by Meg

Oz had never really considered Latin sexy, to be honest, he had never really considered Latin at all, beyond the way he associated it vaguely with the smell of sage and Willow's hands and neck, or the way he had once carried around a book of ancient mythology completely written in Latin and picked out random words that he knew like carpe diem and had smirked over the literal saying of semper ubi sub ubi, always wear underwear; but now he was definitely considering Latin sexy and had also found that perhaps semper ubi sub ubi was not always the best plan, especially when there was that thrusting motion and the whispered Latin behind and in his ear that seemed to make stars explode behind his eyes and god, he couldn't think when Giles got like this. Yes, Latin and the magic of the words that spilled across his tongue and the way he trailed his fingers across Oz's chest just so. There was a lot to be said for Latin.

There was also a lot to be said for the shivers that were running through him that seemed to go on forever like the run-on sentences he kept arranging in his head, that perhaps weren't as articulate as he cared to be, but in the end truly got his point across, when he thought about the way that Giles buried his face in his neck when he was close or how those hands seemed to be everywhere and Oz felt so young and inexperienced yet older and mature and sophisticated because, god, he was fucking the school librarian and it was the best sex of his life. Of course, Giles wasn't really a school librarian anymore, since there was no school anymore either, but had created a taboo well enough, one that Oz had to break by practically crawling into his lap and molesting him; which, on second thought, apparently Giles wouldn't have minded judging by his enthusiasm now. Not that Oz was complaining.

Not that Oz thought he would ever be able to walk again, the way that Giles was breaking him and then slowly and lovingly putting him back together, perhaps like one of those Russian dolls that hid a layer underneath and a layer beneath that one, and so on and so on. There were layers... places... Oz had never thought of, that Giles was breaking and reforming and breaking all over again.

And Giles's eyes were boring into him yet not really focused, that glazed look that Devon had perfected so well that Oz had never expected to see in the green-hazel depths of Giles's eyes, but then again they weren't really glazed just eager and wanting and practically black with need and now Oz swore he must be coming unhinged because nothing, nothing could ever feel this good.

Not even the first time when they did this and Oz wasn't being broken but practically ripped in half and he had growled, Jesus, like Giles was some dog invading his territory when the thrusts had been so slow and the contact so gentle and he hadn't meant to but when the ripping turned to something else and Giles had seen the change in him and knew that it was ok, and god, it had been amazing.

Who knew the school librarian could fuck like a god? Like a god amongst the pantheon of Jagger and Bowie and Jim motherfucking Morrison.

Well, Buffy maybe although Giles had denied it no matter how Oz had phrased the question, hidden in discussions of the way Giles arranged his vinyl collection, not by artist or album but by year and autobiography, anyway not that it was important to Oz because he had known sex, love, heartache before in Devon and Willow and so had Giles in Jenny and god knows how many others that were before his time. Not that it mattered to be dwelling on such thoughts when there was this heat inside him and he had more important things to focus on, namely first biting on Giles's ear and sloping down to his jaw where the hair had just started to grow in again and felt rough against his already slightly swollen lips, and hell, Oz was inclined to admit focusing on the task at hand could be just as sexy as Latin.

The first shudders of orgasm arrived then, and he knew that it would be just as good as the first, the second, the thirty-ninth time Giles had fucked him, but it wasn't fucking it was something more that had just as much something as Giles had to him, but Oz couldn't say love yet, couldn't see beyond the way Giles's hair was currently standing in every direction, or the way the sweat clung to the fine hairs on his chest and the way Oz could lean in and smell everything that made Giles Giles; couldn't hear beyond the fragments of Latin that Giles panted between moans and the whispered Daniel or when he had forgotten himself, Oz.

Because maybe this was more than love.

Maybe, this was just fitting.