Giles isn't sure about the state of his ribs. Something stabs when he breathes, and between inhalations it seems to grind. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and his torso's like a map, great continents and oceans of bruises.
And he's alive. Buffy's alive, and poor Jenny Calendar is alive and herself again, if embarrassed. When he drove her home, she never once managed to look him in the eye.
And Eyghon's really, truly defeated. Reduced to formlessness and nothing, and never coming back.
He hurts everywhere and he's almost giddy as he walks in the door, home and dry. Safe as houses.
Before he even takes off his coat he goes to the telephone. He's been frantic to call Oz, and there's been no time. Although there would have been, if he hadn't fallen asleep at his desk at six o'clock this morning.
The voice that answers is so rough and strange that for a second he doesn't know it. "Oz? It's me. I'm all right. Everything's all right."
Giles sounds like a saw played in a back-country jugband, humming high and fast.
Oz doesn't trust his skin, or his breathing, or his hearing. Maybe this is what an out-of-body experience is like, except he's nowhere, he can't see himself from the outside or anything.
"Where are you?"
Giles is home. And alive. And the world is spinning very, very fast, so Oz stumbles a bit as he stands up and pulls on his sweater. Flips open the locks and he's halfway down the stairs before he wonders if he remembered to hang up. He keeps going, running fast, lungs burning blue and cold, black spots in front of his eyes, and for the length of this particular trip to Giles' house, for the first time since last spring, he doesn't even worry about vampires.
As soon as Oz hangs up, Giles starts counting down eleven minutes. And it feels like eleven years, but it'll give him time to brush his teeth and change into some clothes that don't stink.
Seven minutes have gone by, and he's in the loft trying to take off his shirt, when the pounding starts on his door. Loud, frantic.
He stumbles down the stairs, shirt unbuttoned and falling off his shoulders. Too soon for Oz, so this has to be Buffy with some nightmarish development, and as he crosses the living room he wonders what he'll tell her when Oz turns up. And then he's at the door, bracing for the worst.
And it's Oz, panting, hand raised to pound some more. "Oz," Giles starts to say, but before the name's halfway pronounced Oz is inside, clutching him, squeezing his ribs and somehow pressing every bruise, and it's the best thing Giles has felt in days.
Giles stumbles a little and Oz reaches back for the door with one foot. It slams shut and he squeezes Giles harder. He can't breathe, and the spots swarm before his eyes, but Giles is *here* and for a while he can't see anything but the spots because his face is pressed into Giles' chest. He might be talking, but his heart is beating too loudly to hear himself.
When he does look up, Giles is smiling but his eye is swollen purple and all the clues Oz must have felt but didn't process - damp, chilly skin; scrapes; swelling - come together. He drops his arms. Steps back, breath rattling through his mouth. Sweat pours off his face, burns his eyes, but Oz is smiling too.
"Fuck -" he says before the floor tilts sharply and he grabs Giles' hand. "You're alive." He scrubs his face over his shoulder and looks back. "And you need ice."
Bruises feel different against his lips, tender, the skin stretched and softer, and Oz isn't shy any longer. Not with Giles' plea rattling down through him as the understanding slowly blooms that even though he can't heal, he can touch and taste. Simple things, better than bread and water, all he wants to do is relearn Giles, prove to himself decisively that Giles is here, is alive and relatively whole
( ... )
Pain is hot. It branches and crackles like lightning, and Giles imagines brilliant trails of it forking along his skin, wreathing him like white-hot ivy. And pain is warm. Heavy aches sink down from his bruises, ooze deeper and pool around his spine.
Pleasure's warm too, warm as bathwater, warm as blood that pumps, cleanses, heals. Pleasure circulates in him, flows through his heart and lungs and brains, through his limbs, through the smallest capillaries.
Oz's lips are warm, gentle, and his tongue is hotter but even softer. It dips into Giles' navel, inside and outside at once, and warmth flares up into heat. Into desire, surprising and vital. Blood-heat stirs his cock, and then Oz's mouth moves lower, brushes the hair on Giles' belly, and it's all heat, pain and pleasure melting together under Oz's warm tongue.
Giles' cock nudges Oz's chin, and he slides between Giles' legs, somehow confident that he can do this gently but well. Even Giles' thighs are bruised, and Oz touches them, letting the heat seep into his fingertips, as he gazes up at Giles and whispers his lips over the head of his cock, tasting sour heat, searching out more
( ... )
Teeth on his bruises, scraping over swollen blood-filled skin, and Giles recalls all the times Oz has used those teeth, all the teasing nibbles and hard, urgent bites. Dozens, maybe hundreds, and his skin remembers them all, remembers the way pain shades in pleasure, gives it contour and form and brightness. Remembers being consumed, devoured, eaten up. Remembers the feel of Oz's hunger, and the marks it leaves
( ... )
Comments 28
And he's alive. Buffy's alive, and poor Jenny Calendar is alive and herself again, if embarrassed. When he drove her home, she never once managed to look him in the eye.
And Eyghon's really, truly defeated. Reduced to formlessness and nothing, and never coming back.
He hurts everywhere and he's almost giddy as he walks in the door, home and dry. Safe as houses.
Before he even takes off his coat he goes to the telephone. He's been frantic to call Oz, and there's been no time. Although there would have been, if he hadn't fallen asleep at his desk at six o'clock this morning.
The voice that answers is so rough and strange that for a second he doesn't know it. "Oz? It's me. I'm all right. Everything's all right."
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Oz doesn't trust his skin, or his breathing, or his hearing. Maybe this is what an out-of-body experience is like, except he's nowhere, he can't see himself from the outside or anything.
"Where are you?"
Giles is home. And alive. And the world is spinning very, very fast, so Oz stumbles a bit as he stands up and pulls on his sweater. Flips open the locks and he's halfway down the stairs before he wonders if he remembered to hang up. He keeps going, running fast, lungs burning blue and cold, black spots in front of his eyes, and for the length of this particular trip to Giles' house, for the first time since last spring, he doesn't even worry about vampires.
Reply
Seven minutes have gone by, and he's in the loft trying to take off his shirt, when the pounding starts on his door. Loud, frantic.
He stumbles down the stairs, shirt unbuttoned and falling off his shoulders. Too soon for Oz, so this has to be Buffy with some nightmarish development, and as he crosses the living room he wonders what he'll tell her when Oz turns up. And then he's at the door, bracing for the worst.
And it's Oz, panting, hand raised to pound some more. "Oz," Giles starts to say, but before the name's halfway pronounced Oz is inside, clutching him, squeezing his ribs and somehow pressing every bruise, and it's the best thing Giles has felt in days.
Reply
When he does look up, Giles is smiling but his eye is swollen purple and all the clues Oz must have felt but didn't process - damp, chilly skin; scrapes; swelling - come together. He drops his arms. Steps back, breath rattling through his mouth. Sweat pours off his face, burns his eyes, but Oz is smiling too.
"Fuck -" he says before the floor tilts sharply and he grabs Giles' hand. "You're alive." He scrubs his face over his shoulder and looks back. "And you need ice."
Reply
Reply
Pleasure's warm too, warm as bathwater, warm as blood that pumps, cleanses, heals. Pleasure circulates in him, flows through his heart and lungs and brains, through his limbs, through the smallest capillaries.
Oz's lips are warm, gentle, and his tongue is hotter but even softer. It dips into Giles' navel, inside and outside at once, and warmth flares up into heat. Into desire, surprising and vital. Blood-heat stirs his cock, and then Oz's mouth moves lower, brushes the hair on Giles' belly, and it's all heat, pain and pleasure melting together under Oz's warm tongue.
Reply
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