Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

gift

"Here," Angel said, throwing the velvet box at Spike, who turned just in time to catch it with a smack in the chest, one of his less graceful saves.

"What's this?"

Angel didn't answer, but hoped his stare conveyed that he wasn't here to answer stupid questions from a tasteless halfwit whose past decade of jewelry purchases had come packaged in plastic bags and who was currently wearing a 10-karat garbage ring in the shape of an angry eagle for the sole purpose of making his grandsire fume in disgust every time it worked across his cock. The fuming and disgust always evaporated into tiny grunts that Angel hadn't yet figured out how to control, but one of these days if Spike wasn't careful he was going to lose the entire finger supporting that stupid ring. Then again maybe he should just try to take it off while Spike was sleeping. The ring. Leave the finger. It was useful.

"Don't remember it being my birthday," Spike said, holding the chain between two fingers like a small piece of entrail. He seemed dubious.

"Shut up and put it on."

A considering look, a half-smile. "Your gift. You're supposed to do the honors."

Angel refused to let even a twitch disarray his cultivated lack of expression as Spike tossed the box aside and brought his gift back to him, swinging from one finger now in a deliberate and somehow inviting way. When he was close enough to taste, Angel grabbed the chain with one swift hand and the back of Spike's neck with the other. For a moment he held that handspan of muscle and bone and stared into Spike's deep eyes, then tightened his grip just enough to signal what he wanted. Once it would have taken force to drive Spike to his knees; now he folded and bent his head nicely, nape curving like the stem of a flower.

One twist broke the clasp of the crappy chain Spike was wearing; it slithered to the floor as Angel replaced it with what he'd bought. Actions shifted them closer, brought Spike's petal-tufted head rubbing against his thigh, a hair away from his tightening crotch.

"You're docile," Angel observed. He'd meant to sound rude, the way Spike always sounded so rude, but his voice came out too quiet for that. Do I sound grateful? he wondered. He manhandled Spike, drawing his head back to get a look at the effect, gold close above his shirt collar.

Spike raised a brow along with his voice, an arch, needling note to his question: "You think?"

But he thanked Angel properly, from down on the floor.
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