Requirements: Spike/Oz, season two, in an alley behind the Bronze
Ratings: PG-13 for violence and naughty language. The boys just wouldn't take their pants off no many how many times I tried.
Addictive quality of the slashficathon: For all my whining, oh yes, I will definitely sign up again.
Thanks to: The people who talked me through my panic and millenia for helping me get past an amazing amount of alliteration.
He hadn't expected to find the next coming of the Clash in this backwater town, to make a visit to the local gathering spots for the young and angry and find guitar riffs that made you want to light up after. Expectations were low, but anything seemed worth a trip when Dru had gone on one of her own.
But he'd at least expected them to hit the right notes.
The alley was a particularly dank one for a town this size. Blood, trash, and urine mingled together to create the perfume common to choice feeding spots. The last was a nice little extra to a day's tally. It was always the gorillas in casual wear that lost control of themselves and added humiliation to their terror.
Those prats onstage wouldn't even process what was happening to them. They hadn't had the brains to handle that long slow slide at the beginning of the third number.
Spike leaned against the wall and lit up, despite the disappointment of the evening. It was a distraction from the need to go in there right now and show off a bit of righteous anger that his first night free had been ruined. Being trapped in this town was a handicap all on its own, no wheelchair needed.
An inch of ash had crumbled to the ground when the door finally creaked open. He smiled, turned, and prepared to tear out this Dingo's throat before it had the chance to mangle any more of Joey's babies. "Took you bloody well long enough."
"Dingo, right?" He looked the boy over: short, distinctive features, hair with a color as fake as his own. Not the singer he'd been hoping for, but there was something to be said for looming over a meal.
"Actually, we have our own names." The boy kept walking by. Unflappable. Annoying, really. No respect for the creatures of the night, and not the slightest bit of fear that his head would be pulled loose like a Pez dispenser.
"Wanted to chat you up about that set."
"Oh." He stopped and turned, a different tone filling his voice. "Oh! Are you..." The words didn't come easily. It was no wonder they seemed unfamiliar. "A big enough fan to wait outside. There's a change."
One step closer, then two. "Call me an autograph hound."
A flash of something was behind the boy's eyes. Unease, confusion, nerves; he wasn't sure just what name to put to it. Another step and the prey started backing up, looking casual as ever until the wall blocked further escape. He gave a nervous laugh and said, "Hey, all you need to do is ask."
"Not much for polite." The pain of shifting bones and stretching flesh was over in just a moment, hardly a concern when it earned a wave of fear that encompassing. "Bit hungry, though."
A litany of curses broke free as the boy dove for the door. Too slow by half, Spike smirked to himself as he rammed him against the wall. Palettes and broken furniture kicked by flailing legs was then the only sound in the alley as he closed his hand around a mouth opening for a yell. "You ruined Time Bomb," he said through a too-full mouth. "And for that, you must pay."
His fangs slid in, feeling like they were easing straight into the boy's heart. Great fluttery gasps escaped as he drank each spurt, and the boy sounded for all the world like he was in the middle of the greatest sex of a life cut short. Hell, getting fanged by him probably was better than any mortal could pull off in the bedroom. Fingers curled around his waist and threaded through gel-slick hair. One deep pull, then another, and then a taste so revolting hit his mouth that he instinctively shifted to human face to assure everything was free of that tainted blood.
Searing pain ripped through his chest, just two inches into the safety zone. The boy put one hand to his bleeding neck as he fumbled for another impromptu stake with the other. Spike looked down at the chair leg sticking out of his rib cage, then stared at the prey. "What are you?" he demanded. "Got an aftertaste of wet dog."
"Name's Oz, and if you come any closer, I won't miss."
"Oz?" he repeated in a too-high voice of derision. "Like the wizard?"
"Yeah, and what's yours?"
He opened his mouth and immediately closed it again. Not the best time to be bringing up nicknames if he'd opened up that particular can of worms labeled "mock the offbeat." What he'd been tasting finally processed and a laugh broke free. "Wandered into 'Teen Wolf,' did I?
"Not really. Don't play basketball." For all his joking, Oz was clutching a broken pool cue with a fierce grip.
"Awfully brave for a snack." Spike cocked his head to one side, then asked, "One of the Slayer's pals, then?"
"Making up for all the terseness they lack. Suppose someone has to."
That aftertaste was still strong in his mouth as he waited for the boy to process what he was doing. An open path back to the club was being cleared. No need to kill the boy now, it'd just ruin the moment that would really bring down the goddamn house. The light of understanding filled Oz's eyes, and Spike did a spot-on job of feigning ignorance of what he was about to do.
Witch, in the library, with the orb. The boy hadn't told him, but he hadn't needed to. Not when Dru had started moaning about just such a party and the slab of meat in leather pants and hair gel had started up with his plans.
With no meal in the equation, hearing about those kills secondhand would be nearly as good as doing this deed himself. A smirk crossed his face as Oz ducked away to the slaughter.