Christian Kane/David Boreanaz
Don't own 'em, don't want to.
He didn’t wear leather very often and only in small ways. One at a time, but never all together.
A leather wrist band that made him smile when he buckled it tight. When he could feel the edge rub as he played his guitar. When he pushed the hair from his face, the smell of leather filled his senses and when he swallowed, he could taste iron and salt.
Not as tight as that night.
It had started out feeling so comfortable. Soft, perfectly fitted, but by the end - when dawn was in the windows and candles burnt to charred nubs - the cuffs on his wrists were soaked with blood-sweat.
He wore purple and blue bruises for a week.
More frequent was the thin leather thong in his hair. Tying it back from his face, up from his shoulders. Braided in a twist with turquoise and silver when he was feeling creative , a breath inhaled and he could all but taste it.
The gag in his mouth was pure leather. His spit made it slick and his teeth bit in and in and in with every crack of the whip across his back, over his shoulders.
With every scream that came from his gut.
A thick belt around his hips. Sliding along worn denim like a lover’s caress. Snug and warm from the heat of his body. Holding a heavy, solid metal buckle cool against his belly.
The warmth of the leather always surprised him. The flogger as it stroked and petted and hurt. Blinding him with pain, bright red behind closed eyes. Hot tears ran down his cheeks and that voice in his ear.
Smooth as suede.
“Want more? I think you need some more, baby. Your body is asking me for more and more and more.”
When he was alone and it was dark, the smooth rub of a leather chamois down his chest made his heart race. The tight bite of a thong tied tight around the base of his cock made him cry out with denied need, with absolute lust. A name on his lips that couldn’t be spoken out loud.
When he was pushed past his limits, when he had gone beyond need and want and hate and love and fallen into the head-space that emptied his mind and scoured his soul clean - Christian felt that mouth on his cock.
Hot and cold and hot and cold and warm and wet and over and over until his hips snapped helplessly and he was begging, crooning ... singing ...
“Please ... please ... please ... s-so good ... so good.”
And he was up on stage, his eyes closed and his heart on a plate for the masses to devour - Christian would inhale and find the scent of leather somewhere on his body, in the air around him and he would throw his head back and grin.
Memories like silk and sand and sweat.
Mine, mine ... mine all mine.”
and hey ... how are you doing?