by Abbie


The smell of old books never leaves the library--no matter how often they have pizza or how many times they spill coffee or soda or even clean up demon gunk after a battle--that dry, wispy scent of yellowing paper and dusty words always reasserts itself. Even after Giles and Buffy have been working out and Xander doesn't have to get close to the older man before his musky odor washes over him (not that he'd done that kind of thing on a regular basis, no really) the regular library smells are still present, and eventually, overpower everything else.

So Xander doesn't worry about bringing lotion or air freshener or anything else to cover up the smell, his smell, when it's his turn to watch Oz the marvelous wolf man in the cage. It will fade before morning, before anyone can come in and see, know what he's been doing.

The fear of being caught maybecouldbe a little exciting as well.

Buffy gives him a hug when he comes in. "You sure you're okay to do this?" she asks for what must be the ten-zillionth time. The uncomfortableness vibes between Xander and Oz bounce continually between each other like some crazy pinball caught between flippers. And all because of one little kiss between him and Willow . . .

"Nothing but okay here," he tells her, the grin not faked this time.

Really. Because the Xand-man is the man with a plan.

Buffy gathers her things and leaves, yawning and apologizing about an early morning chem exam that she has to make up. Xander waves her away and pretends to get comfortable with a comic or two. He's used to being alone, on his own, in creepy musty-smelling places. Too used to, actually.

He waits, no sense in rushing this, not until he's certain she's gone, that she won't come back for a forgotten book or hairbrush or whatnot. Certain that it's just him and wolf.

He hadn't meant for this to happen. At least, not the first time. That had been an accident (liar! liar! screams a voice from someplace in his head that he ignores.) Oz wouldn't forgive. Wouldn't forget. Wouldn't talk or scream or do anything but let Xander twist in the wind. And one night while on Oz-wolf duty after too much time alone and too many near-death misses and too much pressure and stress and maybe he really wanted to anyway Xander had let fantasy take over while he'd been reading (okay admittedly Uncle Rory's porn) and Mrs. Palmer and her five sisters had come to play and he started jerking off in front of Oz.

No, no, no. Not Oz. Not Oz. The wolf. Xander had come back down to earth from his orgasm haze to find the snout of the wolf pressed between the bars and sniffing for all it was worth. The wolf had barked once, then sat back, and grinned at Xander.

Fucking grinned.

Xander isn't a dog person. Isn't a cat person either. (And he is not listening to that voice inside that makes smart-ass remarks about hyenas.) But, somehow, he just knows. Knows that the wolf liked it. Knows, in the deep recesses of his hind brain (not animalbrainwouldyoushutupalready) that it wasn't a territory thing or a marking thing but a sharing thing that brought them to a similar level, an even footing, someplace new from which they could begin again. That he wasn't completely alone.

Oz hadn't been any more friendly the next day. But the ice hadn't thickened anymore either, which Xander took as a good sign.

Now, every time Xander jerks off for the wolf, he starts a little sooner. Maybe goes a little longer. And he definitely moves a little closer to the cage, until maybe tonight, maybe the next night, the jism could land close enough that a long tongue might be able to lick it off the floor.

Not that Xander thinks about such things. Or dreams about them. Or sees green eyes and orange hair when he's imagining such a thing. No sirree bob. Not Xander.

So he begins. He no longer starts covered, running his fingers up and down jeans or khakis, pressing a zipper against his cock, waiting until he can't stand it any longer. No, there isn't any shame or secret in what he's doing, so why cover it up? Teasing is better with fingers and flesh, nails and light touches. He pops the button on his pants, undoes the zipper loudly in the quiet, and shucks out of his pants quickly. Shirt next--if nothing else, it makes a nice towel for later on.

Xander doesn't slump in the chair, but kind of lays back in it, lets it support his ass and his upper back while he starts playing with himself. Of course he's already hard--he hadn't been kidding Cordelia. It really doesn't take much more than the sweaty plastic of the chair or constant smell of books mingled with his own sweat or that look from the wolf--the one that says come closer--to get him ready.

The wolf sits right next to the edge of the cage, tongue out, panting in time with Xander. Now, Xander lets his eyes fall to half-mast, wills his sight to grow bleary, so he can pretend that it isn't an animal that watches him, some demon beyond his control, but a boy in a cage (and he isn't really going to think about why that gets him going but it does.)

His dick feels hot in his hands, scalding against his palms, burning, okay, maybe a little with the shame, but also with the hot. The wolf's eyes feast on him, charring the air between them, tongue out and lolling. It wants Xander. Uncomplicated lust obliterating the soul that might also share that body. A need so great that Xander can pretend, for a while, that it's alright.

But he never forgets that it's longing for everything that's Xander--not just for come, but for flesh, bones, blood--and so the bars stay between them.

Xander lets his fingers trail up and down his shaft, gives himself a few quick pulls, then goes back to the soft, teasing touch. What would Oz want him to do next? Oh yeah. Taste. He switches hands--cause no way is he actually going to stop--and brings his hand up to his lips. Puts his tongue out, lets it curl around his fingers. Lets his moan mingle with the wolf's whine.

He keeps his south paw on his dick, the gracelessness adding to his fantasy that there's someone else's hand there, someone who doesn't know him that well. He pushes himself up in his seat and stares unseeing now, hand stripping his cock, harder, rougher, while in his mind's eye green eyes watch and a soft voice speaks more words than ever heard before, asking if this is okay, is this good, is this what Xander wants, is this how to do it.

"Oh yeah baby, yeah," Xander breathes out, his words hitching between pants. Just a few more strokes and he'll be in that happy place where it doesn't matter if it's a monster or a demon or a friend who wants him this time. Where it's just want and him and that's okay, the dark places burning out with hot white light.

Then the wolf yips at him, a soft sound, encouraging.

It pushes Xander over the edge, a partner suddenly there, someone interacting with him, he's not alone, and he comes, harder than he expects, his come splattering the floor between the chair and the cage.

Xander pants for a moment, trying to regain his composure. When he finds he can focus his eyes again, he sees the wolf snake its long tongue out and snag a few drops.

And maybe it's the post-orgasm haze, or maybe it's the long nights of little sleep, or maybe it's just wishful thinking, but he sees the wolf shiver, and for a moment, green eyes do peer out at him.

In the morning, when Giles comes in with coffee and fresh notes for research, Oz stares at him for a bit. Sniffs the air. Licks his lips.






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