Disclaimers: Oh, if only.
Spoilers: Not a single one.
Summary: It's the 70s, there's a bar with Spike, Ethan, and Ripper in it. Don't you wanna go?
Ratings Note: NC-17, baby.
Acknowledgments: For my lovely, lovely brain.
Feedback: Openly begged for at firstname.lastname@example.org
Daddy793: *rubbing your brain*
debitchan: raw, brass, jacket
Daddy793: And they had a fuck lot of brass just walking in here like that.
Daddy793: Two would-be wankers, reeking of magic and assorted recreational drugs. Spike supposed it was enough, though. Demon bars were full of the roughest, but nobody much liked fucking with sorcerers.
Though these two would be young enough to change the unspoken rule, if they got up to anything.
But they just jockeyed up to the bar, squeezing between a Pogara and this funny looking little mole creature that smelled surprisingly tasty... for a demon. Probably poisonous. Little fucker.
Spike was most severely pissed.
But, you know, it was his own bloody fault. Dru was in a kiddie mood, so Spike, loving husband that he was, had been providing the kiddies. Lots of 'em. It was good that the shops stayed open later these days. Always some busy mum with a little one wandering around after dark.
But all the tears and the piping "mama, mama" and boo hoo hoo got old. Little kids were just... they didn't have enough life in 'em to know what they were gonna lose.
And if he never had to sit through another bloody tea party again it would be too soon and... what's this?
Wankers the Wizards were giving him the once over. One of 'em looked like he wanted a fight -- which Spike could sincerely use, though it'd be brief -- and the other looked like he wanted to ponce it for the night.
Well, he was pretty enough for it, if a bit too much makeup. Fucking glammers had no idea how bad that shit tasted, he'd wager. And the punkers never washed. He wanted to go back twenty years or so -- America was clean and ruddy cheeked and fat and sassy.
These two were ruddy enough from whatever they'd been smoking, shooting, snorting or bloody magicking up their veins for the past several hours, and the pouf seemed sassy enough... Spike gestured with his whiskey to indicate his empty table. The fighter sneered. The pouf sashayed. The fighter followed on the pouf's heels like an angry little pup. Bloody hell, but he loved humans.
"So what's it, then?" he asked.
"You wanna fuck?" Surprisingly, it's the fighter that speaks first, leaving the pouf to just... look at him.
In response he yanked the pouf over by the collar of his weirdly feathered jacket and bit him on the chin, the cheek, the throat. Gentle-like, just a few welts.
And suddenly, just like that, the fighter's in a good mood. Likes seeing the pretty boy hurt. Oh, nasty.
"Ripper," 'e says, and squints a fraction more neighborly over his fag.
"Ethan," gasps the pouf, and Spike can smell his arousal clearer than the reek of predator-hunger in the bar. And he leads 'em out into the street, and London is rank as it ever was -- only a sight more metallic than the old days. Spike's thinking alley, but the pouf -- Ethan -- leads them a ways in the dark. There's a stretch of pale, smooth skin showing above the waistband of his leather pants that Ripper -- and Spike would like to see him earn that name -- casually scores with his thumbnail.
Ethan shivers, and a drop of blood runs down under the leather pants, and maybe down the cleft of his sweet little ass and Spike thinks he's gonna do him both just *right* here when they stop in front of a crumbling old walk-up and slip inside. First floor apartment, more magic stench. Too many candles. Makes Spike miss Angelus, in a way.
Drusilla remains happily fascinated with electric light. Belatedly Spike remembers that she likes the witches and warlocks, too, but by then Ethan is on his knees, tugging open Spike's jeans, and Ripper is actually behind Spike and well.
Aren't they the finely honed unit? Spike laughs and grabs another fag from his pack before Ripper's peeling his coat off, and his shirt and Spike looks down just in time to see Ethan licking his boot and suddenly Ripper's licking his back.
Little twisting tongue circles, slick and hot and wet and biting now. Hard, no compunction and Spike takes a moment to wonder if he should take control but by then Ripper's on his knees, too. Spreading Spike's ass and tonguing him and Spike can't even come close to holding back a grunt, a moan as Ethan pulls his boots off at last and Ripper doesn't hesitate to tonguefuck him.
And will Spike frequent that bar from now on? Yes he bloody fucking will. Spreading his legs, bracing himself. Bent over too far to be quite comfortable, fag burning a hole in the cheap carpet, palms on a wall painted an odd shade of dark pink. Like pussy, and Ethan's licking him like a fucking ice cream and Ripper's got his thumbs digging in to Spike's cleft. Raw. Too hard. Almost hard enough and --
"*Harder* you fucks --"
And Ethan *rakes* his teeth down Spike's cock and Ripper jams both thumbs in at once and Spike is as hard as he's ever been.
Stretched and sucked now, hot and wet and alive, pulse beating even in Ethan's clever little tongue, in the brutal thumbs twisting inside him and Ripper spitting makes Spike jerk, thrust deep into Ethan who gags but instantly recovers and Ripper spits again, and again, and finally just reaches behind him. Strange smear of vaseline left on the coffee-table, dusted with... ash.
Strange and strange inside of him and Ripper's working to get a bit of flesh between his teeth and finger-fucking him ruthlessly and Ethan's short sharp nails score the inside of Spike's thighs and suddenly Ripper is *in*.
Long and thick and throbbing and a complete lack of mercy that makes Spike feel... Christ, so good. Something Angelus never quite figured out. Torture with pleasure works just as well and Ethan tickle scratching at the flesh behind Spike's balls and Ripper's got his arm wrapped around Spike's chest.
Simple fucking, hard and fast and right, slamming into him, pounding him into a new shape and Ripper gripping his hip and yanking him back and moving faster, harder. No vampire, but good, very good, and Spike's fucking Ethan's throat now, and it's tight and hot and --
Ripper at his ear: "You gonna come, then?"
And Spike shoots laughing, pumping. Gasping out little grunts as Ripper keeps thrusting for another minute before losing it completely, holding on tight as a dog and biting the back of Spike's neck and it's so fucking good he tosses Ripper off his back and jerks Ethan up and against the wall before he has time to swallow it all.
And is just about to bleed them and turn them both when he feels something sharp and distinct digging in to his spine, breaking the skin a little.
"Well, I wasn't going to *leave* you dead."
And Ripper chuckles in his ear, reaching past to swipe his thumb over Ethan's swollen lips. Ethan is still hard as rocks, and shudders. Sucking sounds from just over his shoulder. "Bite him. I'll tell you when to stop."
And the odds were in his favor that he'd be able to drop Ethan and kick Ripper's ass before getting staked, but... one bloody fucking wonderful orgasm deserved another. Dove in instantly, cock twitching at Ethan's helpless moan and sucked and
magic and rush and corruption and it seemed like it had only been an instant before the stake was prodding his back and, in the end, the blood wasn't good enough to die for. Pulled out slow, felt the splash of Ethan's come all over his chest and belly.
Let go and Ethan slid, boneless, to the floor.
Against his ear: "Beautiful."
"Enough to get the stake away from my spine?"
"Just as soon as you're out of the flat and the invitation is revoked. Nothing personal of course." All trace of Cockney gone from Ripper's voice.
And on the other side of the door, with the smoke stinging his eyes, and the Latin making his hands and feet ache: "Good times, eh?"
And Ripper smiled, thin-lipped and just a touch wicked. "Too bloody right."
And Spike chuckled most of the way home to Drusilla. It was a shame, they would have made good vampires.