Into Costume
William's not a dancer, not really, at least not this kind.
But Spike is.
While others might be on the floor stretching their legs, or in the dressing
room putting on dance clothes, William's all ready in the practice room,
turning on the music.
Putting on Spike.
The routine begins nowhere near his arms, or his chest, or even the carriage
and alignment of his head, but rather with the wicked curl of William's tongue
over his teeth, skating the smooth skin of his lower
lip which still tastes faintly of castor oil.
But that's all right. Spike tastes of oil as well, only a different sort. He
tastes of motor oil from his motorcycle, a great black self-made Frankenstein
affair that some days makes William wonder if he and Spike truly are two
separate people sharing a single skin. William stops that thought; if he's to
become Spike tonight, as every night, he must think of the motorcycle as his,
its creation as his. The scent of petrol and grease, and the
feeling of grit beneath his black-painted fingernails as his.
Spike also smells of sweet almond oil, calming to William even as it makes his
skin glow subtly under the stage lights. It's nothing like the glistening
brashness of mineral oil on the other dancers. Subtle.
Showing off William's pallor, and the fine English skin he sees so seldomly in this land of sunbathing and tans.
As he sways his hips to the music, he feels the first ripple of Spike coming
over him. The awareness of his desirability. Of
the lean strength beneath his skin, of a body that, while small off stage,
towers in its element, larger than life.
And five times as fuckable.
Ahh. There's Spike.
William lets his head fall back, meeting his eyes through half lowered lids in
the mirror, sliding his hands down his body in a way that makes his nipples
tighten, and his cock harden in his jeans. Because Spike always begins
in jeans, moving like sin in tight denim.
But barefoot, for that touch of "come fuck me"
vulnerability.
Or maybe the impression that he's just come from a fight.
The sort of underground fight that had no rules but secrecy.
He can feel Spike flowing through his veins now with every pump of his heart,
every answering throb and tingle in his cock until each nerve in his body is
centered there. Because Spike walks, talks, dances, and fucks from the...hip.
William laughs silently to himself, letting go at last and sliding into the
back of his mind, giving Spike the free rein he craves.
He allows himself a noise between a growl and a groan through bared teeth as
his fingers slide over his hardening dick to cup his balls and squeeze,
because yeah, Spike likes it a little rough.
*Oh yeh. Fuck, that's good.*
Spike smirks, allowing the rock and play of his hips to match the music,
enjoying his touch as much as he knows the eyes watching him do. So he's only
gonna let that go on long enough to get 'em hot and bothered. Get 'em gagging
for it.
Then make the fuckers wait.
He lets go, and doesn't even need to look into the mirror to know he's got a
smirk like the devil himself on his face. Now, all he needs is...a victim.
And that one's so fuckin' easy, he's got just the bloke conjured up real as
life in his head. Before he even reaches the pole, swinging around it like a
subway punk; he knows where his mark is, and as he comes around, pins him right
there to his seat. Even in Spike's mind, he looks so bloody edible Spike's dick
sits up and begs, tight jeans be damned.
*Wesley.*
This time, Spike's groan is involuntary, and he lets his head hang, keeping
that hungry eye contact and starting up a good grind against the pole, nice and
slow. Tuggin' the metal.
Legs spread.
Show 'em everything.
Show Wes everything.
Might as well help 'im out with the
view.
He reaches down, flicks open the top button on his jeans, and leans back,
feeling the good pull along his spine, and runs his tongue along his teeth.
And buggered if those gray-blue eyes behind spectacles don't go five shades
darker, and ten hungrier.
*You want this, huh? How much you gonna pay, mate? How much you gonna offer
for this in your lap?*
Spike paused, reconsidering as the scenario-Wesley only stammered, unable to
join in on that sort of flirtation, and changed his angle of attack.
*Mate, tonight's your lucky night?*
Spike hissed at the hard pulse of want from his cock and chuckled.
*Ah, yeah, that's the one. Got him watchin' me now like a
starving man at a banquet. Fuckin' desperate, but too shy to come up
close enough to tuck the bills in. God. So I'm gonna
come to him. Blow. His. Fuckin.
Mind.*
Spike whirls, spotting a chair on the other side of the room, building his
Wesley there from those soft jeans to the sweater. Brown- no,
blue, yeah, gray-blue just fit to set off his needy, hungry eyes.
And oh, those eyes, lost between desire, shame, and crippling embarrassment,
are fixed fast to Spike's hand that pops one button free at a time as he walks,
struts. Both of them know every eye in the place, and maybe a spotlight
too if Danny-boy's on the ball, will be on them.
*Oh yeah. That one's prey, mate.*
*So tender.*
*So hungry.*
*And all mine. Gonna have that one.*
He parts his lips with a lusty hiss, giving Wes a good eyeful of his hand
sliding down the front of his opened jeans, cupping himself, feeling the bite
of warm metal and glass into his palm through the thin fabric of his g-string.
They both know it hides nothing, and as Spike thrusts, rocks into his hand, he
pulls his fingers up nice and slow, revealing inch-by-inch the outline of
everything he's got for Wesley.
No matter how much he'd love to slide that g-string down, cup a hand around the
back of Wesley's head and bring that hot, hot mouth just down where he wants
it, takin' him raw in front of the whole club... *Markin'
him mine*...he can't.
Spike licks his lips, stretching to the ceiling in a way he knows makes his
hips arch obscenely, and turns, taking Wesley's phantom hands and putting them
on his hips.
And bugger the no-touching rule as he helps Wesley's hands slide his denim down
off his arse, down, down his legs in a way that brings Wes so close he can feel
his breath, bringing goose-bumps to the surface along the backs of his thighs.
Would he be bold? Lean forward, wrap those beautiful long hands around his arse
and squeeze? Spike's hands slide up to do so, making him thrust his hips into
the music, breathing harder now. Or would he still be shy? Worshipful,
but needy, wrapping his palms over Spike's hip bones and following the thrust
and sway of something that can only loosely be called dancing anymore?
Nah. He'd be shy, but his hands'd
be telling another story. Tightening hard enough to leave bruises, maybe, and
kinda...pulling him down against his lap where he'd be so sodding hard he's fit
to burst, thrusting up against Spike's bared arse in the gleam of the
spotlight, fooling absolutely no one about what's going on between the two of
them.
He's got a hand creeping around Spike's waist then, toying with the band of his
g-string, whispering in his ear. "God, want to feel you. Want to taste
you. You've no idea how long I've been dreaming of-"
Then the music stops, the crowd falls silent, and-
*What? Wait. Buggering fuck! The music's not
supposed to stop there, and-*
"Somebody really loves his job, I see."
Spike whirls to find the doorway filled with slim, dark-haired young man, and
snorts. "Sod off, Xander."
Xander laughs. "Nuh-uh. With a
boner like that? You've gotta share this story. Besides, I'm on first
tonight, and if I don't warm up, I'm gonna throw my knee out again. So spill."
"God." Spike let himself drop into the chair, vacant now that
his mental Wesley had well and truly dissipated at Xander's arrival. "He's
got me acting like a bloody girl, and he's only called once."
"Ah. This would be Mr. I'm-so-English,-all-three-of-my-names-ca
Spike's eyes narrowed. "And what the buggering
"Ah, such a good question with so many answers." Xander grins at him
from beneath too-long hair and tosses his towel at the nearest corner, seating
himself before the mirror to stretch. "Only you would come to the capital
of all that glistens, the home of the American Fantasy bod,
and hook up with another Englishman."
"Haven't hooked up. Yet."
"Yeah, like he could resist you."
William lifts his head from where he'd been concentrating on carefully doing up
his fly, feeling Spike slipping away from him like water before the soft, warming
feeling that grows in his chest, and the heat he can feel rising to his cheeks.
"I think he could, Xander. He could resist me completely. But I don't want
him to; I want him to choose me."
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