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quixotism2009-04-17 05:33 pm
bromantic.livejournal.com) wrote in quixotism2009-04-17 05:33 pm
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] warwon
< Serph> OZ/GIL
< Shawn > you can just keep tossing stuff and I'll pick something
< Shawn> OZ/GIL WHAT
< Serph > MAKE IT GIL/OZ TOPPING FROM THE BOTTOM
Oz is quiet, too quiet as Gil shifts on the bed, pressing him down, ten years of weight on his side as he leans into Oz and breaths, breathing in the fact that Oz is solid and warm and Gil was not bedding a ghost from a nightmare. He doesn't look at Oz's face, knows that when he looks, everything will shatter and he won't be the one holding Oz down, but it'll be Oz, with his smirk and his words and the clear green glint in his eye, the one that has kept him servant forever.
Oz gasps lightly, keeping noise to the minimum as Gil drifts towards his neck, his eyes, his mouth and like worship, he devotes equal time to each moment, each light kiss, chaste, loving, needy as it burrows itself in his mind that Oz is pliant, open, his, all his, and he pushes that dark urge down to wrap his hands around Oz's neck and crease the skin with bruises.
He still doesn't move and Gil wonders why and then there's that irrational panic that Oz doesn't want this, doesn't want him and maybe wants that man, the man with the glasses and the crooked smiles. He chokes, and Oz's hand comes to rest on his face, so warm, so light and Gil calms down again. Oz is here, not with him.
And then Gil caves, into Oz, loving, weightless and Oz wins again because his fingers are curling in his hair and Oz is whispering words, flightless words that don't mean anything to Gil but they mean something because they are Oz's words and Gil sighs.
Oz won this one, he thinks, Oz has him. But the dark and the shadow bubbles back and forth and he wonders again how pretty bruises can be on his master, this breakable piece of a person. And he loves him more.
< Shawn > you can just keep tossing stuff and I'll pick something
< Shawn> OZ/GIL WHAT
< Serph > MAKE IT GIL/OZ TOPPING FROM THE BOTTOM
Oz is quiet, too quiet as Gil shifts on the bed, pressing him down, ten years of weight on his side as he leans into Oz and breaths, breathing in the fact that Oz is solid and warm and Gil was not bedding a ghost from a nightmare. He doesn't look at Oz's face, knows that when he looks, everything will shatter and he won't be the one holding Oz down, but it'll be Oz, with his smirk and his words and the clear green glint in his eye, the one that has kept him servant forever.
Oz gasps lightly, keeping noise to the minimum as Gil drifts towards his neck, his eyes, his mouth and like worship, he devotes equal time to each moment, each light kiss, chaste, loving, needy as it burrows itself in his mind that Oz is pliant, open, his, all his, and he pushes that dark urge down to wrap his hands around Oz's neck and crease the skin with bruises.
He still doesn't move and Gil wonders why and then there's that irrational panic that Oz doesn't want this, doesn't want him and maybe wants that man, the man with the glasses and the crooked smiles. He chokes, and Oz's hand comes to rest on his face, so warm, so light and Gil calms down again. Oz is here, not with him.
And then Gil caves, into Oz, loving, weightless and Oz wins again because his fingers are curling in his hair and Oz is whispering words, flightless words that don't mean anything to Gil but they mean something because they are Oz's words and Gil sighs.
Oz won this one, he thinks, Oz has him. But the dark and the shadow bubbles back and forth and he wonders again how pretty bruises can be on his master, this breakable piece of a person. And he loves him more.