"Trust me?" Dove asked, and Damon nodded. He lied with the gesture but he did it anyway. Sometimes a lie was better than the truth. Sometimes people needed the lie.

Dove's eyes glittered, bright and sharp, and Damon allowed himself to be led into his bedroom. The tugs on his clothes and arms were demanding and rushed, like Dove couldn't hold his energy in, was too hungry to take any care or time. Damon was almost used to that, the ceaseless drive for more sensation, the hurry for everything now and faster and more intense. He half expected Dove to burst into flame one day, unable to slake his needs until they consumed him.

He accepted the rough manipulation of his body, took the fierce kisses that Dove pressed on him. He responded to the sound of Dove's desire, made sure Dove could feel and read his own need. They were never really gentle with each other-there was no need. Damon liked it rough, Dove seemed incapable of being less than forceful, and so they worked well together.

This was no different, barring the matter of trust. Before the question it hadn't really been thought of. Damon made it a point not to think about it. It wasn't like Dove was looking for anything other than what they had; they met each other's needs, to a point, and where Damon fell short Dove found other outlets. Like Not a Nice Place. Like e. Like the occasional trick, and like whatever it was that made him vanish for days at a time. Damon took what he could, and that was all there was to it. Dove never said that there was more than that, never implied it, and never offered it.

Damon was not one to lie to himself.

But then, when they were naked and panting and Dove had him pushed down on the middle of his bed he asked again, meeting Damon's eyes.
"Trust me?"

And Damon lied. To Dove, to himself, to the night-he lied.

"Yeah. Trust you."

Dove grinned and pushed again, Damon's arms reaching up and up and up until his finger tips touched the headboard. He was unsurprised, really, when rope wound around his wrists, binding them loosely together.

Dove grinned, his smile vibrant and wicked. "Gonna blow your mind," he said as he tied Damon's wrists to the bed.

Damon didn't doubt it. Ever.

He wondered idly when Dove had put the rope in the room.

He said nothing as Dove moved him around the bed, positioning his body the way he wanted; he tried very hard not to have regrets for giving his implicit approval to this. Dove had never hit him, had never practiced his art on his body. Damon didn't really want him to start now, but was unsure how his refusal would go over at this point. By the time he'd decided that it would be better to say stop, better to let Dove know that this wasn't what he wanted than to let himself be used, it was too late.

Dove climbed off the bed and looked down on him. "Almost ready," he said, his voice dreamy, in direct conflict with the way his body was almost quivering. "One more thing-" And then he was gone, out of the room and down the hall.

Damon lay on the bed, one leg drawn up and tied down, completely exposed and open. His wrists had about an inch of play, the rope itself fastened to the bed, leaving his arms free if Dove chose to flip him over. He didn't test the bonds too strenuously-Dove's games could get nasty enough as it was and he didn't want to add any edges. He admitted to himself that he was nervous.

At least, his head was. His body, on the other hand, was playing traitor. Tight and eager, he couldn't be perfectly still, his back tending to arch up, his cock hard and willing to play.

Dove came back and turned off the light. A match flared and a candle was lit, then two more. The flickering light did little to make either of them look still and at ease.

Damon said nothing as Dove sat on the bed, a small bottle in one hand, unable to stop Dove. He braced himself, ready to take what Dove had to give, even if it wasn't something he truly wanted. He let his eyes drift closed.

Warm, slippery hands moved over his outstretched leg, the touch firm. It was an easy, slow caress, too heavy to tickle, yet gentle enough to sooth. Damon opened his eyes and looked down the line of his body to Dove's hands as they played over his calf and then to behind his knee.

Dove didn't look at him, all his concentration on what he was doing. His breath was shallow, and Damon could feel his restraint as he massaged him. His hands would speed up, the fingers start to knead a little harder, and Dove would shudder slightly before backing off.

It went on for an age. Dove worked his way up Damon's leg, frequently spilling more oil into his hand, each lingering stroke of his hands bringing him further up Damon's body. When he reached Damon's hip he slid a slick palm over Damon's erection, biting back a gasp.

Damon didn't bother restraining his own groan.

"So hot," Dove whispered, then he started on the other leg, taking his time-making himself take the time. His breathing was more ragged, his own erection leaking and painting a wet trail along Damon's thigh.

They were both making soft sounds, short breathing sighs and moans that made Damon wonder if it was really them. The sounds that usually accompanied their time in bed were more rough, louder, crude. This was something all together different.

This was Dove's gift. The restraint, the touch, the complete control over himself for Damon's pleasure-it was heady and arousing and confusing.

Dove whimpered, his hand once more sliding over Damon's shaft and balls. Damon arched into the touch, needing so much more and not wanting it yet. He was riding a long cool wave, hoping it didn't crest for a long time yet.

"Oh fuck, I'm sorry-" Dove growled, his hands sweeping over Damon's abs and up to his chest, over his shoulders as he braced himself. His cock nestled along Damon's hip and pulsed as he came, heat spilling onto Damon's skin. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Couldn't hold it-" He kissed Damon's mouth, once, and moved down quickly, pausing only to tease at one taut nipple before settling between Damon's legs.

He licked and lapped and kissed, cleaning Damon, his tongue hot and sweet, dragging over the oiled and sensitive skin.

"Oh God," Damon said softly, tugging on the rope that bound his wrists. He needed to touch him.

Dove ignored him, just kept licking and kissing, his hands roaming freely now, everywhere he could reach. Except Damon's prick. His nipples were tortured, his skin rubbed and touched until Damon thought he might ignite, his legs and arms squeezed and nuzzled. And all the while, Dove was making needy noises, his hips pushing into the bed, his cock hardening again with the resiliency of seventeen.

He mouthed Damon's balls and lower, making Damon almost scream. This was new and almost frightening in it's intensity. Dove had never so much as offered to suck him off before and now he was licking his hole and moaning, taking about how hot Damon was, how hard he made him. And oh fuck, his tongue. Oh holy hell and oh shit, Dove was going to kill him, was going to drive him utterly, compleletly mad, and then his tongue was inside and Damon was going to come.

The trembling had barely started, the quivering in his belly and legs a mere hint, and Dove was gone, one hand tight around the base of his cock.

"Not yet."

"Gotta, oh fuck, Dove, please. Please, let me come, I need to, fuck so goddamn hard, so good, please-" He knew he was begging, knew he sounded desperate and near tears, but fuck, he was.

Dove just waited, only his own occasional shudder letting Damon know he was ready to blow too. When Damon thought he could actually breath without shooting he nodded, his eyes fixed on Dove's.

More oil and a finger slipped inside him. He sent a quick prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. Any second now he was going to get reamed, fucked hard and proper and he could get off.

More oil, another finger. Damon blinked.

"Dove, please."

Dove shook his head and slid his fingers in and out, carefully, slowly. "You're not ready." More oil.

Damon was *never* ready. That was just part of sex with Dove. It was quick and hard and dirty. Fucking. Dove was big, and they were always too damn hungry to wait for long. Sometimes it hurt, but not always, and the stretch and burn was just part of it.

But not this time, apparently. Dove stretched him, working oil into him, making him slippery and relaxed, stretching him, opening him. When Damon heard the foil of the condom packet tear he thought he'd about die of relief.

Dove slid into him, one long, deep push that threatened to split him open. It went on forever, so very long until he was buried in his body, held tight and close.

"Goddamn."

He wasn't sure who said it.

Dove moved, taking him with strong, slow thrusts that made his entire body rock on the bed, pushing him closer to the head board. Dove was sweating, heat pouring off him, filling him again and again and again. When he hit Damon's gland dead on Damon screamed.

Dove did it again, faster, fucking him harder. They were both grunting and swearing and it was just too good too unbelievable. Too much to last. Dove wrapped his around Damon's cock and stroked him.

Damon shot so hard come landed on his chin. Dove swore and slammed into him harder and faster, fucking him through his orgasm, drawing it out and making it last until Dove froze and threw his head back, twitching as he came.

Damon thought he was lucky Dove remembered to untie him before falling asleep.

When he woke up Dove was curled into his belly, his head on Damon's arm. He was looking at him with something close to confusion in his eyes.

"Why?" Damon whispered. "Why like that?"

Dove started to shrug and then sighed. He sat up, facing away from Damon, his tattoos stark on his skin, his hair over one shoulder. It glowed, pale and smooth, like an icy waterfall.

"You never ask."

Damon tried very hard to make that make sense. He couldn't. "Ask what?" he finally said.

Dove turned to face him, resignation drawing his eyes down. "Anything. You never ask for anything, never ask what everyone else does. You ask if I'm okay. You want to know if I'm hungry. You give a shit if Macy finds me." He shook his head and lay down again.

"There was a guy once, before you. Thought he could fix me, could save me, you know? He wanted to know everything. My real name was a big one with him, and how long I'd been on the street and what made me run away from home. He wanted to know what makes me like this. And I hated him for it."

Blue eyes met his, fierce and angry and determined. "I can't be fixed, I know that. But no one else gets it. You-you never demand. You're just…there when I need you. " Dove sat up suddenly, startling Damon with his speed.

"You don't think I see you, do you?" Dove demanded. "At the club? I know where you are, every second. I know when you come. I know when you're hot for me, know when you hate it, know when you're ready to go, know where you are when I'm done. And you don't know it. You think I don't notice you." Dove stared at him. "But I do, Damon. I always know. 'Cause you're the only one who sees me."

Dove's mouth took his and Damon's senses reeled. They moved over each other for a few moments, hungry, but too spent to build desire into need. Finally Dove was still against him again.

"I was ten," he whispered. "It was bad, and I won't tell you what. But I was too young. And it's Anthony."

Damon nodded and brushed white blond hair off his boy's face.