Sign on the Dotted Line
Angel is hunched over his desk, a night-dark scowl tugging at his mouth. There is a stack of ridiculously complicated contracts in front of him and his hand, gripping a Montblanc pen, is poised just over the ‘sign here’ line on the first page.
“Are you going to sign that or just stare it down?”
Spike leans into the door and Angel’s mood visibly darkens.
“I was thinking of getting a whiskey and then maybe, if you’re up for it, kicking a little demon ass.”
Angel doesn’t look up, but he says: “How about if I just kick your ass and then pour myself a whiskey?”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re not a team player,” Spike says, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him.
Angel presses the tip of the pen against the paper and scrawls his name. He pulls the paper to one side and signs the next document. The next one.
Spike drops into the seat in front of Angel’s desk and is about to park his black-booted feet on the desk’s polished surface when Angel lifts his eyes.
Spike holds up his hands in mock defeat. “Alright.”
“What do you want, Spike?” Angel has returned his attention to his work, signing and dismissing each fresh page without emotion.
“Bored ‘s all.”
“Yeah, you know what? I’m not your cruise director.”
“Not asking you to be,” Spike says. He cocks an eyebrow. “Just, I dunno, this office shit isn’t for me, mate. I mean, don’t you just want to get out there? Get bloody?”
Angel sets his fountain pen on the desk and leans back, tenting his fingers under his chin.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Spike says. “You bloody self-absorbed poof.”
Something resembling a smile tugs at the corner of Angel’s mouth. “You think I’ve forgotten?”
Spike crosses his arms and narrows his eyes speculatively.
Angel stands up and comes around the desk. There is so much dark energy in the room, Spike sits up straighter in the chair.
He doesn’t know how, but Spike suddenly finds himself bent over the desk, his cheek pressed against Angel’s not-quite-dry signature. He tries not to be too obvious as his cock rubs against the desk’s beveled edge.
“You still wanna get bloody, Spike?”
Angel’s voice is a serpent’s hiss. Spike feels long, strong fingers at the back of his neck, and under him, twisting at the snap on his jeans.
He could fight, but what’s the point; the outcome will be exactly the same either way.
Jeans out of the way, Angel kicks Spike’s legs apart and steps between them, close enough that Spike can feel the soft wool of Angel’s trousers against the back of his thighs. He closes his eyes when he hears Angel’s zipper rasp open. Spike isn’t expecting Angel to reach for his wrist and so he’s surprised when he feels Angel’s teeth break the skin. Angel sucks just to get the blood flowing and then greases his hand, then his cock before he slides into Spike.
There is a groan at the back of Spike’s throat, but he swallows it back. He watches his wrist bleed all over Angel’s carefully signed documents. There won’t be any need to redo the contracts; Wolfram and Hart demands a little blood on every one anyway.
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