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Oscar is sixteen when Oz shows up in his head and he proceeds to not touch himself for two years.
It’s a busy two years, okay, they are fighting a war, and it’s weird--having someone centuries old living in his brain--he just can’t.
This is a pretty difficult thing to manage, what with puberty, and Oscar hanging out with what must be the most stupidly attractive group of people Ozpin could have found and gathered, but he does.
Come on, Ruby is amazing, especially with her scythe, and the first time he saw Yang punch someone across the room, Oscar had to take several cold baths. Weiss is like a princess from all those fairytales that Oscar is too old for--but his mom told him anyway up until the day he left--and Blake’s cat ears are the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He may or may not have fantasized very briefly about touching them. Are they sensi--nope, not going there. Nora bounces, she bounces all the time, because she has too much energy to spare even with the brutal pace of war, and Oscar sometimes can’t help but notice.
And, oh colors, Jaune fills out his armor so well, and he handles a sword like he was born with it. Ren is pretty, and calm, and Oscar can’t help but notice his arms even if Ren doesn’t really understand why Oscar walked into a wall that one time he saw him without a shirt no matter how many times Nora explains attraction to him.
(The one time Oz accidentally leaked thoughts about Qrow and what they used to do together will never be spoken of again. It took weeks for Oscar to be able to meet the man’s eyes again, weeks and so many cold showers and baths. Oscar got a cold. Oz was miserable. [Serves the old perv right, letting a seventeen year old overhear that in his own brain.])
But Oscar is eighteen now, almost nineteen, the war is over, and they are not nearly so mind-numbingly busy here, six months after the final battle. And Oz is still there.
‘I would leave if I could.’ He might be lost a little too deeply in his thoughts if Oz can surprise him like that even being in the same head as him.
‘Don’t do that, Oz!’ It’s weird, screaming in his own thoughts, but Oscar has had to get used to it or risk looking even crazier than sharing body space with a centuries old wizard already makes him look.
Sun walks by, shirt open and smiling. His skin is tan and Oscar kind of wants to lick it. Oz makes a noise in his brain--something between disapproval and something Oscar can’t identify--and hypocrite. As if Oscar can’t feel it when Oz has control and the old man follows Qrow, or Glynda, or General Ironwood with their eyes.
He’s tired of it, tired of the cold showers, and tired of not being able to react like a normal person. Oz, whether he stays for the rest of Oscar’s life or not, has taken enough from him. The war is over, this is his second chance.
His rooms aren’t far, and Oz is a heavy, silent presence in his head, disapproval and maybe something like fear radiating through Oscar, except it only adds an edge to Oscar’s arousal.
It feels dirty, shameful almost, but he’s spent the past two years blowing past the borders of polite society and the limits of what normal people are supposed to do, that this just feels at once vindicating and that much hotter.
Oscar thinks of tan skin, princess hair, strong hands, whip-cord lean arms, and warm water rushes across his back as he takes his dick in hand. He’s clumsy, it has been a long time, and he’s hard in seconds.
Ozpin knows what’s happening, has a window into Oscar’s every thought and desire, and his presence shrinks into the back of Oscar’s brain, except, no it doesn’t, the wizard’s attention is still there. (There have been times when Oz retreats into equations or lists of spells, a silent educational litany in the back of his brain if Oz really doesn’t want to pay attention to what Oscar is doing. That is not happening now, and Oscar idly wonders if it counts as voyeurism if the other person is, well, in you.)
He can feel his arousal start to echo, even though Oz is still trying to pull away as much as possible--to give him privacy he maybe doesn’t want? Oscar has no idea--and somehow that just makes it hotter.
Clumsy though his strokes may be--does this count as sex? There are two people involved--Oscar still knows how to make himself come, and it’s to thoughts of beautiful people that he’s been surrounded by every day of his life since he’s left the farm.
It’s quicker than he would have thought, except, no Oscar’s been denying himself for two years so even though it’s quick, it’s also intense. He barely had time to properly fantasize, but he feels languid, loose in a way he hasn’t in years. Even the warm water is bordering on too much for his over-sensitive skin.
But the echo of desire is still there--Ozpin’s desire--and apparently it’s enough to make him pant. He likes the idea that Oz was there, that Oz was watching, and maybe it’s a little weird and a lot crazy, but it’s not just his body, it hasn’t been for more than two years. It’s theirs.
‘Maybe next time you’ll like it better?’ Oscar thinks as clearly as he can. Maybe next time he’ll be the one watching as Ozpin jerks off. Colors, that would be strange, that would be so hot, and his stomach pulls tight with desire and arousal, his dick gives an interested twitch.
Oz doesn’t respond for a long moment, long enough that Oscar begins to feel small, shy, and scared that he’s managed to push away one of the only people he thought he could never push away. He may hate it sometimes, but Oz is still always there for him.
‘My, I thought you were shy.’ He feels Oz’s amusement like it’s his own, even though its tinged with something like embarrassment. Maybe the embarrassment is his. The relief feels like both of them though. ‘And, ah, perhaps. If you wish.’ It takes a moment for Oscar to realize that Oz is talking about next time too.
Colors, yes.