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There are many strange and colorful guests who come through the Baroness, and the Doorman has seen them all. He says all are welcome, but that isn’t strictly true. Most are welcome.
He is undecided about the mangy creature muddying the rug.
“Come on. Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” Drifter’s smile is wide and sharp.
“We serve our guests well here at The Baroness. I don’t believe that service includes allowing them to be eaten, or worse.”
“Aww, where’s that hospitality you’re known for?” It’s not a purr or a growl, but the animal edge lingers.
The Doorman smiles. “I can make exceptions when needed.”
Drifter is growing agitated, his threadbare veneer of manners rapidly thinning. “You know, I’ve already eaten.”
“So I see,” the Doorman says tartly. Drifter hasn’t even bothered to wipe his mouth clean, much less clean the blood off his hands.
“But I’m startin’ to feel peckish. Would be a shame if I plucked my meals off the street before they ever get a chance to experience the Baroness. Would be a bigger shame if this place got a reputation because of it.”
“You will do no such thing.”
“Not if you let me in.”
He could smite the creature where he stands, but even in his irritation, he knows this world absent Drifter would be missing something special — something bloody and brutish, but beautiful for those things. “Terms and conditions apply. This is for one stay only; do not mistake this for a standing invitation. Do not disturb, frighten, bite, rend, tear, torture, maim, or kill other guests, employees, or mere passersby, not even for food. In fact, do not try to leave your room.”
Drifter’s victorious smile has shrunk to a fraction of its width. “Is that all?”
“If you agree, you are welcome to stay. If not, you may go. If I catch you hunting our guests or potential guests, you will spend the next century regretting it.”
“I accept,” Drifter growls.
“Excellent.” The Doorman stands aside, gesturing stiffly for Drifter to pass. The hulking beast shoulders him on the way in. The Doorman’s present figure may invite underestimation, but Drifter doesn’t try his luck any further.
The Doorman sees his guest to a room — one of the safer ones, in this case. Drifter is not the sort of guest he’d like to stick around indefinitely, lest he threaten all the others. Nonetheless, every guest suite is comfortable and well appointed, with a sturdy bed and elegant yet unobtrusive decor.
“Here you are,” the Doorman announces. Normally he might linger at the threshold until the guest is settled, or he might offer to put their luggage away. Drifter has nothing on him besides his tattered clothing and his bloodstains.
“You gonna leave me be now? I promise not to misbehave.” Drifter sounds peevish, as adolescent as he is in the grander scheme.
“I know you won’t.”
One of Drifter’s fangs shows when he sneers. “I accepted your terms. I don’t need minding.”
The Doorman elects not to acknowledge that. Instead he says, “Clean yourself up. We welcome all, but we do expect an ounce of decorum.” At Drifter’s flat expression, he says, “At least get the blood out from under your fingernails.”
Muttering under his breath, or lack thereof, Drifter sheds his layers of ratty clothing on the way to the bathroom. The Doorman waits until he hears the shower before he collects Drifter’s rags. He banishes them through a small portal, where they will be cleaned, steamed, and pressed as if they are made of much finer materials.
In the meantime, he summons a cup of tea.
The clothing arrives in minutes, folded into a tidy stack. Drifter will hate it, but anyone else in his proximity will surely prefer it over the stench of his many kills. Even if they die shortly after, the Doorman has done them a quiet service.
Drifter emerges from the shower looking like nothing so much as a wet mutt. The Doorman examines him. His fingernails are mostly clean now, and the smear of blood has been banished from his face. “You do know how to listen,” he says cheerily. “But you are dripping on the carpet. Where is your towel?” He knows for a fact there are at least four in that bathroom, each of them clean and fluffy. There is a robe in there as well, but getting Drifter to bathe at all was achievement enough. The Doorman enjoys a brief vision of Drifter’s scowling face poking out of a fluffy bathrobe, and he lets it show on his face.
“I did what you asked. No need to gloat,” Drifter says, continuing to drip.
“Of course.” The Doorman’s expression does not change. “But the towel?”
“Did you wash my clothes?” Drifter says, drawing closer. A bead of water from his tangled hair lands on the Doorman’s elbow.
“Not personally, but I had them washed. You’re welcome.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Oh, so you preferred to smell like an abattoir? I will keep that in mind in the future. Until then.” He gestures to the pile of clothing.
Drifter makes a sound in the back of his throat. “You just gonna watch? I told you I don’t need minding.”
“You did. But I understand that unlike some of us, you are not bound by contracts. I intend to see to it personally that our guests remain unperturbed.”
Drifter scoffs. “I’m startin’ to think you’re just enjoying the view.”
The Doorman smirks, allowing his eyes to flick down Drifter’s naked body. “Your posture leaves something to be desired, but the form itself… The humanoid shape is not my favorite, but by those standards, I suppose you are well built.”
Drifter is closer now, his huge body hovering threateningly, if one were capable of feeling threatened. “If you’re gonna keep me here, might as well keep me occupied.”
The Doorman smiles, banishing his tea through another small portal. He folds his hands primly in his lap. “How may I serve you?” he asks, unable to keep the irony out of his voice.
Drifter is swift. His hand closes around the Doorman’s throat in a blink, squeezing viciously. “Don’t mock me, old friend,” Drifter snarls.
The Doorman does not need air, but he rather likes the body he inhabits. He doesn’t wish to have it mangled. He can’t quite suppress a giggle. “Predictably nasty beast,” he says, marveling at the wheezing of air through the restricted tunnel of his throat.
He closes one hand around Drifter’s wrist while the other pries at his fingers with a strength this body should not possess. The Doorman frees himself from that grip, then he returns the favor.
Drifter doesn’t need air anymore than the Doorman does, but he does feel pain, and he can bleed. The Doorman walks him to the wall next to the window, leading with the grip around Drifter’s neck. Drifter’s nails slash the skin of the Doorman’s forearm, but that knits itself back together rapidly, gleaming with cyan light. More importantly, his sleeve will need mending, and that solution is less immediate. His grasp tightens with his ire.
“My dear old friend, you have been away from humanity for too long. The Baroness has entertained dogs who make better houseguests.”
Drifter laughs an ugly laugh. “Always the sweet talk with you,” he says.
“Sweetness is not in my nature. My offers of service are sincere. However, if you would prefer the stick to the carrot, I can accommodate.” He flicks the curtain aside, letting in the creeping gray of pre-dawn. To his credit, Drifter does not even flinch. He does stop mauling the Doorman’s uniform, which is nearly as satisfying. “Now, are you going to behave yourself?”
With his sharp tongue currently dulled, Drifter almost appears civilized. Then he spoils the illusion with a flash of his fangs. He appears to be trying to pass it off as a smile; worse, he appears to believe it is charming. “Let’s see what this carrot’s all about.”
The Doorman releases the curtain, and the room falls into dim artificial light once more. “Good boy.” After a moment, he deems it safe enough to release Drifter as well. “Now that you have your temper under control, we can proceed.”
“I did miss our tête-à-têtes,” Drifter answers. He almost sounds like he means it.
The Doorman straightens his uniform, however tattered parts of it may be now. “I rescind my offer to serve. You will be serving me instead.” He pauses, indulging a rare flair of drama. “But I believe you’ll enjoy it. It’s not often I get the attention I desire these days.” He begins by plucking at the button on one starched white glove. “Shall we?”
Drifter makes a sound in the back of his throat, but he does not argue. Instead he watches, eyes burning as the Doorman sets aside his gloves and begins on the buttons of his uniform. He’s surly, still sulking about the threat of sunlight, but there is a hunger there beyond his persistent bloodlust.
The Doorman’s human form is not one he chose for its beauty, but that certainly aids his rare inclination for the pleasures of the flesh. He has numbed its pain receptors, but the rest of his senses are intact for occasions precisely like this one.
Drifter’s eyes rake over the Doorman’s face, his freckled shoulders, his chest, following the movement of his hands. “Do you want to help?” the Doorman asks.
“No.”
The Doorman sighs. “So be it.” He continues to remove and carefully set aside his clothing, all the way down to his perfectly polished shoes. “Surely you’re not still angry,” he says when he’s finished, not quite simpering. He won’t preen under Drifter’s attention, but he knows he certainly has it.
“I’d tear you apart if I could,” Drifter admits.
“But you can’t,” the Doorman says with a smile.
“I wouldn’t just drink your blood. I’d bathe in it.”
“How fortunate for me that I have none.” He stands as stiffly as if he were still in uniform, proper and precise, even while he says, “I know you have other appetites. I am inviting you to indulge those instead. Or were you lying when you said you missed me?”
Drifter makes that sound again, a subvocal growl, then he’s lunging for the Doorman. It’s not for violence though, or not much violence. His nails dig into the Doorman’s neck as his hungry mouth descends. The kiss is sloppy, wet, biting — exhilarating. It’s one of the few joys of limiting himself to this pathetic body.
Drifter holds him in a grip he could break, if he wanted, but for the moment the bonecrushing embrace is thrilling. His teeth come out only to scrape down the side of the Doorman’s long neck, and the Doorman tips his head to oblige him, skin prickling with goosebumps.
Drifter’s body is firm, rippling with a predator’s muscles, and cool to the touch. It warms the longer they embrace, but the novelty remains.
The Doorman pulls back when he’s had enough, pleased when Drifter tries to chase it. He holds him at bay with a hand on his collarbone, and Drifter stays put. “Good boy,” he says as proudly as he can. “So much restraint. Perhaps we’ll get you a collar next time like a proper dog.”
“What would your entrails look like spread out on the floor?” Drifter wonders aloud.
The Doorman only laughs, delighted. “Come now, my dear. Let’s test that control a little longer before we find another use for your ferocity.”
He backs toward the bed, and he allows Drifter to shove him down so that he lands hard. The next door that opens drops a discreet lubricant on the bed.
With his eyes on Drifter, he props himself up on his knees. Then he wets his fingers, reaching behind to circle the pads of his fingers over his own hole. It’s slow and delicious, sending shivery pleasure up his spine with only this. He lets it show on his face as he eases one of those fingers inside. In truth it’s not difficult at all. The ring of muscle gives way easily, and he can press a second, long finger in as he pleases, but he’s enjoying the skittering sensation along his nerves, the way Drifter’s eyes won’t leave him — the way Drifter steps forward, almost as if he can’t help himself.
How long will Drifter wait before he snaps? He’s an ancient creature and a consummate hunter, but he is also a feral one, always hungry, always impatient.
A moan escapes the Doorman’s mouth, and he watches the muscles in Drifter’s body tense as if he’s going to pounce. Not long now, he thinks, and another jolt shoots up his spine.
One second Drifter is standing beside the bed, and the next he’s in it, yanking the Doorman’s fingers free and pinning him to the mattress. Claws dig into his skin now, no longer a threat, but a loss of control. “Oh, darling, you do want me,” the Doorman sighs, exaggerated and dreamy.
“Shut up,” Drifter snarls, which only elicits a chuckle.
Drifter flips him onto his stomach, manhandling this body as easily as the Doorman allows. There is no preamble, nothing but hands clawing into his hips and belly to drag him into position, before Drifter’s cock is bullying its way inside.
The Doorman makes an affronted noise for show. Then he moans on the first long thrust; that one is real.
Drifter’s cock saws ruthlessly deep into his pliant body. The Doorman could melt, losing himself in the rhythmic slap of skin and the punishing plunge of a cock carving him out. He cries out, and even he doesn’t know if that one is an act.
Drifter’s thrusts are powerful and erratic, shaking the bed with more force than any real human could take. For the Doorman, it’s only a struggle to keep his knees beneath him, and only because he’s distracted by the drag of that cock over his prostate, the depth it achieves when it pounds into him.
Drifter’s huge hand forces him to hold his position. The other tangles into his ginger curls and yanks. The Doorman shudders at the scrape of nails over his scalp. Drifter pushes at the small of his back until he is bent at a sharp angle, trapped there by the strength of those hands and the relentless, brutal pleasure of that cock.
Heat pools inside him, cock begging for attention, pressure on his prostate as Drifter pounds over it again and again. He shudders, convulsing around the cock lodged inside him, as the heat builds and builds, swirling and vague at first before it coalesces, overwhelming. He trembles, moaning in a rare moment of helplessness, as his orgasm overtakes him. His limbs feel truly weak for once, and this humble body wants to float as if it is more than it is.
It goes on longer than it should, and Drifter does not care either way, continuing to fuck into him, mindlessly chasing his own end. The Doorman should not enjoy that too, but he does, allowing his body to be used as a vessel for all of Drifter’s wild violence.
With a snarl, Drifter finally stills, hips slamming into the Doorman’s and holding there, then twitching with a few erratic thrusts as he spills and spills inside the Doorman’s clenching body.
When it’s over, Drifter collapses atop him, cock still wedged deep in his guts. One huge hand finds the Doorman’s throat again. Lips drag along his ear as Drifter snarls, “You don’t need to provoke me if that’s all you want.”
Arching catlike beneath him, or as much as he can while bearing Drifter’s heavy weight, the Doorman smiles. “I know it’s poor etiquette, but you’re not the only one who likes to play with his food.”