This wastheirsand 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 paixão.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.Intomore, 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–fuckinghell–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 seeallof 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.Antonioknewhe 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.”
AndChrist,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, takingcareof 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 paixão.”
“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.
