"You think?" Oz shifts downward, rubbing his head into the pillow, so he can see Giles clearly, the corona of light around his ruffled hair, the dark wrinkle between his eyebrows. Giles told him all the most important things right away the first night; Oz didn't *know* they were that important, not for a while, but he knew them. But Giles *is* right that there's something different now, something easier. Fewer worries, maybe, and less doubt. "I guess so. Not sure I know you *better*, but -- I don't have as many questions, that's true."
The velvet on the belt is starting to feel less soft and far more scratchy than it should, and Oz's balls are starting to tingle strangely. "I'm going to undo this. That okay?"
Giles' eyes go into slits at the question and Oz's chest hollows at the sight.
The belt. Jesus, the belt around Oz's balls, around his prick, which Giles forgot about until just now. Now, all at once, he remembers the fuzz of it under his lips, the glint in Oz's eyes when he tied it, Oz's grunts when Giles pulled and twisted it. And now Oz is asking permission to take it off, and-
"I'll do it." Something like a laugh from Oz when Giles pushes him back. A laugh that melts into something else, high and breathy. No, not else, but more. It still starts in laughter, in game. Oz was playing when he made that knot, as surely as he's playing now, raising his legs to let Giles work at it
( ... )
Giles' smile is *huge*, spreading wider and wider as he works a knee between Oz's legs and lowers himself more firmly on top of Oz, winding his arm under Oz's neck. Warmth is slipsliding through Oz, down from Giles, up from his own skin, doubling and melting as he laughs. Part of the heat's from the lack of the knot, like untying it let loose banked fires that glide through him and make him laugh harder even as he kisses the side of Giles' neck and folds his arm around Giles' back.
"Thanks," he whispers into Giles' ear. Giles strokes his knuckles over Oz's ribs, back and forth over the ticklish spot, and Oz nips down on Giles' earlobe. And again, when Giles' hips rock and his breath catches and snags in his throat. This is fun, fun in a way that it never was before, with other people -- Devon, other men, a couple girls -- and Oz holds Giles more tightly, hand on his hip, and tells him so. "Fun with you. So much fun."
It's strange to think of something this good, something Giles needs this badly, as fun. Fun is the Brighton seaside, candyfloss and tacky souvenirs. Fun is television comedies, films one forgets half an hour later, bands that aren't exactly good.
Fun is tickling Oz just here under the arm so that he flails helplessly beneath Giles' weight. "Love you," he says when Oz's almost-pained laughter fades back to wheezes. "And I think the fun's to your credit. Left to myself, I'm as fun as a wet weekend."
With a sudden shove, Oz rolls him over and holds him down effortlessly with one hand. "Don't-" Giles pleads, too late, already laughing as Oz hones in on his one really ticklish spot, between two ribs. Tears streaming down into the pillow, Giles laughs, keeps laughing after Oz has stopped tickling. He's needed this more than he knew, needed it as much as he needed the high and beautiful parts of love, the cathedrals and symphonies.
Giles laughs like it's going out of style, helplessly, in big rolling bursts like thunder or an orchestra tuning up. Maybe an orchestra playing *during* a thunderstorm, and Oz can almost smell the resin on violins and ozone of lightning, feel cold wet wind on his face as he nudges Giles over onto his side and kisses his face.
His hands move slowly over Giles' back, soothing rather than teasing, absorbing all the smoothness and strength there, until finally he's still, forehead against Giles', hands gone motionless, and they're just breathing.
And smiling, too, broadly, like the best kind of mirror, so widely Oz's cheeks ache.
"Meant bondage, actually," Oz says quietly and kisses the tip of Giles' nose. "But everything, too. Everything feels like it's fun and then some with you."
The laughter discharged some last, staticky tension, and now Giles feels loose and deliciously empty, his belly muscles aching in a way that amplifies his warm, post-orgasmic languor. "Bondage," he echoes, and the images the word conjures--Oz shined and opened by a thousand kinds of pleasure--heat him gently, like sunlight or bathwater. "I didn't know if you still . . . " It turned out badly the one time they tried it, or rather too well. But there's no reason not to try again.
"Yes," Giles says, leaning forward to kiss the rim of Oz's ear, then up into his hair. Yes is their watchword now, their motto, after years of no piled on no. "My god, Oz. There's so much we can do. So much to try." From Oz's smile, almost sly and fully flirtatious, he looks to be totting up the possibilities
( ... )
Nudging Giles onto his back, one arm circling and supporting Giles' head, Oz retraces the patterns on his chest. Just the scratch of a nail is enough to make Giles, sleepy and honey-slow as he is right now, shiver and whistle in a breath. They used to use their mouth on each other all the time, teeth and lips and tongue; Oz would walk home at night thinking about the stellar patterns he left on Giles' chest, looking forward to touching the warm, tingling bruises on his own skin. And at home, he'd strip off and look at himself in the bathroom mirror, study and memorize what the bruises looked like. He'd wait to touch, picturing Giles' mouth, recreating the sucking and nibbling, until his palms burned and he had to touch, had to
( ... )
Giles hasn't seen Oz's other shape, the monstrous one that doesn't even really look like a wolf, in years. After that first long night when, so numb with horror that it felt like clinical dispassion, he watched the werewolf--Oz--sleep, he tried not to look at it. But now, looking up into Oz's anxiety-frozen face, Giles remembers the muzzle, the teeth, the fur. And how the beast stretched and re-formed, breakneck evolution, into a drugged and naked boy, pale as a dead thing under the fluorescent lights of the library
( ... )
Giles sounds gentle and urgent at the same time, coaxing and needful, and his eyes are shining wetly, even as he tries to smile. Oz can't move -- it's like his skin's shrunk down to his bones and he's just rock now, a weird collection of fossilized twigs held up by Giles' hands
( ... )
Giles has seen Oz angry, frightened, hopelessly sad, but never as appalled, as horrified, as he is right now. His eyes have gone all to whites and pupil, just the thinnest blue-green ring around the black, and he's pressing on Giles' chest as though he's stuffing comprehension in, holding it there until it takes.
Something's gone wrong. Giles has buggered it up, slapped Oz when he meant to hold out a hand. "I'm sorry," he says, laying his hands over Oz's. "I didn't-"
I'm not you, Oz said. One undeniable truth, one thing Giles can answer amidst so much he doesn't understand. Must answer. "No, perhaps I did. It's - I suppose I do want to be you, in a way. Or for you to be me." He's sliding his hands up and down Oz's forearms, a too-tight grip, like handcuffs; he makes himself stop. "It's not fair, wanting that. We're not . . . not one person, even one of the doubled people in the Symposium. I'm sorry." Shame makes him hot all over, makes it hard to look at Oz, and Giles thinks greedy. His mother's word, half teasing and half not, for
( ... )
Oz's heart beats fast, a rush of thumps like the lead-in to a drum solo. Even when he's calm, sleeping, it beats faster than it used to before he was a werewolf
( ... )
The velvet on the belt is starting to feel less soft and far more scratchy than it should, and Oz's balls are starting to tingle strangely. "I'm going to undo this. That okay?"
Giles' eyes go into slits at the question and Oz's chest hollows at the sight.
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"I'll do it." Something like a laugh from Oz when Giles pushes him back. A laugh that melts into something else, high and breathy. No, not else, but more. It still starts in laughter, in game. Oz was playing when he made that knot, as surely as he's playing now, raising his legs to let Giles work at it ( ... )
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"Thanks," he whispers into Giles' ear. Giles strokes his knuckles over Oz's ribs, back and forth over the ticklish spot, and Oz nips down on Giles' earlobe. And again, when Giles' hips rock and his breath catches and snags in his throat. This is fun, fun in a way that it never was before, with other people -- Devon, other men, a couple girls -- and Oz holds Giles more tightly, hand on his hip, and tells him so. "Fun with you. So much fun."
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Fun is tickling Oz just here under the arm so that he flails helplessly beneath Giles' weight. "Love you," he says when Oz's almost-pained laughter fades back to wheezes. "And I think the fun's to your credit. Left to myself, I'm as fun as a wet weekend."
With a sudden shove, Oz rolls him over and holds him down effortlessly with one hand. "Don't-" Giles pleads, too late, already laughing as Oz hones in on his one really ticklish spot, between two ribs. Tears streaming down into the pillow, Giles laughs, keeps laughing after Oz has stopped tickling. He's needed this more than he knew, needed it as much as he needed the high and beautiful parts of love, the cathedrals and symphonies.
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His hands move slowly over Giles' back, soothing rather than teasing, absorbing all the smoothness and strength there, until finally he's still, forehead against Giles', hands gone motionless, and they're just breathing.
And smiling, too, broadly, like the best kind of mirror, so widely Oz's cheeks ache.
"Meant bondage, actually," Oz says quietly and kisses the tip of Giles' nose. "But everything, too. Everything feels like it's fun and then some with you."
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"Yes," Giles says, leaning forward to kiss the rim of Oz's ear, then up into his hair. Yes is their watchword now, their motto, after years of no piled on no. "My god, Oz. There's so much we can do. So much to try." From Oz's smile, almost sly and fully flirtatious, he looks to be totting up the possibilities ( ... )
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Something's gone wrong. Giles has buggered it up, slapped Oz when he meant to hold out a hand. "I'm sorry," he says, laying his hands over Oz's. "I didn't-"
I'm not you, Oz said. One undeniable truth, one thing Giles can answer amidst so much he doesn't understand. Must answer. "No, perhaps I did. It's - I suppose I do want to be you, in a way. Or for you to be me." He's sliding his hands up and down Oz's forearms, a too-tight grip, like handcuffs; he makes himself stop. "It's not fair, wanting that. We're not . . . not one person, even one of the doubled people in the Symposium. I'm sorry." Shame makes him hot all over, makes it hard to look at Oz, and Giles thinks greedy. His mother's word, half teasing and half not, for ( ... )
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This is why he's better at being quiet. At cooking, at sex, at anything that doesn't require him to use his brain and his mouth ( ... )
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