Disclaimers: None of them belong to me. I revel in my life
Spoilers: Brief S5 ones.
Summary: Boundaries and ground rules.
Ratings Note: NC-17 for sex, violence, death, and property
Author's Note: They make me feel all glittery inside. Picks
up a few hours after "Fall."
Acknowledgments: To Puca for brainstorming, Craww for
bribery, and Debba and Sheila for audiencing and
encouragement. It takes a village, people.
Feedback: Give it to me, baby. firstname.lastname@example.org
Waking up is a brief, passionate series of revelations.
Lucidity, need, and a rage so large that it should be terrifying.
It is, in fact, the most beautiful thing Oz has ever seen... until
he opens his eyes to find Giles looking down on him, smiling
that perfect mathematical curve of a smile, tracing its opposite
number on Oz's own mouth.
Sire. Giles. Giles who *chose* him.
Oz closes his eyes again, and sucks gently and steadily on Giles'
The first slap follows on the heels of Oz's first "no."
No, he would not leave off his slow, careful destruction of
Tara's body, not before he had tasted her heart, not before
he had howled through the gore streaked tube of her
esophagus. Not before he had read the auspices in the loop
and knot of her entrails.
Tara is beautiful, knowable in this state. He lives, while she
does not. Doesn't he deserve to be able to do what he wishes?
The first slap is followed by many others, as well as being
tossed over the edge of the loft to land on the somehow
*grasping* surface of a grimoire, snapping and snarling,
but offering his belly just the same.
The wolf and the demon agree on the nature of his relationship
to Giles. On his *place*. The part of Oz that had lived long
before either power entered his life is ruefully amused and
enraged and desperately horny.
Giles grasps Oz's naked cock, squeezes just enough to make
Oz whine, once. Short and high.
And then he is left, the orders unspoken but clear -- clean up
his mess, dispose of the body.
Deduction: Buffy and the rest know nothing about Tara's
death or Giles'... paradigm shift.
Oz's first kill is a nameless older man who happened to be
walking near to his old home. There had been no question that
he would look to Giles for permission before attacking. With
consent his hunger has purpose.
With command, the kill is more true. He tears the man apart,
and leaves the eyeless head on his mother's porch.
Pisses all over the stairs, to the sound of Giles' low chuckle.
Later, in the curiously bland shadow of a hedge, Giles feeds
from him with a slow sort of viciousness that makes his knees
weak, makes his head pound at the suddenly circling
skies. Afterward he needs to feed again, and Giles lets him
have his head, sniffing for trails of... something.
It's a little like standing in front of a stuffed refrigerator,
wanting everything just enough to be able to settle on
nothing. Like those days when he'd wanted to just play every
CD he had at the same time, near scratching at the walls in
the need for music. *Music*.
Does the soul need art?
Will he still need art?
In the end, a touch of satisfaction from a Greek sailor at the
docks who'd smiled at him.
On top of him in a dank alley smelling of old fish, desperately
humping at his crotch while bleeding him dry. While the
sailor moans and prays, staring only at Giles.
Oz understands it.
Giles feeds from him again, gently this time, and only a short
drink. Oz wants to whine.
Wants to be -- in perfect pornographic tradition -- shown his
place, in the way he had once talked about women with
Devon, alone together in Oz's room and jerking off with
Home again at dawn, a careless comment and Oz now knows
that the Scoobies all believe Giles to be on a two week long
buying trip for his magic shop. They keep the shades closed,
they light candles.
Oz both wonders at and chafes at the circumspection.
There is a *Slayer* out there. Buffy. He wants to have gotten
to know her better, because at the moment he doesn't feel
like he can predict her actions. His demon has been killed by
a Slayer once before, and so Oz fears and hates in equal
measure. The wolf can't quite see beyond her being hardly
worth a meal.
There is an interesting amount of contempt between wolf
and demon. Self and self, more fragmented than before, yet
still so much more powerful and sure.
Oz wonders if there are chants for this, runes to carve on
his flesh. What magic to use to make it permanent. Could
he be man and vampire and wolf? Is he now? Would his
soul return, and allow him to weep at this touch?
Giles behind him, now beside. The blindfold is next to
meaningless with Oz's senses. Giles is daubing him with
something cool and slick. It feels no more special than cheap
lubrication, save in brief flashes of... something.
Oz can't quite define it. It's a smell with color, a loud touch.
It's something between an acid trip and a film director
showing off. Oz is on his knees, facing Giles' headboard,
cuffed to either post.
His knees are spread, his body aches for sleep and completion.
His mind will not, will not stop and the flashes are growing
more frequent, more *real* until Oz is barely more than
straddling the wall between his real and another's. By the last
tracing Oz is nowhere and everywhere at once, splintering,
crumbling, tumbling into what could be a singularity of
Thought repeating countless times, through countless selves
and Oz wonders if this is the eternity Giles has chosen for
And settles into it.
The breach comes suddenly, dwarfing a universe of self that
had seemed absolutely endless, shuddering Oz back to himself
one shocking break of sanity at a time. Back and back until the
world coalesces into the hard shoulder under his head, the
teeth in his throat, the claws at his hips, the cock in ass.
Blood bubbling from his mouth as he chews his own lip
helplessly. Sense blind to everything but Giles.
Fucked by a God.
The second time he wakes it's as a terrified starveling. Giles
has left him drained, and Oz remembers everything. Just
thinking about it narrows his vision, leaves him to shake. He
hadn't noticed any rebellion within him before, but is now
absolutely sure that it's utterly gone.
Giles is practical, and has seen child turn against Sire. Oz
knows this will not happen.
Other vampires coming, and when the door opens it's Drusilla
and Spike. Spike smirks and leers at Giles, who returns the
amused lust in kind, but Drusilla stares straight at him.
"Little puppy in the manger..." And she barks at him, smiling.
Raising his hackles and making him wish for a world
Drusilla sways just below the loft, trails her fingers over the
book that took Tara's blood, laughs when they begin to
"Good witches go straight to heaven, puppy, and choke and
choke on cakes and sweets," she assures him. The wolf
awakes, shocks a barking growl out of him and he can *feel*
his bones try to crack, his skin try to stretch, but it won't.
*His* now, *his*, rival bested in battle, even if not by him, and
Willow is *his*. Willow is out there, red and pale and *bright*.
Willow has no mate, Willow needs him, and the howl rips free
even if nothing else does and now he can feel it.
All of their eyes on him.
"Did you have to turn the bloody *werewolf*, Rupert?"
"Well, he *was* housebroken. Did Dru...?"
"Roo roo roo, oh, Spike, listen to how the puppy sings!"
"Yes, love, it's beautiful, but did you... do anything?"
"Puppy misses his mistressss..." And Dru whirls, dipping
low to let the feathered edge of her coat hiss across the floor
and closing her eyes.
"Right. Just between you and me, Rupes, a man can get
used to sanity. Come on down... woss his name again?"
"Oz, right. Come down, Oz. Come on, boy, Spikey's got
nummies for you..."
One pounce to the rail, a second and he's rolling with Spike,
game face on and weirdly devoid of fur. He hadn't noticed last
Spike has a massive, looping scar from eye to well into his
scalp. The eye smells oddly... fresh. Oz snaps at it and earns
a punch in the jaw that stuns him for just long enough that
Spike can wriggle out from under.
One kick, then another, then Giles' voice.
"That will be quite enough, Spike."
"Is that right?"
Oz takes the opportunity to get up, back away, look to Giles.
Who is smiling. *His* smile, knowing and cold. "Yes, it is."
"You may be his sire, Rupert, but you're *my* boy." Closing the
space between them.
"That's not the way it's going to be, Spike."
And Spike's answering smile is sunny, somehow calling Drusilla
back from wherever she was. She stands behind Oz now,
spidery-pale hands on his shoulders, cheek brushing his.
"Watch," she says, and Spike closes the last inch between
himself and Giles.
"'ere, you wanna do this, then?"
Giles shows his teeth, carefully removes his jacket, and leans
in close enough to kiss. "Yes."
And immediately tears into Spike's face with his teeth.
Spike roars, rears back. Throws a punch Giles dodges, another
that he doesn't and Oz needs to has to --
"Only *bad* puppies interfere," and Drusilla's claws slip much too
far into the muscle of his shoulders and Spike's kick takes
a chunk out of the mantle and Giles buries a dagger in Spike's
side and misses with another.
Sudden, odd interstice where Giles and Spike square off neatly,
trading and dodging punches like something out of a silent
film on boxing before Spike lands a blow that sends Giles
over the couch.
Drusilla drags him backward quickly, giggling and tugging at
his hair with her teeth and rubbing her breasts against his
back and Spike leaps over the couch, but Giles catches him in
the stomach with both feet and manages to scramble up and
Eyeing each other and grinning. Giles' eyes aren't cold anymore --
wild and glittering and... joyful. Oz struggles helplessly until
Dru suddenly lifts him, squeezes him to her chest and drinks
and there's not enough left and his veins are screaming and
his demon is weeping and snarling and the sounds of the
fight follow him into blackness.
The third time he wakes it's slow. Easy, familiar and warm,
with a slight hint of the ominous beneath. He burrows
into the softness beside him, breathes deep of sweetness.
Anise, cinnamon lip gloss, and... honey.
Oz opens his eyes to a sleeping Willow, bleeding sluggishly
from a blow to the head. Her brow is furrowed and he
smooths it, wonderingly.
"She's really become quite powerful in your absence, Oz.
With Tara's help her magic was improving daily." Giles'
voice from downstairs and Oz sits up. He's sitting on his
large, distinctly British desk chair, sipping tea. Legs
crossed. Profoundly bruised and battered. His cheek is
Drusilla *becomes*, entering his perception with a sickening
abruptness. She's been at the foot of the bed all along,
tearing Willow's skirt into long, thin strips.
Spike is on the couch, flipping through the channels. He's
nowhere near as bruised, though his scent is strangely...
It is day outside, and his family surrounds him with quiet
Oz's hunger is a part of him now, Willow is there.
Oz stares down into the living room again, and finds himself
the focus of Giles' smile.
Continued in Proscenium.