Any arousal he’d felt – and he had, God, yes, he had – was slipping away on a tide of lube, being pushed away by fingers in places he’d never really thought fingers went, and being silenced by, well the silence.
Giles hadn’t said a word since that mumbled, stuttered request that he relax. Well, wasn’t like he wasn’t trying but maybe that wasn’t what you did when you relaxed. Maybe you should stop trying...
So he made an effort – no! He just concentrated – but not in a focused kind of a way – on the pattern of the duvet that he was gripping tightly in a paroxysm of embarrassment that had started the second a cold, wet finger had jabbed at a spot about an inch above his asshole and then tried again.
It had all started so well...turning to find Giles so close that kissing him was inevitable. Finding out that Giles kissed in a way that made every other kiss he’d ever had seem as exciting as his early practice attempts using his own hand. Kissing and groping frantically at each other, cocks hard in an instant and nothing mattering in that rising tide of want but coming in, on, with Giles.
And, in the end, rashly, telling Giles, in a few eloquent, well chosen ‘God, yes!’, ‘Love you’ and ‘Now!’s stammered out against lips that never stopped kissing him that he wanted Giles, wanted him now.
The stairs had been a mistake. Neither wanting to go first, neither wanting to let go of the other, backing and filling until Giles, with a tight smile and a murmured apology, had gestured to him and he’d walked up them feeling as self-conscious as if he were already naked and with a bullseye painted on the seat of his pants.
It had helped that the first thing Giles did when they were both in the loft was kiss him again. With Giles’ tongue hot in his mouth and Giles’ hand wrapped around the back of his neck, possessive and needy at the same time, well, it distracted him nicely from the fact that Giles’ other hand was unbuttoning his shirt.
Shirts – not a problem. They slid off shoulders and to the floor and were forgotten. Getting to touch Giles’ skin was as good as kissing him and God, Giles felt strong, with a casual, everyday strength that made it less astonishing that he went up against a Slayer on a weekly basis and was still in one piece. Though even in a haze of lust Xander noticed marks – bruises and cuts, fresh and fading, and winced.
No, shirts being removed was fine, and there was nothing about Giles’ fingers hooking inside his jeans and flipping open buttons and drawing down a zipper that was in any way anything but hot. His cock leapt out of his shorts, quivering and eager, and the groan Giles gave as he wrapped his hand around it almost made Xander come there and then. He wished he had. That would’ve worked; pressed up against each other, his own hand gauging the weight and feel of shit someone else’s – Giles’ – cock and getting off on the way Giles’ hips jerked forward and his head came down against Xander’s shoulder, so that for a moment, Xander felt in charge, in control.
Making Giles whimper and bite that shoulder hard just because he’d run his thumb over the slicked up head of his cock, pretending it was his own – that felt good. That felt fucking incredible and if they’d stayed like that, jerking each other off, arms around shoulders, teeth and tongues and messy, hard kisses –
But he’d glanced down and seen their socks and snorted with laughter that was part real, part nerves, and when Giles backed off, flushing, and they both perched on the end of the bed to deal with them, it cooled things off a bit.
Still; Giles, bed, naked. Perfect...and they lay down and kissed and it hadn’t taken long for Giles to make him whimper and curse and bite and thrust up eagerly and get so close, so very fucking close...
And if he’d let it go that way, if he’d taken it slowly, but no. Giles had done this before; he must have, and he wasn’t going to have this be a disappointment. He had a vague idea that maybe he could slide down and suck Giles off, but God, no one had ever done that to him, so he wasn’t sure how - and he’d got a really vivid picture of him choking – or biting – or – no. And there was no way he was even going to try fucking – no.
But letting Giles fuck him...well, that couldn’t be too hard. Giles would know what to do; would walk him through it and that would be fine.
So he’d pushed Giles away. Gasped out a plea that Giles had shaken his head to until he’d got angry and insisted, turning his back and scrambling into what he figured was the right position, only to have Giles gently change it and then leave him there, blushing and trembling and already starting to regret –
And the diamond pattern was blurring in front of his eyes and he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak because Giles had stopped, but he couldn’t stand this a moment longer.
“Giles? That – that’s fine. You can just – do it.”
“Are you sure about –”
“Giles! Fuck me! Please?”
And Giles had leaned forward and kissed Xander’s shoulder, just where he’d bitten it earlier, and sent sparkles dancing behind Xander’s screwed-tight eyes because just that had been enough to have him ready again; Giles’ mouth and the brush of his body along Xander’s back and the whispered, ‘Want you’ that reassured and excited him.
So he was ready when he felt a slippery nudge, and that first hesitant push scraped over nerve endings he didn’t know he had, made his balls draw up and tighten and his mouth fall open in a gasp of pleasure.
And, like a fool, he rushed it all again, said, ‘More!’ and reached back to scrabble at Giles’ leg, tugging him forward, and Giles, taking him at his word, forgetting, not realising – all of those as he found out later, too late – took Xander’s hips in his hands, held him still and slammed into him, every inch gained at the expense of a pain that roared and ripped through his belly and chest and erupted, huge and swollen and screaming from his mouth.
He fell forward, sobbing and panting and clawing his way up the bed, chest heaving as his outraged body made sense of what had just happened.
“...hurt, that hurt, that fucking hurt, Giles,” he chanted in an anguished howl.
“Oh God, Xander...”
And Giles, cock flagging so the condom lay wrinkled and ridiculous, knelt back and stared at him with horrified, guilty eyes.
There were tears. Xander wouldn’t have ever admitted how much they helped. When you’re in pain – in agony and your balls are aching from three very nearlys, watching Giles, well, not cry, but, yeah, get choked up, was almost as soothing as the warm bath Giles told him would help.
It did...but coming out, dressed and desperate to go, no, stay, no, have everyone involved get amnesia, and having Giles fall to his knees, and not to apologise, helped even more. And that wasn’t quite the way he’d imagined it either, with his jeans shoved down and his cock, forgiving but suspicious, taking a while to harden – Giles said later it was about twenty seconds but it felt way longer – and there was more spit involved than he’d thought, and when he tried to join in and zigged when Giles zagged there was a second of pure white agony as his cock scraped hard against a tooth, but somehow it didn’t matter.
And as he cleaned up and gave Giles a sympathetic grin when Giles grimaced, glanced down and told him that no, he didn’t have to reciprocate because, well, already taken care of, all he wanted was to kiss Giles again and make sure he knew this was the first time but it wasn’t the last.
And even if Giles did taste kind of gross right then, he was sure of that.
He’d be back.
Just...not for a few days...