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Gloryhole part 2
The money stayed with Forsythe, and in a few weeks' time there were a couple of new establishments on the West Side, neither one quite as upscale as the original Forsythe's, but appropriate to the locale. Spike walked past one on a semi-regular basis, en route to one of the rocker bars where he drank his whiskey and blood. Looked like a popular place. Looked to be making money. Good. The deal was seven and a half percent, back in his pocket in six months. He was toying with the idea of a move. Maybe London, maybe somewhere on the continent. He hadn't been to Europe since before the world ended.
He was toying with the idea, but he wasn't making any definite plans, and part of him knew he wouldn't, because there was something keeping him in the city now. Something with brown hair and brown eyes and a familiar profile. A puzzle, a bauble, a pain in the neck. Well, actually, Troy was a pretty agreeable guy. Unlike Xander Harris, who hadn't made any definite appearances since that first visit, that glimpse of numb, fractured memory. A friend of mine cast a spell...
Spike thought about that from time to time--Red's spell. Wondered how long it was supposed to protect Harris, and from what, exactly. Speaking strictly as a bystander, he thought it could have included a few more pre-emptive clauses.
He'd been back to Forsythe's since that first visit, of course. After working out the financial details, after Forsythe had been magnanimous and understanding about the marks he'd left on Troy ("No problem, no problem at all. It's more common than you think, especially if you haven't had a human in a while..."), after they'd drunk another round of whiskey and blood to the future of the venture, and after Spike had arranged himself into a series of provocative-but-casual positions that made Forsythe stroke his tie with trembling fingers--Spike had let slip that he wouldn't mind seeing Troy again sometime. Forsythe lit up like a martyr afire.
"Absolutely, love to see you back again, maybe we can interest you in a couple of the others as well, or at the same time, no problem at all, we'll set you up an account, get you all squared away, told you, it's a growth industry and we're on the bleeding edge--"
And so on. When was convenient for Spike to visit again? Spike reflected on the wasteland of his social calendar--cat, VCR, Passions--and allowed that he might make it by on Thursday. Maybe. Forsythe looked regretful.
"Sorry, that's just two days away, he won't be healed up by then, and we don't let them work if they're not in top condition. It's a policy, you know how it is, everyone who visits has to be able to believe that they're the only one who visits."
"They're whores," Spike said. "You think people don't know what they're doing here?"
"Of course, but you understand, if you came here and saw Troy with someone else's fingerprints all over him, it would ruin the illusion, and it's the illusion that we're selling. The illusion that the time you spend with Troy is unique and special. That nobody else is with him the way you are."
Spike leaned forward, palms together between his knees. "I put those marks on him."
"So you did." Forsythe was nodding, looking sage. "Don't worry, no need to apologize again, it's all taken care of--"
"I didn't apologize," Spike said. "And if I put the marks on him, and I remember doing it, how does that ruin the bloody illusion?"
"I see your point," Forsythe said, still nodding. "I see your point, Spike. But it's a very strict policy we have, if we change the rules for you we'd have to change them for everyone, and it's the rules that set us apart from Hooters, isn't it? It's the rules that let us charge the rates we do, and that make us the money we make, and that keep our visitors happy."
Stuff the rules, Spike thought, but he smiled and tapped his fingertips together. No point looking too eager. "Right, well. Next week sometime, then."
"That should be fine. Just call the office for an appointment, don't worry about the deposit, that'll be all taken care of, you're a shareholder after all--" Forsythe chuckled, fiddling with his little letter opener. "How was he, by the way? And don't feel compelled to answer that, I'm only curious, think of it as consumer feedback, we're always trying to improve our services--"
"I'll call the office," Spike said, and walked out.
He'd made an appointment for the following week, the Wednesday. This time he went in through the side door, a little canopied entrance he'd never used before, with a hall that led past a security desk and straight down into the salon. The fire was lit, there was a whiskey and blood chaser waiting on the coffee table. Eerie. He picked the whiskey up and walked over to the shelf where they stashed the menu. Flipped to the Troy page and studied it. Apparently Troy did men and women both, gave good conversation, was sturdy enough for threesomes, and loved sucking dick.
"Long walks on the beach, starlight picnics, and trips abroad," Spike murmured, studying the photograph.
The door opened behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Lou walking in. "Oh look, you're still here."
"Good evening." That must be the script, then. Lou went over to the far wall and stood against it, expressionless and bulky.
"We got off on the wrong footing last time." Spike flipped the book closed and reshelved it. "Let's try this again: you're a complete fucking wanker, and if you touch me again I'll break both your arms off and feed them to you."
"Hey, hey." Xander was walking in, smiling a little nervously. "Watch out, the last person who got on Lou's bad side ended up as a fine layer on the television screen."
Spike, seized with a sudden strange nervousness, swigged his whiskey. Xander was in a dark red shirt this time, and black trousers. A little cliché for a vamp establishment, but it looked good on him, you had to admit. How the hell did they get him so dark? UV bed, must be. Or maybe there was some kind of pen on the roof, for sunning?
"Nice to see you again," Xander was saying, walking toward him with that same fascinating, easy smile. "Thanks for coming back."
"Not a problem," Spike muttered, trapped with his back to the shelf. There was nowhere for him to go when Xander walked right up to him, leaned in, and gently kissed his cheek. It wasn't what he'd expected. It was too bold, too intimate, a gesture calculated to welcome him, arouse him, and put him off his balance, all at the same time. When the hell had Xander Harris got so good at playing this kind of game? Well. That was probably a longer story than he wanted to hear.
"I had a good time before," Xander said softly, his mouth still close to Spike's ear. His smell--skin, soap, hair, blood, the faintest trace of sex--filled Spike's head. It was hard to think with that in the air, especially so close. Especially so warm. "It's really good to see you again."
Easy to believe he meant what he said, no matter what he said, as long as he used that sincere tone. Easy until you remembered that last time he'd landed up gagging on the carpet, and it'd taken him a week to heal the bruises.
"Listen," Spike said, feeling a misplaced twinge of guilt. "About last time--"
"I liked it," Xander said. "Didn't you?"
Spike studied his drink, formulating an answer.
"If there's something I can do differently," Xander said, "I hope you'll tell me. Or show me. I like a lot of things, Spike."
"Says so, yeah." Spike nodded over his shoulder at the menu. "You do a lot of stuff, at least. Looks like."
"That thing...that's just business." Xander gave the album a glance and a shrug. His fingers were on Spike's elbow, somehow. Light, firm touch. "It's kind of embarrassing, really."
"Uh huh." More embarrassing than taking it from rich punters and their wives? Spike wondered. Maybe, yeah. Anyway, it wasn't his right to decide what Xander should feel about anything he did these days. He made a living, or at least he stayed alive. Amounted to the same thing.
"So, can I get you anything?" Xander looked at the coffee table, the shot glass still full and waiting. "They're full-service here, if you want a joint or some E or something..."
"And it goes on the account, I guess." Xander shrugged and smiled. "You get a percentage of everything you sell?"
"Hey, I'm not in it for the percentage. I like what I do." Xander lifted his hand and brushed something, probably imaginary, from Spike's temple. Light, gentle touch. Totally fucking shameless. "Your hair is great, by the way."
"You said that last time." There was nowhere for Spike to step to; he was boxed in against the shelves, so he drained his glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Pass me that shot, will you?"
That got Xander away for a minute, picking up the glass, and gave Spike a chance to clear his head. He was here to talk, mostly. He was curious, he couldn't stop thinking about the Littlest Slayerette, all alone in the world and selling tail to get by--and the only way to satisfy that curiosity was to get Xander alone again. Talk to him. Try to pry under the surface a little more. And maybe, sure, there was the fact of Harris's warmth, his living breathing humanity, and the fact that he gave a hell of a blowjob. All contributing factors. Nothing worthwhile was ever straightforward.
"Here you go." Xander was back with the shot, and Spike reached for it, but Xander held it away. "Let me." He held the glass to Spike's bottom lip, and smiled. "Yeah?"
What the fuck, Spike thought, and opened his mouth. Xander tipped the shot in, and there was blood rich on his tongue, salty-sweet and velvety, the best money could buy. He closed his mouth and let it trickle down his throat, wanting the taste to last. And then Xander leaned in and kissed him, pressing his tongue through Spike's lips, adding his heartbeat to the taste. Spike didn't think, just grabbed Xander's shoulder and ass and ground hard into him. Biting at his mouth, lost in the baffling, incredible hotness of kissing blood with a pulse.
"Jesus--" That was Xander, groaning as soon as Spike came back to earth and let him go. "Jesus, Spike, you'll fuck me this time, right?"
Breathy, begging whisper, and Spike's cock was suddenly iron, even while his brain sang a little song: It all goes on the account, it all goes on the account... Xander begged to be fucked because it was the most expensive thing on the menu, that was all. But at the same time his heart was racing, his color was up, his fingers were warm and damp, clutching Spike's wrist. He might be selling it, but he wanted it too. Or else he was a very good actor. Well, he was definitely that. It was all a sham, really, and Spike was the king of shams, he knew fakery when he saw it.
"Come on," he said roughly, yanking Xander around toward the far door, the one that led to the back rooms. Sham, fake, who cared? "Which way's your room?"
"Fuck, yes." Xander was stumbling ahead of him, his wrist still awkwardly clamped in Spike's hand, reaching with his free hand to open the door. "God, yeah, okay--"
They made it a few steps down the hall before Lou caught up and restored order by removing Spike's hand from Xander's wrist, then blocking Spike's path while Xander kept going down the hall.
"I'm really starting to not like you very much," Spike said, watching Xander let himself into the same room as last time.
"The feeling is mutual," Lou said. "You remember the rates, right?"
"Even got an account now. Bet that makes you all happy inside."
"Two rules." Lou held up two meaty fingers in a peace sign. "No marks. That means no biting. Also means no strangleholds, no friction burns, no bruises. Anywhere."
Spike chose a stony silence for his reply.
"Second rule," Lou said, producing a little white tube, just like the last time. "Use lube."
"A gentleman always does," Spike said, taking the tube from Lou's hand, and sidestepping him. "Too bad your girlfriend doesn't, when she fucks you with that bottlebrush."
Silence behind him, and he closed the door on Lou's professional disdain.
"Where were we?" he asked rhetorically, shrugging his coat off into a lump by the door. "Oh, right. I was going to fuck you into the mattress."
Xander, splay-limbed on the bed, fumbling to unbutton his nice red shirt, gave a low groan. "Jesus Christ--"
"No," Spike said, yanking his boots off. "Just look like him a little. Mostly around the eyes." His shirt came off in one yank, and he started for the bed, already unbuckling his belt. "On your belly, then."
Xander flipped over, still struggling with the button of his trousers, his shirt an expensive red puddle on the carpet. His back was smooth and brown, nicely defined. As Spike watched, he got the button open and shoved his trousers down roughly, as if he couldn't wait another second. No underwear. Xander Harris, scrambling to kick his feet free of his trouser legs so that another man could fuck him. Xander Harris, possessor of a startlingly nice ass. Xander Harris, whimpering and whispering little bits of things that sounded almost like, "Please."
His own jeans partway down, his cock pressing up into his belly, Spike paused. It couldn't actually be this simple, could it? Not with Xander. There had to be a catch, it had to be all a big bait-and-switch, if he got onto that bed a net would drop and he'd be the loser again. Probably a clause in Red's spell that would make his dick fall off. But a lot of other people had been there already, probably some of them repeat customers, and no harm done. And yet... And yet.
Spike stepped out of his jeans, walked to the side of the bed, and stood looking down at Xander's back. His hair was glossy, looked thick and smooth, probably a pleasure to put your hands through. The heat coming off him was intense. He had his forearms crossed under his head, which made his shoulders beautiful and hid his face. His breath was fast and a little unsteady.
"Hey." Xander jumped slightly, then turned his head. His face was flushed, his pupils were black holes. He looked Spike right in the eyes, and smiled.
"Hey." A pause. Concern flickered through Xander's smile. "Um, do you want me to... Do you want something different?"
Without answering, Spike slid a hand along Xander's ribs, down his side, and under his belly. Xander's eyelids fluttered, and he let out a soft groan. He was hard. Hard as a hard thing, hard as a rock, his dick jutting into the sheets like it wanted to fuck the bedsprings. It quivered in Spike's fingers. Damp at the tip.
Still watching Xander's face, Spike slid his hand out. Xander blinked, ran his tongue over his lips, and tried to catch his breath. Between them, Spike rubbed his forefinger and thumb together significantly. They both looked at the moisture there.
"You want this," Spike said, taking a moment to gloat.
"Yeah," Xander said, unceremoniously stealing thunder. "Yeah, I do. A lot. Very much a lot, please."
"Oh shut up," Spike said testily, getting onto the bed behind him. "Where did I put the fucking lube?"
Xander scrabbled in the bedclothes and handed it back. Spike bit the cap off, spat it aside, and ran a lube-slick hand over his own dick, part of his brain still ruminating the strangeness, a little pissed that Xander wasn't putting up any resistance. When he slid a lubed finger between Xander's legs, he got a satisfying, if minor, flinch. Probably just the cold.
His pissiness faded fast once he remembered what he was doing. Once Xander's body heat took over and the lube warmed up, once he had a finger inside Xander's body and a firm grip on his own cock. Xander was making those begging sounds, those please fuck me please now please God yeah sounds, and sinking back onto Spike's hand, the muscles in his back stretching and rolling. Spike had a brief flash of himself in the salon, using the not my style line, and wanted to laugh. Screwing hot, willing humans was everyone's style. When you got the demon, you didn't lose anything of the animal.
He slipped his finger out and got hold of Xander's shoulder, lined his dick up, and there was a moment of unspoken co-operation, of body physics, that got him fully sheathed on the first thrust. Maybe just a little sharp, that first shove, since Xander gave a gasping cry and clawed at the pillow. Spike paid no attention. He knelt where he was, drunk and swaying. So fucking hot, so fucking wet. So much blood, right there in that frail little packet. He could lean over and just nick a vein, just take a little taste...
The thought of Lou, right outside the door, was enough of a damper to bring him in off that particular ledge. He was still buried to the navel in human flesh, though, and that wasn't half bad. Holding Xander's shoulder in one hand and his hip in the other, steadying and balancing him for maximum pleasure, Spike started to thrust.
Sex was good. In the last few seconds his brain had shut down pretty much all activities except for thermal core maintenance, and the only message getting out was monosyllabic: sex good. Great. No reason to do anything else, really. Fucking was pretty much where it was at. He shoved in, Xander writhed and took it, and it was good. He pulled out, and Xander opened up, followed along, panted God please fuck yes into the sheets. Sex was good, it was great, it was a mainline of pleasure right up his spine, naked jags of energy yanking his hips in and out, and he wanted to bite, he wanted to bite, he dropped his head into the sweaty space between Xander's head and shoulder and his hips snapped, Xander cried out, then chewed his lip and started up again fuck me God yeah please Spike please so good--
Spike came with a growl that sounded like cloth tearing, his hands digging into the mattress, his face ridged and hard against Xander's neck. His chest and belly pressed to Xander's hot back. His teeth not in Xander's throat. He only realized that after a minute or two had passed, after he'd rolled off to the side and fallen instantly half-asleep, then jerked back up to wakefulness.
Xander was rubbing his face on his own shoulder, as if the sweat had made him itchy. He noticed Spike's look, and blinked.
"Everything okay?"
His tongue swollen and unwieldy, Spike waved a hand. "Thought...thought I bit you."
Xander shook his head. Then, as if that weren't clear enough, he said, "No."
Spike closed his eyes and floated. His body hummed a little tune to itself. Sex is good, sex is good, sex is great, let's do that again, but it all goes on the account, it all goes on the account... He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling for a minute, then looked back at Xander. "You okay?"
Xander had been drifting, but he opened his eyes at that, with an expression of slight surprise. "I'm great. How are you?"
Spike looked him over. Still face-down, damp with sweat, his legs parted under the sheet he'd pulled up to his waist. No marks. Spike had a moment of incredulity over that, then one of relief. Then he reached over and slid a hand under Xander's belly. Xander didn't look surprised; he rolled slightly to the side to accommodate.
He was hot and sticky, melting down. Spike took his hand back, considered it, then wiped it on the sheet.
"You like this," he said, in a slightly wondering tone.
"I like a lot of things," Xander said, and gave him a strange, unreadable look before turning his head away and scratching his nose against the sheets again.
