“Leprechauns can’t pull off the lipstick, so I say.Green’s not me color, either.”The thick of it in his voice, just to hear Antonio’s snicker.Kept snickering too, until his knuckles hit the floor, pinned palm up and Declan grinning.“Bit’a logistics, mate.Got three ideas.First, can cut me nails, just a wee bit.Grow back soon enough.”
“You’re not cutting your nails.Likeyour nails.”
Antonio tugged against his hold, his breath hitching when Declan didn’t let go.Pulled again, sharp and hard.Testing.Shuddering,the whole of him, when their hands didn’t budge.
“Two left, then.”Declan reached between them, over the straining denim of what remained of Antonio’s jeans, pressed slow and firm over his hard cock.Let the street fall from his voice, too focused on Antonio’s head tipped back again, his low groan.“There’s fucking yourself open whilst I watch.Or…”
A shift of his palm, the curl of fingers, ever so careful with his nails where they were.The nails Antonio didn’t wish him to cut, even as they tore through the denim beside his fly.
“Or?”
“I make us something.”A flick, and Declan’s hand slipped past shredded cloth, found heated skin.Antonio’s fingers dug into his shoulder, hard, his groan unfettered.“Not a glamour.Proper magic.Lube’s easy enough to get.”
“Christ.”Antonio growled the word through clenched teeth, his head back, eyes once again closed.“Fuck, Murderpunk.Make something.Long as it’syou.Not fucking glamour.”
“Not a glamour, fucking or otherwise,” he promised, words rough and Antonio’s breathless huff of laughter making it rougher still.“My magic.Only me.Faerie has other people it can talk to tonight.”
“No goddamn sex flowers,” Antonio groused, breath catching.“Lube’s in my bag.Grabbed it with the car.”
Declan would have manifested lube from every corner of the town, if it meant giving Antonio what he wanted.Would have poured every bit of his magic into making what they needed.There would be no glamour for Antonio.Only Declan, kissing his way down Antonio’s neck, lips and tongue and teeth in time with the hungry stroke of his hand.
Antonio shuddered at every touch.Each exhale.He didn’t remain still or quiet under Declan’s ministrations; his hips bucked up with each downward stroke, his breath came in hissing gasps.Fingers as iron as the bracelets he once wore, where he clutched at Declan’s shoulder.
“Would you like to hear a secret, Antonio?”
Perhaps it wasn’t kind of Declan, to ask the question with gentle edged teeth scraping along the intricately inked bells that danced across Antonio’s collarbones.Antonio’s story, his protection and claim to his own skin, blazing hot under Declan’s affection.
Ink on iron.Leather heated by a bonfire.Pale flowers pushing through desert earth.
“Yeah,” Antonio gasped.“Yeah, Murderpunk.Wanna hear a secret.”
Music.Bloody music, Antonio’s voice gone sharp and tight, all taut desperation.Their bond shimmered bright, heady and all encompassing.
“I want you on my tongue as I open you up.And I’ve not the first clue what to do with your hand,” was what he admitted to, rubbing his thumb over the tip of Antonio’s cock just to feel those blunt nails dig into his skin.Antonio didn’t treat him as if he were fragile.“My first inclination was to pin your hands above your head,” and perhaps he still would, with the twitch of Antonio’s cock and jerk of his hips at that comment, “but you’ve more reach than I do.”
Antonio started to laugh, cut off to a sharp cry with the flat of Declan’s nail along the length of him.Declan flexed his wings, tucked them against Antonio’s bent knees.The flare of them guided his legs apart.There were benefits to being shorter, slighter, with subpar reach.(And wings of bone that Antonio watched with open lust.)
“Cuffs.Need something to pull against.”Words illustrated with another sharp tug against Declan’s hold.“Make cuffs.Tie my hands to, fuck, wherever.Don’t care.Long as I can see you.”
Cuffs.
Salt and skin and sunshine licked from inked blackberry branches, momentarily forgotten in favor of Antonio’s words.His intense,intentgaze.
The image of Antonio bound to the bed came … very bidden, if Declan were an honest fae.Easily conjured, those images of hard, capable muscles straining as Antonio pulled at cuffs, tattoos shifting at each slight struggle under Declan’s attentions.Held there with his legs spread, Declan’s hands on his knees, or leaning in to hold them open with the hard drive of his hips, cock buried deep and wings flared so Antonio could see them.
He’d never have thought to put Antonio in restraints.No bindings.Not on a man who’d spent much of his life confined.
Antonio wanted it.Asked for it.Told Declanwhy.
“Do you have a safeword?”Breath sharp and shallow, question pressed into a slender, thorny branch.“I trend toward red-yellow-green.”
And Antonio…
Something lit in the wake of Declan’s question.Poured through the bond in a shower of sparks, brilliant to the point of blinding and still not hiding the raw, vulnerable truth that, impossibly, lay beneath.
Not something to discuss when they were mid-negotiation with Antonio talkingcuffs.
(Love.Love, coarse in the way they were together.Love like metal studded leather under the midday sun, and all the more perfect for it.Not gentle.Notsweet.Simplytheirs.
