It Happened One Night Although the moon has waned to an anorectic crescent, some of the wolf
senses remain. The most prominent of them is the sense of smell. It seems
the world has gained a dimension. He lacks the vocabulary to explain what
he experiences, but it reminds him of last summer, when he dropped acid
for the first and last time. It had started out just fine, and ended in
him trying to fly. But he remembers the way his senses seemed to become
intertwined, interchangeable. Well, that's what this is like. Now it is as
if his nose constantly competes with his eyes, and he can practically see
the smells, like lingering traces of faded paint superimposed on the
visible world, on the ground, on the walls, hanging in the air.
He doesn't need to see people to recognize them anymore. He can smell
her a block away. Right now she is far closer, just at the end of the
hall. Her smell is green, like seawater or spring leaves. He smells
something else on her as well, a thick, brown smell, like rawhide and
copper wire. He realises with a touch of unease that she is menstruating.
Sometimes supersenses tell him just a little too much.
He has a sudden image of himself between her legs, licking the blood
off her, out of her. He pushes it away, annoyed and a little frightened.
And it goes, but not before the fantasy, for surely it was a sexual image,
shows him just a glimpse of what that other part of him wants to do with
her. That part of him that is purely sybaritic, with no concern for love,
law or anything but its own damned bloodlust.
He is so immersed in his gloom, his dangerous daydreams, that he
doesn't notice her approaching until she is right behind him, proving that
even werewolf senses aren't infallible. Then her scent, leaves and grass
and fragrant moss mixed with rotting blood, swirls around him, and he is
instantly, roaringly aroused. He doesn't dare turn around. He can feel her
heat through the back of his shirt, hear the rhythmic thuds of her heart,
the swishing of fresh, red, sweet blood rushing through her veins. The
smell of the other blood is pushing at his senses.
With a superhuman effort, he claws himself back from the brink. He
turns to face her.
"Hi Oz," she says, dazzling his loving, human eyes with a smile.
"Uh... Willow, hi..." he mumbles, his hands fists in his pockets. It
gets harder every month, keeping the beast down. Maybe he is getting
sexually frustrated.
"I was thinking... I was thinking my parents will be away next weekend.
You know..?" She is blushing just a little. He looks around crowded hall.
This is not the place to have this discussion.
"Um... let's talk about it on the way, ok?"
He has been expecting her to get to this. After all, they're seniors,
they've been going out for six months. The natural thing to do would be to
get down to it. Everyone else is doing it left and right, it seems. He is
no virgin, but he hasn't so much as jacked off since the change. Too
scary. Hormones. Best way besides a full moon to really make the wolf buck
and howl. This situation is just like something from a bad horror movie.
I'm thinking about ripping her head off and she is going to suggest a
sleepover.
They walk in silence out the doors and over the schoolyard. She is
keeping her eyes on the ground until they lose the crowd of homebound
highschoolers. Then she stops him in the shadow of a large weeping willow
(how appropriate), and meets his eyes. Oh, she is beautiful. He reaches
out and hugs her tightly. It feels good, natural, and not a squeak from
the wolf.
She untangles herself from his grip, seems about to speak, but changes
her mind and kisses him instead. Although she isn't usually clumsy, she
manages to stumble conveniently, falling against him and turning a chaste
peck into something quite different. He kisses her back, pulling her
closer, savoring it until he feels the beast rattling its cage again. He
breaks the kiss with a pang of regret.
"I'm ready," she says, eyeballing him fearlessly. He pushes her away
gently, and goes to pacing nervously to and fro. She is trying to hide it,
but her eyes show hurt feelings. So does her smell.
"It's not that I don't want to, Willow," he starts, sounding ridiculous
and whingey even in his own ears. "It's the... um... the change. I might
not be able to control it. I suppose werewolves aren't supposed to be in
love."
"So there's nothing we can do about it?"
"This thing doesn't come with a manual, Willow," he mutters,
exasperated. He is immediately sorry for snapping at her. "Well, you could
always chain me up, you know, but even if it would make for a pretty
interesting experience, I don't know if you'd want to have your... your
virginity taken by a raging, bloodthirsty animal."
"I want to try," she says, and there's steel in her voice.
"What?"
"I am just sick and tired of walking in circles around you and the
whole subject. I am eighteen years old; I'm entitled to a sex life. Maybe
it won't be anything like my daydreams... they are more about candles,
roses and Barry White... but... but..." She trails off, her small burst of
anger spent. She looks at him wryly. "So I'll see you next Saturday then?
Bring the chains." And with this rather amazing statement she turns and
leaves. A perfect exit. He stares after her until she vanishes around a
corner.
He tries to make himself busy with band practice and reading. He even
does some homework, which is quite an amazing change. Still, it doesn't
keep him busy enough. He awakes on Saturday morning covered in sweat and
sticky come, with lingering images of Willow still banging against the
insides of his skull. He has torn the bedclothes to shreds. Probably not a
good sign.
He spends the morning and most of the afternoon in a daze of
panic-laced anticipation. Then, around three, he gives up and calls
her.
"Are you still sure?" he asks, perhaps a little desperately. She
doesn't even hesitate.
"Of course."
"Then you'd better come over here."
"Why?"
"Because I don't think your bed is sturdy enough to hold a horny
werewolf, that's why."
"Oh..." Now there is small hint of terror in her voice, but she's still
determined. "Ok, I'll see you in half an hour then."
And Oz is such a sweet boy, very considerate, very gentlemanly. Well,
apart from the time he tried to eat her. But she has witnessed his change
a few times after that, and the chains should be enough to keep him from
hurting her. Too much anyway. Why are you doing this, Rosenberg? the most
practical (and cynical) part of her inquires. Do you have a death wish, or
is this just a part of some rape fantasy I didn't know you had? It is a
legitimate question. She ignores it. It is time to take one step further
towards a looming adulthood. She pulls a nervous hand through her hair,
straightens her back defiantly, draws a hissing breath and rings the bell
on Oz's door.
"How does it feel?" she whispers.
"Wild," he answers honestly. "Did I just grow a coupla feet?" She takes
a small step back and eyes his modest five feet four inches. They share a
giggle, easing the tension a little. Then her hand creeps into his, and
she leans over to whisper in his ear, her lips barely grazing his skin,
her breath maddening, her scent filling his consciousness.
"Are you ready?"
He bows his head, letting it rest on her shoulder, pressing his face
into the hollow of her throat.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
"No one will ever believe me", she mumbles.
"Do you want to videotape it? Something to show the grandkids." She
laughs, a surprisingly hearty sound that echoes from the bare cinder block
walls. Then she walks over to the bed and sits down, kicking off her
shoes. Her posture shows no awkwardness, no fear; not even the steely
determination to get it over with he had noticed when they first talked
about it. What he sees and smells in her is simply anticipation tempered
with love.
She is riding a mellow, lusty buzz. The room doesn't invite thoughts
pertaining to Barry White, it's perhaps more of a Marilyn Manson scene,
but it doesn't put her off. By now she realises that Oz is probably a lot
more scared than she is. After all, the responsibility is on him in this
situation. This is all new to her; she is used to being the one thinking
too much about consequences. For all she knows, she might be dead or
maimed before day turns to dusk, but somehow the thought has stopped
frightening her.
She glances briefly at the shackles, wishing for a moment that she had
a normal boyfriend so her first time won't have to be made into this S/M
spectacle. She sure doesn't feel much like a dominatrix, ready to chain up
the guy and take charge. She wants gentle embraces, soft-focus foreplay.
But what can you do? She loves Oz, far more than she ever thought
possible, and she must accept the conditions as they are presented.
With something that is half a sigh, half a whimper, she pulls off her
cardigan, feeling cool, and slightly damp air chill her bare arms, teasing
the skin into goosebumps. Her nipples are hard and ache a little, and she
feels tentative warmth spreading between her legs. Her body is ready, at
least, if her mind isn't. She closes her eyes and thinks about him,
imagining him naked. He is a beautiful boy, his body powerful beyond his
diminutive stature. His hands are thin and long-fingered, guitar-callused.
She thinks about them touching her. She thinks about his thick red hair,
which is the same color as her own, and his grey eyes that can be both
mischievous and deadly serious at the same time.
She opens her eyes and looks at him. He is still standing by the
stairs. He meets her eyes for a moment, and then, in a fluid, graceful
movement, he is next to her, on top of her, pushing her down on the bed.
His mouth finds hers, his hands slip from her shoulders to her small
breasts. He has never touched her quite this way before, but she doesn't
mind the invasion. Instead she arches her back a little, pushing towards
him, letting her own hands do some roaming. She feels his muscles bunching
under his shirt, and she wants the thing off him. She wonders if it would
be appropriate to ask him to take it off now, then thinks fuck
appropriate (this is a new side of her, even to herself) and quickly
unbuttons the rather threadbare garment and slips it off his back. She
presses her nose against his shoulder, sliding her hands down his back.
His skin is hot and fragrant, as if he has been lying in the sun. She
pushes him back just a little bit, to have an eyeful. His shoulders are
bony and his collarbones just starkly under tight, winter-pale skin, but
there is also a quite surprising amount of muscle. He looks sinewy and
tough, like a marathon runner, perhaps. She doesn't think it looks like
the body of an eighteen-year-old. Maybe the werewolf in him changes even
his human body, she muses.
His nipples are dark pink and look oddly defenseless on his pale chest.
She touches one with a thumb, rubbing it a little and watches it shiver
erect. She hears him whimper softly under his breath, and without letting
any thoughts get in the way she puts her mouth over the nipple, licking
tentatively, letting her teeth gently graze it. This time the moan is
louder, more like a growl. She realises that if she wants to get out of
this alive, she better chain him up right now. Her mind flickers to an
image of the phys ed teacher talking about daterape. Miss Gordon had not
mentioned the eventuality of an over-excited boyfriend actually eating
his girlfriend. But then, lycantrophy is probably not the most common
excuse for domestic violence.
She drops her hands to his jeansfly, ignoring his startled gasp,
keeping her face and mouth pressed against his smooth, still blessedly
hairless chest, fumbling with buttons, tugging at the stubborn thing. He
gets off the bed and slips out of the pants, revealing black underwear
barely concealing the first live erection she has ever encountered. She
raises her eyes quickly to his face, blushing. For a moment, she stares at
his eyes. Aren't they just a little bit rounder and tawnier than usual? It
is definitely time for the shackles if she wants to get them on before he
is too strong and too far gone to let her.
She takes his hand and pulls him back down on the bed. As she pushes
him off her and onto his back, she sees his nostrils flare wide and his
eyes turn one more shade towards yellow. They are almost glowing now, and
she tries to ignore the nagging fear the sight of them inspires in her. As
she leans over him, pinning his arm above his head, he growls, a low,
rumbling sound that is poised somewhere between purr and protest. A sudden
burst of adrenaline kicks in, and she manages to hold his right arm down
with one hand long enough to clamp the heavy cuff around his wrist. He is
fighting her now, his small body a bundle of live electric wire under her,
squirming, thrumming. The growl grows and stretches into a howl. His free
hand tears at her top, ripping the thin cloth. She punches him in the
stomach, her panic adding strength. He twines his hand into her hair and
yanks brutally. She cries out in pain and fear, and struggles helplessly.
For a second he lets go of her hair, only to slap her in the face with a
hand that seems made of cast iron. She suddenly realises that her
struggling simply is turning him on all the more. She forces herself to go
limp, ignoring the pain in her jaw and the fearful flutter of her heart.
After a horrible moment when he seems only to grow stronger and more
violent, he settles down as well. The animal howl fades in his throat, his
heartbeat slows down.
Finally she feels a gentle, slightly trembling hand touch her shoulder.
"Willow..?" It is his voice, his human, warm voice. "Did I hurt
you?"
He sounds frightened and young and a little lost. She looks up to meet
his eyes. They are wide and naked, deep grey and all him. She shakes her
head, not trusting her voice to answer.
"I'm sorry," he says, dejectedly. "I just... blacked out." She nods
quietly, biting her lip. Then she takes a deep breath, and quickly throws
herself on his free arm, pinning it down and wrestling with the handcuff.
He doesn't resist, but she wants to be on the safe side.
"Uh... Willow..?" he says uncertainly. "What are you doing?"
"Look, it's never going to get any easier, Oz. I'll never be more
ready, it'll never be the right time. So it's a kinda
now-or-never-situation. If we leave it now, we'll never find the nerve to
try again. So we won't leave it."
He looks almost absurdly grateful. He seems strangely helpless now,
with nothing of the raw, exuberant power he had when the Wolf was closer
to the surface.
She shackles his feet as well, taking her time to tickle him a little
just to show she's not about to pull out the bullwhip. He squirms
helplessly and giggles loudly, the wolf sinking deeper and deeper. She is
mildly surprised at her own shamelessness. She is in a bed (teddy-bear
patterns notwithstanding) with a practically naked, chained-up boy, and
she isn't even sporting a blush.
She slips off the bed, feeling this new and strange confidence surge
through her. She smiles benevolently at his prostrate form. He stares
back, his eyes still human and aware, his lips slightly parted in silent
awe. The confidence experiences a slump. She suddenly longs intensely for
his arms around her, for some guidance. But that can't be unless she also
wants him to tear her still-beating heart from her chest. She is
completely alone in this.
She takes another deep, trembling breath, and pulls her top over her
head, revealing the small, white, lace bra she has picked for the
occasion. She starts unbuttoning her fly, trying to stay cool, trying to
remember if she has ever undressed in front of anyone of the opposite sex
before. She is intensely aware of his eyes on her.
She manages to get her jeans off while retaining some measure of
dignity. She climbs back on the bed, snuggling up against his still form,
listening to him breathing in short, trembling bursts, his heart beating
like a bass drum under the tight skin of his chest.
"I love you, Willow," he whispers hoarsely. She presses her mouth to
his ear.
"I love you, Oz." She moves slowly, straddling him, fighting down a
touch of awkwardness as she allows herself to fully realize what she is
doing. She knows she is a prude, awkward and inhibited, and yet here she
is.
Time to get over myself, she thinks. Which is when a thought strikes
her out of the blue. They have been very preoccupied with protecting her
from his animal rage, and in the middle of it all neglected to even
mention the more mundane subject of prophylactics. Shit.
She bows down to kiss him, her thick cascade of auburn hair falling
over his forehead, rippling over his chest.
"Um... Oz..?"
"Wha..?"
"Er... um... what about... you know..?"
Realization dawns on his face. Willow feels grateful that she won't
have to spell it out.
"Shit," he mutters. "Well, I'm sure I have some in my wallet." She is
already looking around for his jeans. "In my coat pocket upstairs."
She sighs theatrically and crawls out of the bed.
"Right. I'll go." She looks back at him. His grin is lopsided and a
little embarrassed. "Don't move."
She leaves him as he is and pads barefoot up the narrow stairs and into
the quiet house.
She is halfway through the living room when she is startled by the
phone ringing. For a while, she contemplates just leaving it to ring, but
then she gets worried it might be an emergency (which wouldn't be
completely unlikely in this town), and picks up the receiver.
It's Buffy.
"Willow, is that you? Where's Oz?" What to answer to this, then. Willow
decides to dodge the question.
"Why? What's going on?"
"Oh, nothing, I just called your house and you weren't there, so I
figured you'd be here. I was going to ask if you wanted to come down to
the Bronze tonight."
"Well... "
"Willow? You're not going to sleep with him, are you?"
"Well..."
"Everyone knows what happens when werewolves..."
"Buffy!"
"Hey, I should know what it means to have an undead boyfriend,
alright?"
"Oz is not technically undead, Buffy. And he's not going to...er..."
"Lose his soul, you mean? Probably not. But you might lose a few limbs,
on the other hand."
"We're taking precautions."
"How very nineties of you. Look, I'm going to the Bronze with Xander,
but I'll curve by and look in on you two lovebirds on my way home. Just in
case, you know."
"Just in case...right."
She finds Oz's coat on a peg by the door. While she is digging
through the collected debris in the pockets, she looks out the window, and
for a second stands frozen. The moon should be black right now. And
technically it is. It looks like someone inverted the colors of the sky.
In the middle of the sky hangs something that looks suspiciously like a
full moon, only dark. It can't be there, of course, that would be in
breach of a lot of laws of physics, but this is Sunnydale. So they made us
a complimentary full moon, she thinks. Just to help us along the way.
"It's not fair," she tells the moon out loud. "I'm so sick of this! All
I want is to get laid and go to college. In that order, please. Anything
for a normal sexlife... " She opens the door to a crack and looks out.
Just another bright and sunny day. That unnatural moon is still watching
her mutely. It's positively looming up there in that perfect, china blue
sky. Willow is caught, moth to lamp, in that dark glare. Strangeness.
Where is she?
God, he's sick of being a freak. You find the girl you love and...and...anything to just be able to touch her without fear. Anything.
"Willow..?" she calls. There is no answer. Resolutely, the fearless
Slayer swings the door wide open, ready for anything.
Whatever has been here is not here now. There's only Willow lying on
the floor of the hall, wearing nothing but panties and a bra. Her face is
serene, her eyes empty and staring. There is a fresh, purple bruise
spreading over her left cheek and jaw.
"Willow!" Buffy kneels and shakes her friend's limp body. For just a
fracture of a second, she thinks she is too late, but then Willow's eyes
clear up.
"Buffy? What are you doing here? Uh... why am I on the floor?"
"I came to check on you two. And I guess I should have been here
earlier. What the hell were you up to?"
"Earlier? But... we just got off the phone... didn't we?" Willow is
sitting up, rubbing her head. Buffy is already looking around for
trouble.
"Negative, that was seven hours ago. It's midnight, the spooks are out,
and something funny is going on in this house... hey, where are you
going?" Willow has scrambled to her feet with surprising speed, and is now
headed into the house at a run. Buffy follows.
The first thing she notices as she comes down the basement stairs is
the smell. Willow has stopped right at the foot of the stairs, and Buffy
almost runs into her.
"What..? Willow, what is it?" Willow doesn't answer; she just stands
frozen in the pitch-black room. The stink in the room is worse than
zombies, a sickly blend of vomit mixing with the sharp ammonia of urine,
the heavy, brown odor of feces, and through it all, like cyanide in tea,
the metallic-organic reek of fresh blood. It all comes together with the
smell of adrenaline-laced sweat to make up the smell of fear. Buffy finds
the lightswitch on her left and flicks on the lamp.
And stares in disbelief. The bed in the middle of the room looks like a
set from the Exorcist. It is streaked with every kind of human waste. Some
of it has even dripped off it and is forming a vaguely brownish puddle on
the concrete floor.
In the middle of all this filth lays Oz, naked and still chained up
like a torture victim on the rack. He looks tiny now, helpless and somehow
childlike. His head has rolled back on his neck, his face is blank.
He has tried to tear loose, only managing to cut open his wrists, deep,
gaping wounds laying bare muscle and tendons and a glimpse of white bone.
Blood has coursed abundantly down his arms and legs.
Buffy hears a strange, high-pitched whine, and for a moment thinks it's
coming from the bed. Then she realizes it is Willow, who is coming out of
her first shock. Her friend runs to the bed, sobbing and choking on the
thick, cloying stench. She is calling his name, trying feebly to wipe off
some of the gore caking on his wiry body. Buffy tries to pull her away,
but Willow slaps at her hands.
"Go away!" Buffy backs off a little, then reaches out and checks for a
pulse under Oz's puke-stained jaw. It is there, steadier than she would
have thought. He stirs a little, groans deep in his throat and moves his
eyes.
"He's alive!" Willow says, looking up at Buffy with shining, grateful
eyes. "I thought he was dead, I was sure he was gone, I..." She looks back
at her boyfriend. "Please go away, Buffy... Don't look. It's so... it's my
fault. Go call 911, look for first aid. Something."
"Uh-huh, Will. You know what will happen if anyone sees this? They'll
lock us up for a long time. It's like Torquemada had a private party here.
Just get him out of those cuffs, and we'll see what we can do."
He'll have to be carried upstairs. He can hardly weigh more than 120
pounds, but she doesn't think she can manage on her own. But she can't let
Buffy help her, not when he looks like this. He is so helpless and bare.
It wouldn't be fair.
She pulls the sheets off the bed. The cover and blanket are pretty much
compost, but the undermost sheet is almost decent, just a little damp and
musty.
She looks at Oz, who still doesn't seem aware of her. She has tried to
wipe him off a little, managing mostly to spread the gore around on his
skin. But he is still wearing his underwear, and they will have to come
off. With a determined frown, she reaches around him and pulls the soiled
things off him. For a second she finds herself staring at his penis in its
nest of curly red hair. Then he moves a little, and she blushes hotly and
quickly covers him with the sheet.
Together they carry his limp form upstairs. Willow is grim-faced,
stubbornly biting back tears. Buffy is unusually subdued and soft-spoken.
And quite suspicious.
"I just don't think he'd get like this under normal circumstances.
Sure, seven hours is a long time to be chained to a bed. I can imagine
getting cold, and numb, and scared. Maybe pissing myself. But you don't
wear your wrists to the bone fighting cuffs that clearly can't be fought;
you don't puke and shit your guts out or bite your lips to tatters. It's
like he's been getting electric shocks. Something did this to him." Willow
can't but agree.
"And I was unconscious for seven hours. I can't even remember falling
down. Here, let's put him in the tub and I'll clean him up a little."
"He'll be alright, Will. I mean, he's a werewolf. They are practically
indestructible."
They lower him gently into the tub. He seems a little more there, his
eyes more focused. He flops his limbs weakly against the enamel, like some
strange aquatic animal trying to learn to move on dry land.
Buffy takes one look at Willow's face and backs out of the
bathroom.
"Alright. I'll go clean up in the basement. Leave the wetwork to the
Slayer. I am an expert on eliminating evidence."
But he isn't Gomer Pyle, is he? There is no M-16 in his hands. There
are, however, bathroom tiles. And searing pain in his head, his hands and
feet, his abdomen and his throbbing groin. And something warm and wet
moving over his aching body, soothing the shivers, washing away the awful
stink.
A momentary flash of lucidity lights a small candle somewhere in a
corner of his brain. He is in his very own bathroom, in his very own tub.
Over there is his very own rubber duck, the one he's had since he was a
baby. And someone is washing him with a soft cloth, taking special care
not to touch the wounds. And someone is also crying, softly but
heart-wrenchingly.
He floats away again, trying to mentally outrun the pain and whatever
revelations lie in it. He focuses on the good things he knows, like the
hands with their washcloth very gently exploring his ravaged body, every
nook and cranny of it. He is reminded of the time when he had pneumonia in
third grade and had to stay two weeks in hospital. The nurses gave him
sponge baths. That was before Sunnydale, before all the monsters, before
he became one of the monsters. Before Willow.
Lucidity flashes again, and now he knows who it is washing him and
trying to subdue her sobbing. Willow is here, warm and breathing,
gloriously alive. When she didn't return downstairs, he'd been sure she
was killed, torn to shreds by some other, worse monster than him. He had
called her name, called again and finally screamed it at the top of his
lungs, only to be met by utter silence. And then... then something had
come for him, and there was only pain. He had tried to hold on to images
of Willow, especially that last one, of her on top of him, her hair
falling into his face, her thighs warm against his, the gentle swell of
her breasts pressing against his chest, her lips, her smiling green
eyes...
And here she is now. He opens his eyes to look. She isn't looking at
him, only crying while still lathering him, as if she is washing a corpse.
Her hands are more observant than her eyes. Perhaps she is trying to
impress the shape of his body in her minds, through those gently stroking
hands.
He tries to speak her name, but his mouth is like the aftermath of a
bushfire. All he manages is a dry croak. He tries to swallow, but he can't
seem to work up enough spit. His arms and legs feel very far away, cold,
numb logs that seem like they don't really belong to him and never will.
He uses all his willpower to move them, to make them obey. They do move,
but he only manages to hit them against the tub wall. Then Willow's hands
are on his face, and she is peering into his eyes.
"Oz?" she says, her voice only a thin squeak. He nods almost
frantically, giving his headache more gusto. A bit of feeling is returning
to his limbs, but now he wishes it hadn't, since the exposed nerves scream
in unison with his head. He turns his head to the side, loses control of
the movement and bangs it into the hard side of the tub. He watches his
left hand lie limply at his side. He can't remember when or where he got
those deep, nasty wounds. He glimpses something white in the mess of
tattered red meat. An exposed tendon? Bone? He feels faintly sick to his
stomach. But the wound looks like a textbook diagram, carefully drawn and
peculiarly bloodless. It is already healing. The positive side of
lycantrophy, he figures.
"Oz..?" Willow whispers again. "Can you hear me? It's over now, it's
over. Buffy is cleaning up downstairs. She called Giles, I think.
Something very strange happened here. Can you remember anything at
all?"
He remembers screaming her name, thinking she was dead. He can't tell
her this. Her voice sounds too frail, her face too vulnerable. And he
doesn't really want to try to sieve through his heap of shattered images.
All he really wants is to crawl into a warm, clean bed, preferably one
with Willow also in it, and sleep until the pain is gone.
Instead, he relaxes into the tub, enjoying the warm water rising around
him, Willow's hands still trailing over his ill-used but healing body.
Those hands, in fact, seem to be getting a little frisky at this point. He
realises that she has abandoned the washcloth, and is now, quite frankly,
feeling him up. He truly doesn't mind. Another old wet dream come true.
Then her roaming hand dips between his legs, hesitating only for one
maddening second before gripping him gently. His cock, which only a few
seconds ago had felt like a clump of raw meat, wakes up singing. He is too
dazed and tired to reflect much on this, but Willow seems a little
surprised. She doesn't, however, stop.
She is eyeing him under lowered eyelids, looking a little furtive, as
if she is afraid he might slap her in the face any minute. For a while, he
is happy just to lie back and feel slow, steady waves of pleasure roll
through his body. Then he realises that he is not only getting quite
aroused, but that the wolf is quiet. He can feel it in there somewhere,
but its roars are feeble and distant, as if it is being pushed away by
something stronger.
Then new strength flows into his battered body, and his limbs are back
under his control. He reaches out and pulls Willow towards him, kissing
her with his sore mouth, winding his arms around her. She is still only
wearing her bra and panties. The kiss is ferocious, hungry, but he still
isn't even close to changing. Her hand is still in his lap, working him
deliciously, driving him raving mad in a very human way. He makes a clumsy
attempt at getting out of the tub, managing only to drench her in water.
She helps him, yanking him over the edge, and they fall into a tangled,
dripping heap on the soggy carpet. Willow pulls him on top of her. He
fumbles with her bra and almost tears it off her. She only moans softly
when he buries his face between her small breasts. She is squirming
underneath him, her lacy underwear creating an unbearable friction. He
slips his hand down and hooks a thumb in the waistband. She lifts her hips
urgently when he pulls the panties off.
He pauses for a heartstopping second, pushing himself up and catching
her eyes. She pulls at him, thrusts her hips urgently. Then he seems to
overcome his hesitance, and is easing in. She feels the barrier
stretching, protesting. Resolutely she grits her teeth and pushes upwards,
impaling herself.
There is pain, hot and sudden, but it seems somehow unimportant, easy
to ignore. Things fall into place with arresting finality. He fits inside
her just right, his body is a perfect match for hers. And he is nearing
climax, and is still not a werewolf.
She feels her insides loosening and melting towards something and then
her vision blurs and her heart races and she screams his name as she
comes. She opens her eyes wide and looks into his face. He is thrusting
into her with increasing force, and she watches his eyes widen and his
face go blank, and then he collapses on top of her with a final, throaty
groan. And this is when Buffy, Giles and Xander choose to burst in. Chaos
ensues.
Oz is pushed violently off and out of Willow, and she is pulled to her
feet. At first, she is simply too flabbergasted at the intrusion to resist
or react in any way, only stands shivering, staring dumbly at the mayhem.
Something sticky, blood or semen or both, is trickling down the insides of
her thighs. She is vaguely aware of Xander holding her, asking her
something in an urgent tone of voice. She can only focus on the image of
Oz being jerked unceremoniously to his feet by a scowling Buffy, his nose
spurting fountains of dark crimson blood from her punch. But when Xander
begins to gently herd Willow out of the bathroom she rebels. She sees
Buffy raise her fist to serve Oz another punch.
"Dammit, what are you doing?" Willow shouts, tearing herself loose from
Xander. They all freeze, stunned by the deep, reverberating fury in her
voice. Buffy's expression of determined bloodlust fades into a blank look
of surprise. Her fist is still raised, but it looks more as if she has
forgotten about it than anything else. Oz is still cowering in her grip,
his bleeding arm up to protect his likewise bleeding face, but his eyes
are sharp and focused on Willow. Xander has taken a step backwards, and in
the middle of everything, Giles is looking from face to face, his own
expression one of permanent befuddlement.
"What are you doing?" Willow repeats, in a slightly calmer tone of
voice. She stares menacingly at Buffy. "Let him go!"
"But..." Buffy starts to object, but Willow is in no mood for
explanations.
"Just unhand him," she hisses, feeling a little melodramatic and not
caring the slightest. "He didn't hurt me." Buffy reluctantly obliges,
stepping back from the naked and bruised boy with a final, incredulous
glance at Willow.
As the explosive situation begin to unwind, Willow becomes quite
suddenly aware of her own blatant nudity and generally dishevelled
appearance. She represses an urge to wind her arms around herself, and
instead nods towards the door.
"Just give us a minute, OK?" They still stand quietly and stubbornly
staring at her. She notices that Oz is sagging, his face gone a sick,
dusty grey.
"Leave!" she snaps, and finally they reluctantly shuffle out, closing
the door behind them.
As soon as they are gone, Willow rushes to catch Oz, whose knees have
just begun buckling under him. He almost slips through her arms, boneless
as a Kewpie doll. For a while she is afraid he's lost consciousness, but
then his arms come up to embrace her. She starts to cry in relief, and
suspects he is crying as well, which just goes to show how tough this day
has been for him, because Oz never lets go in that way.
"Are you OK?" she whispers, and he nods, pulling a hand furtively over
his eyes. They get into the tub to wash off the mess. His hand slips
unannounced between her legs and comes away bloody. She just shrugs and
gives him a smile. She likes his natural approach to their new intimacy.
And the blood, well, that's just the ink on the contract, isn't it?
There is a hesitant knock on the door.
"Out in a minute," Willow calls. Her eyes fall on the soggy scatter of
her underwear on the floor. "And... uh... can someone bring us some
clothes, please?"
They take their time drying eachother, for a few precious moments
completely unmindful of everything else. Oz has already stopped bleeding,
and the deep wounds on his wrists and ankles look like they were made last
week.
"Oh... there you are... I was, uh... consulting my books, about this
peculiar accident... but I will need some more... information... " Willow
and Oz share a glance, but neither one speaks. Giles frown slightly. "Or
we could just call it a night and think about it all tomorrow..?"
"I don't know," Buffy interjects. "There is something seriously weird
going on here."
"It's gone now," says Willow softly. Everyone, including Oz, turns to
stare at her. She blushes delicately.
"How do you know?" Giles asks suspiciously. Willow shrugs and points
out the window, at the perfectly ordinary waning moon.
"The black moon is gone."
"There was a black moon?" Now Giles's worry has dissolved into
excitement. "Well, I must say. That certainly clarifies the circumstances.
Of course... but what did you get in return?" Oz gives him a blank look,
but Willow's color deepens a few shades.
"What do you mean, in return?" asks Xander with a frown.
"Well, the creature we're dealing with is very likely to be a sort of
incubus, a-a sexual demon. And, contrary to popular belief, they usually
trade for their pleasures."
"You mean they were bargaining with a demon?" Buffy says, wrinkling her
nose a little.
"Oh, hardly consciously. My guess is, there was something they both...
desired so deeply that the demon picked up on it, seeing a chance for a
good deal, so to speak. Hmm... since it decided to torment Oz, it probably
was a female presence..."
"No," says Oz suddenly, joining Willow in the race for deepest crimson
complexion ever.
"No what?"
"No, it wasn't...er...female," he says, avoiding eye contact.
"You mean..?"
"It had a...it was a...well..."
"Oh man, you really know how to pick 'em," Xander blurts with his usual
tact. "You got yourself buggered by a gay demon...weird."
"Why, thank you, Xander, for that keen observation," Giles says dryly.
"So it was male... that's peculiar. Oh, of course, it might have thought a
werewolf would be a more interesting target."
"A demon with a fur fetish," Xander ads.
"Yes, yes, Xander. But in any case, it must have offered some sort of
compensation for the trouble."
Willow and Oz exchange another glance.
"We-ell..." Oz mumbles. Realisation dawns in Giles's face.
"Of course!" he exclaims. "Yes, we walked in on you... "
"Fornicating on the bath room floor," mutters Xander crossly.
"Uh...indeed...but the point is that Oz was quite human. It is a fact
that werewolves are unable to sustain human form during sexual arousal. So
there it is."
"So there it is," Xander repeats coldly. His face is almost hostile.
Willow can't help but see how the image of her naked and writhing under
Oz must have been a shock to Xander's system. Still, despite all the good
excuses in the world, she finds his reaction offensive. She is bone tired,
sore, and simply wants everyone to leave. Everyone except Oz, of course.
She doesn't want him to ever leave.
"Well, perhaps I can find something more... if I get to some proper
research on the subject," Giles mumbles, a little awkwardly, apparently
aware of the uncomfortable situation. He starts to get up, making a big
deal out of looking for his car keys. Everyone ignores him. Xander is
eyeballing Oz as if he is fantasizing about smashing his face in. Oz, pale
and bruised, but no longer looking exactly dying, is meeting the hostility
with impassive resistance, his trademark stoicism back in place.
"Was it worth it?" Xander snaps at him. Oz raises an eyebrow
inquisitively. "Taking all that... shit, just to get a leg over
Willow?"
"Get a leg over..." Oz repeats, incredulously. Willow is fuming, but
simply too surprised to come up with a repartee. Buffy, however, is
unhindered by amazement.
"Xander, get a sense of humor, alright? The smell of testosterone in
here is making me gag."
"Stay out of it, Buffy," Xander says without deigning to look at her.
"It's between me and Wolf boy here."
"Xander!" Willow manages to croak in desperation.
"Shut the fuck up, Will," he hisses back, and before Willow can
unfreeze after that shock, Oz has made a catlike leap over the table,
tackling Xander and instinctively going for his throat like a rabid
Doberman. They crash to the floor in a snarling heap, the rickety chair
splintering and spreading debris all over the floor of the small kitchen.
Buffy and Willow stare dumbfounded as the boys pummel eachother
mercilessly. The scene is much like a couple of tomcats having it out over
a dam. Xander fights like a street thug, using his knees and forehead
prominently. Oz's tactics involve biting and scratching, but there is
nothing girlie about the cold efficiency of it. Xander is already bleeding
from half a dozen nasty scratches, and especially one wound just under the
line of his jaw looks deep and gaping.
Finally Willow recovers and finds the scream that has been building up
inside her. She lets it out. The sound propels Buffy into action, and she
joins the scuffle, getting on top of the situation in five seconds flat,
by way of throwing the antagonists into separate corners of the room. Oz
hits the wall and crumples into a small, limp heap. Xander slumps, but
stays sitting. He sports three parallel gouges across his forehead and
cheekbone, and the blood streaking his face gives him a very gruesome,
almost savage look.
"What is the matter with you?!" Buffy yells. Xander shrugs and winces
at the pain in his shoulders.
"I just wanted to see if I could break through that smug
I'm-so-cool-I-don't-have-to-give-a-shit act. And it seems like I did. I
came, I saw, I got my ass kicked."
"Justice is served," purrs Buffy menacingly.
"Well, I guess I should go and clean my wounds. Wouldn't wanna catch
rabies."
This is what one might call 'the straw that breaks the camel's back'.
Willow walks up to Xander and slaps him a good one in his bleeding face
with the might of all her fury. Then she marches over to Oz, who is now
very slowly and carefully attempting to unfold his limbs and get up.
"Why'd you let him get up your nose? He's not exactly worth it when
he's this way."
"I don't know. I just snapped. End-of-the-tether deal."
"Why don't you go to bed now? You look like you need it. I'll be right
there after I deal with...with..." She trails off, and he smiles
encouragingly.
"Alright. Sounds doable." He scrambles to his feet and shuffles out of
the kitchen without even a glance at Xander.
"Maybe you should take Xander home," Willow suggests. The Slayer nods.
"Oh, and tell him I'm not talking to him until he has apologized to both
Oz and me. That's all." She turns quickly and leaves the room. She hears
Xander's voice call after her.
"For what it's worth, Will, I am sorry."
"It's not worth anything until you mean it," she snaps, and keeps
walking.
"I bet I look like roadkill," he says as she lies down next to him.
"So do I. We're a match."
"Of course we are." |
