Chapter Seventeen #2
Thing was, he couldn’t. The vision of Declan between his thighs was replaced by the far wall, and he saw his own golden-brown skin instead of Declan’s cracked porcelain. Irritating anyway, the blunt press of his human teeth into muscle, nothing like Declan’s ridged bite.
Just, fuck, needed something. A way to ground himself, because he’d not done this before. Not like this, not tied and touched and waiting to be taken. Never set his trust in anyone, never wanted to.
Wanted to, now. Wanted it more with every measured stroke and firm thrust. Wanted Declan, to give him this or be given this, wasn’t even sure, two sides of the same coin and them walking on the edge.
Not yours. Not mine. Theirs.
This was theirs and it was as beautiful as it was fucking terrifying.
Antonio dragged his gaze back to Declan with a hiss, a fresh tremor running through him at the loss of grounding pain.
“See you now.” Words that begged without begging, desperation in every syllable, and Antonio’s red-bitten lips parted on a moan, after. “Fuck, Declan. Murderpunk. Meu paix?o. See you.”
(Yeah, 90% of the Portuguese he knew was food and the rest was shit he said to get a guy hot. Sue him.)
“Aye, you can now. You’re taking this so beautifully,” Declan said it as the toy shifted, thicker with the next press in. “I see you, too. Fucking gorgeous, mo chuisle. Will you tell me what your color is?”
Sharp teeth on his inner thigh. An anchor, as the world burnt away into smoke and sensation. Into more, taking more, spread and stretched, opening up for him. For Declan, his bond, who bit and soothed and asked without it feeling like doubt.
“S’alot. Christ. Don’t stop.” That wasn’t an answer. Not an answer like Declan would need. “Green. With you–fucking hell–letting me feel your teeth. Talking to me. Green with that. More, Murderpunk. More of you.”
“I never felt like myself before you. Never at home in my own skin. I had almost forgotten what I look like, without glamour.” Declan bit down Antonio’s thigh as he spoke, stroked him and thrust with a toy that–fuck–had gotten bigger again.
“It's the other way around now. I expect to see all of me, what you see, not the more human face. Too pretty.”
Wasn’t like Antonio expected a sonnet. More of the same would’ve been just fine. Hell, Declan could’ve started singing, so long as Antonio could sink into the rasp of his voice.
Would have been fine, but wasn’t what Declan offered. Bare unvarnished honesty. Hell of a time for it, Antonio with his knees spread. Held in place and fucked open, head tipped to watch Declan bite his skin red.
Or maybe this was the only time, Declan bare to the waist, wings open and pressed to Antonio’s knees, teeth digging into his thigh, and his eyes such a faded blue, they were almost white. Nothing pretty about him. How could there be? Pretty was soft and death never came softly.
There was shit he wanted to say. About Declan.
About himself. About how death meant something different when it was one of the few choices you knew you got to keep.
But with the perfect ache of each fresh thrust, the not quite enough of it, Antonio wasn’t sure he could spell his name, let alone say anything constructive.
“Pretty’s for calendars. Wouldn’t’a called you, you were pretty.
Wouldn’t’a trusted you.” He fixed his hungry gaze on Declan, his Declan, every predatory line of him.
“Sexiest fucking man I’ve ever met. Only one I’d trust like this.
Wanna watch you fuck me. Wanna come apart for you.
I–fuck–tell me what to say. Beg if I have to. Christ, Declan, need you.”
“No begging required,” Declan said, kissing up Antonio’s stomach. “You’ve got me. All of me. Going to get even more. What you said’s more than perfect, mo chuisle. Perfect, just as you are.”
Far as Antonio knew, ‘mo chuisle’ might mean anything from ‘you bastard’ to ‘bacon sandwich.’ He didn’t care. What mattered was the way Declan said it, the words a lilting caress. Made him shiver, kept him from whimpering as more became less, leaving Antonio empty and needing.
(Open for him.)
Perfect, Declan called him. Batshit, worthless con who’d spent half his years ruining shit just to show he could, and Declan called him perfect. Said it and meant it. Antonio knew he meant it. Knew it like he knew the race of his pulse and the heat of Declan’s tongue.
“Murderpunk,” he growled, which was about as eloquent as he was going to get while watching the guy squirm out of his jeans.
“Fucking singular, Antonio. I want to taste your lips again.” That, he mouthed against the bells at Antonio’s collarbone. “Indulge me?”
“Yeah. Kiss me.”
And Christ, did he. Black lips to bitten red. A bonfire night on the cusp of winter, woodsmoke and rust. Ridged teeth nipping already sore lips, the best sort of ache.
“Watching, Antonio?” Declan asked as he pulled back. “Need to make sure you can see.”
Bastard made a show of it, wings spread and bitten-red neck exposed. Incredible.
“‘Course I’m fucking watching.”
Antonio wasn’t sixteen this time, crammed in the back of an old Civic hatchback with the seats torn out for the sake of speed.
Metal didn’t bite into his knees. The first thrust didn’t come hurried and unconsidered, followed immediately by the next, while Antonio gritted his teeth and wondered if maybe he wasn’t as gay as he’d thought he was if this was how it worked.
No. Declan took his time.
Took his time while he took Antonio, fucked open and ready on toys that didn’t hold a candle to the searing pleasure of Declan’s cock, of slick heat into slick heat, of too much and not nearly enough and the bond purring like it had the last time, like this was how they were meant to be, driving deep into each other, a high he’d spent years chasing and never found, one that blotted out every memory and fear, replaced with the sure security of the cuffs, of Declan, taking him, taking care of him, giving him what he needed, what they both needed, and more, and in, and yeah, yeah, Antonio was watching with parted lips and hunger, watching himself be fucked by a fae, by a sluagh, by his bond, Declan, the god damned revolutionary Murderpunk, who took him tender as the death Antonio had dreamed of in all his darkest hours.
“See you.” A whisper, more the movement of lips than actual words. Antonio swallowed. Tried again. “See you. Feel you. Fucking incredible, meu paix?o.”
“We are.” Declan paired his words with a stinging drag of nails, like the shrill of a guitar over a deep bass beat, while the catch of bone at his ankles cranked the volume higher.
Ecstasy like a song, not catchy and easy (da da da), but with lyrics delivered in a lilting hiss. “We’re fucking incredible, mo chuisle.”
His hands found Antonio’s hips. His ass. Held him as he thrust in, hard and sure.
“Taking all of me,” Declan hissed. And Antonio was. Christ, he was. “Everything. My cock. My pulse. My marrow. Holding me to the core. Fuck. Taking me so easy, Antonio. All of me.”
All of him. The shuddering pleasure of his thrusts. The new-ink burn of his nails. The bonfire smoke of his soul.
Took him in and in as he struggled against the cuffs, the burn of his muscles familiar and right.
He needed more, to drag Declan closer, to wrap his hands around those wings and pull.
To cover black lips with his, drink Declan’s words, breathe his breath, and more, and again, harder, deeper, and yeah, he knew how it worked from the other side, but not like this, spread out and held and taking with ravenous need, as Declan snapped his hips and the world went bright.
“Declan.” The word a pleading, needy moan he barely recognized as coming from him. “Fuckfuckfuck. Please.”
“Fuck, Antonio. Anything. Voids. I’ve got you.
” Declan’s hand found his cock, the other at the small of his back.
Above him. Beneath him. Inside of him. Everywhere.
And he talked like Antonio’d asked him to.
Like Antonio needed him to, that rasping lilt as necessary as air.
“Beautiful. Bloody perfect. Right there, right there, aye, fuck, that’s it.
Give you everything. Anything. Let me give you this. ”
Perfect.
They were perfect. They were fucking incredible. Worn leather over needle-kissed skin. Driving all night under a burnt orange sky.
Declan gave, splayed fingers and slick grip, thrust after driving thrust. Brighter and brighter, every nerve lit.
Antonio fought. Taut muscle dragging against unforgiving restraints, shudder wracked with the need to thrust up, to drag Declan deeper (take him to the core, to the marrow). Couldn’t. Couldn’t. Could only moan and pant and beg in wordless desperation.
Had him.
Declan had him.
Gave him this. Gave him everything. Let him shatter in his arms, arch up against him, come with a ragged growl, and collapse, trembling, his heavy-lidded gaze still locked on Declan.
“My wings?” Declan rasped, or something like it. Still moving, but slower now, as he licked Antonio from his fingers. “Your color?”
Colors.
Red tongue. Black lips. Porcelain skin.
Pleasure like a wave that crested without falling, and Antonio carried along with it, kept there by each slow thrust, and his hand closing on air where he wanted bone.
“Yeah.” A thread of sound, quieter than his own thundering heartbeat. “Jesus. Wanna touch you, Murderpunk. Hold you to the bone. Need my hands. ‘m green. Better than. You?”
“Green as a leprechaun and eager to finish with your hands on me.”
Declan leaned over him, shivering skin and reaching hands. Salt and smoke. Needed that as the cuffs gave way. Needed Declan close enough that it didn’t feel like falling, losing that drag at his wrists.
Still a weight there, metal bracelets heavy, and those had come from Declan, too.
Not going anywhere. Declan wasn’t going anywhere.
He needed to hold. To touch. To bring Declan to where he was, to feel him shake apart.
First, he needed to move, the lack of tension leaving his muscles twitching.
He reached up, traced the lines that ran up Declan’s arms to his shoulders, stopping to stroke fine, pale hair.
His breath caught at Declan’s every shift, too high and not yet falling, not with Declan’s cock buried inside him, too much and perfect with it.
And there, as his fingers wandered, were Declan’s wings. Antonio stroked those too, each sharp spar of them, before settling at the point where skin met bone. Christ, he loved this man. How could he not?
“Want that too,” he said, wrapping his legs around Declan’s hips, crossing them behind him to drag him in deeper. “Like this?” He tightened his grip, making a point of where his hands rested. “Or can I pull?”
“Fuck,” Declan breathed, hips jerking, in and in, nails digging into Antonio’s shoulder with that comforting needle sting. “More. Pull. Stars, Antonio, please, pull. Everything.”
“Everything,” Antonio echoed. “Got my hands, Murderpunk. Got my soul. Got anything you ask for.” How had Declan put it? “Freely given. Give me this, yeah? Hold you to the marrow. Wanna feel you come for me. Want you as high as I am.”
Bone. The part of Declan only Antonio got to touch. Got to take him higher with, give him what he needed. Like this, a slow, relentless drag, using it to pull Declan in, press him closer.
“Need you, Murderpunk. Just you. Everything I need.”
“Freely given.” Declan’s low, rasping voice was made to sound like this. Desperate. Raw. Wrecked.
If there was something better than this, better than Declan coming apart in his arms, against him, inside him, better than that low, shuddering keen, Antonio didn’t want to know it.
Wouldn’t be able to handle it. He held on and on and on, dragged higher by Declan’s rise, shattered again by his shattering.
Perfect. This was perfect. They were perfect.
Slow, to ease his grip. Didn’t want to let go, but needed to get his hands on Declan’s trembling skin.
Quiet murmurs as he relaxed his legs, “fucking incredible” and “Christ” and who knew what else he said.
A hand heavy on Declan’s back, tracing the line of his spine, the other lingering around a wing, because yeah, he liked them.
Liked Declan. Loved him. To the marrow.
He could hear their breath, rough pants in the quiet room. Feel Declan’s heartbeat against his chest, under his hand. For a long time, that’s all there was. Breath. Heartbeat. Love.
Joy radiated through the bond, made everything that much brighter, painted the world gold and left Antonio grinning like an idiot as he kissed Declan’s hair.
“Don’t got much basis for comparison,” he said at last. “But you put Danny Cruz from 10th-grade Civics to shame.”
Declan answered with a laugh, like Antonio knew he would, rough and gorgeous, same as the man himself.
“I’ll not be one to deny a favorable review, regardless of the size of the control group.”
“You’re fucking perfect,” said as he stroked Declan’s hair, cupped the back of his head to hold him close.
“Aye.” Declan was still smiling. Antonio could feel it. He wanted to be that for him. The one who kept him smiling. “We sure fucking are.”