Rating: R
Author: Trekker
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Fandom: Buffy
He clenches his fist in dark hair, feeling the body beneath his stiffen, hearing the deep groan he'd hoped for. Stubble scratches his tongue as he licks up the curve of a jawbone, tasting sweat-salt. His other hand aches, clasped around crossed wrists, a pulse fluttering against the thin bridge of skin between his thumb and forefinger.
The other man's breath comes in sudden pants, held and then released suddenly in bursts and grunts. He can almost feel the words the man is holding back, feel the tension as the man fights to keep his silence as ordered. That tension clutches his cock, milking him each time he hammers back into welcoming, slick heat. Their bodies radiate the heat and the smell of sex and sweat, and their skin, where it touches, slides on a layer of wet.
He's close. Close enough he's in that zone, where he's forgotten the difference between pleasure and pain, where the world comes down to nothing but *intense.* It burns and freezes and he can't stop, can't stop. Not now, has to--faster, harder, the man beneath him crying out now, and he must be too, his throat aches, his mouth is open, his lungs burn, needs, needs, god, yes. He knows he shouts when he comes, burying himself deep, his whole body shuddering.
For a moment, they are still. His face is tucked against a sweaty chest, that rises and falls in a slowing rythym, matching his own calming breath. Then they peel themselves apart. He turns one way, the other man the other. With a cringe, he plucks off the sticky-slick condom, then stands up, the worn hotel carpet hard and rough under his bare feet.
As he pads towards the bathroom, through the murky darkness of the room, he can see the other man in the mirror, still sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed, in three-quarters profile, the hint of light in the room catching on the curve of his backbone.
His body is shaking, still drenched in adrenaline, still flickering with the fading fire of sex. He drops the wet condom in the trash and shudders, suddenly deeply disgusted by the slimy rubber clinging to crinkly plastic. He pushes the sink on with his wrist, watching the water fizz around the drain. He scrubs his hands with the sliver of white soap, working suds under his nails and into the creases of his palms and his knuckles. His stomach is tightening, nausea building.
He goes completely still when a hand touches his shoulder.
"Get the hell out," he says. The palm that moulds itself around his flesh is clammy, sticking to him. Tension crawls through him, starting with his fists and climbing up to his shoulders. "Get out."
The hand breaks contact with his skin with an abruptness that feels as though it should be audible. He stands perfectly still, with the water still hissing into the sink, until he hears the door shut. Then he shuts off the tap.
The End