites down on the first finger, and Giles shudders against him.

"Yes," Giles says. "Just like that. Suck them good and wet —" His voice breaks when Oz sucks in two fingers, deep and hard, knuckles scraping incisors, and works his tongue up and down, around, them, and Giles, shaking, leans over him, fumbling in the table drawer, groaning as Oz sucks eagerly. Something is filling him, at least, not nearly enough, but something, and when Giles slides his fingers out, Oz moans.

"Sssh, sssh," Giles says, kissing Oz's throat and chin. Oz tries to calm down, but he thinks he's already shattered. Giles catches his eye and says, "Are you sure?"

Oz nods, pulling one knee up to his chest. Exposing himself, hoping. "Please, yes. I —"

Giles looks at him and Oz blinks fast, vision blurring. He might be dreaming — the phrase comes back to him and Oz smiles and Giles starts to smile back, delighted.

"So beautiful —" Giles runs his wet fingers over Oz's smile.

No, I'm not — Oz thinks he should say, but he can't, won't, and Giles is settling between his legs again, licking slow and certain, and Oz bucks, twists, holds his breath. His skin warms under Giles' mouth, goes finer, smoother, tauter, and he spins back down into the cyclone, whirling heat and ratcheting hunger. He's so far down when Giles' finger brushes around his hole that Oz forgets to worry, just grunts and hears Giles gasp. Snap of a bottle-lid and fingers touch him again, slick and warm.

"Good, good," Giles whispers and kisses his thigh, bites down, and Oz careens up, against Giles' fingers, shuddering, and then there's pressure, so much pressure, and Giles' voice, soft and urgent, and Oz wants to split himself open as much as he wants to flee. "So tight, Oz, Christ. So tight —"

"Yeah," he tries to say but it's too much and Giles' face is just a tense, bright smear. "Talk to me?"

He needs Giles' voice, needs the webs his words spin and throw over him, holding him fast, hungry, safe from worry.

"Just relax," Giles says. "So tight, you're so tight and hot inside, so beautiful. Push down for me. Can you do that? Want to feel you, Oz, Christ. So much —"

Inside and outside: Oz isn't sure of the difference any more, if there is any, he's whirling so fast as he bears down and the pressure increases and lengthens, goes deeper, and he can't breathe. Inside, he's absolutely still, blue center of a flame, frozen.

"Fuck, oh, fuck," Giles says as Oz feels his body, toes to fingers, start to stretch and accommodate the pressure, heat sliding into light, and Giles sounds like he's choking. "Oz."

Choking, like he sounds when he's about to come, and the thought has no logic — why would Giles sound like that when it's just his fingers in there? Oz is the one choking, flying away, stretching farther and longer, his hips trying to thrust and Giles pushing in deeper, then pulling out.

"More?" Oz asks and wants to beg, wants everything to crash over him, consume him.

"More," Giles echoes. "Christ, yes. Oh, Oz," and he's breathing fast and shallow as Oz works his hips faster, stretching, and it's never enough.

"You — you're — you're fucking me —" Half-question, half-fact, and Giles nods fast.

Giles' face is twisted up and he wraps his free arm around Oz's waist, pulling him up, arching his back, as Giles lowers his mouth to Oz's cock. Oz's nerves crackle, explode, and keep firing as Giles licks his cockhead, then says, "Fucking you. Going to fuck you, whenever you want, bury myself inside you, all the time. Beautiful Oz, so tight, touch yourself —"

Giles' fingers, so many, are moving now, inside, dragging fire deeper, so deep Oz is hollow and reforming around Giles. His own hand feels thick and distant as he touches himself, pulls on his shaft and flicks his thumb back and forth over his cockhead.

"Fucking me —"

"Fucking you," Giles answers and his fingers spread and speed up as he pulls Oz up by the waist and wraps his lips around the head of his cock. Oz keeps jerking, impossible to stop, and his fist hits Giles' chin on every upstroke, and it's fast, and red, and Doppler-bright as he starts to come, bones creaking and spine fizzing, hissing away, and he drops his hand, thrusting up and up, then pushing down and he comes so hard that he's jack-knifing at the waist, twisting apart and shooting in short, jerking pulses and Giles sucks it all down, fingers never slowing, until Oz is spread out, loose and exhausted and sore.

Giles covers him then with his body, lowering himself, wrapping his arms around Oz's neck and kissing the sweat off his face. Oz can smell come and sweat, salty needful things, and see the shine of Giles' eyes filling his vision.

"Fuck," Oz croaks, body still shaking, skin the wrong size — too tight some places, too loose others — and he tries to laugh. Fuck has to be the world's most flexible word. Verb, noun, exclamation and observation. "Oh, fuck."

Giles rubs his face against Oz's neck and sighs, deep and billowy. "You — Jesus, Oz."

"Yeah," Oz agrees. "You, too."

And they're lying here again, Giles' erection twitching against his thigh as Oz reaches for it, and there's no going back, there's just here, and now, and more.