Despite distance and contrasting, chaotically jarring cosmologies, the monks and Lilin would agree about one thing at least: You go elsewhere when you dream. You break apart, disperse through different spaces, and you are yourself more than at any other time. It is your soul that dreams, not your earthly personality; dreams are your soul's experience
( ... )
Giles has dreamed about Oz a hundred times, two hundred, more. Some dreams are pleasure, joy, skin and mouth and murmurs, heat and cries and love. Some are just love--Giles has dreamed of driving along the California coast with Oz, listening to mix tapes and looking at the scenery. Some are brutal. Oz has killed him, in his dreams; once or twice, he's killed Oz. He's seen Oz murdered for his wallet or the wolf's pelt, and tortured for the obscure reasons of military men. He's seen Oz kill with fangs and claws, and he's seen Oz fucking Willow, laughing with her, telling her he loves her
( ... )
Even this close, even kissing, Oz can tell that Giles is smiling. His eyes are crinkled up, his brows lifting in time with the tidal push-pull of their bodies and their mouths. He used to see Giles's smile all the time. Quick as light over his face when Oz arrived for the evening, permanent and wide while they watched Life of Brian, slow and sure after they'd had sex, when neither could really talk, and a thousand other variations. He must have seen it later, after, directed toward Buffy or Willow, but Oz can't remember; anyway, it would have been different then. Giles's smile was more secret than anything, sending a cascade of warm shivers down Oz's chest whenever he saw it. He *knows* he didn't feel that again until last night. Until now
( ... )
The kiss keeps getting deeper. They're settling into it like they settled into bed last night, shifting and accommodating, easing around one another until they fit, until every weary limb could rest. The tiny nibbles of Oz's teeth, delicate as minnows, make Giles smile, and then Oz's tongue glides wet and slippery against his, and he groans a little, softly. Everything is soft, quiet, light touches and faint sounds, secrets not meant to be overheard. Giles pushes his hand back through Oz's hair, down to his neck, rubs the knobs of his spine and kisses deeper still, and he wishes he could fall into this kiss and never come out again.
Giles pulls Oz tight to his shoulder, kisses the side of his mouth and slides the kiss up to his ear. "So beautiful," he whispers. "So beautiful when you come, and you taste so good. Did I make you feel good?" Oz is loose-limbed and slack against him, his breath still coming in rough gasps, and that's answer enough
( ... )
Oz cups one hand around the back of Giles's neck, sliding the heel of the other up and down the bump his erection makes under his trousers. "Got you," he says, more roughly than he meant, words and breath still catching and snagging in his throat, and digs his nails into the hollow at the bottom of Giles's scalp. "Got you, don't worry -" Salt and tides and old unwashed blankets: It smells more like the Dingoes boardinghouse in here than anything he knew with Giles, unless it was camping over the summer, the thick heavy heat in the back of the van and the sleeping bags ripe with sweat. Pleasure and exhilaration are still shaking through Oz, plucking at his skin and twanging over his muscles, but when he kisses Giles, tastes himself and the sharp, flat need on Giles's tongue, he calms a little, emerges from foggy confusion and memory and pulls Giles closer
( ... )
Such gentle words, soft as featherbeds and flannel sheets, and Oz's voice is low and soothing. Giles remembers talking to Oz like this in the early days, easing his shy fears, coaxing him into readiness and trust. Whispered words with kisses in between, Giles' hands finding the places that made Oz sigh and tremble and tip his head back into the pillows
( ... )
Thoughts like clouds, shifting transparently, washing over Giles's face, deepening the wrinkles, then smoothing him out until he looked Oz's age: That's what memory *looks* like as it happens. Mobile and rapid. But Giles's eyes are steady. Brave. When Oz inhales, something shifts and opens inside his chest
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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.
Comments 47
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
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 ( ... )
Reply
Leave a comment