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Black, white and blue, three magpies perched and cawed and flew over Crane’s torso, the colours magnificently vibrant.
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“I am in the process of nailing Mr. Humphrey Griffin to the wall so thoroughly that future generations will mistake him for a tapestry.
“This is the drawing room. It probably wouldn’t be so bad without the panelling, or the chairs, and if it was in a different house.”
He did not want to answer that. “I— It was—” “You wanted me to fuck you, didn’t you?” Stephen shut his eyes. “Briefly.” Crane lowered his head so his mouth was right on Stephen’s ear, voice vibrating, teeth and tongue touching the sensitive flesh. “When I fuck you, Mr. Day, it will not be briefly. It will be long and hard and extremely thorough. I’m going to take pains with you.”
“When I have you, sweet boy, it will be because you want me to. Not against your better judgement, not in spite of my surname, and definitely not to annoy your aunt.” Stephen went red, but his voice was defiant. “Well, what was that, then?” Crane shrugged. “You seemed tense.”
“Except for those eyes of yours,” Crane went on musingly. “And those incredible hands. And that foxy smile. You don’t let it out much, do you? Everything under cover. And then you stop hiding yourself for a moment, and your whole face lights up, and suddenly I can see just how you’ll look when I fuck you.”
“Exactly. Sourcing from people is wrong.” “Understood.” Crane frowned. “No, wait. Warlocks are magical cannibals, yes?” “That’s a...vivid way of putting it.”
It was also, without question, the dark thrill of fucking a very dangerous man. That particular penchant of Crane’s had driven Merrick to despair and profanity many times over the years; even for his history, Stephen was something special.
“God,” Crane said finally. “For a quiet man, you fuck like a mink.”