Chapter Eleven
Antonio
Real.
More than anything else, that’s how it felt. Sharp nails over Antonio’s skin, heat around his fingers, and Declan’s voice, broken and urgent. Declan: fucking fae, revolutionary Murderpunk, sluagh. Declan, begging his name. Begging for more.
Antonio didn’t do possessive. Knew too fucking well what it meant to belong to someone. But fuck if he couldn’t feel it now, that feral rush of possessive lust. He wanted to mark and be marked. Claim and be claimed. Bury himself in Declan until he screamed.
And maybe, yeah, he’d gotten a little keyed up over the last week. Wanting and not letting himself want. Dreaming of pointed teeth and wings of bone. Believing he’d spend multiple damned lifetimes bound to what he couldn’t touch.
He was touching him now.
Declan shivered in his arms, uncut cock rubbing against Antonio’s abs with his every breath. Antonio held him hard against his chest, kept him there for the further drive of greedy fingers, pressing deeper, taking more. All of him. Declan had said he could have all of him.
Would have to let up, just a bit. To get more than this. Needed a little space to maneuver.
Antonio moved his grip to Declan’s other wing, right to left, and tugged the sluagh back and down while he thrust his fingers in. And Declan, the perfect bastard, dragged stinging lines down Antonio’s sides, threw back his head, and keened.
“Christ. Look at you. Could watch you all fucking night.”
Vaguely, Antonio was aware that the straight-back chair he’d been sitting in no longer was. He could lean back some, Declan on top of him. Good, but also, fucking Faerie. Like the disappearing clothes and the weird-ass lilacs growing out of Declan’s desk, slick with clear oil.
Which, full disclosure, he was currently using to finger-fuck Declan. Couldn’t complain that hard.
“You’re going to bring me off if you keep up,” Declan hissed.
Antonio loved it, how Declan’s accent seemed to grow more pronounced with every shudder: “yer gon’ tae bring me off if ye keep up.” Sounding for all the world like someone Antonio could’ve met at some Irish punk show. Looking like the sort of death anyone would run toward.
“Not sure I’d mind that. But I wanna feel you come while I fuck you. Get me ready for you?” Antonio paired the words with a tug at Declan’s wing and a hard stroke in. “I’m outta hands.”
Not like it’d be hard for Declan to reach. The fucking lube flowers had taken over the desk. Pale lavender. Rich purple. Faded blue. They bloomed in messy abundance, smelling as much of sex as lilacs, petals shining and slick. The second he got home, Antonio was grabbing some actual fucking lube.
Said something that Declan didn’t even make a smart remark when the petals dissolved into oil at his touch, those long nails and purple-black fingertips shining and slick.
That he kept moving, fucking himself open on Antonio’s fingers while he–Christ–spread his knees farther and wrapped that cool, slick hand around Antonio’s cock.
“Wanted to touch you all week.” Rasping, needy, fucking gorgeous. “Wanted this. Need you. Antonio, fuck, please.”
Like Antonio would ever deny him anything. He groaned, barely controlling the urge to press up into Declan’s strokes. Now was not the time to throw the guy on the floor.
“C’mere, Murderpunk.” He curled his fingers one last time, just to feel Declan shaking around them, before pulling free to grip Declan’s hip instead. Easier that way to pull him forward, to where Antonio was hard and slick and aching to feel him. “Gonna give you what you need.”
Him. Declan needed him.
“You’re a bloody vision.” Said it while Declan eased himself down, slow, made them both wait for it.
And Declan’s skin might be cool, but his ass was all tight, greedy heat.
Drew a growl from Antonio, rough and urgent.
Declan fully seated, rolling his hips, because he was fucking perfect.
Antonio’s hand tightening convulsively on his hip, not to control his movements but just to hold the fuck on.
The bond lit. That same pleasure of skin on skin, only amplified, every nerve burning with it, crying for more.
“Fucking Murderpunk.” A groan or a gasp, ragged and urgent.
“I want to pretty up the other side of your neck while you fuck me.” Declan punctuated the words with a drag of long, black nails down Antonio’s sides, making him hiss. “While you hold on to me, press deep, take all of me. I won’t break.”
“Jesus Christ, Declan.” Antonio managed, the words snarled as much as spoken. “Fuck. Fuck. Yes. Want your mouth on me.” His teeth. “All of you.”
He reached up, catching hold of the base of Declan’s other wing, so he was holding both.
Leverage to push up and in. To take. To make Declan fucking keen again, the sound bitten into Antonio’s neck, and no one else would ever feel like this, pleasure spiked with bright points of pain, smoke and tattoo guns. Petal soft skin over lean muscle, giving way to exposed bone.
“Open your wings for me?” Antonio slid his hands up Declan’s wings as he asked. Then down again, tugging Declan harder onto his cock. “See ‘em better that way. Fucking sexy. Incredible.”
Christ, the way Declan shook. Above him. Around him. Knees and wings spread.
“Fuck, Antonio. Do– Fuck, bloody hellfire. Do that again. Keep–” Declan’s words came between gasps. His mouth hot on Antonio’s neck and shoulder, his every shift driving Antonio deeper, taking him higher. “My wings. Hold me. Fuck me. Take all of me. More. I– More.”
Never one to get off on hurting his partners. Knew his strength. How much to hold back. But what did he know about what Declan’s wings could handle? How much Declan could handle, wraith thin in his arms.
Wraith thin and dragging lines into Antonio’s skin, biting bruises into his neck. Not a delicate bird. A sluagh. A death spirit. Like hell was Antonio going to second guess him, tell him he couldn’t have what he wanted because they shouldn’t play so rough.
Antonio adjusted his grip and pulled down hard.
Not a tug, but relentless, downward pressure, putting his strength behind it as he drove up and in and in.
Held Declan so he could take all of him and keep taking.
Tight heat around his cock and stinging lines of pleasure on his skin.
Rasping gasps. Soft lips. Pointed Teeth.
Declan. All of Declan. Only Declan.
“Perfect. So perfect, Murderpunk. Incredible. Christ.” Rough, unsteady words, barely managed between thrusts. “Wanna taste you. Ink and flowers. Kiss me?”
“Always.” The way Declan answered, the low, shuddering exhale, might’ve been the sweetest sound Antonio’d ever heard.
Declan tasted like burnt forests and blooming flowers, his teeth violent peaks scraping Antonio’s hungry tongue. Not death, but its shadow. Life growing on the border of flame.
Antonio wanted to devour him. Swallow his moans. Fuck into the heat of him and never stop. He’d spent a lifetime being told that he didn’t know he was real. There was nothing more real than Declan. What he was. What they were together.
“Always,” Antonio echoed when Declan broke away for a gasping breath.
Couldn’t even say what he meant by it, only that it was true. This was for always, and he’d never want anyone the way he wanted Declan.
“So close.” Fucking perfect, how the fucker shook as he said it, the broken, needy edge to his voice. “Want to come on your cock.”
Somewhere along the line, Declan’d gotten a hand between them, and if he weren’t so busy kissing him, he’d have pulled back, so he could watch those dark-nailed fingers move over pale skin, bringing him off while Antonio fucked him.
“You’re gonna,” he gritted out, dragging down harder as he said it. “Come for me, Murderpunk. Let me feel you.”
The way Declan let go for him. All of him, he’d said. And he gave it. Kissed Antonio until he tasted salt and copper, burning like smoke. Rasped words in a language Antonio didn’t speak, between each urgent press of lips.
Not soft. Not pretty. But fucking gorgeous, yeah, Declan could be that.
Raw and real and incomparable, like no one Antonio had ever known.
Antonio took every frantic kiss, swallowed Declan’s groans, licked the unfamiliar words from his lips.
Tasted his name, Antonio, sounding better in that lilting rasp than it ever had before. Like it’d been made for Declan to say.
Clenched heat around his cock, then spilling, wet between them. Declan shook and Antonio shook with him, holding on, fucking him through it. He wouldn’t last, no one could last in the face of this, but he teetered on the brink, holding himself back from following Declan over it.
Swallowing one last, eager kiss, he dragged the sluagh against him, chest to chest. Licked smoke and sweat from his skin and released one hand to guide Declan’s head to his shoulder.
“Fuck, Declan. Murderpunk. Meu paix?o.” Christ, now he was the one speaking in tongues. Warm lips against his skin and he pressed a little harder, growling between ragged thrusts. “Use your teeth. All of you.”
All his. The ache of pointed teeth on bruising skin. The sting of nails. Tightness and heat. Declan’s satisfaction, his trust, singing through their bond. Purring like a well-tuned engine.
Antonio gave himself to it. Inevitable. They were inevitable. It was always meant to be like this.
He growled against Declan’s shoulder, bit down with his final, urgent thrusts, not lost to pleasure so much as found. Full throttle. Shifting up through the gears.
“Declan. Murderpunk. Christ. Fuck.”
Fucking flying.
Held on long after the aftershocks started to ease. Should’ve let up but didn’t. “Need a minute.”
Declan didn’t seem to mind. Draped an arm over Antonio’s shoulder, cheek pressed to the skin he’d bruised so well. “Not going anywhere.”
“Shoulda been doing this all week,” he said and held on. “You’re incredible, Murderpunk. Been fucking obsessed. Still am.”