Slashed Sonnet Sequence
folder
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
2,721
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
12
Views:
2,721
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
#5 - "Liquid Prisoner" (Oz/Lindsey)
"Liquid Prisoner"
Oz/Lindsey
Longer Ficlet
DownDown in their cellar, Lindsey's awake and waiting for Oz. He looks out and sees an obscenely orange sun rising over the remnants of the last full-moon night of the month. Smiles, relieved once again. It's a little habit he's grown into during their time together.
He's been clanking and clattering around, getting things ready, and misses Oz's transformation from wolf back into man. First he knows of it is when Oz lets out a little groan, half cub-whine, half man-in-pain. Lindsey rushes over, sorry that he missed it. Rather have his hand be the first thing Oz grabs, not frigid cage bars.
Sorry, too, because there's something beautiful about the transformation to-and-fro. It's painful fz, wz, which grieves him, but the liquid flow of muscles beneath skin, then tufted pelt over sinew – such a sight to behold. Oz knows, and doesn't mind; or if he does mind, doesn't say. He's good to Lindsey that way.
Lindsey offers Oz his left hand through the bars while his right works on lifting out the lynch-pins that hold the door shut. Oz grips him with all his might, warm callus to warm callus. They're both musicians, and their fingers are rough in all the right places.
He hauls Oz gently out of the cage and supports him body to body whilst wrapping Tibetan charms back in their accustomed place around a slender wrist. They could keep the wolf penned up for always, but it's best to let it out where it can do no harm. Don't want to chance it bursting free unaware and putting folks in danger.
Oz won't speak of when that happened, but Lindsey knows it must have. At least once.
Careful in his guidance – the boy's still loose and liquid, pretty damned out of it – Lindsey guides them over to the cellar fireplace, banked and dying down. He's pan-roasted coffee beans Turkish-style for them to share. Oz developed a fondness for the concoction on his travels, and Lindsey appreciates the rawness of coffee drunk this way. Thick, saturated with sugar; strain it through your teeth and spit the grounds out. Bitter/sweetness. Nice.
Oz takes his cup with a muted mumble of thanks, a barely-there nod. Lindsey caresses his arm from shoulder to wrist before lifting his own cup. There's love in the touch, but no words. That's all right; they're not especially needed. Silent and contemplative, they drink to surviving another full moon.
Then it's upstairs to the shower. Oz is sweat-slick from a night of pacing and howling in his other body. He smells, but not badly; more of a wild musk and the tang of outdoors, though he's not set one padded paw beyond the cellar door.
He hangs limp and fluid against the counter while Lindsey sets the water to going. Almost hot enough to scald, burn away any impurities under the skin. Steam billows out. He watches for a moment, delighted with the transformation as it condenses on Oz's hair, changing to droplets like morning dew.
Be easy to watch for hours, but Oz is tired, so Lindsey helps him under the spray, then steps inside the stall himself. It gives him pleasure to wash his lover down, and from the little rumbles and moans Oz lets escape he knows that it's equally savory on the other end of soap and cloth.
He licks his lips. Sometimes he denies himself this. Not today. He sinks to his knees – perfect height fois –is – and takes Oz into his mouth, suckling gently, both hands kneading ale hle hips. His taste is wild, tangy – exotic.
Oz's fingers work through his hair. Still mostly quiet, but he knows this feels good. Lord, how he knows.
When it's done he draws back, licking at his lips, and looks up at the deep green eyes, pale face, soaked hair – an odd magenta shade this month. Beautiful.
Liquid streams down over their naked bodies.
Oz smiles, sweet and easy. Lindsey's heart thumps with a pleasant pain. Just onen frn from his lover and it's all worth it all over again, every single full-moon night keeping watch.
He takes the slim hand and presses it against his cheek.
Sometimes Oz asks him if he feels trapped by their relationship, if he minds him being so much younger, if he's a burden to be borne.
Lindsey always answers 'no' without hesitating. If this is any sort of jail, then they're both liquid prisoners, and are freer than most men can ever claim.
And that's good enough for him.
No, matter of fact – it's perfect.
* * *
For those interested...
Sonnet #5
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Oz/Lindsey
Longer Ficlet
DownDown in their cellar, Lindsey's awake and waiting for Oz. He looks out and sees an obscenely orange sun rising over the remnants of the last full-moon night of the month. Smiles, relieved once again. It's a little habit he's grown into during their time together.
He's been clanking and clattering around, getting things ready, and misses Oz's transformation from wolf back into man. First he knows of it is when Oz lets out a little groan, half cub-whine, half man-in-pain. Lindsey rushes over, sorry that he missed it. Rather have his hand be the first thing Oz grabs, not frigid cage bars.
Sorry, too, because there's something beautiful about the transformation to-and-fro. It's painful fz, wz, which grieves him, but the liquid flow of muscles beneath skin, then tufted pelt over sinew – such a sight to behold. Oz knows, and doesn't mind; or if he does mind, doesn't say. He's good to Lindsey that way.
Lindsey offers Oz his left hand through the bars while his right works on lifting out the lynch-pins that hold the door shut. Oz grips him with all his might, warm callus to warm callus. They're both musicians, and their fingers are rough in all the right places.
He hauls Oz gently out of the cage and supports him body to body whilst wrapping Tibetan charms back in their accustomed place around a slender wrist. They could keep the wolf penned up for always, but it's best to let it out where it can do no harm. Don't want to chance it bursting free unaware and putting folks in danger.
Oz won't speak of when that happened, but Lindsey knows it must have. At least once.
Careful in his guidance – the boy's still loose and liquid, pretty damned out of it – Lindsey guides them over to the cellar fireplace, banked and dying down. He's pan-roasted coffee beans Turkish-style for them to share. Oz developed a fondness for the concoction on his travels, and Lindsey appreciates the rawness of coffee drunk this way. Thick, saturated with sugar; strain it through your teeth and spit the grounds out. Bitter/sweetness. Nice.
Oz takes his cup with a muted mumble of thanks, a barely-there nod. Lindsey caresses his arm from shoulder to wrist before lifting his own cup. There's love in the touch, but no words. That's all right; they're not especially needed. Silent and contemplative, they drink to surviving another full moon.
Then it's upstairs to the shower. Oz is sweat-slick from a night of pacing and howling in his other body. He smells, but not badly; more of a wild musk and the tang of outdoors, though he's not set one padded paw beyond the cellar door.
He hangs limp and fluid against the counter while Lindsey sets the water to going. Almost hot enough to scald, burn away any impurities under the skin. Steam billows out. He watches for a moment, delighted with the transformation as it condenses on Oz's hair, changing to droplets like morning dew.
Be easy to watch for hours, but Oz is tired, so Lindsey helps him under the spray, then steps inside the stall himself. It gives him pleasure to wash his lover down, and from the little rumbles and moans Oz lets escape he knows that it's equally savory on the other end of soap and cloth.
He licks his lips. Sometimes he denies himself this. Not today. He sinks to his knees – perfect height fois –is – and takes Oz into his mouth, suckling gently, both hands kneading ale hle hips. His taste is wild, tangy – exotic.
Oz's fingers work through his hair. Still mostly quiet, but he knows this feels good. Lord, how he knows.
When it's done he draws back, licking at his lips, and looks up at the deep green eyes, pale face, soaked hair – an odd magenta shade this month. Beautiful.
Liquid streams down over their naked bodies.
Oz smiles, sweet and easy. Lindsey's heart thumps with a pleasant pain. Just onen frn from his lover and it's all worth it all over again, every single full-moon night keeping watch.
He takes the slim hand and presses it against his cheek.
Sometimes Oz asks him if he feels trapped by their relationship, if he minds him being so much younger, if he's a burden to be borne.
Lindsey always answers 'no' without hesitating. If this is any sort of jail, then they're both liquid prisoners, and are freer than most men can ever claim.
And that's good enough for him.
No, matter of fact – it's perfect.
* * *
For those interested...
Sonnet #5
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.