Fic: Lie With Circumstance (Oz/Tara) PG13
Rather late Tara Ficatho entry, because I had a bitch of a time with this. And, you know, it shows. It really does. *sigh*
Title: Lie With Circumstance
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Tara/Oz
Timeline: S6 Post-Tabula Rasa.
Written for: The scrumptious i_fairfaix, who requested Oz/Tara, in Oz's van but not in Sunnydale, and neither of them pining for Willow. I rather wish it had turned out better, considering the recipient.
Disclaimer: Characters/Concepts of Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, et al.
Lie With Circumstance
By Dana Woods
PG13
When Tara walks into the cafe in San Diego, Oz is looking down, his soft nape exposed and dark, wet earthy-brown hair sticking up in artless peaks. His head lifts, and Tara sees his nostrils flare slightly before his scanning eyes settle on her. There isn't anything threatening about him, like there was the last time she saw him. Just something that might be resignation, but might be a million other emotions altogether. Oz is difficult to read when he's not losing control of himself.
She relaxes and that's understandable. But what's not understandable is what happens next. She should really just leave. There's probably some protocol for how to handle running into your ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend in a coffee shop. Whatever it is, it most likely involves an acknowledging nod and then leave-taking.
But instead, Tara walks to Oz's table. He arches a brow and takes a guitar case off the seat across from him. Tara smiles slightly and sits down. Oz just watches her, brow furrowed and obviously scenting the air around her.
"Hi," she says finally.
Oz's lips quirk a little. "Hi."
***
The discomfort is only on Tara's side of the table, and when she realizes that, she's suddenly comfortable. She does most of the talking; asks him questions and builds a conversation from his infamous monosyllabic answers. It's like stacking blocks, and she sets each one down with care, and the pattern is a little like a set of steps that, to her surprise, isn't leading anywhere at all.
"So." Oz looks at her directly, taps one puce-painted fingernail against the table. "You. San Diego."
Tara lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug, the motion forgotten as Oz shifts in his seat. There are scars on Oz's forearm, trailing up under his short-sleeve and reappearing at his collarbone and neck. They're as pale as his skin, but slightly shinier, and she only noticed them because the light caught them when he moved.
When she finally looks at his face again, Oz blinks blandly at her and asks, "When are you heading back?"
Tara glances at her watch. "A few hours. It was just...I was here for the weekend. I've got a class tomorrow. Art History."
"Ah. Nap time," Oz drawls and Tara gins and almost laughs. His eyes narrow on her a little unnervingly as his nostrils flare once again. "How are...things?"
Tara's not sure if he can't smell Willow and has guessed, or if he can still smell traces of her and is upset. She smiles happily and doesn't say a word.
Oz tilts his head to the side. "Want to see a view?"
***
They go in Oz's van to a lookout point in the hills and stand out in the night air, eyes focused on the urban sprawl below them, the full moon bright above them. Tara finds Oz's quietness soothing. She's so quiet herself that other people tend to fill her silences in with their own words, and it's nice that her silence has its own place. Nice that the outside is quiet and she can hear everything going on inside her head...
Oz turns to her at the same time that she turns to him, and there's a flurry of clumsy, awkward lips against teeth, a tongue misplaced on a cheek, and then a fraught moment when they both pull away and regroup.
And then it's mouth against mouth again, more cautious, but only for the time it takes for them to get used to each other.
Tara's never kissed a man. But forever and a day ago, she kissed boys, and it was all cutting teeth and stale breath and scratchy skin. Oz, though, is velvet tongue and quiet warmth and the taste of fall. He's endurance and Zen and steel and contemplation, and she's feeding from him, gathering it on her tongue and drawing it into herself.
His lips trail down her neck, wet and sweet and his hands are at her breasts, brushing across her exposed cleavage like he's trying to learn the texture of her skin, the placement of pores and follicles, the creases that can't be seen.
And she touches his face, discovers rough stubble juxtaposed with silky skin, follows it behind his neck and then digs her hands into his hair like it really is earth. Lets it fall through her fingers as she arches her neck and invites his mouth lower.
***
Oz is partially collapsed on top of Tara, his forehead pressed against her breastbone, lower body cradled between her open legs. They're naked and sweaty and sticky and twitching. They're gasping for air, and Tara's chest hurts from how hard her heart is beating at the moment. She can feel Oz's beating, too, against her stomach, and it's a dizzying sensation that unsettles her enough that she finally urges him to roll to the side.
He moves carefully, one hand sliding tiredly between them to draw himself out of her so that the condom stays in place, and then he sort of flings himself to the right a little, and momentum finishes the move for him. Tara has to force her legs to close, because she abused her inner thigh muscles to the point that they're a little cramped into place.
She can feel Oz looking at her, so she turns her head to the side and finds his face in the shadows of the van. His skin is bright where its not obscured, and there's a glitter of light at his eyes where the moonlight is reflecting off of them.
He touches her cheek, a small smile on his lips. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Tara says, and her voice is raspy because her throat is dry.
"You seemed...well-versed."
Tara lets her eyes close and inhales deeply. She knows the smell of female musk and masculine salt locked in a closed space, even though she doesn't want to since it was never something she really wanted to do, just something she did. And maybe her mind is still spinning a little, because she's not sure if her thoughts are even making sense.
"Versed, yes, but not well."
Oz makes a noise that might be dissent, but Tara isn't looking for validation by way of rebuttal. She's not looking for anything from the quiet man next to her except the illusion he's already provided.
Tara finally opens her eyes again. "I should start home if I want to get any sleep tonight." She lifts herself into a sitting position and looks down at Oz. "Help me find my clothes?"
Oz cleans himself off with what looks like a t-shirt, and hands Tara her blouse just as she finds her panties. There's a towel under her hips, and she leans back a bit so that she can ready herself for getting clothed again.
A thin, pale hand covers hers as she lifts a bit of terry cloth material. "Lay down."
It should be uncomfortable, spreading herself open with a man cleaning her, but it's not. Oz is gentle and intimate without being creepy. It's soothing and easy, lying there like something pliant, and she makes sure not to let her eyes close, because she'll be lulled to sleep if she does.
He insists on dressing her in that same way. He slides her panties up her legs, nudging her hips up so that he can pull them over her hips, and his thumbs rub tiny circles against her skin before he reaches for her bra.
Tara's never been dressed by a man, so she doesn't have a control subject to judge by, but she thinks it's unusual that Oz, kneeling behind her, reaches around and slips his hands into her bra once it's been fastened, then lifts and adjusts her breasts so that they sit perfectly in the cups. Maybe all men know the little tricks, but Tara can't help but doubt that.
He helps her into her shirt, a small frown of concentration on his face that makes her smile, then she sits up on her knees so that he can put her wraparound skirt back on. The skirt is wrapped and unwrapped twice before Oz is satisfied with the aesthetics and gives a little nod.
Then he runs his hands through her hair to settle it down, tucking it behind her ears, before his hands finally leave her. Only then does he carelessly toss a pair of jeans on, make a grab for a random shirt that's within his reach, and shove his feet into sneakers.
He holds out his hand to her and leads her up front, a hand at her back as she clambers into the passenger seat and leans down to put her sandals on. His own move to the driver's seat is smooth and graceful and Tara's a little envious.
The drive to her rental car is short and quiet, and Oz helps her out of the van even though she doesn't actually need it, and then accompanies her to the little black sedan.
"So." He's looking off into the distance, hands tucked into his pockets, his lips pursed. "This is usually the point where one of us is supposed to say something significant, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Tara says. "Something simple, but meaningful. I think it's supposed to resound."
They're both quiet for a long moment and then Oz inhales through his nose and says, "I'd say tell Willow I said hello, but..."
Tara's smile is somewhat brittle. "Congratulations on getting control of the wolf."
She feels bad immediately, thinking of the scars, and opens her mouth to apologize, but Oz holds up his hand. "I shouldn't have said that."
No, he shouldn’t have. She'll blame the moment, though, because when there's nothing meaningful to say, the wrong words play dress up and try to pretend. "It's okay. I really do need to go. Take care?"
"I will." A pause and a smile that maybe isn't a smile, and then, "Have a safe trip."
***
.End
Title: Lie With Circumstance
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Tara/Oz
Timeline: S6 Post-Tabula Rasa.
Written for: The scrumptious i_fairfaix, who requested Oz/Tara, in Oz's van but not in Sunnydale, and neither of them pining for Willow. I rather wish it had turned out better, considering the recipient.
Disclaimer: Characters/Concepts of Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, et al.
Lie With Circumstance
By Dana Woods
PG13
When Tara walks into the cafe in San Diego, Oz is looking down, his soft nape exposed and dark, wet earthy-brown hair sticking up in artless peaks. His head lifts, and Tara sees his nostrils flare slightly before his scanning eyes settle on her. There isn't anything threatening about him, like there was the last time she saw him. Just something that might be resignation, but might be a million other emotions altogether. Oz is difficult to read when he's not losing control of himself.
She relaxes and that's understandable. But what's not understandable is what happens next. She should really just leave. There's probably some protocol for how to handle running into your ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend in a coffee shop. Whatever it is, it most likely involves an acknowledging nod and then leave-taking.
But instead, Tara walks to Oz's table. He arches a brow and takes a guitar case off the seat across from him. Tara smiles slightly and sits down. Oz just watches her, brow furrowed and obviously scenting the air around her.
"Hi," she says finally.
Oz's lips quirk a little. "Hi."
***
The discomfort is only on Tara's side of the table, and when she realizes that, she's suddenly comfortable. She does most of the talking; asks him questions and builds a conversation from his infamous monosyllabic answers. It's like stacking blocks, and she sets each one down with care, and the pattern is a little like a set of steps that, to her surprise, isn't leading anywhere at all.
"So." Oz looks at her directly, taps one puce-painted fingernail against the table. "You. San Diego."
Tara lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug, the motion forgotten as Oz shifts in his seat. There are scars on Oz's forearm, trailing up under his short-sleeve and reappearing at his collarbone and neck. They're as pale as his skin, but slightly shinier, and she only noticed them because the light caught them when he moved.
When she finally looks at his face again, Oz blinks blandly at her and asks, "When are you heading back?"
Tara glances at her watch. "A few hours. It was just...I was here for the weekend. I've got a class tomorrow. Art History."
"Ah. Nap time," Oz drawls and Tara gins and almost laughs. His eyes narrow on her a little unnervingly as his nostrils flare once again. "How are...things?"
Tara's not sure if he can't smell Willow and has guessed, or if he can still smell traces of her and is upset. She smiles happily and doesn't say a word.
Oz tilts his head to the side. "Want to see a view?"
***
They go in Oz's van to a lookout point in the hills and stand out in the night air, eyes focused on the urban sprawl below them, the full moon bright above them. Tara finds Oz's quietness soothing. She's so quiet herself that other people tend to fill her silences in with their own words, and it's nice that her silence has its own place. Nice that the outside is quiet and she can hear everything going on inside her head...
Oz turns to her at the same time that she turns to him, and there's a flurry of clumsy, awkward lips against teeth, a tongue misplaced on a cheek, and then a fraught moment when they both pull away and regroup.
And then it's mouth against mouth again, more cautious, but only for the time it takes for them to get used to each other.
Tara's never kissed a man. But forever and a day ago, she kissed boys, and it was all cutting teeth and stale breath and scratchy skin. Oz, though, is velvet tongue and quiet warmth and the taste of fall. He's endurance and Zen and steel and contemplation, and she's feeding from him, gathering it on her tongue and drawing it into herself.
His lips trail down her neck, wet and sweet and his hands are at her breasts, brushing across her exposed cleavage like he's trying to learn the texture of her skin, the placement of pores and follicles, the creases that can't be seen.
And she touches his face, discovers rough stubble juxtaposed with silky skin, follows it behind his neck and then digs her hands into his hair like it really is earth. Lets it fall through her fingers as she arches her neck and invites his mouth lower.
***
Oz is partially collapsed on top of Tara, his forehead pressed against her breastbone, lower body cradled between her open legs. They're naked and sweaty and sticky and twitching. They're gasping for air, and Tara's chest hurts from how hard her heart is beating at the moment. She can feel Oz's beating, too, against her stomach, and it's a dizzying sensation that unsettles her enough that she finally urges him to roll to the side.
He moves carefully, one hand sliding tiredly between them to draw himself out of her so that the condom stays in place, and then he sort of flings himself to the right a little, and momentum finishes the move for him. Tara has to force her legs to close, because she abused her inner thigh muscles to the point that they're a little cramped into place.
She can feel Oz looking at her, so she turns her head to the side and finds his face in the shadows of the van. His skin is bright where its not obscured, and there's a glitter of light at his eyes where the moonlight is reflecting off of them.
He touches her cheek, a small smile on his lips. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Tara says, and her voice is raspy because her throat is dry.
"You seemed...well-versed."
Tara lets her eyes close and inhales deeply. She knows the smell of female musk and masculine salt locked in a closed space, even though she doesn't want to since it was never something she really wanted to do, just something she did. And maybe her mind is still spinning a little, because she's not sure if her thoughts are even making sense.
"Versed, yes, but not well."
Oz makes a noise that might be dissent, but Tara isn't looking for validation by way of rebuttal. She's not looking for anything from the quiet man next to her except the illusion he's already provided.
Tara finally opens her eyes again. "I should start home if I want to get any sleep tonight." She lifts herself into a sitting position and looks down at Oz. "Help me find my clothes?"
Oz cleans himself off with what looks like a t-shirt, and hands Tara her blouse just as she finds her panties. There's a towel under her hips, and she leans back a bit so that she can ready herself for getting clothed again.
A thin, pale hand covers hers as she lifts a bit of terry cloth material. "Lay down."
It should be uncomfortable, spreading herself open with a man cleaning her, but it's not. Oz is gentle and intimate without being creepy. It's soothing and easy, lying there like something pliant, and she makes sure not to let her eyes close, because she'll be lulled to sleep if she does.
He insists on dressing her in that same way. He slides her panties up her legs, nudging her hips up so that he can pull them over her hips, and his thumbs rub tiny circles against her skin before he reaches for her bra.
Tara's never been dressed by a man, so she doesn't have a control subject to judge by, but she thinks it's unusual that Oz, kneeling behind her, reaches around and slips his hands into her bra once it's been fastened, then lifts and adjusts her breasts so that they sit perfectly in the cups. Maybe all men know the little tricks, but Tara can't help but doubt that.
He helps her into her shirt, a small frown of concentration on his face that makes her smile, then she sits up on her knees so that he can put her wraparound skirt back on. The skirt is wrapped and unwrapped twice before Oz is satisfied with the aesthetics and gives a little nod.
Then he runs his hands through her hair to settle it down, tucking it behind her ears, before his hands finally leave her. Only then does he carelessly toss a pair of jeans on, make a grab for a random shirt that's within his reach, and shove his feet into sneakers.
He holds out his hand to her and leads her up front, a hand at her back as she clambers into the passenger seat and leans down to put her sandals on. His own move to the driver's seat is smooth and graceful and Tara's a little envious.
The drive to her rental car is short and quiet, and Oz helps her out of the van even though she doesn't actually need it, and then accompanies her to the little black sedan.
"So." He's looking off into the distance, hands tucked into his pockets, his lips pursed. "This is usually the point where one of us is supposed to say something significant, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Tara says. "Something simple, but meaningful. I think it's supposed to resound."
They're both quiet for a long moment and then Oz inhales through his nose and says, "I'd say tell Willow I said hello, but..."
Tara's smile is somewhat brittle. "Congratulations on getting control of the wolf."
She feels bad immediately, thinking of the scars, and opens her mouth to apologize, but Oz holds up his hand. "I shouldn't have said that."
No, he shouldn’t have. She'll blame the moment, though, because when there's nothing meaningful to say, the wrong words play dress up and try to pretend. "It's okay. I really do need to go. Take care?"
"I will." A pause and a smile that maybe isn't a smile, and then, "Have a safe trip."
***
.End