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Fishfly belongs to diristine on Tumblr. Funeral Wells is one of krakaheimr’s Chicago Spirit cast. I’m just borrowing their boys for this.
Using Lauren the Corgi’s Promptober list.
CWs: needleplay, bdsm, uh bondage I guess?
***
Fishfly has no idea how Funeral Wells talked him into this. Especially when Wells can’t talk.
Maybe it was the eyes. They remind him of Slip somehow.
Ever a gentleman, Wells assists Fishfly out of his waistcoat and shirt and up onto the smooth wood table, and then folds them as neatly as Fishfly’s obsessive inclinations could desire. He knows, because he watches every second of it. It’s better than thinking about how naked he is, with his wings and arms showing.
Oh, he hates this. He shoud just– He should–
Wells sets one warm hand to his shoulder. Warm in more than blood; he can all but feel the care and calm radiating out of the man and into him. It’s grounding.
He lets Wells take him by one strange, insectile wrist and stretch it out on the wood surface. Hands smooth along the structures of it–strange to Fishfly, even after all these years, so inhuman, ugh he hates thinking about it. But Wells’ touch is so gentle, so appreciative. The beauty he finds in it is palpable, and if Fishfly can’t quite bring himself to believe in it for himself, at least…well. It’s nice to be appreciated.
Fishfly barely twitches when Wells picks up a smooth long spike of a needle, sets it to his wrist, and pushes it through to pin his arm to the table.
Wells circles him and repeats the action on his left side. The needle sinks through his delicate wrist, painful but strangely soothing.
He lays there, spread out and feeling bizarrely at peace with his body, as Wells fastens down his third hand as if he’s a bug being added to a collection.
The first time he jerks, face burning, is when Wells bends down, elegant handlebar mustache brushing his inner lower-left wrist, to plant an adoring kiss there.
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