There's nothing to say to that. Giles can't say it's all right, because it's not. Oz left, went to Willow, and love unwove Giles strand by strand, left him a tangle without pattern, without meaning. It wasn't all right, it was disaster.
The first disaster. They come in threes, like wishes and promises. Oz, and Angelus, and Buffy.
Giles shivers and digs his fingers into Oz's sides. Oz is rocking against him, rubbing his face roughly in Giles' neck, and Giles concentrates on the feel and smell of his body, the weight of him, the chafing of skin and stubble. It lets him turn aside memory one more time, block its road and force it back.
"You're here now," he says, pulling Oz down more tightly to him. Oz is almost in his lap, almost where he belongs. "I'm so glad you're here."
There are better things to remember than Angelus' voice, than the way Buffy's body lay sprawled and broken, unmistakably dead. Giles can remember Oz's body, Oz's voice, can remember his shudders and moans that day. He can remember the long quiet after Oz finally said love you, and how they fell asleep then and woke up sunburnt and happy. It's safe to remember these things now. He hopes it's safe.
Giles squeezes Oz tightly, grinding their ribs and chests together, and turns his head to kiss Oz's ear. "So glad, Oz." With a little explosion of breath, a gasp of fear or perhaps relief, Oz turns and Giles can kiss him properly. His mouth tastes of blood, and Giles curls his tongue under Oz's lip, looking for more. Wrong and dangerous, and Giles can't let him bleed without tasting it.
Giles is looking for something, holding Oz's head still, tongue pressing insistently against his lip. Oz opens his mouth wider, relief rocketing across his nerves, bouncing off his pores. No right, he thinks, you have no right to this. But Giles is holding him, searching his mouth for the shapes of the words Oz can't say, and this is something. Permission and acceptance, not forgiveness.
He can't ask Giles to forgive him; he doesn't want that. He wants this, Giles against him, looking at him, kissing him and speaking to him. He slides down against Giles's chest, clinging to his neck, licking up the center of Giles's tongue until they both shudder. Simple and right, starting all over again with soup and chocolate, kisses and conversation.
Giles is alive. Warm, a little sweaty, breathing and moving against Oz. Still wanting him, still touching him, and the thought veers, shivers, careens around Oz's mind. He wants this, he wants to keep Giles safe, and it's been a lifetime and a half since he believed that those two things could be true at the same time.
Why? he wants to ask. He knows there are questions breeding and multiplying in Giles's throat, questions that have been there since the wolf, but Oz has ever only had one question. Why Giles wants him, and now, more than ever.
"Here," he says, breathless, his head light and tugging at his neck like a balloon from lack of oxygen. "Here, Giles. So glad."
Don't leave me again. Promise me you'll never leave.
Blood tastes like promises, sweet-salt bloom and bitterness that coats the tongue. Giles finds it, tastes it, sucks Oz's lip looking for more, and then keeps kissing him until the tastes dissolves, swirls away, and the kiss is clean again.
I love you. Tell me you love me.
Little by little he pulls out of the kiss until their closed mouths are barely brushing. He draws his hands down Oz's sides, over the flare and dip of muscle, the curve of his buttocks, down the narrow thighs that straddle Giles' hips. Oz breathes in slowly, his chest swelling against Giles', and rests his forehead on Giles' shoulder.
It's been so hard, trying to live without you.
Giles' fingers trail through the rough hair on Oz's legs, then slide down to cup the sides of his knees. Oz is stroking his shoulders and arms with light petting touches. The beads on Oz's right wrist feel cool and smooth as they brush Giles' skin. Not unpleasant, but alien, and Giles wants Oz's skin, his pure touch.
I hated seeing you with her. How could you do that to me?
He kisses Oz's palm, plays fingertips over his inner arm, and works the top loop of the beads off over his hand. Oz draws a sharp breath and then goes utterly still. Giles takes his time, letting the beads slide through his fingers, imagining he can feel the heat of Oz's body on them. There's a faint odor of sandalwood. Not until Giles sets the beads aside and kisses bare skin does Oz exhale, shivering.
Why did you leave me?
When Giles touches the leather strap around his neck, Oz tenses for a moment, but then relaxes and lowers his head. The knot is tight, but Giles tugs it loose. Where the collar rested, there's a pressure line around Oz's neck, first white and then red. Giles whispers his lips and tongue over it, and Oz squirms against him.
Just earrings left now, three in one ear and four in the other. Giles piles them carefully on the nightstand so they won't get lost.
Oz is naked, motionless, barely breathing, looking at him. Giles kisses him briefly, smiles, and guides Oz's hands to the waistband of his trousers. "Help me with these?"
Giles isn't sure why, but they need to be naked together.
Reverent and priestly, Giles is moving the way people move in dreams, with inscrutable and serious purpose, and Oz, half-hypnotized, can almost smell the incense wreathing around them.
The room has grown brighter, but he only notices when he looks down at his hands. They're so white, almost glowing against the brown corduroy. Alien. Giles holds him loosely, working his thumbs over the insides of his wrists, his breath breaking softly over Oz's forehead.
The holes in his ears tingle and the circlet of skin under Bill's collar throbs a little. Not as much since Giles is kissing him there again, lightly, as softly you take a communion wafer. Oz's skin doesn't quite fit him; bones poke out wrong, and he's both numb and floaty inside, but Giles is kissing him, touching him, like there's nothing wrong.
The button pops free, the zipper comes down, and Oz leans back as Giles lifts himself onto his knees. Moving like they're underwater, like the light in the room is viscous, like they need to take perfect care. With white hands, Oz eases Giles's pants down his thighs and they settle back again, Giles's hand on the bottom of Oz's spine. Broad hand, fingers splayed and moving like starfish arms.
When Oz kisses him again, he tastes nothing but Giles, warm open mouth, drawing him, resetting his bones and smoothing out his skin. Opening and healing. Under his own hands, the skin on Giles's chest and arms is taut and warm, unbroken.
"Is this okay?" he whispers against Giles's mouth. "Tell me this is okay."
"Better," Giles answers. His voice isn't much louder than Oz's whisper, but it's too loud for the stillness of the room. Palpable stillness, vibrant, and Giles thinks of the ritual silence of magic. "Much better than okay," he continues, barely breathing the words, letting them rise and dissipate like smoke. "Wonderful. Being able to touch you again."
He cups the back of Oz's head, kisses the fading mark along his neck, kneads the valley and swell of his arse with his other hand. There's no way to touch enough of him at once. Giles wants to surround Oz, slide into every indentation and fold, cover him like another skin. Wants to taste him, too, and see him. Everything at once, synesthesia, simultaneity, dissolution.
It's not enough, not Oz's hands or lips, not the sweat-damp pressure of his legs or the stir of his hardening cock against Giles' belly. "Closer," Giles says, arms circling Oz's waist. "Come closer." Incantation, liturgy, words that catch at impossibility, enact it, bring it into the world.
"Here," Oz says, leaning in, shifting down, letting Giles gather him in his lap and against his chest. "Closer than anything."
Never close enough. He spent a year missing Giles when he *had* him, then three more missing him like skin and organs. This would be stifling for anyone else, pressing every inch he can into Giles, but it's still minimal, still only approximate to what they want. Need.
Giles shivers, breath fast on Oz's cheek, cock brushing the bottom of Oz's thigh. They both need this. There's been so much that Oz hasn't let himself hear. Currents running through everything Giles says, stuff of nightmares: About Oz leaving and turning away. Leaving Giles alone. He *has* heard them, they've slipped in and lodged behind his eyes and under his tongue, but he doesn't know how - if - to reply.
Able to touch you again. He curled his fists for years against the urge to touch; he couldn't think how hard it was for Giles, too. Now, as he presses his cheek against Giles's and shifts another few millimeters closer, it feels like four years' worth of thought are breaking over him like a wave. Not just hard for Giles, or merely difficult, four years without touch was impossible and cruel. Giles crosses his arms over Oz's back, hauls him closer, and Oz is in the curve of the wave, eye of the storm, utterly naked and still not close enough.
"Want more," he says into Giles's ear. "Closer. Need more, Giles. Need to give you more. Everything."
Not enough, never close enough, but it's so much more than Giles has had in years. He's touched other men since Oz left; he's kissed and licked, fucked and been fucked, felt pleasure. But pleasure was all he felt with any of them. Not this, not the joy that shimmers under his skin or the hollow hunger clawing at his gut, the ceaseless need to be closer. Not love.
He kisses Oz hard, biting at his lips and dragging him forward by the neck, closer and tighter. Oz opens under his tongue, mouth as wide as his splayed legs, offering.
Everything.
Giles licks the underside of Oz's tongue until he groans and tightens his arms around Giles' neck. Then he pulls Oz's head in closer still and says "Yes," in his ear. "I want more too. Everything. Give me everything. All of you."
It's wrong to say these things, wrong to think them or want them, but Oz claws his fingers into Giles' shoulder and thrusts against his stomach. And Giles is hard again, needs Oz, and he loves Oz with his cock and his skin and his whole body.
Giles's voice swells in Oz's ear, harsh and needful and *right*. Blooms under his skin and twines around his backbone so he's tensing everywhere even as he spreads his legs and mouth and pulls himself closer. The wave vanishes, the storm of worry passes, and Oz just needs to push and open, make his body obey his need.
"Yours," Oz says and means it, dragging lip-covered teeth over the hollow of Giles's cheek. Hears everything and smells the sharp snakehiss scent of need and demand springing from Giles's pores and they are echo, mirror, of himself. "Anything. Take it."
This is beyond questions and apologies, much simpler and all the more dangerous, and Oz sucks hard on Giles's ear as he wills himself close and open.
Giles's hand in his hair, his voice pounding around Oz's chest as his cock rides the crease of Oz's thigh, both of them insistent, both of them superheated. Skin blanching, warming as it spreads and tightens, this is almost like the sundown-shivers before a full moon, the hour or so of cramping and pulling that precedes the change.
This is how Giles makes him feel, always made him feel, well before the wolf, so hungry that he'd never get his fill.
Words and breaths piling up inside his ribs, filling his throat - take take now, now, now, love you so much - and Oz yelps, head falling back, when Giles bites the base of his throat and rakes his nails over his ass.
Whiplash, Oz careening forward, into the bite, breathing out need into Giles's ear. "Yours. Now. Take it, now, *Giles*-"
Giles can't think, not with Oz's now filling his head, silencing everything else. Not with Oz's skin so hot and swollen between his teeth and Oz's body shuddering as Giles gnaws and sucks, brings up the flush of blood. Giles could bite harder, tear Oz open, drink him down. Take him, have him, be inside. He needs to be inside.
They need this, need to bite and fuck and bleed. Giles jerks Oz's head down against his neck, and when Oz's mouth pulls at his skin he almost pleads for more. For the bite, for the wolf, for everything. He could have everything, share everything, if Oz would just break the skin and make him bleed.
"Oz," he says, and he can hear the hunger in his own voice, the blood that aches to spill and be consumed. "Now, now, everything. Need you."
He lifts Oz's hips and reaches for his own cock, and he can't think about the fact that he's got no condoms. This isn't safe, but none of it's safe, none of what they need.
No condoms and no lube, just the spit that he slicks over his cock while Oz whines and pulls at him. He's going to hurt Oz, this is all wrong and he needs it. Oz needs it, Oz moans when Giles guides him down to his cock. Moans and pushes back, down, and gasps when Giles holds his hips and thrusts and the head of his cock goes in. "Oz, fuck," Giles says, shaking with the effort of not moving, not taking what he wants. "Need you so much. Don't want to hurt you. Christ, Oz." He leans forward just a little, kisses Oz, and the movement makes them both groan.
Frictionburn so deep that Oz can *see* it, redpurple speckled over his normal vision, thousands of fireflies and embers winking and brightening, tugging at the base of his spine and constricting his chest. Hanging, Giles shuddering underneath him, not moving except for his teeth raking Oz's lips and chin.
"Not hurting," he whispers, or gasps, gets out somehow, razors tearing sandpaper, and Giles's face is dark, his eyes wide, whites visible all around the pupils that are wheeling and pulling Oz in, down, deeper. "Burning, not hurting. Need *you*, so much, harder -"
His wrists are crossed behind Giles's neck, hands floating and flapping, and he grabs the headboard with one hand, leverage and anchor. Leans back and up, then pushes himself down, expelling breath and thought, leaving only the burn, ever deeper inside, and the sight of Giles's sweatslick face, and his ironfast grip on the headboard.
Friction and penetration, spearing fire and the love rolling off Giles thick as swampgas, the fear beneath his eyes, it's all too much and never enough and Oz breathes rattling thoughts, words sharp as tindersticks, just as fragile. "Closer, Giles. Not hurting, just *more*, need you more, take it."
Giles's hand digs into his back, and fingers can be claws too, and he's thrusting up as Oz screws himself down, legs numb but hot, body and arms and face sliding off in the heat. "More, more, take it, need you -"
Oz's voice is bristle-brush rough, steel wool and grit, rough as his stubble and his callused palms. He slams himself down on Giles' cock, bony arse bruising Giles' pelvis, and it must hurt him, because it's hurting Giles. Sharp jar of bone on bone, brighter than the prickly warm pain of beardburn and scratches. But the pleasure's brighter still, fierce solar heat that spreads out from Giles' cock and flares along his skin.
Giles braces one foot on the mattress, hooks one arm over Oz's straining shoulder, and thrusts up hard and fast. They're both talking, fuck and more and closer and grunts that aren't words anymore, and Giles feels like he's fucking the skin off his cock. He's scraped raw everywhere, every touch and sound sandpapering over him, scouring away years of stains and scuff marks.
He drags his nails up and down Oz's back, watching his face twist and his mouth open in a cry. Again, and Oz jerks his hips and curses, leans back into Giles' clawing fingers. Giles works his teeth over the veins of Oz's forearm, finds Oz's cock and jerks it roughly. Mine, he thinks, or maybe says. Always, never anyone else, no one's ever touched you but me. He thrusts and bites and scratches, scraping off memory, baring the clean skin underneath.
Mica and granite and lava crusting over into rock, still molten inside. Dark, glittering, grinding things; Oz has no words, just guttural noises in his mouth and his mind, but that's what he feels like, fierce doubletime erosion, chips of bone grinding away, spumes of fire and everything hard, feral, violent. Full of a love he doesn't deserve but can match, wants to match and prove and give, again and again.
He grates and scrapes himself downward, over Giles, fucking him back as surely as if he was the one inside. Leaning back, his arm shuddering epileptically as he thrusts fast and rough into Giles's palm and tightens his ass, twisting his hips hard enough to break someone - him, Giles, he's lost track - in two.
Giles's face is a smear of red and black, flash of teeth, savage and full of want, his mouth forming words Oz can't hear over the clash and thunder of his heartbeat, the yowl of air trapped in his lungs, the din of every nerve sparking and shouting.
Deeper and deepest, something hotter than fire and better than anything, and there's only long-engrained habit - someone's got you fucking domesticated - that's a pale hushed voice behind his eyes reminding him not to bite, not to bite. Teeth and gums itch and burn and his free hand shoves Giles's shoulder back as he thrusts down and forward. Love you so fucking much -
When he comes, it'll be an afterthought. Nothing can match this, this elemental stone and love, nothing, not as he latches his mouth onto Giles's shoulder and shudders away into grit and flying dust.
Oz is thrashing against Giles' body, pushing down and back and forward, back flexing and arching, wet mouth moving over his shoulder, spit trickling down Giles' chest and incomprehensible sounds vibrating from Oz's throat into Giles' bones. Giles holds him around the waist to steady him as he shakes and twists. "That's it, that's it, so good, let me fuck you, let me have you, let me see you come, Oz." Pleas and reassurances chanted as Giles pushes up deeper and deeper into the hot whirlwind of Oz's body, as he tightens his fist around Oz's cock and pulls. He's fucked Oz into mindlessness, into surrender, into these shudders and growls that turn into shouts and then yelps as Oz comes, spine bending back, spattering hot white drops over Giles' belly and chest and face.
Something tremors along Giles' spine, grips his muscles, and he pushes up and up and up into Oz's clenching body. Higher and harder as Oz contracts and pulses around him, and Oz tilts forward and scrabbles at Giles' arms, whining and scratching. Heat crackles and throbs in sudden blackness and Giles comes, echoing back Oz's orgasm. Reverberation, feedback, and he can feel Oz shaking, hear him gasp. It's better than coming, better than anything, that he can make Oz feel this.
Giles pulls Oz against his chest and pants into his wet hair. Oz has gone limp, and he makes little noises in his throat like a well-fed, sleepy baby. Primitive and blissful. Giles listens, lets his mouth wander over sticky, waving strands, feels the sweat sliding down between their bellies and his cock softening in Oz's body.
I can make you love me again.
After a while, when Oz slips an arm around his back and starts kissing his chest, Giles says, "That was . . . astonishing. Are you all right?" He can remember the soft yielding of Oz's skin under his nails, and those early gasps that weren't just pleasure. Under the heavy warmth that he's more and more sure is happiness, there's a wriggling knot that's probably shame.
The first disaster. They come in threes, like wishes and promises. Oz, and Angelus, and Buffy.
Giles shivers and digs his fingers into Oz's sides. Oz is rocking against him, rubbing his face roughly in Giles' neck, and Giles concentrates on the feel and smell of his body, the weight of him, the chafing of skin and stubble. It lets him turn aside memory one more time, block its road and force it back.
"You're here now," he says, pulling Oz down more tightly to him. Oz is almost in his lap, almost where he belongs. "I'm so glad you're here."
There are better things to remember than Angelus' voice, than the way Buffy's body lay sprawled and broken, unmistakably dead. Giles can remember Oz's body, Oz's voice, can remember his shudders and moans that day. He can remember the long quiet after Oz finally said love you, and how they fell asleep then and woke up sunburnt and happy. It's safe to remember these things now. He hopes it's safe.
Giles squeezes Oz tightly, grinding their ribs and chests together, and turns his head to kiss Oz's ear. "So glad, Oz." With a little explosion of breath, a gasp of fear or perhaps relief, Oz turns and Giles can kiss him properly. His mouth tastes of blood, and Giles curls his tongue under Oz's lip, looking for more. Wrong and dangerous, and Giles can't let him bleed without tasting it.
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He can't ask Giles to forgive him; he doesn't want that. He wants this, Giles against him, looking at him, kissing him and speaking to him. He slides down against Giles's chest, clinging to his neck, licking up the center of Giles's tongue until they both shudder. Simple and right, starting all over again with soup and chocolate, kisses and conversation.
Giles is alive. Warm, a little sweaty, breathing and moving against Oz. Still wanting him, still touching him, and the thought veers, shivers, careens around Oz's mind. He wants this, he wants to keep Giles safe, and it's been a lifetime and a half since he believed that those two things could be true at the same time.
Why? he wants to ask. He knows there are questions breeding and multiplying in Giles's throat, questions that have been there since the wolf, but Oz has ever only had one question. Why Giles wants him, and now, more than ever.
"Here," he says, breathless, his head light and tugging at his neck like a balloon from lack of oxygen. "Here, Giles. So glad."
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Blood tastes like promises, sweet-salt bloom and bitterness that coats the tongue. Giles finds it, tastes it, sucks Oz's lip looking for more, and then keeps kissing him until the tastes dissolves, swirls away, and the kiss is clean again.
I love you. Tell me you love me.
Little by little he pulls out of the kiss until their closed mouths are barely brushing. He draws his hands down Oz's sides, over the flare and dip of muscle, the curve of his buttocks, down the narrow thighs that straddle Giles' hips. Oz breathes in slowly, his chest swelling against Giles', and rests his forehead on Giles' shoulder.
It's been so hard, trying to live without you.
Giles' fingers trail through the rough hair on Oz's legs, then slide down to cup the sides of his knees. Oz is stroking his shoulders and arms with light petting touches. The beads on Oz's right wrist feel cool and smooth as they brush Giles' skin. Not unpleasant, but alien, and Giles wants Oz's skin, his pure touch.
I hated seeing you with her. How could you do that to me?
He kisses Oz's palm, plays fingertips over his inner arm, and works the top loop of the beads off over his hand. Oz draws a sharp breath and then goes utterly still. Giles takes his time, letting the beads slide through his fingers, imagining he can feel the heat of Oz's body on them. There's a faint odor of sandalwood. Not until Giles sets the beads aside and kisses bare skin does Oz exhale, shivering.
Why did you leave me?
When Giles touches the leather strap around his neck, Oz tenses for a moment, but then relaxes and lowers his head. The knot is tight, but Giles tugs it loose. Where the collar rested, there's a pressure line around Oz's neck, first white and then red. Giles whispers his lips and tongue over it, and Oz squirms against him.
Just earrings left now, three in one ear and four in the other. Giles piles them carefully on the nightstand so they won't get lost.
Oz is naked, motionless, barely breathing, looking at him. Giles kisses him briefly, smiles, and guides Oz's hands to the waistband of his trousers. "Help me with these?"
Giles isn't sure why, but they need to be naked together.
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The room has grown brighter, but he only notices when he looks down at his hands. They're so white, almost glowing against the brown corduroy. Alien. Giles holds him loosely, working his thumbs over the insides of his wrists, his breath breaking softly over Oz's forehead.
The holes in his ears tingle and the circlet of skin under Bill's collar throbs a little. Not as much since Giles is kissing him there again, lightly, as softly you take a communion wafer. Oz's skin doesn't quite fit him; bones poke out wrong, and he's both numb and floaty inside, but Giles is kissing him, touching him, like there's nothing wrong.
The button pops free, the zipper comes down, and Oz leans back as Giles lifts himself onto his knees. Moving like they're underwater, like the light in the room is viscous, like they need to take perfect care. With white hands, Oz eases Giles's pants down his thighs and they settle back again, Giles's hand on the bottom of Oz's spine. Broad hand, fingers splayed and moving like starfish arms.
When Oz kisses him again, he tastes nothing but Giles, warm open mouth, drawing him, resetting his bones and smoothing out his skin. Opening and healing. Under his own hands, the skin on Giles's chest and arms is taut and warm, unbroken.
"Is this okay?" he whispers against Giles's mouth. "Tell me this is okay."
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He cups the back of Oz's head, kisses the fading mark along his neck, kneads the valley and swell of his arse with his other hand. There's no way to touch enough of him at once. Giles wants to surround Oz, slide into every indentation and fold, cover him like another skin. Wants to taste him, too, and see him. Everything at once, synesthesia, simultaneity, dissolution.
It's not enough, not Oz's hands or lips, not the sweat-damp pressure of his legs or the stir of his hardening cock against Giles' belly. "Closer," Giles says, arms circling Oz's waist. "Come closer." Incantation, liturgy, words that catch at impossibility, enact it, bring it into the world.
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Never close enough. He spent a year missing Giles when he *had* him, then three more missing him like skin and organs. This would be stifling for anyone else, pressing every inch he can into Giles, but it's still minimal, still only approximate to what they want. Need.
Giles shivers, breath fast on Oz's cheek, cock brushing the bottom of Oz's thigh. They both need this. There's been so much that Oz hasn't let himself hear. Currents running through everything Giles says, stuff of nightmares: About Oz leaving and turning away. Leaving Giles alone. He *has* heard them, they've slipped in and lodged behind his eyes and under his tongue, but he doesn't know how - if - to reply.
Able to touch you again. He curled his fists for years against the urge to touch; he couldn't think how hard it was for Giles, too. Now, as he presses his cheek against Giles's and shifts another few millimeters closer, it feels like four years' worth of thought are breaking over him like a wave. Not just hard for Giles, or merely difficult, four years without touch was impossible and cruel. Giles crosses his arms over Oz's back, hauls him closer, and Oz is in the curve of the wave, eye of the storm, utterly naked and still not close enough.
"Want more," he says into Giles's ear. "Closer. Need more, Giles. Need to give you more. Everything."
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He kisses Oz hard, biting at his lips and dragging him forward by the neck, closer and tighter. Oz opens under his tongue, mouth as wide as his splayed legs, offering.
Everything.
Giles licks the underside of Oz's tongue until he groans and tightens his arms around Giles' neck. Then he pulls Oz's head in closer still and says "Yes," in his ear. "I want more too. Everything. Give me everything. All of you."
It's wrong to say these things, wrong to think them or want them, but Oz claws his fingers into Giles' shoulder and thrusts against his stomach. And Giles is hard again, needs Oz, and he loves Oz with his cock and his skin and his whole body.
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"Yours," Oz says and means it, dragging lip-covered teeth over the hollow of Giles's cheek. Hears everything and smells the sharp snakehiss scent of need and demand springing from Giles's pores and they are echo, mirror, of himself. "Anything. Take it."
This is beyond questions and apologies, much simpler and all the more dangerous, and Oz sucks hard on Giles's ear as he wills himself close and open.
Giles's hand in his hair, his voice pounding around Oz's chest as his cock rides the crease of Oz's thigh, both of them insistent, both of them superheated. Skin blanching, warming as it spreads and tightens, this is almost like the sundown-shivers before a full moon, the hour or so of cramping and pulling that precedes the change.
This is how Giles makes him feel, always made him feel, well before the wolf, so hungry that he'd never get his fill.
Words and breaths piling up inside his ribs, filling his throat - take take now, now, now, love you so much - and Oz yelps, head falling back, when Giles bites the base of his throat and rakes his nails over his ass.
Whiplash, Oz careening forward, into the bite, breathing out need into Giles's ear. "Yours. Now. Take it, now, *Giles*-"
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They need this, need to bite and fuck and bleed. Giles jerks Oz's head down against his neck, and when Oz's mouth pulls at his skin he almost pleads for more. For the bite, for the wolf, for everything. He could have everything, share everything, if Oz would just break the skin and make him bleed.
"Oz," he says, and he can hear the hunger in his own voice, the blood that aches to spill and be consumed. "Now, now, everything. Need you."
He lifts Oz's hips and reaches for his own cock, and he can't think about the fact that he's got no condoms. This isn't safe, but none of it's safe, none of what they need.
No condoms and no lube, just the spit that he slicks over his cock while Oz whines and pulls at him. He's going to hurt Oz, this is all wrong and he needs it. Oz needs it, Oz moans when Giles guides him down to his cock. Moans and pushes back, down, and gasps when Giles holds his hips and thrusts and the head of his cock goes in. "Oz, fuck," Giles says, shaking with the effort of not moving, not taking what he wants. "Need you so much. Don't want to hurt you. Christ, Oz." He leans forward just a little, kisses Oz, and the movement makes them both groan.
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"Not hurting," he whispers, or gasps, gets out somehow, razors tearing sandpaper, and Giles's face is dark, his eyes wide, whites visible all around the pupils that are wheeling and pulling Oz in, down, deeper. "Burning, not hurting. Need *you*, so much, harder -"
His wrists are crossed behind Giles's neck, hands floating and flapping, and he grabs the headboard with one hand, leverage and anchor. Leans back and up, then pushes himself down, expelling breath and thought, leaving only the burn, ever deeper inside, and the sight of Giles's sweatslick face, and his ironfast grip on the headboard.
Friction and penetration, spearing fire and the love rolling off Giles thick as swampgas, the fear beneath his eyes, it's all too much and never enough and Oz breathes rattling thoughts, words sharp as tindersticks, just as fragile. "Closer, Giles. Not hurting, just *more*, need you more, take it."
Giles's hand digs into his back, and fingers can be claws too, and he's thrusting up as Oz screws himself down, legs numb but hot, body and arms and face sliding off in the heat. "More, more, take it, need you -"
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Giles braces one foot on the mattress, hooks one arm over Oz's straining shoulder, and thrusts up hard and fast. They're both talking, fuck and more and closer and grunts that aren't words anymore, and Giles feels like he's fucking the skin off his cock. He's scraped raw everywhere, every touch and sound sandpapering over him, scouring away years of stains and scuff marks.
He drags his nails up and down Oz's back, watching his face twist and his mouth open in a cry. Again, and Oz jerks his hips and curses, leans back into Giles' clawing fingers. Giles works his teeth over the veins of Oz's forearm, finds Oz's cock and jerks it roughly. Mine, he thinks, or maybe says. Always, never anyone else, no one's ever touched you but me. He thrusts and bites and scratches, scraping off memory, baring the clean skin underneath.
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He grates and scrapes himself downward, over Giles, fucking him back as surely as if he was the one inside. Leaning back, his arm shuddering epileptically as he thrusts fast and rough into Giles's palm and tightens his ass, twisting his hips hard enough to break someone - him, Giles, he's lost track - in two.
Giles's face is a smear of red and black, flash of teeth, savage and full of want, his mouth forming words Oz can't hear over the clash and thunder of his heartbeat, the yowl of air trapped in his lungs, the din of every nerve sparking and shouting.
Deeper and deepest, something hotter than fire and better than anything, and there's only long-engrained habit - someone's got you fucking domesticated - that's a pale hushed voice behind his eyes reminding him not to bite, not to bite. Teeth and gums itch and burn and his free hand shoves Giles's shoulder back as he thrusts down and forward. Love you so fucking much -
When he comes, it'll be an afterthought. Nothing can match this, this elemental stone and love, nothing, not as he latches his mouth onto Giles's shoulder and shudders away into grit and flying dust.
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Something tremors along Giles' spine, grips his muscles, and he pushes up and up and up into Oz's clenching body. Higher and harder as Oz contracts and pulses around him, and Oz tilts forward and scrabbles at Giles' arms, whining and scratching. Heat crackles and throbs in sudden blackness and Giles comes, echoing back Oz's orgasm. Reverberation, feedback, and he can feel Oz shaking, hear him gasp. It's better than coming, better than anything, that he can make Oz feel this.
Giles pulls Oz against his chest and pants into his wet hair. Oz has gone limp, and he makes little noises in his throat like a well-fed, sleepy baby. Primitive and blissful. Giles listens, lets his mouth wander over sticky, waving strands, feels the sweat sliding down between their bellies and his cock softening in Oz's body.
I can make you love me again.
After a while, when Oz slips an arm around his back and starts kissing his chest, Giles says, "That was . . . astonishing. Are you all right?" He can remember the soft yielding of Oz's skin under his nails, and those early gasps that weren't just pleasure. Under the heavy warmth that he's more and more sure is happiness, there's a wriggling knot that's probably shame.
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