Pet: Part Five

[thebratqueen]

PART FIVE

It was not, Angel told himself, spoiling Wesley.

Spike of course disagreed. But Spike disagreed about everything and after a while Angel learned to tune him out. If by "a while" you meant "1885". So Spike's disagreement and unasked-for advice got relegated to the same annoying buzz that Angel heard whenever Spike disagreed, Fred got off on a ramble or Gunn thought that anybody was *that* interested in tort cases.

Wes, on the other hand, was not a buzz. Or at least not an annoying one.

Which was why it wasn't spoiling Wesley. It was spoiling Angel.

Spoiling Wesley surely would not have involved taking advantage of Wes's complete willingness to truly be at Angel's beck and call at every available opportunity that presented itself.

Sure, to start with this wasn't too bad. Angel kept control of himself. Let Wes have something of a life. Only pulled Wes aside every other night or so for whatever might be on the menu.

But that got old quick.

Well, not *old*. Morelike not *enough*.

It was like Spike all over again. Except Angel didn't need Wes for Spike things and he didn't need Spike for Wes things so really the only overlap was the times when Angel needed Wes *and* Spike things, specifically things like the lovely porn of Spike giving Wes blowjobs. That was a good. Definite plus to be had there.

But beyond that Spike was there for, well, *Spike* things. Vampy stuff. Family history and hard fucks that mortals couldn't withstand.

Wes was for other stuff.

Other stuff, like that yummy obedient streak Wes had in him. The one where he could face Angel down at a meeting, no problem, and tell him that he didn't care *what* Angel thought but he could go right to Hell *yet again* if he for one second believed Wesley or anyone else in the firm was going to allow him to go off and get himself killed fighting the newest shaman to hit town.

Then it was the selfsame streak that, five minutes after the meeting, had Wes dutifully undoing the front of his pants and letting Angel slide his hand in while they were alone in Angel's office supposedly looking at maps of the sewer system.

Angel liked that streak.

That streak gave Angel many a happy moment, and he found himself taking shameless advantage of it. If he wanted something, Wes made it happen. Boom, done, no questions.

Angel wanted a lot of stuff. Specifically a lot of stuff involving Wes. So he kept asking.

Or, if you wanted to be picky, telling.

Big stuff, occasionally. Clear your calendar on Thursday night. Be at my place by 10. Get under the desk and suck me off again like you did this morning. Par for the course type things.

But after a while Angel did it just to do it.

"Wes wants sushi for lunch," Angel announced one afternoon when the gang was all together and trying to decide on a single order for the staff meeting, and Wes, who would later gasp and whimper in Angel's lap and be forced to admit that he'd been in the mood for Italian, merely hesitated for half a moment before agreeing that yes, he did, though perhaps light on the wasabi please.

"Don't wear that shirt again," Angel said, throwing this out in an undertone right in the middle of a hallway walk and talk about the day's cases.

"What's wrong with it?" Wes asked, not disputing, just looking for information.

"I don't like yellow," Angel told him, and then Eve had showed up so that was the end of that, but a half hour later Angel looked across the common area and saw Wesley wearing the perfect shade of hunter green.

"Kiss me," was really the most common command and this one was thrown out at every available opportunity. Elevators, Wes's office, Angel's office, tucked-away corners of crime scenes, the parking garage, the back of the limo, that one great time in Judge Levine's chambers - didn't matter. If they had a second he wanted Wes's lips, and Wes was happy to obey and supply them.

"You are spoiling him," Spike observed one night, his head propped in Angel's lap as he knelt by Angel's feet ("Not kneeling," Spike would protest in front of anyone who might ask, "just more comfortable on the floor is all. Him and his bloody too-fancy furniture.") and Angel ran fingers over and over through Spike's hair.

"I'm not," Angel replied. Making conversation more than anything since it wasn't up for a vote. Besides, he *wasn't*.

"Why don't you just admit you fancy him?" Spike asked.

"Stop smoking in my living room," Angel answered, blatantly changing the subject and glad for the excuse not to have to bring it up again once Spike ground his lit cigarette out on the carpet. Sometimes he and Spike communicated better when paddles were involved.

***

It couldn't be, to Angel's way of thinking, spoiling Wes to lay claim to his every moment of free time. What started as Angel requesting an evening of Wes's time now and again became Angel demanding, one hand around Wes's throat and the other around Wes's cock, that Wes not even *think* of doing anything with anyone until he cleared it with Angel first. And Wes, eyes half-closed and breath ragged, had simply replied, "Yes, Angel."

And jerking Wesley off immediately after that until Wes had surged upward in Angel's arms and begged for more - well that was just positive reinforcement. Not spoiling.

Taking Wesley whenever he wanted to was about first his own pleasure, then Wesley's. It wasn't for Wesley's convenience that Angel skipped over his original schedule of holding off on the full-on fucking until weeks had passed and Wes was dying for it. Instead it was for Angel's benefit because damn if Wes didn't possess a lovely body to play with and Angel simply didn't want to wait. He made it to about three weeks - just short of his intended four - before he fucked Wes good and proper in his bed, spreading Wes out underneath him on the Egyptian cotton sheets with Wes's hands bound to the headboard while Angel teased him with fingers and tongue until Wes was trembling, drenched in sweat, and pleading Angel's name like it was the only word he knew.

Angel might have had some idea of making this part of the torture, of bringing Wes to that spot and leaving him there, but, well, his own cock was dying and why deny himself?

Wes had been tight, hot, and wonderful.

Once having done that, Angel saw no *need* to continue to refuse. If there was a few moments to spare then it was a perfect amount of time for more fucking. Angel's office saw the most work, here, since his desk could comfortably fit twelve if he needed it, though it was always just him and Wesley.

Angel's private elevator, too, got quite a few shows.

And then there was that one time in Lorne's office while Lorne was out with a client but really that was a lack of willpower on both their parts. Plus there'd been that spell.

Wes loved it. But this was, of course, a side benefit. Angel was doing what he damn well pleased. If Wes happened to like it then fine. But really that didn't matter. Angel reminded Wes about that, sometimes, and Wes would simply smile, curl up in Angel's arms, offer himself for another kiss and say, "Yes, Angel."

***

"All right, maybe I do," Angel finally admitted one morning as he and Spike were both stumbling through Angel's kitchen and haphazardly dealing with blood and coffee.

"Do what?" Spike asked, as this comment had sequitored out of nowhere. He ran a hand through his hair, which did absolutely nothing to fix his state of bedhead.

"Fancy him. Spoil him." Angel said. He gave his coffee a test sip. "Can you blame me?"

"For being a big softy?" Spike asked. He made a sound of dismissal. "Knew *that* about you for years."

"Guess who won't be coming tonight?" Angel asked, by way of reply. He took another sip of his coffee. "You get three tries but the first two don't count."

"Going to tell him?" Spike asked, unphased by the threats. "Let me guess: it's you, you're a moron, so no."

"You *really* don't want to come, do you?" Angel asked.

Spike grinned. "Transparent as a bloody window, mate, that's what you are."

"I can handle it," Angel told him, putting the coffee aside as he made his way to the shower.

Spike automatically got up, ready to assist. "Doesn't make you any less stupid."

"Shaddup."

"Say, this time can I cut your hair?"

"I'm seeing a *long* stretch of no orgasms for you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sing us a new one. On second thought - "

"Shut *up*," Angel told him, this time grabbing Spike in a way he knew would get the younger vamp's attention.

Spike smirked, but quieted. "Right, Da."

***

There were two things which inspired The Gifts, as they later came to be called.

The first was practicality. If Angel tore the hell out of Wes's clothes, then Wes needed something else to wear the next morning. Ergo clothes presents.

The second was sheer selfishness. Angel loved seeing Wes's smile.

He started small, as was the norm for this kind of thing. Fresh flowers on Wes's desk became a daily occurrence. Angel began with the classics - roses, and all the meanings therein - then moved on to the most expensive, then the rarest, then anything that might catch Wesley's fancy. Wes ended up enjoying the beauty of the Oriental Lilies about as much as he enjoyed the viciousness of the Plandarian Dragon Snap - the latter of which he eventually gifted to Fred's department when he didn't have free time enough to make sure it was being watered and given enough bits of raw meat during the day.

"You didn't like it," Angel said, when he saw Wes's bare desk later that night.

"It was only slightly impractical," Wes assured him, that smile still on his lips, "but a welcome gesture all the same."

"Okay then," Angel said, and formed a new plan of action.

He left a standing order with the flowers - leaving it to the various florists that were on the company payroll to fight it out each morning to come up with something impressive - and moved on to other categories.

Weapons were next. Shipments of knives and guns and crossbows began to arrive at Wesley's office every week. Some decorative, some useful. Wesley hung some on the walls, put others in his weapons cabinet, and gave Angel a rather appreciative kiss for the brand-new Glock with no serial number on it whatsoever.

"Like you'd ever go to jail for shooting someone?" Angel asked, perplexed.

"It's still the thought that counts," Wes told him. "The gesture that you don't *want* me to go to jail is what I like."

"You can't," Angel answered, cupping Wes's hip and drawing their bodies together. "You're mine."

"Of course," Wes replied, and that was the end of that.

***

Books, of course, were an obvious gift. Angel ordered them by the truckload, having them shipped directly to Wesley's department when he knew that's what Wes would want. Wes was in his element there and spent hours pouring over them, reading for sheer pleasure, even sneaking them up into Angel's apartment to go over them by the light of a tiny booklamp as they lay in bed together, naked and relaxed. Angel felt as though in theory he should scold Wes for this, but found himself utterly unable to when Wes buried his nose even deeper in something like *Johnson's Occult and Demonology* and insisted that he'd just reached "the best part".

Angel had looked over, saw what seemed to be little more than long and detailed lists, kissed Wes on the shoulder and let him have at it, glad at least that Wes wasn't demanding that he share.

***

And then there was the horse.

The office was more alive than usual the morning everyone showed up for work to find the chestnut Arabian contentedly munching on Harmony's desk plant. Wes, by sheer luck, was the last to arrive. Completely absorbed in what Angel, from his position by his office door, could tell was a Watcher journal from 1659 that Wes had thought was lost when the Council was destroyed, Wes was completely taken aback when Harmony and Fred's squeals were the first things to alert him to something being up.

Then the horse itself sauntered over and nearly took the book out of Wes's hands.

With what had to be sheer instinct, Wes managed to put the book into his satchel, then reached up to caress the beast's nose.

"Isn't it *great*?" Fred asked, bounding over to offer Wes the share of sugar cubes she'd been feeding it.

"Er, yes," Wesley said, his eyes riveted on the animal. Then, softer, he asked, "Please tell me this is not a client?"

"It's not," Fred assured him, her small hand caressing the horse's side. Her forehead creased. "Actually, I don't know what it is. Besides a horse, I mean. That's pretty obvious. Unless it's a demon horse. Are there demon horses?"

"A few," Wes replied. He offered up a few sugar cubes. "But this one seems quite horse-like. None of the scales or pointy teeth one would expect from demons."

"There's a card," Harmony said, producing the envelope that had originally hung from the horse's neck. "With your name on it."

As if on autopilot, Wesley took the envelope from her and broke the seal.

From his position, Angel watched as Wesley read the note Angel had written for him earlier:

*What can I say? I thought it would match your eyes.*

Angel heard Wes's heart leap as Wes looked up and stared at him.

"You wanna get that thing out of here?" Angel called over, putting on the show of the gruff boss. "This is an office, not a barn."

"In a moment," Wesley said. He handed the reins over to Fred. "Could you - ?"

"Sure!" Fred promised, happily fawning over the animal.

Wesley crossed the common area, entered Angel's office, and closed the door behind him.

"You are absolutely insane!" Wes said.

"You don't like it," Angel replied, leaning against the wooden door.

"You are completely mental!" Wes told him, "I've just realized it. You are totally barking mad."

"But do you *like* it?"

"That's not the point!" Wesley said. He stepped closer. "Angel, this is extravagant in the extreme."

"You actually don't get a say in that, Wes," Angel reminded him.

Wes ignored him. "Everything else I was prepared to put up with. It was for work, it served the whole, it was my department, it was fine. But to spend that much money - good Lord just to get it *delivered*, let alone - "

"Wes," Angel interrupted him, "do you know how much I make?"

Wes faltered. "Actually no."

"Let's put it this way," Angel said. "You know how much *you* make?"

"Yes."

"I make ten times that. And I don't pay taxes."

Wesley's mouth fell open, then clamped shut.

Angel came forward and caressed Wes's cheek. "Do you like it?"

"Actually…" Wes quietly admitted, "yes. How did you - "

"You told me you used to go foxhunting."

Wesley frowned. "I - once. Months ago. We were talking about something else. How did you even - "

Angel pressed Wes's lips closed with his thumb, then leaned in until their cheeks brushed together. "You're mine."

Wes took in a shuddering breath. Angel let go of him long enough to kiss him. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, Angel," Wes's eyes were big and locked on his, full of emotion that Angel wasn't ready to give name to. "I love it."

"Good," Angel smiled. He stepped back before anybody passed by close enough to get a peek in through the office windows. "Then get out of here. Go riding."

He could tell Wes was ready to bolt for the door, a kid at Christmas with only the last tiny vestiges of maturity holding him back. "Are you sure? There's the Weisbard case and - "

"Go," Angel said, cracking open his office door again and pointing the way out. "As your boss I'm telling you to get out of here. I'll see you tomorrow."

Wes hesitated, then quietly asked, "Not tonight?"

Angel grinned. "Okay, tonight."

Wes vanished, convincing both Fred and Gunn to join him for a day at the stables.

***

That night when Wes came home, it was Angel who washed the scent of horse off of him in the shower, rubbing soap-slick hands up and down Wes's flesh until Wes couldn't stand up on his own anymore and had to cling to Angel's arms, pressing close as he made high-pitched sounds of need.

"Mine?" Angel asked.

"Yours," Wes promised, the word leaving him in an exhale of breath. "My God, Angel - *please*."

Angel turned him around, sliding his cock into Wes's ass and savoring the furnace of Wes's body. "Mine?" he asked again.

Wes nodded, shivering from the effort to hold still until he was told otherwise. "Yours."

Angel cupped Wes's chin, drawing his mouth around for a kiss as his fingers moved down and caressed the expanse of Wes's throat, running light fingernails over the pulse to be found in it. He began to move, fucking Wes with a slow, easy rhythm that allowed Angel to feel every benefit of Wes's tight body wrapped around him.

"Mine," Angel said, and this time it was a declaration.

"Yes, Angel," Wesley gasped. He then gave a tiny cry as Angel began to pinch and pull at his left nipple. "*Angel*…."

This thought had been with him for a while now, but Angel finally gave voice to it. "You don't get to keep your apartment anymore. You live here now. You get an afternoon tomorrow to mark up what you want to bring."

"Yes, Angel," Wes replied, his pulse growing even faster. His hands moved up the wet tiles, trying to dig in for purchase.

"You are *always* with me," Angel told him.

"Yes, Angel," Wes promised, his voice husky.

"Always," Angel repeated, then moved his hand down to stroke Wes's dick. He tugged and teased at him, making Wes cry out louder and louder, fucking him in turn until Wes sobbed out his name and Angel came soon after.

"Yours," Wes said, when Angel turned him around to let him rest his head against Angel's chest again.

"Mine," Angel swore to him, and to himself.

***