Chapter Ten #4
“Fuck away off, ye great arsebiscuit?” Declan suggested, leaning into the accent even as he leaned into Antonio, the human snickering. He traced the curve of black ink along Antonio’s collarbone with the tip of a nail.
Satisfaction coiled close, had him shivering, metal on his tongue, in his throat, with the press of Antonio’s thumb against his predator’s teeth, the man’s other hand captive to Declan’s attentions.
When Declan pierced his ears, Faerie required blood. A blade. Intent and will. Less piercing, and far more slicing to get his six hoops. Silver and blood.
Fae were not meant to scar, not easily, not even when they wanted to.
And yet, Antonio likened him to a tattoo, blood and ink. A drag of teeth instead of a needle. The press of Antonio’s thumb, rough over his tongue, instead of a cutting edge.
It fit.
They fit.
“I want you to touch me.” As if Antonio could doubt. As if anyone could doubt. Declan said it anyway, spoken against the meat of his thumb. “I want us to continue enjoying each other. I won’t break, Antonio.”
Antonio pulled his hand away, only to rest it on Declan’s other hip. To draw him in closer. “Planning on it,” was his sweet sentiment, not nearly soft enough to be called a murmur. “I’m not gonna break, either.”
Declan bent closer, laughing softly, and kissed Antonio’s shoulder with a graze of teeth. He allowed his weight to lean on the human’s hands, those fingers flexing against the sharp jut of narrow hips, another shiver running down his spine.
He tasted like a daydream under Declan’s pointed, slight smile.
“You enjoy fixing things too much to revel in shattering others. And on the list of things I imagine you to be, ‘breakable’ is near to bottom.”
Such small things, these quiet laughs and exploratory touches. Antonio and his silent encouragement, the track of his thumbs spreading heat wherever they wandered. Mapping Declan’s body, that birdlike construction of bone and sinew, as if he never wanted to stop.
“Told you ‘murder punk’ was definitely someone’s type.” Antonio’s words were felt as much as heard, his declaration met with a chuckle and Declan pushing up on his knees to take further advantage.
Voids and stars alike bless blunted teeth, points and all. Made for crushing, digging in. Not sharp, for cutting and tearing. It gave Declan leave to scrape, slow, leave faint marks without the risk of broken skin.
“Aye, so you did.” Declan kept his hand on the back of the chair, the other curled around Antonio’s shoulders, in his hair, and the seat itself widened when he rocked in. “Could have been a mite more specific as to whose.”
Antonio’s grip tightened, lips parted in a wordless gasp. That lovely sound for each press of teeth, bitten off to a low, shaking keen when Declan lingered at the curve between neck and shoulder. Thick with muscle, like the rest of him, that of a man who worked for them and put them to use.
He bit just there, that inviting, untouched skin. Layered it with slow kisses and experimental pressure. Again. And again, and again, while Antonio shook with it, each breath more ragged than the last.
“Woulda been weird to come onto you then,” Antonio objected, words shaking as much as his body, but hands, somehow, steady. The edge of a smile, even there, even when Declan couldn’t see it. “You mighta got the wrong idea.”
“Wouldn’t want that. Perish the–fuck!” The obscenity snatched itself from his tongue in a sharp gasp with the jolt of unfamiliar sensation.
Antonio’s tracing fingers had found his nipple, an area typically not of much study during hookups.
The lack of previous exploration left Declan woefully underprepared for the pleasure of Antonio’s fingers playing over singing skin.
Declan rocked against him, helplessly, breath leaving him in a gasp when Antonio repeated the motion, then rolled the dark peak between thumb and forefinger.
“Wouldn’t’ve dragged you on so many runs, if I knew I coulda been touching you.”
Words only partially heard over Declan’s sharpened breath, the groan he tried–and failed–to suppress. Two hands at his chest, Antonio wrenching more eager sounds from him.
“More. Again?” Declan shuddered with the question, again and more being too open and encompassing. It didn’t matter, not with Antonio’s wordless growl, and slow twist of his fingers, just shy of pain.
For a man who enjoyed doing the manhandling, Declan only writhed and nipped in protest when Antonio pushed him back. Not much on either side and bloody worth it as Antonio replaced toying fingertips with his mouth.
Wet heat. Half-closed eyes. Gentle teeth.
Nerves unused to touch flared to life, pulled tighter with every tug and suck. He would ask more and again, if not for the twisting, wrecked sounds torn out of him, open mouthed and ragged. Too deep to be a whimper, and impossible to call by another name.
His fist in Antonio’s hair turned clutching, body rocking closer, down, grinding hard against the return rise of Antonio’s hips. His aching cock pressed between them, bloody exquisite, the only thing to ground himself the press of wood under his palm, the whispering creak when he dug his claws in.
Fingers, then, at his back, distant and ignored in favor of the muffled sounds of Antonio’s own need at Declan’s hissing, gasping groans.
Curious fingers at the base of his wings weren’t half as interesting as dragging Antonio’s head back–voids, the sound his lips made, coming away from slick skin–nor as distracting as falling into another kiss, obscene and desperate.
“Hold onto me,” Antonio growled, close, a tone and grate to it he’d not thought to hear from the man. “Not the chair. Like the way your nails feel.”
Electric and copper strung, wired with too many sensations from all sides, impossible to keep track of, those places he’d never needed to before. A wrecked mess in Antonio’s arms, each sipping sounds of pleasure from the other’s lips, about to break the bloody chair, and Antonio–
All that, and Antonio wished to feel the drag of his claws. His nails. To be held onto. The ask, demand, that broke through the shimmering haze of want. And he nearly said, “bloody hell, anything, anything you want.”
But only nearly. All fae, even those near overtaken by lust and affection, knew better than to say those words.
What he did say, hoarse and urgent, was: “Voids and starshine. Antonio.”
Said it, and released the chair, hand trailing over the man’s back and shoulder, scratches shallow in the wake. Antonio hissed and bared his throat, marked and asking to be made moreso.
Teeth and nails, asked for and given. Declan pressed a line of toothy kisses along bearded jaw and the beat of his jugular, groaning, low.
Again. Once more. Cool lips and heated tongue, here, tasting the heat of sunbaked earth and iron.
The sense of him all the more, with Antonio’s fierce kiss to his hair, the roll and tug of his nipple between rough fingers.
“Fucking incredible.” Antonio’s words no more steady than Declan’s, mumbled to the pulled-tight skin of Declan’s shoulder, tongue hot. “Don’t stop. Need to feel you. Need to feel all of you.”
Antonio’s hand moved from his chest, that loss allowing Declan to press flush to him. Thin chest to hard, hips to hips, his legs spread wide to keep his seat.
Searching fingers found the base of his wings, rested there, where skin and bone stitched together. Tightening in a solid, sure grip.
It hit him in a rolling wave of pleasure too foreign to clock for a beat. Deeper than before, slower, not the bright sear of Antonio’s mouth to his chest. A rattling predatory hiss sounded, muffled only some by Antonio’s neck, Declan’s lips peeled back too far to quiet himself.
“Bloody stars,” Declan heard himself say, sharp and low and starving. His nails dragged over Antonio’s back, leaving those lines of praise he’d imagined not too long ago. “Antonio, fuck, fuck, please.”
“Been dreaming about this.” A kiss to Declan’s shoulder, his neck, the corner of his jaw. Fierce joy heady in the bond, possessive without ownership. The slide of his hand, stroking from back to the first joint, up, and back again, had Declan keening with it. “Not planning on stopping.”
The run of his hand like nothing before. How did one describe pleasure somewhere it had never existed, before? Was never supposed to.
Too much. Too much. Not nearly enough, but too much.
“Fuck me?” The tilt of a question to it, just short of a demand.
Better to want. Ask. Be given it by someone who liked sharp edges and grit, who polished without wearing away at what made something unique.
Red on black, when Declan lapped at Antonio’s collarbone in turn, sucked a bruise where dark bells rang, silent.
“Too much. I need more. Need you to fuck me.”
Antonio groaned, dug his teeth in just enough. The serrated edges of his words did nothing to hide the urgency. “Want it like this? Me holding onto you while you ride me?”
“Unless we want me a mere puddle on the floor, yes.”
Shamelessly said, and a gasp of a final word. Antonio laughed, hoarse, and nipped at Declan’s skin, ran his tongue along a line of darkened gray. His grip still firm, kept Declan pressed close. Where he belonged. Voids, where they both did.
“Want you anywhere you’ll have me.” Another squeezing stroke up that first long bone of his wing left Declan shaking. “We’re gonna have to get up, first.”
Declan didn’t want to get up, no matter how uncomfortably his jeans pulled at him with every hitch of his hips.
Faerie, in the way it had, chose that moment to accommodate.
The distant sound of two sets of trousers hitting the floor, followed by the softer murmur of their underthings. Too-tight pressure gave way, denim replaced by bare skin. Declan’s cock, hard and freed, pressed between them, Antonio’s just as wanting against Declan.
Antonio startled, inhaling sharply between clenched teeth, his hands gone slack, then sure again. Lust tangled with alarm, even as he shifted under Declan to bring him closer.
“Pull that trick again?” Antonio dragged him in, knees pushed up, forward in the chair so Antonio could lean back himself. “Need some lube, get you ready for me.”
Realization clicked, if only just enough for Declan to put his head on right to speak a proper sentence. He ran his lips over Antonio’s jaw, the curve of it, let his teeth graze so the man shivered.
“Wouldn’t magic you without permission.” Declan settled his slight weight firmer on Antonio, rewarded with a blown black stare when the human tugged, sent his own back, arching on a groan. “Near out of my mind with you, mo chuisle, but not enough for that. Me word on it. Bond. Not an object.”
The flicker of irritation gave way to relief and affection, an eager hunger that rivaled Declan’s own. He’d said something right, with Antonio’s mouth on his, again, again, speaking between each kiss with a spill of oil and leather and heat.
“Gonna ride me,” heated, growled words, and Declan shivered, fingers flexing, “Gonna give me all of you, Murderpunk. So fucking incredible,” and a slide of his hand again, a gentle tug, and an answering, guttural hiss, and and and, “I got you. You’re so damned hot.”
Antonio leaned in, his teeth on Declan’s neck, a hand on his wing. And Declan? He continued to layer biting kisses everywhere he could reach, panting, erratic pulse matched beat for beat with Antonio’s.
Another flicker of irritation, there and gone, then slick fingers followed the curve of Declan’s ass. Declan whined, that raw, urgent sound, trying to lean back into that soft touch that teased, never giving way to pressure proper.
“By the voids, Antonio.” Not even impatient. Aching. Needing. Teasing fingers traced circles over heated skin as Declan decorated the back of his upper arms–and the bloody chair–with fine scratches all over again.
“Don’t want you to hold back,” Antonio said, as if that answered anything. Almost pressure, the dip of his finger and Declan leaned back, got held fast and still by his wing. “Want all of you. This you.”
All of Declan, stripped of glamour and clothing, laid bare and eager and spread-legged, about to claw at Antonio and whine about not getting fucked. Not pretty. Hot, per Antonio, and he felt it, that wave of midday sun, under Antonio’s horribly unfair, gentle touch and bruising bite.
It tasted of copper. Blood, like that under his nails (more, then, at the taunting brush of Antonio’s not insubstantial fingers against him, more red and heat to match his wrecked, low snarl of desire).
“Unless you use those fingers properly, all you’re going to get of me is some shaking and ridiculous noises.”
“I like you shaking.” Antonio’s grip eased on Declan’s wing, but only to reach for the other. His arm spanned Declan’s slight back, kept him held hard against his chest. “And you sound hot as hell.”
A tug on that new hold, an emphasis, holding on. Declan squirmed against him, tucked close unless he used his true strength. He didn’t want to. He liked this, secure, with Antonio’s skin there to kiss and suck and bite and pant against, that gorgeous hand wrapped firm around the base of one wing.
“Show me you have me? Please.” Please, gasped rough, just under his ear, nails slow up his sides, his ribs, whatever Declan could reach.
Not quite a dare. Just shy of a demand. But far be it from him to deny Antonio, if the man liked how he sounded.
“Voids. Been imagining how it would feel to be yours for a bloody week. I need to feel it. To feel you. I–”
Whatever the bloody hell Declan was could wait. Antonio cut him off with a growl against Declan’s neck, a near-feral rush of possessive lust crashing between them with the words. Teeth on skin, copper in the air, and that tight, unyielding grip on bone.
“I’ve got you,” Antonio repeated, and finally, bloody finally, put weight behind his teasing, pressed in. Deeper. More. Out and in again, taking, rough with need. “Won’t let go.” A second finger, following the first, and yes, fuck. “Gonna take everything you’ll give me.”
“That’d be all of me,” Declan answered, words caught and lost and raw. His Antonio’s, there, in that moment, those deep strokes of impatient fingers, breaking Declan down bit by bit. “Give you that. All of me. Stars and pitch black voids.”
There should be words for this. Declan always had words, even when he didn’t say them. None lurked then, behind his lips, parted as they were.
Sweet-smokey pleasure. Affection, light and crisp. Savory lust, with a flare of something darker, sharper, teeth on his skin and his on Antonio’s, nails bright and shaking, shallow.
“More,” he said, broken. And, “don’t let go, all of me,” a third finger, Declan gasping, and, “Antonio.”