Lord of Unkindness Ch. 16

 Notes: Happy Halloween, my darlins! Let's have something sugary sweet today :)

Title: Lord of Unkindness Ch. 16

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Chapter Sixteen

 

He feels so alive.

Ciro wasn’t dead before, but he didn’t really feel like he was living either. Stress and pain, anger and power created a maelstrom in his body that left him with so few good things that the goodness he feels now is magnified a hundred times over. His skin tingles everywhere he can still feel it—not in his fingers, sadly, although his palms can detect the warmth and smoothness of Angelo’s skin and revel in it—and every breaths is tinged with the taste of the man in his lap. He’s heat and salt and the faint bitterness of cologne long gone stale, but his eagerness is sugar-sweet and the sounds he makes are like caramel, decadent and clinging. Ciro holds on tightly, maybe too tight as he devours the sounds Angelo makes, swallowing them with his body and mind. Somewhere to the right, he hears his magic caw with pleasure.

Angelo winds a hand into Ciro’s hair and holds him still as he plunders his mouth with his tongue, grinding down with his hips. He’s hard already while Ciro isn’t quite there yet; too much sleep deprivation, too little food. But hard or not, it feels incredible to have Angelo thrust against him, to have the evidence of his desire pressed against Ciro’s battered body.

It’s almost like their first time again—Angelo was so many firsts for Ciro. They’d gotten off in the back of Ciro’s car while they were out on “official business” away from the Hambly’s tower, and it had been the most subversive and delightful thing Ciro had ever done up to that point in his life. He’d thought it was the danger, at first, that made it so good—if they’d been caught it would have ended so badly for him.

Now he knows the truth. It’s not the danger, it’s not the sneaking around and the excitement and the potential terror of the reveal. The only terror he feels now is the thought of being pulled away from Angelo for any reason. He wants to stay, he’s desperate to stay, so desperate that he doesn’t realize who’s making the whimpering sounds filling the air until Angelo kisses him firmly and pulls back.

“I’m here,” he whispers, and Ciro’s on the verge of falling apart again because Angelo is here, he’s here and he saved Ciro, has saved him twice now, and he doesn’t feel like he deserves it but he knows that’s an argument he’ll never win. Ciro deliberately chooses lust over every other feeling storming inside of him, twists them until they’re lying down on the couch and he’s on top of Angelo, longer than him but lighter, light enough that he feels a bit like one of his own birds, hollow-boned and fragile.

Whatever Angelo sees in Ciro’s face, he ignores it for lust as well, and Ciro is so grateful he could cry. Angelo twines their legs together and pulls Ciro down hard before biting the tender skin just below his ear. “Do you remember how wet you used to get for me?” he asks. “So wet I wondered if you’d come already before I even got my hands on you the first time, remember? All I had to do was run my fingers over your dick and I could jerk you off.”

Ciro remembers. He’d been so embarrassed for Angelo to reach inside his pants and bring his hand out wet and glistening; he’d bitten his lip so hard it almost bled. Angelo had used one sticky fingertip to free his flesh from his teeth and kiss him before shoving his hand back into Ciro’s pants and stroking him in his strong, tight grip until Ciro came not a minute later. He’d never said anything mocking, just used Ciro’s spend to stroke himself, show Ciro how he liked it, then let him take over.

“I wanted you to fuck my mouth,” Ciro says, and Angelo’s hips jump. “The second I saw your cock. You were wrapping my hand around it but all I wanted to do was suck you inside and let you fuck my face until you came.”

“You weren’t ready for that…”

“No,” Ciro agrees, “but I would have let you do it. I probably would have cried a little when you hit the back of my throat, but I would have loved it too.”

“Astaga,” Angelo groans. “You were so fucking new. I didn’t want to break you.”

“And now I’m all used up,” Ciro says mockingly, in part to distract him from the orgasm racing toward him after nothing more than dry humping, and in part to get this out in the open. He hasn’t been celibate. He’s fucked around, and even though there was never anything formal between him and Angelo, he feels like he should have been better. Like he should have held himself apart for the other man, kept some part of himself sacred instead of fucking random men in alleys when he needed to scratch an itch. “I didn’t wait for you.”

“Why would you?” Angelo replies, pushing Ciro back a little so he can meet his eyes. “We didn’t make promises back then.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m something I’m not,” Ciro insists. “I’m—I’m not a good person. None of us Hamblys are, and now I’m not even a—”

He finds their positions switched before he can finish the sentence, air knocked out of him as his back pressed down into the soft surface of the couch and Angelo presses into him from above. His lover’s eyes are bright, his expression is fierce, and he has a halo of golden tendrils that make him look like an avenging angel.

“I don’t care what you were,” Angelo snaps, angry—but not at Ciro. “I’m not here with you now because of your family, or some imaginary version of you, or what I think I might get from you. I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you, Ciro. I’ve never been able to stop. You’re always on my mind, and it wrecked me not to know what happened to you. And now you’re here, and you want me.”

“Yes,” Ciro agrees.

“And I want you back. That’s enough.” For now, Ciro hears very clearly in the body language between them. He knows Angelo will ask more of him, but the urgency of that is nothing compared to how much he wants to come. He nods frantically when Angelo rubs his hand over the front of his jeans, sighs with relief when he pulls down the zipper and draws Ciro’s wet, shining cock out from his briefs, then chokes on air when Angelo glides down his body and sucks his dick into his mouth.

“Oh god.” Ciro gets the sense that Angelo is laughing, but he can’t focus on that, not when everything feels so amazingly good. Angelo’s tongue pressed against the base of his tip, swirling around and delving into the slit, heat and wet and pressure and so much good that he can’t help but thrust, and Angelo just takes it, he always lets Ciro in, always lets him have so much and he doesn’t deserve it but he can’t stop and—

Coming is so intense, so pleasurable, so much. It washes over Ciro like Angelo’s golden light, blinding and warm and beautiful, and he knows he’s got to sound like he’s dying when in reality this is the most he’s felt alive for far too long. God, god, god, oh god—

“Just me,” Angelo murmurs against his mouth, and Ciro can taste himself there now, taste the evidence of their shared desire like a fucking drug, and when he realizes that Angelo is jerking himself off he wants to tell him not to, to let Ciro do it, but the truth is he’s about to pass out.

He settles for wrapping his legs around Angelo and pulling him in closer, letting him see the truth in his eyes and hear it in his voice when he says, “Fuck, I love you.”

Angelo bows, bends in two like a reed in a windstorm, a harsh moan scraping past his throat as he comes in a rush. His spend stains the cloth between them but Ciro hardly cares, he can’t care about anything except the sheer relief he feels from being honest, the pleasure still wracking him from coming, and the sure knowledge that he’s about to pass out from fatigue.

Yep. It’s time to pay the piper. The last thing he sees is the fuzzy outline of his bird settling on the arm of the couch just over his head as he finally loses the fight against exhaustion.