by Tabaqui


                Sometimes, being a werewolf was not good.   Oh, the whole 'morph into scary, hairy, blood-crazed monster' thing was bad (kinda), but it was the other stuff that really got to him.   He could hear things that sometimes he'd just rather not hear.   Like the arguments that took place in the other dorm rooms.   Or the scary little conversations Giles and Buffy had sometimes.   Or, let's face it, half of what went on in the streets and shops and houses of the town.   He could hear it as he passed by, and it was not always pleasant.

And scents.   He could smell way too much sometimes.    Like overdue dumpsters and aggressively clean smelling household products.   And people.   Buffy wore something....perfumy.   He didn't have any other way to describe it.   It made his head ache.   Willow, thankfully, smelled mostly of herbs and vanilla and Tara, and Tara smelled mostly the same, a sort of weird mirror thing that made him wonder; if he closed his eyes would he be able to tell them apart at all?   Giles smelled like his books, and very occasionally like hash.   Xander smelled like chocolate and woodchips and Anya, and Anya smelled like money and White Diamonds, which was the perfume Oz's mom wore and made him feel a little squishy and a little weird, at the same time.

Spike.... well...

                He hadn't realized before but Oz could smell him.   Could smell the body, of course - tobacco and leather and whiskey and blood.   But, he finally realized, he could smell the demon, too.   He closed his eyes and sniffed deeply, and it came wafting to him.   Burnt sugar.   Hint of sulfur.   Something like rain - lighting?   Ozone, then. Blood, of course.   And sex.   A heady-sweet musk.   It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise, crawly-itchy, and everything go tight and hot down in his belly.   It was as delicious as it was disturbing, and once he'd noticed it was there, he smelled it all the time.   It made it so hard to just sit there in theMagic Box, without leaning in and burying his face in Spike's neck - or his crotch.   He caught himself zoning out on it a few times during the endless research sessions.    His wolf wanted to roll in it.  

He shifted a little in his chair and the insistent press and heat in his groin shocked him back into focus - into the gaze of bruise-blue eyes, and smoke wreathing like a halo around burned-white hair.   He stood abruptly, groping for his backpack, fuzzily grateful for the too-large flannel, the oversize thermal shirt.   He began to slide out from between table and chair, not really thinking to say anything, his mind already spiraling back into that scent when a small throat-clearing noise made him jump.   The Watcher raised an eyebrow at him, and he hesitated.

               "I've got - things.   I'll be back tomorrow," he said, shuffling free of cheap laminate and machine-turned wood, dark with old sweat.   A nod, a half-smile, and he was let go.   Oz turned, stumbling a little, hoisting his pack up onto his shoulder and heading away - getting out, before.   Something.

                He could feel that lapis gaze tracking him all the way to the door.


                He actually didn't come back the next day.    He did have some things - band-things, school-things - and he let it take him over, keeping his mind off.   That scent.   How it would be up close, how it would translate to taste on the back of his tongue.   How it would get into his hair and his clothes so he could carry it with him, later.   It made his hands tremble, made him start up in the night achingly hard, hands curled tight into the sheets, head tossed back on the pillow and throat arching up, offered to the alpha, to the demon... he didn't even know.   He felt a little like he used to the day of the full moon.   An all-over ache, all-over itch, as if his bones and skin were warring with each other.   The burn in his belly that made him pant.   Fight or flight.   Something coming


                The Dingoes had a gig Friday night at the Bronze, same old stuff.   Oz let the music take him over, playing with his eyes half-shut, leaning against Devon or leaning into the mic, feeling languorous somehow even when the volume and the tempo rattled his teeth and made his heart skip and skip.

                When it was over he ducked the usual press in the dank dressing room.   Devon watched him work his way out, his eyes kohled and shadowed like an Egyptian princess, smirking at him.    Oz swung his instrument case a little and shut the door and walked out to his van, head bent, eyes unseeing.   And it hit him.   That scent.   Carmel-thick sweet-hot, smoky and rich as cream.    Realized that he'd been scenting it all night - just a little, just at the edges of things.   While they set up, while they played.   He'd been swimming in it.   He was instantly, almost painfully, aroused.   Oz slid his bass into the van, shut the door and made his way around the side to the driver's door.    Spike was...somewhere.   Watching him.    He swung the door open and climbed up.   Slammed the door.   And Spike slid in on the passenger side; creak of leather, halo of smoke, tang of blood and...   Burnt sugar.   Rain.   Sex.   Oz shivered and rested for a moment on the steering wheel, forearms braced, head down.   Then he fumbled his keys out of his shirt-pocket, his musician's fingers suddenly clumsy, scrabbling for a moment until he could push home, turn.   The engine juddered to life, familiar and comforting, a second heart-beat.


                He drove, almost aimless, his body taut and tingling.   The slim, cool hand that ghosted down his arm and settled on his thigh made him jump.   Then strong fingers began to knead the muscle there and he abruptly pulled over into an empty lot.   Cracked asphalt, weeds, and the back of an all-night laundromat.   Water and soap and fabric-softener smell wafting in.   Homey.   He breathed it in - rejected it, and rolled his window shut.   The hand on his thigh hadn't stopped moving and now it crept higher, lazy and collected, and sank into the crease between thigh and groin.   Brushing ever so lightly at the straining flesh beneath denim and zipper.

                Oz breathed, breathed in the scent of the demon and his own arousal, his eyes closed and his hands gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled.   His head sank lower and lower as the hand stroked him through his jeans; rubbing and tugging, kneading and clawing, but not enough, not enough.   Spike's other hand was there on the back of his neck then, impossibly cool fingers sliding up through his hair and down again, rubbing the soft skin behind his ears as if he were a dog.   He pushed back into it, lifting his head.   And suddenly the scent that had been gradually filling up the van was there, just there, around him like a blanket.

                Lips touched his, soft and light.   He breathed in, breathed out, the scent going through him.   It made his mouth water, made his throat work in a breathless whine.   He swallowed and moved, and felt the tip of a cool, cool tongue tracing his lips.    

                And it wasn't enough.    The scent was like a hook, seating itself deep into his belly, at the root of his cock, and pulling.   He leaned in, opening his mouth, his tongue going out to taste, to draw that scent in and have it another way.  

                The hand at the back of his head encouraged him - the one between his legs slid up, under his sweat-damp t-shirt and up his ribs, curling around his back, tugging him close.   Spike's tongue licked into his mouth, lazy glide, whiskey and smoke and copper.   It ran over his teeth, dipped under his tongue, probing at the web of flesh there.   Oz sighed into Spike's mouth, doing his own exploring.   Testing the tip of a human canine and tilting his head over a little, trying to get closer, trying to get more.


                Then Spike was pulling away.     For a moment, helplessly, Oz followed him, and then he too pulled back.   His breath was thick in his throat.  

               "Something soft in the back?" Spike asked, in his voice that was a silken rasp.    Oz shuddered, thinking of road trips and the desert and long, slow fucks with Devon, both of them too stoned to do much more than undulate slowly to whatever music was fading in on the radio.

               "Y-yeah."  The wolf's eyes watched as Spike shed the duster, tugged off boots and then eeled over the console and into the back of the van.   Oz heard his air-mattress sigh a little under Spike's weight.  

               "You coming, pet?"

               "I..."  Oz scrabbled at the steering column and turned the engine off, then toed off his sneakers.   In the abrupt silence he could hear his own breath, hurried and needy, and he slid off the seat and into the back, going clumsily to his knees, one hand on the tangle of faded quilts, one on Spike's shoulder, too hard.

               "Oh, I - sorry -"

               "C'mere," Spike whispered, hands at Oz's shoulders, pulling him down.   Oz shifted, stretching out, lowering himself, and felt the hard, lean body like a shock all along his own.   Spike put one leg up over Oz's hip, slid his hands under Oz's t-shirt and his mouth was back, slick and tanged with blood, sealing over his, letting Oz go deep as he could, this time, deep as he wanted to.   Oz let one hand creep up to Spike's neck, to curl loosely around his throat, his thumb digging in just under the jaw, his fingers in the fine hairs up the back, scratching lightly.   His other hand he brought down between them and found the edge of Spike's own shirt and began to tug it up, rucking it up over his pecs and finding Spike's nipple with his fingertips.   He could hear, so faintly, the calluses from his bass-playing rasp over the satiny flesh, and it hardened between his fingers.   He pinched a little, and Spike rocked against him, his heel hard in the back of Oz's thigh, his own hands crossing over Oz's shoulder blades and pulling him closer.    And that felt good, to be pulled in like that, molded to the sharp planes of the vampire's chest and stomach.   His hand slipped down again, abandoning Spike's nipple, sliding back under the curve of his ass and doing some pulling, himself, letting the wolf growl a little into the bitter-sweet cave of the vampire's mouth, letting the claws prickle, just a little.  


An answering growl came back, almost sub-sonic, vibrating into his bones, and then Spike's hands were scrabbling at Oz's shirt, parting it in one sudden wrench and tossing the ragged bits aside, arching up so Oz could push and haul at Spike's shirt and get it off.   Flesh then, sweat-slick and hot on one side, cool and satin on the other.   Oz dipped his head and licked at the hollow of Spike's throat, the wells of his collar bones, the silky-soft hair under his arm.   Taking in the taste again and again, rolling it over his tongue, sucking at hardened nipples and biting at the ripple of muscle along Spike's ribcage, slowly sliding down that lean and heady body.     Oh, he tasted...tasted like sin, tasted like redemption.    The hardness of the vampire's arousal pressed into Oz's breastbone and he wriggled a little, teasing friction, and smiled to himself when Spike took in a sharp, shaky breath.   Oz trailed his tongue from ribs to the top curve of Spike's hip, and then in, along the line of his jeans, to the delectably soft bit of skin just under his navel.    He rested his lips there for a moment, feeling Spike's hips rise and undulate in tiny circles, and then he bit down, gently, gently.   Not gonna break the skin, just...   make him feel it.

                Spike made an explosive noise - a strangled   'oh!' - and came halfway up off the mattress.

               "F-fuck, wolfling, do that again," he whispered, and Oz chuckled, pushing his chin down into denim, rubbing like a cat.   Spike leaned back on his elbows and started that little undulation again, and Oz felt his own breath catch.   He pushed himself to his knees and traced his fingers over Spike's chest and ribs - held onto his hips for a moment and rubbed his thumbs in the hollows just under his hipbones.   Then he slipped his fingertips under the edge of the jeans, and slowly brought his hands together, going for the buttons.   One finger touched something - cool, hard, impossibly slick.   The tip of Spike's cock.   He felt the hook, that hook of scent and now of scent and texture, twist leisurely in his groin, making his own hips twitch mindlessly forward.   He looked up, into the smoldering gaze of the vampire.   How can blue be so *hot*?   he wondered, then he brought his hand up to his mouth and deliberately licked his finger.   The taste was the scent, only a hundred times more.   It was Spike, it was the demon, it was sex and blood and fuck...  


Spike was breathing in little gasps, watching him, and Oz suddenly wanted more of it, more of that scent and more of that taste and his hands shook a little as he undid the buttons of Spike's jeans and began to work them down slim hips and tight, hard thighs.   Spike bent his legs and wiggled his feet and Oz tossed the jeans to the side - fumbled for a minute and then had his own off, only wanting flesh now. Spike started to lower his legs and Oz caught them, pushing them open and up a little, scooting himself back so that he lay between the vampire's braced feet.   Oz slid his hands up under Spike's thighs and laced his fingers across Spike's belly.   Then he lowered his head to that soft little spot and bit it again.   Spike writhed and Oz licked that spot - bit again and felt the muscles of Spike's belly jump under his hands - felt Spike's thighs trembling against his shoulders.   He pushed his face down into the surprisingly silky, surprisingly dark hair at Spike's groin and breathed, rubbing his cheek along the rigid shaft of Spike's cock, taking that scent deep into his lungs.    Then he turned his face and began to taste, running his tongue up the cool, hard flesh, loving the satin texture, the soft curves.   He felt the wolf coming out, a little - the taste got stronger, the scent more intense and practically visible, like a smoke surrounding him.   He ran his tongue to the tip of Spike's cock and finally, finally, really tasted, sucking the pearls of fluid there into his mouth, and it was...     Oh, it was so... He growled again, sucking and sucking, wanting more, the taste like blood, like prey, savory and cool and...   He felt his own cock jumping, somehow getting harder, his own hips digging into the mattress, little whines of pleasure coming out of his throat as he lifted up the tiniest bit and moved his head and took Spike deep into his mouth.   Spike's hips came up hard, and he shifted his hands and pinned the twitching hips down, letting the claws come out and prickle a little, breathing deeply of the thicker waves of scent coming up to him, working his tongue along the silken skin and up around the head and letting his teeth just scrape, just press in.   Spike was murmuring something, his voice low and rasping, his own growl rumbling through his body, his hands clenched into his own thighs so hard that Oz could smell blood now too.


Oz sucked harder, going deeper, knowing that every time the wolf growled the vibration went straight through to Spike's cock, so he kept doing it, listening to the sounds Spike was making.   He had to look, so he twisted his head just a little and lifted his eyes.   The inside of the van was lit only with the ambient light from the parking lot - sodium white light distilled by distance and dust.   It made the edges of things fuzzy and glowy, and it made the vampire's face and upper body a marble-white statue, icon of pleasure.   Spike's bleached hair glowed faintly, to the wolf's eyes, and his black eyebrows were startling and hawkish.   His eyes were closed, his neck arched and taut, the strain on his shoulders deepening the wells of his collarbones. The light made harsh shadows under the blades of his cheekbones, and if anyone ever looked like an angel - fallen, debauched, utterly desirable - it was Spike at this moment.   He caught his lower lip in his teeth and bit down, and Oz saw the blood well there.    He pulled up and away and pounced up Spike's body, his tongue going out to taste.   The blood was cool, and Oz felt something like electricity tingle over his lips and tongue as he lapped at it.


                Spike's arms wrapped around Oz and pulled him in tight, his mouth hungry and devouring.   He wrapped his legs around Oz and flipped them over and then his cock was grinding along Oz's own, his teeth were scraping and nipping down Oz's throat, he was panting and gasping and Oz wanted it to be harder, deeper, more.   He reached over his head, scrabbling with one hand at the box shoved under the driver's seat, jerking it out and half-spilling it before his fingers found the slick tube of gel he was looking for.   He pulled his legs up, walking his heels up Spike's thighs and back, trying to unscrew the cap with one hand while the other rubbed and squeezed over their cocks, holding them together, smearing pre-come back and forth between them, the delicious slip and glide of it making them both moan.

               "Spike..." he hissed, holding up the tube, and Spike took it, going up to his knees, his belly heaving and his hips just moving, twisting.

               "Right, wolfling, that's what you want?"

               "Oh yeah...." Oz whispered, and raised himself a little, heels braced on Spike's thighs.   He took a deep breath as Spike's cool, slippery fingers sank between his thighs and began to stroke him - lost the breath in a long, ululating cry as one pressed in, twisting.   Another, and a third, stroking, pushing, scissoring, and Oz couldn't wait anymore, couldn't stand it.   He tucked his knees up to his chest and rolled over, hands and knees, presenting himself to the vampire.   The wolf wanted it like this: the way it should be, like pack, the alpha taking and himself...   giving.  

                Spike gave a breathy moan, and then Oz felt him there, blunt and chill, larger then the fingers, hard as iron.   Spike's hands were on Oz's hips, holding tight enough to bruise as he leaned forward and pushed, pushed...breached the muscle and was in, one smooth glide that sent a ripple of pin-pricks up Oz's back.   He dropped his chest to the mattress, pushing up and back, wanting as much as there was to take, and Spike began to thrust, slow, his lips and teeth worrying at Oz's shoulder blades and spine.   Oz moved helplessly under him, hips rising and rocking, his breath panting and sharp in this throat.   The wolf wanted it harder - wanted to come out and shred with his claws and howl as he was plundered and taken.   Oz   struggled against it, but couldn't help the words that tumbled breathlessly from his lips.

               "Spike, Sssspike, harder, please, take me, come on....can't h-hurt me, I...fuck... Spike, please..."

               "Oh, yes, what you want..."  Spike rasped, and he began to slam himself forward and back, thrusting hard and harder, his hands frantic and clawing along Oz's ribs and shoulders, pulling Oz back as he pounded forward, mindless growls and snarls coming out of him.  

               "Oh, that's....ooooh ..."    And this was right, this was almost pack, this was good, and Oz did howl, arching his throat, claws digging into the quilts and shredding.   Spike hooked one arm around his chest and yanked him upright, settling him down viciously onto his cock and somehow increasing the pace, frenzied.   His other hand came around and seized Oz's cock, stroking hard and fast, slippery with gel and the pre-come that trailed there in glassine strands.   Oz sank his fingers into Spike's hips, getting a hiss out of the vampire as his claws sank in.    He felt fangs slide like needles into the taut column of his throat and ecstasy exploded through him, make his howl disintegrate into ragged, snarling gasps as he felt his ass and belly and balls clench into one hot, tight knot of fire and his body spasm in the bone-cracking grip of the vampire.   Spike lifted his mouth away from Oz's neck and howled as well, his thrusts so hard and fast for one long moment that Oz felt as if he were being ripped in half.   Then he felt the cold fluid in him, pulsing, and Spike trembled to a stop.   They both were locked in place, gasping.   Oz felt Spike's belly heaving against the small of his back, felt sweat and blood trailing over his chest, and he let his head loll back on Spike's shoulder, utterly spent.   The wolf retreated, sated, and Oz was wholly himself .   Spike dipped his mouth down again, lapping at the bite, cleaning the blood away, and a moment later he pulled out.   Oz shuddered, his body suddenly too empty.    Spike let him slip bonelessly down onto his side and eased down next to him, still licking the blood trails, nipping once at his left nipple and then nuzzling back up to kiss Oz, blood and sweat and whiskey and smoke on his tongue.   Oz pulled Spike's leg over his hip and then they both just lay still, Oz catching his breath and Spike letting the panting die away into his normal breathless state.   Oz studied the face so close to his own, and felt a grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

               "What now wolfling?" Spike said, his scarred eyebrow quirking upward, his fingers rubbing slowly over Oz's ribs.

               "That was pretty good for a vampire," Oz said, and Spike snorted, darting forward to bite at Oz's lip and then pulling back.

               "What, not satisfied pet?   We could try again."  He ground his hips forward, pulling Oz against him with his leg, and Oz wriggled a little closer, pushing his hand back through sweaty, tangled hair.  

               "Oh yeah.   We'll try again."  Oz stroked the pale, hard thigh lying over his own.  "Just gotta... get my second wind."

               "Right."  Spike slipped his arms around Oz and pulled him close for a hard, possessive kiss, and Oz willingly bent under him, growling a little, letting his teeth catch and worry Spike's lower lip until he tasted a little blood from the earlier bite Spike had made.

               "Watch it, pet, don't wanna be a wolfling..." Spike murmured, and Oz laughed into his mouth and dropped back onto the mattress.   Spike sat up and stretched for his duster, pulling it off the seat and down into a heap beside him.   After some intense rummaging he came up with a flask and took a deep swallow, then found a crushed pack of cigarettes and lit one, letting the smoke plume slowly out of his mouth in a contented sigh.   Oz watched him for a moment, marveling at the elegant beauty of his lean torso, and the feral lines of his face.   He tugged the flask out of  Spike's hand and took a swig himself, dark and peaty whiskey burning over his tongue.   It lit a warm coal in his belly, a comfortable warmth.   Then, smiling a little, he reached and deftly lifted the cigarette from Spike's fingers and took a drag.

               "Hey!" Spike cried, then took the offered cigarette back with a puzzled look.  "What's that all about, then?" 

                Oz grinned at him, and licked his lips.  "I'll taste like you, all night," he said.   Spike stared at him, then grinned back, shaking his head a little.

                Taste like him, Oz thought, stretching his back in a hard arc, arms over his head.   Taste like him, and smell like him...   like the van smells like him now.   He took a deep sniff.   Mmmmmm.    Arousal stirred in him, a pleasant little flex in his groin.   I'll get him to come by my room some night, make my bed smell like him...    Being a werewolf was good sometimes.





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