l a z y . m o r n i n g s

Lazy Mornings
[by victoria p.]

Rating: Adult

Summary: Rise and shine.

Notes: A Xander/Oz kisslet in response to the lovely kisslets people wrote for me.

Date: November 18, 2005

Xander wakes up early these days, even though his nights haven't gotten any shorter. It's a vestige of his time in Africa, where starting out early was always the plan, even if he was thwarted nine times out of ten by bureaucracy, bad roads, crazed vampires or some combination of the three.

He likes watching the early light change from gray to gold as it seeps in through the blinds on the windows, likes the way it plays over Oz's pale, freckled skin where the sheets have slipped down. Oz sleeps like he does everything else, whole-heartedly, and it takes more than creeping sunlight and the steady scrutiny of Xander's one eye to wake him.

Over the past couple of months, Xander has been perfecting the art of waking Oz. He starts with lips pressed to the nape of his neck, ginger hair that smells of sweat and cheap shampoo tickling his nose. He follows the line of freckles down pressing light kisses to each one, counting as he goes. On mornings after late nights, he sometimes makes it all the way to twenty before Oz stirs, but this morning, he's only at five when he feels the shift in Oz's breathing, hears the soft gasp that marks the line between sleeping and waking.

Oz rolls toward him, eyes still at half-mast, sleepy smile on his face. "Hey."

Xander smiles back. "Hey."

He leans in and presses a kiss to Oz's lips, close-mouthed, because it may be love (though Xander's not sure about that), but morning breath is still ishy. Oz laughs against his mouth, knowing what he's thinking (Oz is probably thinking it, too) and then Xander mutters, "Oh, hell," and his mouth his open against Oz's, sleep-stale and sour but still good, the soft rough curl of tongue, the sharp smooth slide of teeth, and the slick, honeyed glide of heat under his skin.

Oz presses up and forward and Xander presses back, slow and easy. Xander thought he'd learned patience in Africa, but Oz could teach it to stones, and he calms all of Xander's frenetic motion, stills the rapid flap of his mouth, teaches him to breathe and to be and to let the moment unfold from one heartbeat to the next, and that goes in bed as well as everywhere else. Oz's urgency is slow-building, inexorable, and Xander is learning to slow his pace so they finish together, instead of racing ahead and coming alone.

He tips his head back and Oz nibbles along his neck, tender and curious, as if he hasn't done it a hundred times before, but every time it makes Xander's breath hitch and his cock ache, so he can only be thankful for Oz's ability to make the familiar new, and the new familiar.

They slip and slide beneath the warm sheets that should have been changed a week ago, reeking of sweat and sex, but their sweat, their sex, comfortable in ways Xander tries not to think about, home in ways no place has been since Sunnydale sank into the earth.

Stroke and kiss, thrust and sigh, and the moist heat of Oz's breath against the skin of his neck, and Xander's comes apart, slow, heavy waves of pleasure pulsing through him, and Oz is there too, shuddering against him, making soft, low sounds that fall like music on Xander's ears as they greet the morning, the sun, each other.

Xander flops onto his back, content, and Oz lies beside him, both of them still breathing heavily.

"Morning," he says. "Rise and shine."

Oz runs a hand through his hair, scratches his belly, and smiles, brighter than the early morning sun.

end

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Disclaimer: All Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, David Greenwalt, Greenwolf Productions, Sand Dollar, and the Kuzuis. I do not own them and do not intend any infringement on any copyrights.