Giles wants to answer, but the words are squeezed to nothing, pinpricks, atomic nuclei, black holes, by the pressure of Oz's cock inside him. Rough, fast pull and slide, every thrust burning up through his gut and chest and throat, scraping him empty and filling him, and he wants to pull Oz down and in, break his own skin open and take him inside, everywhere.
He's drowning, breathless, choking on his own cries, and sounds--the wet slide and slap of their bodies, Oz's murmurs and growls, his own surging heartbeat-crash and reverberate in his ears like surf. He's lost and drowned, and Oz is the ocean's weight above him and in him, shaking him like a pebble at every tumbling wave, but somehow Oz is breath and life and safety too. Giles slides his legs down and folds himself around Oz's moving hips, clinging even as he sinks deeper into wet heat, into pressure like a thousand atmospheres.
Oz leans in, hand on Giles' chest, and thrusts bone-jarringly hard and pulls at Giles' cock and everything dissolves to blue-black emptiness. Nothingness, then explosion, everything beginning, the world winking back into existence as Giles comes, spine arched back and hands tearing, spasming, at the edges of the mattress. Afterimages waver and twist before his eyes and he's gasping, dizzy, and he grips Oz's arm and tightens his legs still more around Oz's shaking, thrusting body.
Giles is a long, twisting glare of sweat and skin, whipping up, then falling back as he comes in hard, rapid bursts, spatters so hot they burn like ice.
Beauty and terror surge over his face, then slap back, numbingly hot, against Oz, sweeping him forward. Release and freedom, a rush of air and light, and it's like Oz is seeing him for the first time, fully human and naked. Like Giles, in the full sluice of pleasure, is calling him, winding around him, urging him on.
Nets and sirens, and Oz collapses, banging his face and elbows on Giles, the mattress, the corner of a sidetable, as Giles' body swivels beneath him. The pulses of his orgasm jolt along Oz's cock, up his spine, yanking him inside out, and he comes with a pleading howl against the salt and heat of Giles' chest. Yowl, twist, push, coming until black hearts throb against his eyelids.
This is another home, familiar already even though it's new, Giles wrapped around him, flarebright and wet, aftershocks staggering and twitching through him. His skin is rent, his mouth empty, and Oz tries to raise his head, eventually, leaden skull and burning eyes.
Giles is smooth and pale, dawn clouds hanging motionless around dark eyes; everywhere his fingers brush Oz knits together another flap of skin. Oz feels his mouth and lips, thick and bruised, try to work, but no sound comes out. Giles nods anyway and holds him more tightly. Oz gets now why babies scream when they're born; the air is harsh and cold, piercing and sharp, but then Giles pulls him up, kisses him, and the breath from his lungs is sweet and warm and Oz kisses him back, feels himself start to inflate again.
From the deep ocean to the tidal pool, shallow and still, warm with the sun. Giles' body is heavy and loose, even though his legs creak and twinge when he unwinds them from around Oz's waist and stretches out. Pleasure flutters and ripples under his skin, jolts into echoed heat whenever Oz moves, even when he pulls out. Giles kisses him, rubs his face in Oz's hair, and even the separation, the emptiness, is bearable. Oz is here, heavy and solid on his chest, almost as close as he can be, and Giles' body still remembers the rest in tingling soreness and dark, drifting pleasure.
He drags a corner of the duvet over Oz, who's getting goosebumps, and works his fingers slowly up through Oz's hair, from his ear to the crown of his head. "Christ, Oz, you - so good. It felt so good having you inside me."
Where did you learn to fuck like that? he thinks, because Oz wasn't a shy boy this time, nervous of hurting Giles, nervous of failing in obscure or obvious ways. He was confident, adult, experienced. But the one thing, the only thing, Giles doesn't want to know is who else Oz has fucked, how many men and women have tasted his skin, heard his cries and shouts, made him come. Eventually, Giles wants every other moment of their separation told, accounted for, taken back as best they can, but not the time they spent in other people's beds. Anything Oz has learned from them, Giles wants to pretend he discovered all by himself.
He draws random patterns over Oz's back, counterpoint to the kisses Oz is placing on his chest, light and sweet as raindrops. "Could this be my present every birthday? Not that you have to wait for that, of course." Tilting Oz's chin up so they can see each other, he adds, "You do know that, don't you? Anything that excites you, anything you want to do, just tell me. Please."
Oz ducks his head and rubs his face against Giles' chest before answering.
"I know," he says, pulling himself up a little higher, curling his arm around Giles' waist. "Anything, everything. Like telling you, you know." Giles grins slowly at that, half-hungrily and half-laughingly, and amid the aches and throbbing afterimages, Oz feels a flood of warmth through his body at the sight. "Tell you, show you, ask you."
Giles squirms down a little, eyes scanning Oz's face, and Oz breathes in slowly as he draws his palm down the center of Giles' chest, swabbing away sweat and come, smoothing over the scars.
"Meant it -" Oz squints a little, making sure he doesn't look away, feeling the stories and words regroup and solidify in his mind, form in the back of his mouth. "Love your body, love how it feels -" He kisses the hollow of Giles' collarbone across to his throat and looks up again. "Love touching you and fucking you. Pleasure and all that stuff, trying new things. You gave me that, showed me all of that."
He was never much of a prude, but Giles was an entirely new country, one where you could bite and hold the other person down, give yourself over a cliff of desire, get pushed and pushed and scream out and it was all more than all right. Giles wanted Oz, wanted him to feel everything, and that was new.
"Wouldn't be, like, me," Oz says and now he does let himself close his eyes as he kisses Giles' jaw and rubs his lips against the tiny stubble, "without that. You. So it works the other way, too. Want to do anything with you." He feels Giles turn his head and opens his eyes, sees wide black pupils regarding him. "Love you."
Giles blinks hard, swallows once and then again, and concentrates on smoothing nonexistent lines around Oz's eyes and tracing the angled plane of his cheekbone. He's been crying too much these last few days, overflowing with tears that have gone blocked and unshed since Angelus broke his hands, his courage, and his self-respect. Oz has borne it all, tender and infinitely strong, talking Giles out of his shame, letting him weep himself sick and helpless. But he's not going to make Oz see him cry again now, when they're happy.
Oz must see the shine of his eyes and the working of his throat, but he just rubs a knuckle along Giles' jaw, kisses him, and doesn't say anything.
It's not so long, really, before Giles can answer, although his voice wobbles scratchily. "You were so young." Young enough that Giles formed him, changed him forever. Wouldn't be me without you. But Giles was himself before Oz, and for a moment that seems unfair, selfish. "I'm much too old for you. If I were twenty years younger I'd be too old for you, or nearly."
Oz frowns, kisses him roughly in wordless denial, and Giles pulls him down, chest to chest, until it hurts. "I'm so glad that you manage to love me anyway, somehow." It sounds foolish, cheap, the instant he says it, so he shifts and kisses Oz again, slow and contemplative. However many times they've kissed-hundreds, surely, since Oz came back, who knows how many thousands before-Oz's mouth is still full of wonders and mysteries.
Full of truth, perhaps, an oracle's cave, because Giles realizes that he's wrong. He was a version of himself before Oz, but Oz shaped and changed him too, and after Oz left he lost himself.
"You've been so good to me," he says, only half-audible against Oz's lips. "I love you. And I'm sorry for the last couple of days." So much pain for them both, with Giles' grief thick and contagious between them, but they know each other better now, too, and Giles isn't sorry for that.
Giles' words thrum inside Oz's mouth and Oz kisses him again, sliding his palm over sweaty hair, kisses him until he feels Giles relax underneath him. Just a fraction, a slip and settle against the pillow, and Oz smiles as he draws back.
"Just love you," he says quietly. "Don't be sorry." He's said that more times than he can count in the last few days, holding Giles, feeling him weep his guts out, shake and cry so hard that Oz was half-convinced Giles was being shredded from the inside out, and there were so many apologies, for so many sins, to so many people, gushing, flooding them both. Oz couldn't do anything but hold on, tell Giles he was safe, tell him it wasn't all his fault. I'm sorry, he wants to say now, wants to give Giles everything he needs, wants to erase four years of absence.
He can't.
Oz stretches until every joint pops, then shifts down and settles against Giles' side, forehead pressed to Giles' temple. The curve of Giles' eye-socket catches the sunlight and Oz runs his tongue over it, tasting salt. Sweat and tears, both salty, taste entirely different; he knows that now. Sweat's thicker, tears run faster.
"Used to worry about you -" Oz tightens his arm around Giles. "Like, waking up some day and realizing what a kid I am." He didn't mean to speak, and certainly didn't mean to say that. He kisses the dip of Giles' ear and throws his leg between Giles'. Hold on tight, he thinks, hope it's tight enough. "I mean, you know. Age thing. Don't anymore, though."
Someday, Giles hopes, it will be amusing to remember how they stumbled and floundered, tangled in dragging iron fears. How Oz's fears were the inverse and corrective of his own, so that each held the other's key if only they'd had sense enough to know.
Slowly, Giles draws a hand down the length of Oz's body, the dip of his neck and the sudden cliff of his shoulder, the long ridge of arm, side, and hip. "I never thought of you as a kid." Half-belying his own words, he tickles Oz's arse until he laughs and squirms, then splays his fingers through the soft, fine hair on his thighs. "You were never childish. Not like Xander, or . . . or the others." Neither of the names he nearly spoke, Willow and Buffy, would be good to mention now.
It's getting dark; Giles moves his hand away long enough to switch on the lamp, then settles it back on Oz's hip, thumb curved over the bone. Oz sighs and moves infinitesimally closer, his breath warm on Giles' cheek. "I worried that you would notice I was more than twice your age. That you'd-" And then he has to stop, because Oz did. Oz left him, and took up with someone as young as himself.
Quickly, before Oz can do more than squeeze Giles' ribs and kiss the side of his mouth, Giles says, "And I liked that there were things you didn't know." He strokes Oz's buttocks, plays his fingers along the crack, letting his hands interpret what he means. "That you were shy. Innocent, almost. I found it rather shamefully erotic, teaching you." He always loved the moment when Oz's shyness would burn away with a gasp and a shudder, leaving him trembling and desperate under each new feeling.
Oz tips his head forward, memory creeping slowly as a blush over his face and chest, and his hips roll under Giles' touch. When he sighs, because Giles' fingers are warm and strong, Giles chuckles a little. Giles is playing the game he did at lunch, straining for relaxation, ignoring pain - you left - and Oz takes up his side, wraps his arm more snugly around Giles' waist.
"Shameful, huh?" he manages to ask and Giles kisses the top of his head. Oz closes his eyes, sinking into the dark, salty warmth around them, and kisses Giles' chest. He was always convinced that Giles could never know how nervous he was, that he didn't dare open his mouth and let slip another clue. Turns out he failed pretty miserably at it anyway.
"Still a lot I don't know -" Oz opens his eyes and smiles, shifting closer and tightening his arm around him. Giles returns the smile, slow and teasing, and starts to shake his head. "No, really. Plus, anyway. Learned from the best."
Giles is still shaking his head as Oz kisses him, tasting exertion and pleasure, sharp as citrus, and squeezes his arm, pushing back against his hand. He drags his mouth in a looping trail to Giles' ear, shivering. "Lots more to learn," he whispers and Giles sighs, short and sharp. "Eager to learn."
This is better. Every kiss and touch, every naughty joke and answering smile is another stone in the wall they're building between themselves and the unbearable past. Let that past be another country absolutely, let it go to wild and waste and roaming barbarians, so long as he and Oz are safe here, behind the wall. Giles nips at Oz's lower lap, rolls it between his teeth, raises the wall a little more. Razor wire, guard towers, minefields--Giles wants no sorrow creeping over in the darkness.
"More to learn, hmm?" Oz smiles again, rubbing his thumb along Giles' ribs and grinning even wider when bends sideways into the touch. Giles pinches his bottom and kisses him when his mouth drops in surprise and pretended outrage. Oz is helping him, is just as eager, maybe, to forget what happened. What he did, what he chose. "We may have to learn together, then. Unless you're talking about leather costumes and whips, in which case I think I'd just as soon remain ignorant."
It can't be good, really, having a thousand things they daren't mention. It's a wall that will rot from the inside, fall and crush them. But for now, it feels so much safer than the things it hides.
When Oz laughs, his chest hurts and his eyes water, and he can't stop. The image of Giles in chaps and Sam Browne belt, wielding a flogger and glaring over the top of mirrored sunglasses is both ridiculous and so awesome that he wants to double over.
"Not bullwhips, no," Oz says when he gets a few breaths in. Giles is looking at him, puzzled and amused, eyes narrowing in mock-frustration. "But what would you say, Mr. Giles -" He nudges Giles' shoulder backward and throws his leg over Giles' waist until he's straddling Giles again, laughing and dropping kisses randomly. "To a discreet, tasteful string of anal beads?"
Laughing, Giles slides his hands up Oz's arms, resting them on Oz's shoulders, smiling up at him. Such big hands, long-fingered and graceful, and Oz kisses one thumb, sucking on the pad as he grins. He remembers walking with Willow, when he came back, and she said this feels like a dream. He told her then it was real, but he thinks now that he lied. This is real, this is all that's ever been real, the taste of Giles and brilliance of his eyes, width of his chest and strength of his hands. But that's not right, either; this is just the realest of the real, the most preferable, where he's the most at home.
Oz nips lightly at the first knuckle of Giles' thumb and slides down until his head is tucked into the curve of Giles' neck. At the edges of the laughter's warmth, old sluggish things are threatening to spawn inside of him, and all he can do is kiss Giles and hope they stay away.
"Always wanted leather pants," he says. "But not for sex. Just for the cool."
"Always?" Giles settles one arm across Oz's back and goes hunting for the duvet again with the other. "Even when you didn't believe in eating the poor defenseless cows?" With a growl, Oz nips the side of his neck. "Now that didn't feel at all vegetarian. Wicked boy."
The duvet seems to have slithered off the bed, except for a fold that's twisted unreachably around Giles' foot. Giving up, he ruffles Oz's hair instead, palming it up against the growth and then letting it fall back into place. Oz lies very still, and when Giles twists around enough to look at his face, he sees that he's frowning a little.
There are times, with everything else that have to think about or not think about, that Giles forgets Oz is a werewolf. But Oz, of course, can't ever forget. They haven't really talked about it, but if the wolf horrifies Oz as much as it used to, every day must be a struggle.
"You'd look very cool in leather trousers," Giles says, sliding his free hand down Oz's arm and lacing their fingers together. Closing his eyes, he pictures Oz in one of his faded, half-transparent t-shirts, heavy steel-toed boots, and soft leather trousers that cling to his narrow thighs and the curve of his arse. "And dead sexy. So sexy you might unexpectedly find me kneeling in front of you, undoing the flies." Oz wriggles against him, laughs deep in his throat in a way that makes Giles shiver, and then does it again when Giles adds, "With my teeth."
Giles tugs gently on Oz's hair until he tips his head back, then kisses from the point of his chin down to the hollow of his throat. Salt and the bittersweetness of Oz's skin, like orange peels, and Giles suckles at the pulse point, tasting, trying to feel the throb of blood under his tongue. When he works his way back up to Oz's mouth, Oz is smiling again, eyes half-closed and dark as a still pond. "And we could go, er, toy shopping, if you like," Giles says, remembering the not-quite-joke about anal beads. "Not back to that horrible place we went to before, but somewhere nice. If there was anything you were interested in trying."
He's drowning, breathless, choking on his own cries, and sounds--the wet slide and slap of their bodies, Oz's murmurs and growls, his own surging heartbeat-crash and reverberate in his ears like surf. He's lost and drowned, and Oz is the ocean's weight above him and in him, shaking him like a pebble at every tumbling wave, but somehow Oz is breath and life and safety too. Giles slides his legs down and folds himself around Oz's moving hips, clinging even as he sinks deeper into wet heat, into pressure like a thousand atmospheres.
Oz leans in, hand on Giles' chest, and thrusts bone-jarringly hard and pulls at Giles' cock and everything dissolves to blue-black emptiness. Nothingness, then explosion, everything beginning, the world winking back into existence as Giles comes, spine arched back and hands tearing, spasming, at the edges of the mattress. Afterimages waver and twist before his eyes and he's gasping, dizzy, and he grips Oz's arm and tightens his legs still more around Oz's shaking, thrusting body.
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Beauty and terror surge over his face, then slap back, numbingly hot, against Oz, sweeping him forward. Release and freedom, a rush of air and light, and it's like Oz is seeing him for the first time, fully human and naked. Like Giles, in the full sluice of pleasure, is calling him, winding around him, urging him on.
Nets and sirens, and Oz collapses, banging his face and elbows on Giles, the mattress, the corner of a sidetable, as Giles' body swivels beneath him. The pulses of his orgasm jolt along Oz's cock, up his spine, yanking him inside out, and he comes with a pleading howl against the salt and heat of Giles' chest. Yowl, twist, push, coming until black hearts throb against his eyelids.
This is another home, familiar already even though it's new, Giles wrapped around him, flarebright and wet, aftershocks staggering and twitching through him. His skin is rent, his mouth empty, and Oz tries to raise his head, eventually, leaden skull and burning eyes.
Giles is smooth and pale, dawn clouds hanging motionless around dark eyes; everywhere his fingers brush Oz knits together another flap of skin. Oz feels his mouth and lips, thick and bruised, try to work, but no sound comes out. Giles nods anyway and holds him more tightly. Oz gets now why babies scream when they're born; the air is harsh and cold, piercing and sharp, but then Giles pulls him up, kisses him, and the breath from his lungs is sweet and warm and Oz kisses him back, feels himself start to inflate again.
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He drags a corner of the duvet over Oz, who's getting goosebumps, and works his fingers slowly up through Oz's hair, from his ear to the crown of his head. "Christ, Oz, you - so good. It felt so good having you inside me."
Where did you learn to fuck like that? he thinks, because Oz wasn't a shy boy this time, nervous of hurting Giles, nervous of failing in obscure or obvious ways. He was confident, adult, experienced. But the one thing, the only thing, Giles doesn't want to know is who else Oz has fucked, how many men and women have tasted his skin, heard his cries and shouts, made him come. Eventually, Giles wants every other moment of their separation told, accounted for, taken back as best they can, but not the time they spent in other people's beds. Anything Oz has learned from them, Giles wants to pretend he discovered all by himself.
He draws random patterns over Oz's back, counterpoint to the kisses Oz is placing on his chest, light and sweet as raindrops. "Could this be my present every birthday? Not that you have to wait for that, of course." Tilting Oz's chin up so they can see each other, he adds, "You do know that, don't you? Anything that excites you, anything you want to do, just tell me. Please."
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"I know," he says, pulling himself up a little higher, curling his arm around Giles' waist. "Anything, everything. Like telling you, you know." Giles grins slowly at that, half-hungrily and half-laughingly, and amid the aches and throbbing afterimages, Oz feels a flood of warmth through his body at the sight. "Tell you, show you, ask you."
Giles squirms down a little, eyes scanning Oz's face, and Oz breathes in slowly as he draws his palm down the center of Giles' chest, swabbing away sweat and come, smoothing over the scars.
"Meant it -" Oz squints a little, making sure he doesn't look away, feeling the stories and words regroup and solidify in his mind, form in the back of his mouth. "Love your body, love how it feels -" He kisses the hollow of Giles' collarbone across to his throat and looks up again. "Love touching you and fucking you. Pleasure and all that stuff, trying new things. You gave me that, showed me all of that."
He was never much of a prude, but Giles was an entirely new country, one where you could bite and hold the other person down, give yourself over a cliff of desire, get pushed and pushed and scream out and it was all more than all right. Giles wanted Oz, wanted him to feel everything, and that was new.
"Wouldn't be, like, me," Oz says and now he does let himself close his eyes as he kisses Giles' jaw and rubs his lips against the tiny stubble, "without that. You. So it works the other way, too. Want to do anything with you." He feels Giles turn his head and opens his eyes, sees wide black pupils regarding him. "Love you."
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Oz must see the shine of his eyes and the working of his throat, but he just rubs a knuckle along Giles' jaw, kisses him, and doesn't say anything.
It's not so long, really, before Giles can answer, although his voice wobbles scratchily. "You were so young." Young enough that Giles formed him, changed him forever. Wouldn't be me without you. But Giles was himself before Oz, and for a moment that seems unfair, selfish. "I'm much too old for you. If I were twenty years younger I'd be too old for you, or nearly."
Oz frowns, kisses him roughly in wordless denial, and Giles pulls him down, chest to chest, until it hurts. "I'm so glad that you manage to love me anyway, somehow." It sounds foolish, cheap, the instant he says it, so he shifts and kisses Oz again, slow and contemplative. However many times they've kissed-hundreds, surely, since Oz came back, who knows how many thousands before-Oz's mouth is still full of wonders and mysteries.
Full of truth, perhaps, an oracle's cave, because Giles realizes that he's wrong. He was a version of himself before Oz, but Oz shaped and changed him too, and after Oz left he lost himself.
"You've been so good to me," he says, only half-audible against Oz's lips. "I love you. And I'm sorry for the last couple of days." So much pain for them both, with Giles' grief thick and contagious between them, but they know each other better now, too, and Giles isn't sorry for that.
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"Just love you," he says quietly. "Don't be sorry." He's said that more times than he can count in the last few days, holding Giles, feeling him weep his guts out, shake and cry so hard that Oz was half-convinced Giles was being shredded from the inside out, and there were so many apologies, for so many sins, to so many people, gushing, flooding them both. Oz couldn't do anything but hold on, tell Giles he was safe, tell him it wasn't all his fault. I'm sorry, he wants to say now, wants to give Giles everything he needs, wants to erase four years of absence.
He can't.
Oz stretches until every joint pops, then shifts down and settles against Giles' side, forehead pressed to Giles' temple. The curve of Giles' eye-socket catches the sunlight and Oz runs his tongue over it, tasting salt. Sweat and tears, both salty, taste entirely different; he knows that now. Sweat's thicker, tears run faster.
"Used to worry about you -" Oz tightens his arm around Giles. "Like, waking up some day and realizing what a kid I am." He didn't mean to speak, and certainly didn't mean to say that. He kisses the dip of Giles' ear and throws his leg between Giles'. Hold on tight, he thinks, hope it's tight enough. "I mean, you know. Age thing. Don't anymore, though."
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Slowly, Giles draws a hand down the length of Oz's body, the dip of his neck and the sudden cliff of his shoulder, the long ridge of arm, side, and hip. "I never thought of you as a kid." Half-belying his own words, he tickles Oz's arse until he laughs and squirms, then splays his fingers through the soft, fine hair on his thighs. "You were never childish. Not like Xander, or . . . or the others." Neither of the names he nearly spoke, Willow and Buffy, would be good to mention now.
It's getting dark; Giles moves his hand away long enough to switch on the lamp, then settles it back on Oz's hip, thumb curved over the bone. Oz sighs and moves infinitesimally closer, his breath warm on Giles' cheek. "I worried that you would notice I was more than twice your age. That you'd-" And then he has to stop, because Oz did. Oz left him, and took up with someone as young as himself.
Quickly, before Oz can do more than squeeze Giles' ribs and kiss the side of his mouth, Giles says, "And I liked that there were things you didn't know." He strokes Oz's buttocks, plays his fingers along the crack, letting his hands interpret what he means. "That you were shy. Innocent, almost. I found it rather shamefully erotic, teaching you." He always loved the moment when Oz's shyness would burn away with a gasp and a shudder, leaving him trembling and desperate under each new feeling.
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"Shameful, huh?" he manages to ask and Giles kisses the top of his head. Oz closes his eyes, sinking into the dark, salty warmth around them, and kisses Giles' chest. He was always convinced that Giles could never know how nervous he was, that he didn't dare open his mouth and let slip another clue. Turns out he failed pretty miserably at it anyway.
"Still a lot I don't know -" Oz opens his eyes and smiles, shifting closer and tightening his arm around him. Giles returns the smile, slow and teasing, and starts to shake his head. "No, really. Plus, anyway. Learned from the best."
Giles is still shaking his head as Oz kisses him, tasting exertion and pleasure, sharp as citrus, and squeezes his arm, pushing back against his hand. He drags his mouth in a looping trail to Giles' ear, shivering. "Lots more to learn," he whispers and Giles sighs, short and sharp. "Eager to learn."
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"More to learn, hmm?" Oz smiles again, rubbing his thumb along Giles' ribs and grinning even wider when bends sideways into the touch. Giles pinches his bottom and kisses him when his mouth drops in surprise and pretended outrage. Oz is helping him, is just as eager, maybe, to forget what happened. What he did, what he chose. "We may have to learn together, then. Unless you're talking about leather costumes and whips, in which case I think I'd just as soon remain ignorant."
It can't be good, really, having a thousand things they daren't mention. It's a wall that will rot from the inside, fall and crush them. But for now, it feels so much safer than the things it hides.
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"Not bullwhips, no," Oz says when he gets a few breaths in. Giles is looking at him, puzzled and amused, eyes narrowing in mock-frustration. "But what would you say, Mr. Giles -" He nudges Giles' shoulder backward and throws his leg over Giles' waist until he's straddling Giles again, laughing and dropping kisses randomly. "To a discreet, tasteful string of anal beads?"
Laughing, Giles slides his hands up Oz's arms, resting them on Oz's shoulders, smiling up at him. Such big hands, long-fingered and graceful, and Oz kisses one thumb, sucking on the pad as he grins. He remembers walking with Willow, when he came back, and she said this feels like a dream. He told her then it was real, but he thinks now that he lied. This is real, this is all that's ever been real, the taste of Giles and brilliance of his eyes, width of his chest and strength of his hands. But that's not right, either; this is just the realest of the real, the most preferable, where he's the most at home.
Oz nips lightly at the first knuckle of Giles' thumb and slides down until his head is tucked into the curve of Giles' neck. At the edges of the laughter's warmth, old sluggish things are threatening to spawn inside of him, and all he can do is kiss Giles and hope they stay away.
"Always wanted leather pants," he says. "But not for sex. Just for the cool."
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The duvet seems to have slithered off the bed, except for a fold that's twisted unreachably around Giles' foot. Giving up, he ruffles Oz's hair instead, palming it up against the growth and then letting it fall back into place. Oz lies very still, and when Giles twists around enough to look at his face, he sees that he's frowning a little.
There are times, with everything else that have to think about or not think about, that Giles forgets Oz is a werewolf. But Oz, of course, can't ever forget. They haven't really talked about it, but if the wolf horrifies Oz as much as it used to, every day must be a struggle.
"You'd look very cool in leather trousers," Giles says, sliding his free hand down Oz's arm and lacing their fingers together. Closing his eyes, he pictures Oz in one of his faded, half-transparent t-shirts, heavy steel-toed boots, and soft leather trousers that cling to his narrow thighs and the curve of his arse. "And dead sexy. So sexy you might unexpectedly find me kneeling in front of you, undoing the flies." Oz wriggles against him, laughs deep in his throat in a way that makes Giles shiver, and then does it again when Giles adds, "With my teeth."
Giles tugs gently on Oz's hair until he tips his head back, then kisses from the point of his chin down to the hollow of his throat. Salt and the bittersweetness of Oz's skin, like orange peels, and Giles suckles at the pulse point, tasting, trying to feel the throb of blood under his tongue. When he works his way back up to Oz's mouth, Oz is smiling again, eyes half-closed and dark as a still pond. "And we could go, er, toy shopping, if you like," Giles says, remembering the not-quite-joke about anal beads. "Not back to that horrible place we went to before, but somewhere nice. If there was anything you were interested in trying."
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