Concurrence by Rubywisp

A/N:Written for Sal, for the Spikeslashficathon.

I owe a massive thank you for encouragement and audiencing to LadyCat. I'm not sure I could have finished it without her.

*
Spike takes the twenties with a nod for the guy who's been lining his pockets all evening. He's falsely polite, smiling as he tucks the money away.

It grates, the way he has to ingratiate himself with the food - and not, like in the old days, because it's getting close to supper time. Scrapes across his nerves until he's shredded raw, his dreams so full of blood and gore that the chip jolts him awake a couple of times a day.

He wanders over to the bar, attitude and expression hardening as he walks. By the time he slides across one of the vinyl-covered barstools, he's as full of piss and vinegar as ever he was, and the bartender shuffles and nods respectfully enough that it makes Spike hard.

Spike drinks for a while, but the whisky soaking into his bones doesn't do a damn thing to knead the tension out of the clenched fist that is his jaw. He's ramped up to the point where he can hear the humming under his skin, feel the vibrations bouncing off the people nearby and coming back in wave after wave of need and anger and lust that crash over him, break him down to his most basic parts.

The music doesn't help. It's loud enough that Spike feels it rippling and pulsing through his bones, thrumming under his skin, creating heartbeats where none exist. His dick is aching with the need to take and have and wallow in whatever he wants. A need he's no longer allowed to indulge according to his whim, and can only create unacceptable substitutes for with sufficient quantities of alcohol and soft, seductive touches that he makes himself sick with it.

He's never sure, later, just what it is that catches his eye: a flash of hair, colored and gelled to attract the exact sort of attention the boy's mellow deflects, the sharp curve of a wrist surrounded by leather and beads. Maybe just something in the air, a scent-shadow that makes him think of things he's spending the weekend trying to forget.

That last reason, among other things, is why it's a bad idea for him to work his way through the tangle of sweaty, writhing bodies until he can push up against Oz's back and do a little writhing of his own. It's not a little stupid, and possibly dangerous, but truth be told, it's why he does it.

It's neither safe nor easy, pushing your hips into the backside of one of the Slayer's toys - and they're all her toys, always will be. No matter how many mountains they trek across, they always come back, every one of 'em, and even while Spike sucks the dregs out of the bottom of the bottle and slips it into his pocket with one hand and slides crowd-warmed fingers under the soft hem of Oz's t-shirt with the other, he knows that means him, too.

He has a moment of freefall, adrenaline ripping through his system when Oz turns around to look at him. No surprise at all on his face, and Spike thinks maybe Oz knew he was there before Spike even saw him; he's never known a wolf well enough to be able to find out which of them was the more sensitive.

Perfect stillness wraps around the internal ninety-foot drop. Oz's eyes are clear, heavy-lidded, his upturned face expressionless while Spike waits to find out if he's fighting or...

Spike can safely say he's never wondered what Oz tasted like. Turns out it's a mixture of bright sharpness and murkiness scudding just under the surface of the water, with a handful of green, growing things tossed in for good measure. It's like flint on the chipped, slicing edge of Spike's need, and two hands cupped around that small, angled jaw later, he's going up in smoke with Oz's tongue between his lips.

Time slows and crashes, spinning into vivid, discordant colors that clash against the rasp of Oz's breath as Spike decides to hell with everything and picks him up, shoving his way to the back of the club. The obscenity in his brain is working overtime, poking him with warning twinges at stuttering intervals, but it only serves to heighten the smell of want pouring off Oz that's already got Spike skidding out of control.

Oz's teeth are short and even and pleasantly sharp; the bites he peppers on the softness under Spike's jawline linger even after the warmth and the wet have moved on to new places. Spike finds a wall, then a door, and there's a desk inside, a great, hulking dark wood monstrosity that doesn't even creak when Spike slams Oz across the surface of it.

Oz struggles briefly, finally, as Spike strips him right out of his jeans without so much as a gentle touch, but Spike's growl of aggravation slides right into a low, pleased rumble when Oz's hand uncurls to reveal the tiny, plastic container he'd fished out of one pocket.

The lube is still skittering across the floor by the time Spike's ready, one hand on the back of Oz's neck as Spike sets about finding out just how much abuse the desk can take. Whether it's the wolf or the fact that Oz wants it, as the wordless, gaspy way he takes every stroke of Spike's cock while his fingers go white-tipped underneath black nail polish attests, Spike doesn't know, but the chip is blessedly, satisfyingly silent while Spike pounds the fuck out of him. Literally.

Spike comes in a flurry of rushing, blinding static, heat swallowing him up from the inside out, flash-papering all his earlier tensions into ash. He thinks Oz does too; it's either that or the kid's a master at riding out an orgasm.

Either way, Spike's not sticking around for any kind of post-fuck regrets to sink in and come back to bite him on the ass with the pointy end of a stake. He pats Oz almost kindly on the ass and leaves in a satisfied swirl of black leather.

This time, the smile's genuine.

.End