There's this dream Xander's having, and it's a doozy. A no-more pineapple soda and port wine cheese before bed kind of doozy, as a matter of fact.

It starts out normal, just him on the couch with some buds watching TV. Commercial comes on and Xander goes into witty commentator mode, which makes Jar Jar start giggling and flopping his leathery ears. Oh yeah, that was a good one. He makes proper note of the timing and wording he'd used, but then he realizes that he's actually writing it down, which is anything but cool.

Which is patently obvious because Yoda is sitting cross-legged on top of his TV, giving him the Look. He's a bad, bad Padawan who'll never ever ever never be no good, all right.

"You must learn from your experiences, Xander. Else all is lost."

And yep, Obi-Wan who is also Oz has arrived, but putting the braid on him just makes him look really, really 80s.

Xander considers himself open-minded, though, so he goes with it.

"What's my lesson of the day, Ozzy-Wan?"

That gem makes Jar Jar laughs so hard he winds up whanging Xander in the face with his ears multiple times. Like being smacked with somebody's leather vest which just reminds him of every night that wasn't Ladies' Nite back at Rock Solid.

Lots of leather in the audience those nights. Aging investment bankers and slumming frightened frat boys tricked out in creaky black and embarrassed sweat.

Still looking better than Xander, though, because dear God, he's doing that number. Rock's punishment for Xander's only giving one week's notice. His last night at the club and Rock had spent the whole week fixing Xander up right. Even threw in some roughly choreographed new steps, because Xander was going out In Style.

And then he's on stage, tossed, literally, out there by a Rock who suddenly has Greek letters tattooed on his chest and big, mean smile. It's a touchstone to the reality that isn't there, but all that means is that Xander will know he's stuck in the fucked up world of his own subconscious until (if) he wakes up.

He's all glittery. The lights make him sparkle at the whole damned room, lots of little rays of sparkle that start to dance even as he watches. Only it's not the rays so much as it's him, 'cause it hadn't take him long to learn how to move his ass for the crowd.

Jar Jar seemed to be the official leatherdaddy of the evening, complete with hat and bushy black mustache. The rest of the people in the club were just wet eyes and tightly glistening mouths, never blinking, never speaking, just watching and watching and watching him glitter and prowl and shake to something old and vaguely Bowiesque.

He slithers and crawls over to the Obiwolf, fearlessly running his beautiful painted fingernails over the lengthening muzzle, over taut lips and between rows of sharp, sharp teeth. It's like... it's like something primitive and sacrificial between them, some apology he can never really make now so instead Xander's on his back and running his hands all over his chest and belly.

It's good, really good. Even when he realizes that he's already naked, g-string vanished. Nothing but the vaguely shocking thatch of dark hair he's tugging at and that's nowhere near enough to hide his rising cock.

His nails are gold-green.

They look wonderful against his skin.

The music slows down as he works himself, something about Major Tom being a junkie and tinkling keyboards that are so right with the way he shines to the ceiling. He knows he's breaking about a million of Rock's rules but he just can't bring himself to care, not when it's only a dream that he has to be in anyway... He can make it up to him somehow, he knows it, knows it where he shudders and burns.

And then they're all around him, the dewy eyes and the leather and the absolute least scary thing he can see is the barely recognizable Ozwolf leaning down into his face. His whiskers tickle and scratch at Xander's own.

Xander's own whiskers sliding out from his spotted muzzle as his pretty claws just barely avoid making things ugly by making things even better and he can laugh and writhe and twist himself into this new shape, this newness of fur and bright hot sex and Oz's paws fumble a bit but he still manages to smear bright red lipstick across Xander's muzzle.

Cool, and slick-thick and just a little greasy and fuck yeah it's just what he needs as the mouths fall on him from above and eat him and use him and take him and grow fat on Xander's moans and sharp nipples and spurting cock and helpless, helpless body.

The moment of waking is brief and blessedly inconclusive.

Xander slides a bit away from the stickiness and goes back to sleep.