So I reach towards his face slowly; if this is a real tantrum, the kind that lasts more than three minutes, he'll pull away. His eyes are furious and his lips pouty, but he doesn't try to elude my touch. He just tightens his jaw and glares at me; his little way of making sure I realize that he isn't giving in just yet. I cup the sides of his face, thumbs resting in the hollows of his cheeks, fingertips grazing his temples, eyelashes, the scar over his eyebrow. His gaze softens slightly as I run my hands down the lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his neck.
"You're a wanker. You know that?"
"Yeah." One hand comes down to curl around his waist, pushing him back until the small of his back is against the desk. I cup his jaw carefully with my fingers and draw his face slowly towards mine.
"Will," I whisper into his mouth. Pink mouth. Pretty mouth. Pretty boy.
He bites my bottom lip and draws blood. I pull away with a yelp.
"Hey!"
He smirks at me, and pulls me to him again. This time I watch his eyelashes flutter closed against his cheeks, and inhale his soft moan. He yields against me, and I crush him closer.
"Forgive me?" I whisper again, against the soft curve of his neck.
"Yea, whatever," he grunts, pressing the heel of his palm against my crotch. "Sure."
I chuckle. He shivers in my grasp and reaches for my zipper.
I love New Year's Eve.
"What's going on?" I hear Fred call from across the lobby. Heels clatter drunkenly towards the door. The open door.
"The desk!" Slurred stage whisper; I glance up and Cordy and Fred are standing in the doorway, champagne bottles in hand, half-hidden behind the doorframe, doubtless convinced that they are being very sneaky. "He's doing it on the desk. Again. What *is* it with him and that desk?"
"Cordelia-" I start authoritatively, but Spike covers my lips briefly with one finger.
"Ignore it, mate," he murmurs, his voice husky. Let 'em look. Maybe they'll learn something."
"Spike, I can't-"
("Spike I can't do this with them *watching*" - sudden flashback to the Church yard last Christmas, plastic animals and the baby Jesus. And Fred may be a lamb, styrofoam filled or otherwise, but Cordy sure as hell is not the Blessed Virgin.)
"Angel. Let. it. alone."
A sudden crash resounds from the general direction of the kitchen, followed by a yelp. "But you can't *do* that with a jello mold!" Wesley's voice insists loudly.
"On the other hand, maybe they should go watch *those* two," Spike says reflectively. He actually starts towards the door. "Hell, maybe *we* should go watch those two."
I press a hand to his chest, effectively trapping him between myself and the desk. "*You're* not going anywhere, boy."
"And what is it with him and blondes?" Fred muses.
I can't believe I'm hearing this. I'm the boss. Or used to be the boss. "Jesus. Don't I get any respect anymore?"
"No," he snaps, quite shamelessly grinding his crotch against mine. "You're old. Undress me already."
"Nope," Cordelia amends, "only the women are blonde."
Spike leans his head back and rolls his eyes. "Bloody hell. WE CAN HEAR YOU, YOU KNOW."
"Your point?" Cordelia retorts, taking a defiant swig of champagne and sneering.
"But," Fred says hesitantly, "Spike's-"
A sudden choking sound from the doorway as Cordelia snickers and spits out a mouthful of champagne. "Right. Like his cuffs match his collar. Hell, that color isn't even in the natural prism."
"Hey," Spike snaps, narrowing his eyes at them.
Cordy throws an arm around Fred's shoulders. "I have *so* much to teach you about the fine art of deconstructing Angel. For one thing, hair color is the best way to tell if he's evil. Or, you know, possessed by old men. If he flirts with brunettes. 'Cause then, y'know... Lilah. Drusilla. It's all just bad. If he ever makes a move towards either one of us, run like hell."
Fred snickers. "So, what color are Spike's um, cuffs?"
Cordelia giggles. "Well, if we stand here long enough, we're sure to find out."
"All right," I snap, pulling away from Spike. "That is *enough.* No one sees your... cuffs... except for me." I walk to the doorway and glower as best as I can under the circumstances. "I'll see you in the morning, ladies," I growl, before closing the office door.
And locking it.
And barricading it with the couch.
***
"Spike, I'm-" he starts.
"No- no, you don't. Say you're sorry again for being a wanker and I'll rip your wanker head off and use it to hold the bean dip."
"Well then, what do you want me to- Oh." I hear him swallow a whimper.
I run the heel of my palm slowly up and down over my crotch. Even through the thick black denim of his jeans I can see his hard-on. Slut.
Angel may be clueless when it comes to electronic voice mail, and how to conduct a relationship with anyone living or dead, and of the sexual preferences of any creature in his employ, and- okay, well, anything and everything remotely important, really. But he's damn fine in the sack. He's all passion and paws, grabbing and growling, and for a two and half century old white boy, he's got rhythm to spare. Which is likely the sole reason Darla, The Slayer and myself never killed the poor, sorry bastard.
He stalks me from the doorway, and I just keep up the self-rubbing and the thousand watt grin. Which is totally wasted cause he sure as shit isn't looking at my face.
Slut.
***
I push him back against the hard wood, and tear the ubiquitous black t-shirt off his chest. A bark of surprised laughter is cut off by my fingernails digging into his lower back, and my mouth, covering the soft flesh of his stomach. Gentle dip of hip bones and swell of light, ropey muscle. Flawless skin which cries out to be adorned with intricate patterns, so I oblige. Shallow bites, two by two by two. Press a pointed tongue tip along the outline of each protruding rib, leaving lines of shimmeringsilverwet to paint afterward with trembling fingers. Blue veins stand in mute attention beneath the onslaught of open, slippery lips, and flat, soft tongue. Spike is never mute, never silent.
And as I follow each bump and curve with a caress, he lays sprawled there, panting and gasping and cursing at me, pressing his denim clad crotch desperately against my thigh. I undo his button-fly slowly, and follow the trail of light hair with the tips of my fingers and fangs.
Fucking. beautiful.
In all of my incarnations, I have always been enamored with the carnal. It seems the longer I survive, and the more integrated my fractured selves become, the safer I feel in allowing myself these small indulgences. The tang of thick hand rolled cigars and dark aged whiskey. The innocent sweetness of a friend's kiss on my cheek. The endless expanse of milk colored skin. I can taste them all here, in the pools of sweat gathered at Spike's navel. I can swirl my tongue lower, and drink of it all. So many things that will never be mine - sunlight, children, the peace of final death - and most days I don't begrudge the lack of these.Most nights I don't even believe I deserve them. But this, this is never denied me, and I am a glutton, a whore, a man, and I will take what is offered and I will drink it and I will own it.
Lay claim to it with mystical body paintings of blood and spit and sweat.
Even if the sweet sacrificial offering is a pissed off master vampire, currently swearing at me in broken Gaelic and bastardized English, and writhing like a wild creature on top of the ugliest fucking desk this side of Hell.
Still. When I lift my head, Spike is a shivering, glistening wet thing in the low light of the green lamp.
I tug the jeans over those lean hips, past parted thighs and the quivering hardness between, ever demanding of someone's attention. Progress halted at the ankles, where mud-worn, ancient boots prevent further access to nudity. Stupid boots. Symbolic of every one of Spike's attempts at bad-ass, and somehow always guaranteed to raise a well-hidden grin when found tucked under one side of my bed.
Stupid boots.
I rip the laces out, tug them off, and nearly shred the jeans around Spike's feet. Once more ignore the derisive chuckles in favor of lifting my boy and tossing him bare assed onto the desk. A thud and a grunt of protest, until I lift his knees, hook both arms underneath them, and lean in. Bury my face in those most secret and vulnerable places, nuzzle teeth and nose along downy hairs and soft, pink skin. And I *could* die here, ever humbled by this trust so freely offered.
God, Spike still smells like lust and fire and burning light. Everything carnal, everything wild and full of will and challenge and pulse. Spike still smells like *fuck*.
And when I swallow him whole, far enough down to rub my nose over his flat stomach, and push those muscled thighs farther apart, the fragile moans that slip from Spike's throat *sound* like fuck. Like everything proud and worldly and animal, right here under my fingers and tongue.
This act is the most intimate. The most primitive and basic. Something so fearful and shameful, to have ones mouth on places no other is allowed to see. But my demon has lain cheek to jaw with vermin unafraid, has murdered innocents without remorse, and this, this is glory without consequence. This is the taking of a small part of permanence. This cock forever hard, this ass forever mine.
This, oh this-
Sucking and gasping around thick, smooth flesh, thumbs marking thighs in purple and blue, until Spike arches his back, bangs his head against the desk, and presses his hands to the sides of my face. Then swallowing what I can, and letting the rest dribble out of the corners of my mouth, onto my shirt.
Then looking down at the picture of rumpled debauchery draped across my desk, and smiling.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Angel wipes the back of his hand across red-swollen lips, and peels off his clothes. I dunno what stamina!vamp has in mind now, but I for one have lost voluntary control of my entire nervous system, thank you very much. Therefore, my grand plan for at least the next hour consists solely of laying here on his desk like puddle o' Spike, and counting the swirly dots interrupting my line of vision.
If this kinda blow job is the end result then the fucker needs to be maudlin more often, and I just said that out loud, didn't I?
He grins again, something in those bloodshot eyes screaming *Angelus*, and fuck me like a whore if I don't just whimper.
"Turn over," he whispers evenly. And ya know, last year, or yesterday - fuckin hell, *ten minutes ago*, I'd have at least sneered at him for trying that Sire-tone bullshit with me. That was of course, *before* he swallowed me like an eleven course gourmet meal, back when I still had sensation in my arms.
Turn over, yessir. Ass in the air, yessir. Wanna popsicle up there too?
Damnit. I hope I at least remember to be pissed off about this later.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"I'll remind you to be pissed about this later," I whisper against the back of his neck. He grunts at me in obvious annoyance. Ah yes, foreplay how I've missed you. And wasn't it only days ago that I worried we would eventually run out of ways to piss one another off? Silly Angel. Just leave Spike alone with your antiques and vast collection of medieval weapons.
"You like this fucking desk so much?" I whisper again, watching the wisps of hairs rise along his nape with every sibilant breath. He doesn't give me the satisfaction of a full body shudder, but I've got time. I'm gonna last longer than this fucking desk will, that's for sure.
"It's a fine desk, Angel. You got no taste, is all."
Well, he walked into that one, and I'm not that cheap.
"Let's see how much you like it up close. Personal even." And I bend him over it, with one hand on his neck. Broad expanse of white cream and silk in the halflight; my demon child, my boy. The bane of my fucking existence. Beneath me, soft and wriggling and oh so annoyed. Press closer into him, rub my hard-on along the infinite ridges of his lower spine until he hisses at me in displeasure, crushed as he is between my weight and the solid mass of the desk. Filthy stream of poetic curses again; one day I need to write this stuff down. He really is quite colorful when he's pissed.
"I thought you *liked* the desk, Spike." My tongue leaves a glistening trail along his ear, visible evidence of coolslipperyneed, as I reach around him into the top drawer.
"I like the desk. I'm not interested in *dating* the desk, ya prick."
Flesh magazines clutter to the floor. Followed by CD games. Cigarettes. More cigarettes. And a- what the fuck is that? It's...slimy and - Jesus... thank god it's dark, I don't wanna know. Yet more cigarettes. Bottle of Jack Daniels. Shudder.
Damnit.
"No?" More soft words on soft skin, more rubbing and now I have to hold his wrists together by the small of his back to keep him still. He's bent awkwardly this way, vulnerable and exposed, panting in frustration, and I want-
I want-
I want to find the goddamn lube is what I want.
"Spike, where'd you put everything that was in my desk!?!"
"It's all still in *your* desk. It's just all - significantly smaller is all. And, um, incinerated."
Motherfucker.
I crush his wrists together in my palm until I hear the satisfying grate of bone on bone, and he bites off a yelp. Rub myself slowly between the cheeks of his ass and hiss, "Give me one. good. reason. why I should bother trying to find lube now, boy."
A breath. Two. Three. I press into him, and he arches back, god I can feel him open to me, even this way, even like this, then-
"Cause you're a guilt ridden ponce who'll hate yourself in the morning if you don't cause I suck you off 'til you whimper at least twice a day cause without me you'd be a guilt ridden ponce who never gets sucked off cause if you don't I'm gonna kick your fat farmer ass."
Breath.
"Cause you love me. That's five."
Motherfucker.
I tear into my wrist until the blood runs down the hollow of his back. He arches again, up up on the balls of his feet and lifts himself off the desk with one arm and I- Oh-
His groan is lost to my own, but his words aren't.
Something about desks and sorry and love and stupidwankerguiltriddenponce and then something about chits in the closet and faggots in the kitchen, but by then I'm much too far gone to care.
Because William.... Boy... Sweet... stop wriggling that way or I'll ... haven't even touched you yet..
Yes, touch yourself, yes, let me watch you. Harder, yes, of course I'll fuck you harder, anything for you, anything at all when you make that noise, and whisper my name, and call me Sire, and beg me that way, and make that noise...
Again.
Slamming against him, into him, the desk drawers slamming open and shut and his head slamming into the wood, and his hips slamming into me, and my wrist in his mouth, and his neck beneath my fangs and
Oh
Yes
Fuck
I do
I love this
grasping pushing tight howling snapping biting hot sweat sweet
fucking
desk.
Which I tell him. Mostly without words.
I collapse against his long back, lay soft kisses against the salty-wet hairline. A reluctant sigh and small shift separate us, but I keep my hands on the graceful arch of spine just above his ass. Rest my cheek on his jutting shoulderblades, and nuzzle in until he purrs.
Lift my head and through heavy lids watch the rise and fall of muscle and bone. This canvas of white flesh that is already healing the bites and bruises. This walking reminder of all that I am, evil and martyred, foolish and heroic. This ancient boy.
Unchanged. And silently loved.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
We didn't drink *that* much last night.
I remember everything clearly. The brooding, the bitching, and finally. The desk. Sex on the. Mmm. Yes. Good desk. Gooood desk. Where was I? Anyhow. At some point we fell asleep on the desk, but that was because we were so bloody exhausted, not drunk.
So why don't I remember the part where we got covered in streamers and confetti?
And why is Angel wearing a party hat on his...
I leap off the desk, grab the nearest axe, and head towards the door.
"Spike," Angel mumbles sleepily, "maybe you should put some clothes on before you go axe-murder Cordelia."
~Finis
That's all, folks! Thanks for reading!