Spike had just wanted to get outta town for a night, along with his silent date: a big ol' bottle of Vodka.

Heading North a ways, there was a smallish state park...what passed for a forest by Californian standards.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Spike hadn't meant to end up as far north as he was, but once he had hit the road, it was far to easy to just keep going and going--

He remembered the old woods. According to Angelus, the Druids believed they had been created by the forest.

But he didn't want to think of Druids, because to think of them was to think of Angelus. Just another reason to keep going.

But beggars can't be choosers, as he had so Goddamn well learned. If things were different, he wouldn't have been sucking down pig's blood for the past year. 'cept for those few times Harm felt up to sharing a kill out of sniggering sympathy, the selfish bint.

Hopefully he wouldn't be thinking of anything very soon, once the alcohol took its rightful place in his mind alongside the chip. Maybe they could play poker.....

Would't have to think of Dru away in Never-never land, or where ever the Hell she was now. Or Angelus and his snide looks that hurt so much. More. More than Angelus' looks ever did, because at least he knew what brought those on, he divined the demon behind them.

And especially not the Slayer's brats, who seemed to see him now as a pet.

An alley cat, or such....unpleasant and stubborn. Yet still to be petted and coddled even with healing scratches still on the backs of their hands.

Fuck, right before he headed out, he had to wrestle his duster, his fucking duster, out from under the Witch. He'd killed for less. But had Willow been scared?

Naw...just stuck her tongue out, not even a Thank You for helping the little shits with the destruction of assorted demons that night.

He was underpaid. Fuckin' Slayer, fucking pansy-assed Watcher...

Spike trundled his way into the evening woods, planning on searching out a rock to pass out upon. He soon found a narrow path...more likely made by deer and other beasties rather than humans.

He followed it, not really aware of the surroundings; God knew, he wasn't in Sunnydale, what, would a rabid chipmunk attack him?

He found a spot soon enough. Fallen tree trunk with moss, a break in the trees overhead. Full moon tonight. It would do.

Uncorking the bottle, he took a greedy swallow, not even waiting for the burn to withdraw its needled teeth from his throat before downing another.

Spike was a creature of many talents, drinking the only one he apparently had the ability or means to continue. Fucking and killing, on the other hand....

"Shit." Spike leaned back against the log, letting that thought drift away, and patted his pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes. "Gimme a silk shirt, call me poof, and you have Angel."

Spike wriggled around a few minutes, allowing his senses to fully adjust to the world that wasn't Sunnydale. Soon, he was a silent as the trees; more so, as they were creaking gently against one another, rubbing away their skin so the innards touched...

Spike hacked out a bitter laugh. Did everything have to remind him of Dru? Jesus, like a eternal carousel he was, with Dru and Angel and the Slayer and Co. frozen in place instead of painted steeds.

And him, stumbling from one to another--trying to make a choice--for so long that he didn't even remember what it felt like to be on solid ground, what it was like to not be dizzy.

More vodka.

Yes. Oh, yeeaahhh....a liquid hammer, pounding home the loose studs of his mind, who cared if others were loosened by the force?

Spike raised the bottle once more, focusing solely on the liquor's scent and sound of the branches above, behind...


Spike froze, flinging out his senses to claw what information he could closer. Behind him. Animal? Person? Two legged. Definitely two legged. Shit, the wind was the wrong way, it could smell him, but he couldn't smell it....

Spike forced himself to still his thoughts until they had been whittled down to only the needed few. Hating that he was in the position of actually fearing his safety outside of Sunnydale. There, it almost had become the norm. Fuck, why did he stay there again?

He angled his head a bit, in such a way that whomever was behind him-- if it understood such universal sign language--would know that he knew someone was there, that no sneaking up would to be done tonight.

He hadn't turned around yet because that would admit defeat. Defeat of nerves, something that Spike wouldn't relinquish, no matter what the risk. He had lost too. Damn. Much. He wouldn't let another bruise take root, sprout through his interior to plague his conscious.

So when the person, animal, boogie-monster or whatever behind him stopped, Spike then turned around. Only after waiting a nice chunk of moments, only after taking a nice chunk from the contents of his bottle. Then he turned around to see what Mother Nature had brought him.

And the first thought Spike had upon seeing the figure behind him was of mutiny. Mutiny if only he could figure out just the hell who was running this slipshod, rusted thing called Ironic.

But he was too far along, to touched with the surreal nature of things, to let it show on his face. So all he did was tip his bottle to the figure. A toast. A toast to both of them, God Fuck 'em.

"Oz....Cheers." Bottoms up, another record low for the contents of said bottle.

Oz was standing at a distance of about a dozen feet. One foot posed in such a way, and with pointed ears--yes, pointed--quirked upwards and swiveling so that Spike wasn't reminded of a wolf so much as a deer, wary of leaves in the wind, every shadow a threat unimaginable.

He didn't approach Spike, didn't really respond except for a twitch of those wholly remarkable ears and nose. That was enough of a greeting for Spike, and he turned his back on the young man.

Heh. Bet Oz hadn't expected that. Let him take that and worry it with his teeth awhile, see if it bleeds red or black...

"S-Spike? You smell...." Softly, softly and grating so roughly that if he hadn't seen the strain on Oz's features he would have thought it a purr instead.

Spike responded by raising a hand straight above his head, the exaggerated middle finger mocking Oz's words.

Oz ignored Spike's obvious displeasure at being interrupted, and Spike could hear him ease himself a few feet closer. Spike didn't warn Oz away, or scoot away himself. Oz was probably the least dangerous of the brats, in Spike's mind. Obsessed with only one thing, and damn the rest of the bitter world to Hell.

"You smell of Her and why? Spike, of her....."

See? Fuckin' pussy-whipped wanker.....

The way the words where said caused Spike pause, however, and he felt a memory scurry around near the edge of his more or less intoxicated mind. Something important? In his mind? Nawww.....

"What do you want, kid?" Spike asked tiredly.

He didn't need this. He was in absolutely no mood to sit and discuss the Witch with the kid. Oh yeah, Oz and he could sit around and trade tales of reticent love slashed awry. Wouldn't that just be the shits and giggles, and then they could talk about how bleedin' noble women were, and allude that they had unmanly emotions sometimes. Cried even.

Er, no.

Snuffling behind him, no wait...not just behind him, but at his shoulder, and fuck! How'd the little guy get so close so fast? It was dark, so dark that Spike's city-friendly eyes were a bit muddy, even. And Spike couldn't go that fast. Yeah, the kid was a werewolf, but...

...oh, shit.


But all Spike had to do was look up at the full moon and the "But" suddenly melded into "absolutely" and created a new sensation of "detonation", and perhaps now might be the time to move his feet, and slide away from questioning teeth that were too close to his throat for even pretend comfort.

Spike paused, considering the young man before him. Could he hurt him? He wasn't human right now, oh no...

But could he hurt him, a creaure almost an even match in brute cunning?

And not to forget, a pawn of the Slayer. He knew enough now to regard anything of the Slayer's as off limits, even if she didn't knew Oz was around. Fuck, for all he knew, the group did know Oz was around, was expecting him tomarrow, after the full moon. And that damned Watcher was unbelievable at putting two and two together....

So Fuck.


"Oz, what do you want? I-I am under protection of the Slayer." And that hurt to say, hurt deep and crucially, but even more crucial, it might get him away from Oz.

Spike had instincts that kept him alive very well, if nothing else. And right then, they were suggesting dark things to him, suggesting that right now would be a good time to leave.

Oz grinned, and wordlessly, and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a smooth expanse of chest. His lycanthropy hadn't spread to his torso yet tonight, probably wouldn't if he decided to keep it in control.

And then Oz began to remove his jeans. Spike decided that he wasn't going to wait around to see what color socks the kid wore under his sneakers, didn't want to wait around for the werewolf to remove his clothing so that he could Change without tearing them.

Tear up Spike, instead.

Oh, no. Think not.

Spike turned heal and ran the other way, into the woods.

Leaving an amused and startled Oz with his jeans around his ankles.

And isn't it a sad day, that Spike--self proclaimed Big Bad-- had chosen to run. From a young man, no less. A man CHILD as small as the Witch whose fault this all was because she slept on his coat.

But fuck pride..because size rarely mattered in the grand scheme of things. Believe otherwise, but Spike would tell you that for the most part, size was simply a popular aesthetic.

And Spike was fast. Preternatural speed that could make him move so that it appeared he was pulled by strings away from the curtain of reality.

But a werewolf, in the forest, the nature, well--they move like the very first twitch of vampiric muscle. Kicking the idea, the understanding of speed into reverse. A thoroughly oiled joint.

Vampires are honed for the kill. While werewolves are ingrained with the hunt.....

So Spike darted through the trees, thankful the ground was relatively bare save small twigs and needles. Time to let the unerring instinct unzip its thinking cover away and just go with it, fly with it if possible.

Hoping that the nudging sounds he heard were that of the braches in the night-wind, not the wolf.

Spike let his senses lead him down a slope towards the sound of water.

Yeah, good plan. Loose him by hopping the creak that must be ahead, sinking his scent into the water to be swirled away, hopefully leaving the Oz-wolf (or All-Wolf by now?) sniffing at the shore.

Spike eased his speed a bit, listening for footsteps--two or four--and feeling for a blood-beat that would signal a human, an anything was near.

Nothing, thank fucking God, and he was never, ever planning on communing with nature again.

Spike slowed down to a walk, thankful he wasn't human. Many things he had forgotten, but he still remembered the feel of a thudding heart holding the hearing ransom; breath heavy in your throat, jack-knifing its way out.

He paused, still having enough morbid humor left to ask himself who must look like a frightened deer now.


Nothing, and the water was so clear, so close....

Spike walked down the slope, and stopped.

Oh, there was the water, all right. Perfect escape route from the Stepford-Oz he was faced with.

That is, if it wasn't nearly a 50 foot drop. With plenty of nice tree branches jabbing upward between there and here, too.

Spike gritted his teeth, and thought about trying it anyways. He gazed around, but nothing gave him an idea, and he was normally so resourceful, Damnit. Don't say that was another thing he would have to chalk up on the list of Past Attributes.

He ran his hands through his hair, and suddenly realized he still had the bottle clenched in one fist.

He stared at it without expression for a moment, and then clamped his fist inwards, buckling the thick plastic. He drew his arm back, and sent the bottle--contents glittering as they spilled into the moonlight--down towards the river.

"Fuck me." Said with amusement, because how could one not be amused by this? It was like one of those early cliffhanger films he had seen once upon a time. Absurdly ironic luck, perfectly in place for the hero to win.

No way he was going to think of himself as the hero. He was still the villain, still the villain, still the villain....

"Still the villain, you fucking little shit!" Spike yelled to the trees, the full moon, the stars, above all to the the wolf-kid he knew must be watching.

The stars, nor the moon and trees for that matter, didn't answer him of course; just continued growing and revolving and burning gaseous fumes that twinkled. Except for Oz, and who knew what he was doing. Hopefully, hopefully--

"Hopefully you hear me, Oz! I know you do! Come and get it, you coward. Eh, you like that? You know what, you bloody wank? She doesn't care! So give it up!"

Spike drew a deep breath. He had no plans to run away with his pride dribbling down his mind like piss. Let 'im com, let 'im come and then they'd see who ended up with a bellyfull tonight.

Oh, yeah.....and baby, can you fucking hear that, with your wolf encased senses?

Sharp intake of wuffling breath to his right, and suddenly eyes appeared--opened--near the ground.

It was if Oz was simply a shadow created from a more pure shadow that the rest; undiluted, until he opened his hooded eyes open fully to let the moon dully reflect off of them. Then, and oh then, the shadows collapsed inwards to logic. Made sense of themselves in the form of a naked trembly creature, only five or six feet away from Spike.

Spike couldn't help it, he jumped backwards reflexively. He'd been yelling his head off while Oz had...must have slithered through the underbrush to almost sit as his feet.

Spike held his ground, however, and the shadow fully unfolded themselves into a standing Oz. Still mostly human, Spike saw with some awe.

Of course, though. If not, the werewolf would have just leapt for Spike's throat as soon as he saw a fit chance.

Spike had nowhere to go, so simply stood complacent as Oz eased forward on ghost feet, the only things evincing normal motion his misplaced eyes and his hair as the wind fingered it.

Gruffly, Spike said, "Like I said, furry, stop following me. It's just a fucking coat, and just a scent. Don't you let go, ever?" Easy bravado now that it wasn't, as Spike meant what he had said. Any minute he might start to laugh with the utter oddity this night had flipped over.

"Yeeeaahhhh." A playful tone of voice, and now Spike had to laugh. A voice that carefree just shouldn't ooze out from a mouth with that many nippy teeth, the emotion confirmed by wet-tar eyes.

Oz lifted his upper lip at the laugh, as if not sure whether to growl or run. Or perhaps he was trying to laugh, too, but had forgotten how.

The kid looked pretty wild and woolly, thought Spike, as he considered the figure before him.

Just as short and pale as always. Same slender frame lieing through bared teeth in terms of the power it possessed. No clothes, which yes, changed the duplicity to the past Oz somewhat.

But there were the changes. Fur-brushed ears and captivating teeth one could come to covet, and elastic, old eyes.

And of course, it was full moon, and he wasn't Wolf. That's what Spike was marveling over, even congratulating Oz despite the situation he had put Spike into. Spike couldn't help was just all too...interesting and vivid an experience at this point.

And, spiffy appearance aside, logic said if Oz was going to kill him and gnaw his nose off, it would have happened already.

Spike was willing to let himself be lulled by that logic for now.

Spike had to test the notion a bit further, however, for he hadn't gotten as far as he had by letting things slide.

He--flippantly, it seemed--reached into a pocket for a cigarette, and taking his eyes from Oz, lit it.

And as he raised his head back up to exhale the first inhale of breath, he let himself be placated the eagerness in those button eyes. Oz appeared to be hovering with sight alone, breathing this unexpected visitor in with them.

God, fucking the life out of all incoming visual stimuli with that stare.

"What are you doing out here, mate? Why ain't you sniffing out your bitch in Sunnydale?" Spike sat down on the ground, pushing the envelope containing his safety, yeah. But one does these things. It's fun. Different, And Spike was so damn intrigued that the mutt had gotten himself out here with leaves and moss in his hair, yet wasn't running all all fours.

Oz didn't answer, but kneeled down gracefully to his knees, waiting, waiting.

Spike blew a puff of smoke at Oz's face, pure assholery at work, the integral smart ass peeking through.


The word was said with an emphasis on the K, staggering the word forward to goosebump its way up Spike's arms and cause him pause.

And then Oz did move, rising to all fours in one motion, to crawl forward towards Spike.

He crawled with a sing-song motion, shoulders pushing and pulling at muscles, up and down. Head and ears stretched to the extent; eyes and lips raised in pure coming and razorblade knowledge that surpassed the actual and eased along the edge of possible.

And all that Spike could think was that Oz moved as if he had muscles where he shouldn't, in places that should be hollow and innocent. No one should be able to crawl like that....

And then Oz was sliding his nose down Spike's arm, the tip just brushing the delicate hairs there. Spike was fascinated, utterly and confoundly fascinated. He'd never been this close to a werewolf who hadn't been trying to kill him, or the other way around. And certainly never one in a half stage such as Oz was. It was simply one of those experiences that one had to clutch as tightly as possible despite the fear of consequences.

Or so Spike was thinking when Oz completed his exploration of Spike's arm by clamping down on the hand holding the cigarette.


Fucking hard, hard and tight enough that Spike couldn't pull his hand from the teeth imbedded there. All that he accomplished was inadvertently twisting them in deeper and giving Oz a chance to get a better grip.

Spike's demon face was gasped out with the initial pain in a quivering sweep of muscle. After the initial--hopeless--attempt to free himself he leaned down to peer at Oz on his own level, ignoring the thread of pain it caused his hand.

Very calmly, almost affectionate tone. "Mate, if you don't let go, I'm going to shove the hand you have so far down your throat it will exit through your asshole. With your heart clenched in the fist."

Spike smiled at Oz very unpleasantly--who wouldn't?--when those eyes met his.

And Oz smiled.

The fuckin' little bastard smiled, and sucked at the bloody wound before releasing it.

Spike was shocked into standstill momentarily before realizing Oz had let his hand loose. And was now covering the cigarette he had been smoking with a pile of dirt.

"Hate that smell." Oz looked up, and after that conversational little tidbit Spike decided it was time to have a little fun with him. Hand for a hand, perhaps.

Or an entire limb. Same difference.

Spiked stepped backwards cautiously, half expecting Oz to rush him right then and there, But Oz stood his ground, still on all fours.

Blood was beaded at the corner of his mouth, congealed ink in the half- light. For a moment Spike could only focus on that, and that this stupid kid had a power that he, Spike, was jealous of.

Oh, to be able to rend into whomever he pleased again, and smile innocently at the victim much like Oz was doing.

But then Oz rose, those muscles tucking themselves away to pretend they were human, and Spike realized Oz had notched himself further along the scale, that there was more wolf than before to contend with.


Fur had begun, spreading from the crotch upwards. Light, downy trail pooling up the center of his stomach to flood out along his chest.

There were also the beginnings of pelt along his shoulders, probably his back, too, though of course Spike couldn't see that. That fur was darker, the roots dark, tipped with copper that matched Oz's natural hair color. The fur along his belly was several shades lighter--the roots being whitish yet with the same reddish tips.

As Spike watched, something fell from Oz's hand. Rather, fell away from Oz's hand.

Oz lifted his hand to look at the nails, or rather the finger where a human nail had fallen from. The look he gave it was one of more annoyance than anything else, and Spike wondered wryly if it was because Oz wanted this part over with faster. All the faster to dig grooves into Spike's bones as he ripped into the flesh.

Another fingernail dropped away as the fingers began to lengthen, and then another. Leaving his fingertips bare and very, very vulnerable.

Just the sight of those naked tips made Spike curl his own fingers inward to a fist, protectively. Fuckin' creepy, even creepier when set in tandem with the nonchalant look Oz studied them with.

But the lazy, impatient look was quickly replaced when the first new nail began to burrow its way outwards from Oz's flesh.

Spike found himself stepping forward again, once again ignoring safety for entertainment. He'd already died once, but this was something new. Nails popping was a thing he had never knew happened. This was warped, and...and neat.

Oz slitted his eyes against what must have been more or less like wasp bites. Giant, mutated wasps from the underworld, that is. Not that Spike was feeling pity.

And after reaching a length of two inches on some fingers, the nails stopped their growth.

Oz grinned widely enough that Spike could see that the clever, sharp teeth went all the damn way back in his jaw.

Oz met Spike's eyes, shrugged. Still keeping a refined attitude despite the blood and talons.

"Sometimes you have to sacrifice the innocents to get the powerful, isn't that what you subscribe too, Spike?" Oz waggled his fingers, watching the moonlight run along the curved surface.

"Delightful," said Spike. Aiming for sour but having a hard time getting past awed. The best he could do was disinterested.

But the thing was, well, while Spike was far from still inside, inside where it was going to count quite soon....Oz probably was that calm and collected. Reticent guts, knowing they weren't going to be on the steaming ground, no matter that Spike silently promised them that, yes, they would.

And that is what was drawing yet scaring Spike. Self-confidence like he was being shown could only be adopted by very few. Spike knew the difference between bravado and knowing, and this young man was not putting Spike on.

Manifest brand of surety. Oh, yeah, Spike knew about those types. Had lived with one once upon a time; the very one whom had taken his life the first time around. The other one he knew, well, right now wasn't the time to think of the Slayer.

Ok, fuck this, because Oz was running a clawed hand up his silken belly, swirling the hair aside enough that Spike could see that Oz had nipples, had an entire surreal row of them marching down his chest, and. And anyone with more than one set of nipples was, in Spike's experience, not one to mess with.

Spike let his eyes flicker left to right for an escape, knowing it wouldn't be enough, too little to late. He had thought Oz wasn't out for blood, mistake. Oh, yeah, a mistake right up there with any Spike had made, and unlike the Slayer with her human rules and mores, he was in nature's game now. Where the crows and vultures will pluck your eyes out with you still bloody watching, will eat you up and simply not spit you out.


The fuckin' foreplay was killing Spike, and while he'd rather live a few more moments with all limbs intact; this was boredom. Boredom of a situation, more precisely. Couldn't have that, no matter what the outcome. He wished for the vodka suddenly, to go out in style with if that was what was to happen.

Spike threw himself to the left, rolling low to the ground.

Oz had apparently known what Spike was going to do as soon as the mind had begun to tell the body, and he was already there.

There to actually catch Spike, his forward momentum plowing him perfectly into the clawed grasp waiting.

Spike struggled against the arms entrenched in his chest and thigh, ignoring the knowledge he was bleeding and putting on a show that would tempt forth the werewolf even more. Now was not the time to see if those nature shows were right about pack hierarchy, now was the time to claw and bite with his own fangs. Fangs that suddenly seemed inadequate compared to the ones clamped on his shoulder. Fuck, he only had two, while Oz felt like he had a thousand, at least. Each one coated with buzzing, teeming saliva that would turn him Pack if he had been human. As it was, he could feel the effect of it. His body was immune to the final disease, yet not the initial drugged quality of it.

He knew that the bite affected humans much the way a spider bite did, scratching lines of pain beneath the skin, and that was there. But since his body was rejecting the virus--or magic, poison, whatever-- right then he was also overcome with the sensations inherent to the bite. Sudden pacific weakness and dreamy bending of the world outside his eyes.

Spike decided to now try the intellectual route, to not fight and adopt a still, rag-doll attitude. Just long enough to let the vampire blood distill the werewolf saliva...

"Lay or fight, it's all the same to me," Oz whispered in his ear before returning his mouth to the wound to nuzzle it. Vampire-like, very vampire-like and so very intimate from a vampire perspective.

Spike rolled over onto his back despite the pain it caused, so that Oz was lying beneath him.

"Kill me or let me go, whelp, the build-up is growing monotonous. I'm sure we both have better things to do, and if killing me is what's gonna happen, get on with it already so I don't have to put up with your stinking pelt along my skin."

Take that, mate. And sniff it to see how much decieving content is contained. Smell nothing, eh?

"Kill you? No..." Oz let the lightly amused words trail off, surprising clear and human despite the teeth.

Oz dug his claws in deeper, causing Spike to utter a sound in response, and then Oz was back on top, and Spike realized that perhaps he wasn't going to die after all.

Because Oz had said so, and he knew that an Oz--ex-Slayer groupie extraordinaire--that still was capable of human speech and action wouldn't kill him. Not even if he was a vampire, because, and scoff at this shit, he was fucking usable by the Slayer.

So what? All this so Oz could smell his coat, maybe actually eat it?

Apparently so, the way Oz was rolling his head along Spike's side, head burrowed beaneath the duster. Spike wished that the claws would loosen, but no, they were getting tighter if anything.

Far too wrapped up in Oz's grip to escape, Spike let his head fall back and tried to ignore the pain. Let the fading effects of the saliva be overrode by his own system. Once that happened, it would be as if he had a vaccination. Good for a long, long time.

Spike couldn't help but feel, though, that Oz was doing more than just sniffing him. He has rubbing himself along the side of the duster, rythmic heat warming Spike's leg.

Here's hoping that this's just for scent marking purposes, thought Spike, before raising himself enough to get a better view of the action.

No, no, that was definately more than random movement, that was a very aroused Oz getting off on his leg, masterbating along Spike.

As if he could read that Spike had focused on his actions more directly, Oz loomingly, Sunday-slowly, pulled his head out from under Spike's jacket.

Not a word was spoken by either of them. And even though Spike knew he should advert his gaze, he didn't--just stared long and hard at the eyes mere inches from his, taking in the way Oz's nose twitched, the scented heat of Oz's breath on his forehead.

"I need this," Oz murmered easily, and leaned forward to nip Spike's chin, just hard enough to make Spike clench his jaw a little. "And I caught you. Sooo...."

Another amused chuckle with tongue lolling a bit, Oz peering at Spike's face as if wondering where to take the first lick and nibble.

"I don't think so, mate," Spike gritted out, amazed at the sudden turn of events. Pipsqueak wanted to lay him? Not that Spike was against being layed, not that Spike was against men, not that Spike was against inter-species fucking.

It was, was just so unexpected, and Damn, he had been doing something before Oz found him. Granted, all it involved was a bottle of cheap liquor, but that was besides the point. Spike wasn't some...whore...that could thrown over a shoulder half his size and carried off!

But apparently Oz didn't know that, probably wouldn't care even if told, and the rubbing was becoming more insistant along his leg.

"Hold it, hold it..." Spike trailed off when Oz paused, not sure how to handle this situation. "Why the fuck should I?" Well, it was a good question, if nothing else...

Spike continued, trying to stall for time. 'I'm not gonna roll around with you on the ground and let you rub your hairy ass all over me, kid. I'm not gonna let you give me head with those damned teeth, and I am sure not going to place any part of my anatomy inside a place that probably smells like dog shit."

Oz blinked at that, dumbstruck. So the little fucker thought he was all that desirable, eh?

Spike smirked at Oz, wrinkling his brow at him. Baring his teeth so that Oz could see the fangs, Spike continued. "The best that you can hope for is to give a donation to the cause, help a--"

He was interupted by a growl. It came out liquidly rightous, at first a vibrating clatter Spike could feel in his head like a burr. It grew, gaining more substance and vitality as it traveled its way up Oz's throat, an organic engine revving up.

Revving up, and dang, perhaps Spike had pushed the kid as far as he could, despite his status as a Slayer Dependant.

Oz looked pissed, very. pissed. And dangerously competitive as he snapped the growl off with a click of the jaws, letting it drop away.

"I'm not getting it Spike, don't you see? In Rome, Spike, in Rome..." astonishing Spike, Oz eased from his body, and began to circle him where he sat.

"What the hell does that mean, you. little. shit?" Spike spat the words out, covering up his fear with all the anger he could muster. Spike had let himslef forget that despite the appearance of Oz, it was still full moon.

And Oz was still undoubtedly in the position of having the upper hand.

"I mean, you're not in charge here Spike. I am. You are in my place."

Spike rolled his eyes, feeling the first pure threads of anger running through his mind, pushing the demon, pushing himself to end this.

"Your place? Fuck you, this is your place. You'll never have a place..." He let the words drift away as he stood and motioned towards Oz.

"Come and get it, mutt. I wanna see this"

Oz flashed a smile--or a frown, it was all the same in the half light, that grizzled mouth--and sprang forward from the ground, not directly at Spike, but from an angle.

But this time Spike was prepared.

Oz tried to claw into Spikes chest as he plowed into him, but Spike had crouched down, and had his hands under Oz before Oz could fully connect. Spike used the momentum to flip Oz, Oz's claws scarping grooves up his forearms.

Then Oz was several feet away, shoulder hard to the ground, breath knocked out from his body is a growling wail.

Spike bounced back up, twirling to face Oz, a reckless smirk on his face.


Oz glared balefully at Spike, and this time was more prepared, more aware that the prey was able to defend itself.

Claws scrabbled into the soil, throwing up divots, and Oz was up and running to Spike's left, making Spike wonder if he was fleeing.

But at the last moment, before he would have entered the trees and left Spike's site, he doubled back, the motion so smooth and unexpected that Spike was only able to register being clawed before he was alone.

Spike twirled around peering into the trees, clutching at the deep slice in his thigh. Between the scratches on his arms and chest, along with the bite on his shoulder, he was loosing a lot of blood. And now this, a fucking nightmarish game of hide and seek.

Spike was panting without need, the adrenaline and knowledge that he was not--unless he ran again--going to come out on top tonight, making his body react in nostalgic human ways.

But Spike wasn't going to run, that would be the stupidest thing he could do, and fuck it, he was mad. A twenty-year old baby on top of the vampire's game? Crowding him towards fear for his life?

Spike felt a tingle at the back of his neck, a preternatural gasp, and he spun a kick behind himself. Catching--oh, yeah, oh hell yeah!--Oz right in the chest, as he tried to pull that sneaking approach again.

"Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me." Spike loped over to Oz, recovering quickly. Not as quickly as a vampire, luckily. "And I ain't falling for that trick twice, mate."

Spike kicked Oz, knowing the right place to get the right response. The response he was planning to get more of, enough to sate his ears. A yelping yowl of pain. Splintering give under his foot as a rib gave away.

Spike dropped down next to Oz, who was squirming in a wholly delightful way, in Spike's opinion. He grabbed the back of Oz's hair, pulling the head back enough that the bones of his neck grinded together in brittle protest.

"Like that, eh?" The words Spike said, they meant shit. Spike always rambled during this part, this joyful, oozing sport.

He spat into Oz's face before using his free hand to smack Oz's face hard enough that the force tore Oz's head free from Spike's grasp, leaving hair still in his clutch.

And Spike tossed his head back then to grin up at the moon, to give it a salute. Not everyday he got to hurt the living anymore, and he thanked the moon for giving him the chance through its werewolf gift.

Spike considered the figure on the ground before him, wondering if he could only hurt him during the full moon, or if once in completely human form the chip would stop him.

Well, apparently he could fuck up the kid in half-wolf form, so...why ask?

Spike looked down at the sensation of a hand scrabbling at his boot. He raised a foot up into the air, balancing on the other.


He said it softly, questioning, and Oz dully turned his head towards that voice. Spike waited till he saw Oz's eyes travel from his face to his raised foot.

Then Spike brought his foot down as hard as he could.

And instead of satisfying snap and rubbery texture under his foot, the claw was around his ankle.

And Spike was on the ground, with sweaty, burning flesh slamming over him. Then on his back before he could even acknowledge that he wasn't standing anymore.

A tongue wormed its way along his cheek, and he was caught, oh caught like a rabbit in a breathing snare, and then a claw was scraping its way over his mouth, silencing him before he had a desire to speak.

"Thanks. Now I won't feel so bad about this."

A completely serious, honest tone of voice, or was he going nuts and hearing things? But no, the soft words continued to breathe through his hair, the hot, musty breath pooling into the nook behind his ear.

"In fact, not at all. Nope....." The words convulsed into a chittering, warped laugh. ".....Thanks for not being human. Will's scent..." Oz took a moaning whiff of air, trembling with what ever words it whispered to him, caressed his mind with.

"It burns me, Spike.....and the wolf regains some control, and it only wants two things." Oz slid his tongue along the side of Spike's face, leaving a trail.

Oz shifted, pushing Spike's head to the ground and using his other arm to twist a struggling Spike so that he was on his knees.

"And wolves don't really like dead flesh, Spike."

And oh shit oh Hell, Spike knew what Oz was saying, what this entire ordeal was leading to. He had smelled his girl on Spike, it had released the wolf in all its Fuck and Kill glory, and Spike was gonna get it, Spike was gonna be raped, and that hadn't happened since Angelus, and he had swore it would never happen since.

And Oz confirmed it, silky calm human voice Oz-ing out the words, "'Fraid it leaves the other option, Spike. I'm sorry...but hey...." Flippant wordage, and Oz must have knew that because the full throated laugh he spat swirled upwards until it was an air-rending howl.

One claw still held Spike's head to the ground, with Oz's weight distributed so that the rest of his body was just as prone. Oz used the free claw to shove the bottom of the duster to the side, and then he spidered a hand over Spike's unresponsive crotch, feeling for the fly.

Oz growled impatiently after fumbling at it for a few moments, and with a downward flick of the wrist, tore the material enough so that he could tug the fly open.

Spike uttered a strangled, shocked protest of "Hey!" He hoped to keep his balls past tonight.

Oz growled at slapped the back of his head, cutting the words off cleanly. Shaking away the greyed indigo clouds it caused to his vision, Spike sighed. There wasn't much he could do now....

Sudden shock of fresh air and furred crotch as the jeans were pushed to his knees, and Oz responded in kind--rolling himself against Spike's smoothness.

Purring hiss at the feel, leaving Spike to hope that Oz might just get off by further grinding.

Oz slid himself up far enough to reach Spike's head, nuzzling against the neck wound. Spike was reminded of vampire intimacy once again. No sooner than his mind considered the notion, his penis grasped the idea and swallowed it whole. Coming to buzzing, blooming life.

Fuckin Angelus and his bedroom habits, coming back to bite Spike in the ass all these years later.....

Oz froze behind him, no doubt smelling the change in the air.

" much better, Spike." Oz's own erection was a throbbing rock at Spike's backside, twanging and gaping with sudden little twitches. "Just, ah. Just."

Oz swallowed, not finishing whatever thought had been crossing his head.

And so much for werewolf foreplay, because he could feel Oz nudging at his cheeks, splaying them open with his cock. "yess..."

Spike grunted with half amusement, half horror. Oz the bedroom chatter? Who would've thought. Now that there was no going back, Spike was just going to sit back, well, lay with his face in the dirt and take it for now.

Not that his own renegade penis wouldn't mind some comforting, shit-- his body had earned it with the beating it had taken. But.

But Spike would abide by the moon's choice in the winner for now, keep his faith. For now.

Maddening pressure then, itching, shuddering denial from his mind and confirmation from his groin.

And Oz pushed harder at that small opening, teasing at it, as if he relished that he had enough human left at that point to take pause, to bath in the victory and its spoils.

And Oz was just rocking, hand away from Spike's head to grasp his hip, other claw lightly cupped at the tender flesh of Spike's stomach. Warning him, yet teasing with its heated closeness to his smoldering cock.

Spike drew a shuddering, gruff sigh, pissed at himself that this would arouse him. I'm a fucking slut, he thought. Then shrugged the thought away with the ease with which it came. Like he'd ever cried over that.

Spike realized what Oz was doing, Oz was such a fucking nice guy, a critter of inane thoughtfulness even then, that Spike wanted to slap him and tutor him on how to rape someone the right way.

Oz was trying to moisten the slit, coat himself with something, anything that his penis would dribble, and Spike thought that the lubing just might be ok, because the precome from the tip of Oz's was copious, was sliding down Spike's crack to drip to the ground. oh, yeah, thank Heaven for little werewolves....

But Spike made the mistake of laughing at that, of sniggering enough to draw Oz's attention, and Oz responded by ramming, ripping a tunnel into Spike, nearly pushing Spike completely to the ground. Would have, if Oz's claws had not ushered him back to his knees, made him push back against Oz despite the ice-crisped pain, pain so hot it ceased to even have a comparable sensation. Just angered pleasure and painless torture, and oh there anyway to describe the feeling? Spike didn't know, just knew the demon--

--the demon inside was coating itself with that painful entry, enjoying it despite what Spike's body was screaming otherwise.

And then Oz was pulling back, and Spike just knew there was blood back there, it'd been so long since Angelus had the honor that there'd have to be, and Oz was whining gaping gasping, "So long, oh god, been So long..."

And In and Out again, a pause as Oz roll-snapped his hips for the extra pleasure afforded. Spike was still erect, still seeping lust through a demon soul that must have called to the wolf in Oz, and who gives a shit if any their lost humanity was standing present right now, present and trembling and crying, and Oz sounded like he was crying the way he was gasping air and hitching his body.

Apparently it had been a long time since Oz had had sex, much too long by the wolf's standards, and Spike could sense that Oz was about to climax, very shudderingly soon.

And Spike's body mewled a bit at that, even though his logic rejoiced. The body, oh the body was enjoying this and sucking it dry. Was feasting on the way he was filled with werewolf, was lapping up the way sharp claws angled marks along his hips and scraped along earlier wounds, pulling at the bloodied edges.

And Oz? He was caught in the final rhythm, as if he body was struggling against fleeing and staying. Spike teased him further along by clenching muscles he knew would rub along Oz's engorged penis, and was rewarded by a swipe of claws down the back and Oz howling out his pleasure.

Stiffened body behind him, leaking red cock removed, and it was over.

Just. Well, interesting had been the thought earlier, but this was downright temping the way Oz flopped onto his back alongside Spike. One claw still resting on Spike's stomach, as if in token restraint. Chest heaving, pale fur matted with sweat and Spike's blood. Oz's eyes were cloudy with release, and he threw an arm over them then, swiping away sweat and grime.

Spike lay there, mentally calculating what to do next.

Oh, never mind. He had known as soon as Oz had challenged him, dared to mock him and as for the fuck? Well, at this point it was a silent shrug in Spike's mind. Sex was not the reason.

Revenge for spilt pride, however. Oh, he thought so, he thought yes.

Spike rolled over, Oz stiffening. But Spike was gently slow, and started by running a hand up Oz's chest, ruffling the fur away to reveal the multiple canine nipples.

"Odd," remarked Spike, and leaned in to kiss a startled Oz.

Oz didn't respond at first, letting Spike nip at his lips. But he was too tired --wonder why? Thought an irked Spike--to protest a patient Spike and let his mouth fall open enough to let the vampire run a cool tongue along the bottom row of teeth.

Coddling his sense of safety, and Spike continued until Oz's eyes began to drop further. Trusting, thought Spike, of the scheme of things. Years of experience working against him, saying that the only nightmare that would get him was himself if he wasn't careful. And oh, Spike knew of the trip Oz had taken very well, was smart enough to ken that Oz was the type to covet control and the light.

What would happen if he couldn't wake from the nightmare? If the light was stolen forever?

Small nuzzle to Oz's cheek, and then Spike lunged at Oz's neck, Oz realizing too late what was to happen.

No pain, no pain or Spike would have died right there by Oz's hand. But apparently Oz was just on the far side of not human, enough to let Spike take his life, if he wanted to.

Oh, yes, revenge was sweet as the blood, and Spike could easily ignore Oz's scrabbling, noble fights and let his blood-starved body have its fill. Lycanthropic blood, easing the flesh back over his cuts and welts, healing and absolving and this was a plan to beat all others.

Spike drew back with a gasp of pleasure that sent an arc of blood raining from his mouth down onto a weakened, dieing Oz.

Spike grinned. "Thanks. Now I won't feel so bad about this."

Oz's own words flung back down at him, and Spike could see in the inky eyes and how the words splattered there, that Oz understood.

Spike lifted a pliant arm, and used one of Oz's own talons to slit his wrist. Fitting.

It wasn't anything amazing, much like being turned werewolf for a human was like. A small act, and you were damned. Silence as the sticky fluid was dribbled into Oz's mouth, filling the cracks between gleaming teeth with blackness. Spill the blood in; spill the soul out.

Painful loss as Oz's body reacted and began to lap at the wound. Regenerated blood, pulling new fibers inside to meld with the wolf. The human pushed further back, echoed loss and screams.

The secrets of living fading, fading from his eyes, and Oz slept fit to die. Oh, yes.

Spike moved over to a rock a ways from Oz--the Oz-corpse, for now--and lit a much abused, tattered cigarette. His own body was worse for wear, despite the blood. Funny night, it had been.

But worth it, none the less.

Because can you say sweet? A minion, after all this time, strong and weren't wolves supposedly protective as hell? Find his new guard dog a spiked collar come tomorrow night...

And Sunnydale? Well, he had stayed there because of lack of protection, and for free blood.

So why go back? He had a werewolf and vampire and lackey all rolled up into one dynamic package.

Oh, this was great. This was fucking awesome. Spike couldn't wait for his new pet to wake, to see the bruises blooming in those eyes, realizing he had been punished with eternal life in a form he detested. A form close enough to human that he could never forget, yet far enough away he could never blend, never leave his sire for fear. Of.

Of what? Spike didn't know yet, but he would soon, soon. Divine that knowledge with a fractured game, rise and fall of words and actions and devotional confiscation.

Spike leaned back. Pleased with the ironic situation. Very much so.

Ironic was a shrill collective myth, he thought. Irony was believing that to see you must stare. Doubt it, prefer to swing from the edge of everything, thank you very much.

So Spike got up, leaving the irony smashed into the soil along with his cigarette, and went to move his new toy to a place of darkness.

Wait for the day to revolve to night, evolve Oz into Spike's night.