Magician by K.L. Noone

Chapter 11

In firelight, against the backdrop of the storm, they kissed more, leisurely and bared to each other. Gareth flung the heavy plaid across the rug in front of the fireplace, and Lorre ran hands all over him, drinking in the shape and texture and vitality of his body. Gareth lay there grinning at him; Lorre brushed a fingertip, a feather, across his stomach and the tempting trail of hair there. “Is there anything you want me to be? Or to do?”

“I like being touched,” Gareth said. “I like feeling it, the being with someone, in bed. I’m not really too bothered about the particulars of what goes where, as long as everyone’s feeling good. But I like knowing that, that it is feeling good for everyone involved.”

“Such a hero.” Lorre took Gareth’s thick shaft into one hand, played with him, memorized the shape and size and feel of him. “Innocent. Generous. Pure of heart. So sweet.”

Gareth’s breaths came faster. Wetness gleamed at the tip of his prick, shining in the glow. “I’m hardly innocent.”

“But you’re not arguing about sweet?” Lorre licked at him, tasting him. And let a coil of power slide out from banked luminescence: catching Gareth’s wrists in an invisible grip, pinning them to the blanket. “You have no idea what I could do to you.”

“Oh, I might have some ideas.” Gareth’s hips lifted, cock bobbing, begging for more attention; his face was transcendently happy. “I did read through all of Arentino’s unexpurgated memoirs when I was thirteen.”

“You and books. Of course you did.” Lorre caught a swirl of fire out of the hearth, and soothed and smoothed it: it’d be only pleasantly warm, though it shone red and gold. “And who let you read such an utterly filthy and unrepentant account? Mind you, I’m in it. The young woman who turns out to be a young man, at the masked ball. On the balcony.”

“In lacy skirts,” Gareth said, fascinated, and also watching Lorre’s hand with its coil of fire. “And he just…and the two of you just…on a balcony, with your skirts pulled up, and people just inside, and below you in the garden, and he talks about leaving you so well satisfied, with the stains on your petticoat…” He blushed while saying it, but didn’t look away. “He never knew who you were, or did he? He didn’t write it if he did. What’re you planning for me?”

“He didn’t know who I was, and I was curious about the man everyone was having an affair with.” Lorre traced fire across Gareth’s skin; Gareth shivered, lips parting, cock slicker now. “It was moderately satisfying. Over rather too fast. I’ve had better. You like being touched, you said. How’s this? Not too hot?”

“It’s just warm. And soft.” Gareth wriggled in place, wrists still trapped. “I like it. Do you?”

“I’m not sure I want you to think about soft.” He let the fire come out to play more, not perilously so. Sparks against Gareth’s skin. More heat.

And then he trailed it downward, a tiny whip of ruby-gold. Snapped it around Gareth’s straining cock. Stroked.

Gareth cried out, but in a good way: astonished and wondering and wanting, if his body’s response was a good indication. “That—oh, that—oh, that’s so much more…”

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” Lorre separated a strand of fire, let it dance on his fingertip. Traced that fingertip along Gareth’s inner thigh, and up: teasing the rim of his body’s opening with crackling light. “You really do trust me.”

Gareth tried lifting his head to peek down at himself, at what Lorre was doing to him. “I do. You won’t hurt me.”

“I could.”

“But you won’t.”

“You’ll tell me if I do.”

“I will. But I’m liking all of this, so far.” Gareth threw him a grin. “I’m wondering what you looked like, in those big frothy skirts…”

“As a woman? I can do that. It’s not hard, at least physically. I did do the proper shapechange, at least at first. And then I wondered whether I could shock him, so I let it go. As it turned out, he was just as pleased, and practiced at it.”

“You know,” Gareth said after a second, “I think I’ve discovered something I’d rather you didn’t do, by which I mean talking about your sex-legend former lover at this particular moment. I’m feeling a bit inadequate here.”

“You? You’re delightful.” As an apology, he bent down for a kiss, tongue claiming Gareth’s mouth, a thrust. He also pressed fire and heat into Gareth’s body, sinking deep, penetrating. And, just for good measure, used his actual physical hand to stroke Gareth’s cock. “Much more interesting. And I’ve never lied to you, so believe that.”

Gareth just moaned, evidently rendered incoherent by so many sensations. Good.

Lorre gazed at him for a moment: absolutely luscious, spread out like a feast atop the sage-and-sky plaid, bathed in light and magic. Gareth did trust him, so obviously and openly. So readily, unafraid. Believing him, and believing in him.

That knowledge, that sight, lanced cleanly through his heart. It left him exposed, raw, opened by sunlight.

He knew himself. He knew everything he’d been and done. But Gareth looked at him and saw someone who could be kind. Who could bring pleasure.

Lorre wanted to do that. To be that: someone who could bring pleasure. Maybe, if Gareth thought he could—

He let his magic carry on moving and thrusting and working inside Gareth’s lovely body, a hot blunt weight pumping away while he nibbled and licked and tasted Gareth’s inner thighs, sensitive balls, full dripping cock. Gareth moaned and sobbed and writhed under him, falling apart in sheer ecstasy, legs trembling and prick spilling over with want.

Lorre whispered, “You like this, too, don’t you? Not so innocent, you said…no, you like my magic in you, on you, holding you down and fucking you…oh, you’re enjoying this. Such a sweet little Northern prince…but you’re thinking about me bending you over a balcony, or maybe the other way around, now, aren’t you? I wouldn’t let anyone see, not if you didn’t want that, but you’d know people were there, just inside, never knowing what we were doing right beyond the wall…”

Gareth whimpered, “Please…oh, Goddess, yes, please…” and thrust his hips up into Lorre’s caresses.

“Did you pleasure yourself, reading that chapter? You did, didn’t you? In your bed at night, or maybe even out in a meadow, under the sun…maybe more than once, every time you read it, or just thinking of it, picturing it, how it’d feel…”

“Yes,” Gareth gasped. “Yes, yes, I did—Lorre, please—I’m going to—”

“Oh, you are.” He stroked Gareth’s cock, faster and with sparks against his fingers, his palm, working in tandem with the magic pumping into Gareth’s hole; he murmured, lips and words brushing Gareth’s tip, “And now you know…that story, the one that made you desperate to touch yourself, to spend yourself…you know that was me in your story, sweet prince.”

Gareth outright shouted Lorre’s name, and thick white spurts poured from his cock, release splashing all the way up his stomach and chest, over the dusting of auburn hair. He arched upward, hands jerking at magical cuffs; he came and came even more, gasping, shaking, spilling his climax all over himself. He kept on quivering after, eyes huge and dazed, mouth hanging open.

Lorre’s heart did a small twist and leap: proud of itself, pleased, hoping Gareth truly did feel good. Hoping he’d done something good, or good enough.

He said, “Extremely delightful,” and ran a hand over Gareth’s hip, and let magic dissolve.

Gareth lay there panting for a few seconds, and then managed, “Oh my,” and didn’t bother moving his arms. Possibly, after the force of that release, he couldn’t find the energy. “That…that was…”

“All right? Not too much?” He touched Gareth’s left wrist. “Good?”

“Wonderful.” Gareth still sounded out of breath, and amazed, collapsed across the blanket in the glow of the fire. “That was so…I can’t even think.”

“What do you need? I can do it. Anything.”

“Wait.” Gareth pushed himself up on both elbows. “You…but I thought…I asked whether you liked this! I wanted—I want to make you feel good. Please.”

“I do.” Lorre played with Gareth’s fingers, ducked away from the sudden concern and care in those hero’s eyes. “Don’t worry.”

“No,” Gareth said, “but I am, though. Worried. You seem…not sad, but…something. There’s something.” He sat up more, climax-splashed and messy, hair falling into his face. “Please talk to me.”

“I’m certainly never opposed to myself feeling good.” Lorre drew a rune across Gareth’s naked thigh, no power behind it, only a no longer spoken ancient language. “Did you say you’d like me as a woman? I’m happy to oblige.”

“Please just be you. Whatever you want.” Gareth reached out, touched Lorre’s hair, stroked it back: tucking it behind his ear. Lorre, startled, looked up. Gareth said, “I want you. In case you didn’t know that. I want all the pieces of you that you want to share. The history, the magic, the stories. The person who gives me flowers and rescues stray goats. It’s all you. I’m not scared.”

“I keep telling you to run,” Lorre said, half angry, half despairing, wholly in love and knowing it.

“You can say it all you like, but you’re still going to need someone to warm up your hands and make you tea when you’re cold.” Gareth put an arm around him. “I’m here.”

“You can’t just decide you’re going to be here for me.”

“Can’t I? It’s feeling pretty simple, to me.”

“You can’t,” Lorre said, and his voice cracked, and the fire flared up and the wind screamed out in the night; but Gareth just put the other arm around him too and held him. Lorre somehow ended up being cradled in Gareth’s lap, rocked gently, face tucked into Gareth’s collarbone, which might be getting somewhat damp.

Gareth made soft reassuring noises and held him and stroked his hair, for a while. Lorre said, “I’m definitely not crying,” but the universe knew he was lying, so the words didn’t do anything.

“No, you’re not, no.” Gareth ran a hand over Lorre’s head. “Not if you don’t want to be. It’s only rain. We do get that, in the Marches.”

“Thunderstorms. Lightning.”

“Lovely waterfalls, after. And some rainbows that’d make poets burst out into song.”

“I liked being your river. I’m all right, you can stop fussing.”

“I’ve never thought much about what our river likes, but maybe I should. I’m guessing it likes you too.” Gareth met his eyes, as Lorre sat up more. “I very much do. I’d like to show you how much, if you’d be in the mood for that.”

Lorre nodded, mostly because he couldn’t find words. He felt them, hovering like amber in his throat, his heart. But he meant the yes.

Gareth touched his cheek, a gesture so tender Lorre nearly pulled away. “Did you not like that? Doing all that, to me?”

“I did. I do. You looked so happy. And I like playing with fire.”

“You said that you don’t want to be cruel. Not anymore.” Gareth’s thumb brushed Lorre’s cheekbone. “Was that it? Too close to that, maybe, I’m thinking?”

“It shouldn’t be. I could’ve done more. Anything you’re curious about.”

“Hmm.” Gareth put a finger under Lorre’s chin, this time. Nudged him into looking up more. “Look at me?”

“I am.”

“Listen, then. You’re good at that.”

“No one in the last three centuries has ever agreed with you about that.”

“But you are. Maybe not about listening to other people, no.” Gareth kept holding his gaze. “But you’re always listening to the world. It’s a part of who you are. So I’m part of the world, so you’re listening to me.”

“I’m not sure that’s—”

“You’re a good person,” Gareth said. “Maybe you weren’t, before. I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t know. But you’re trying now. I can see you are. And you’ve never hurt me. Not before, not now. I’d tell you if you had. I promise you I would. I will, if I need to. But I loved all of that—feeling your magic on me, in me, around me. Hearing you tell me about my fantasies—that was good, Lorre. I swear to you that was good. I felt, I feel, wonderful. Because you made me feel that way. I’d do all of it again, and more.”

Lorre looked at him, saw only unwavering truth, heard sincerity in his voice. Gareth was a kind person, and a generous one, and might lie to save his feelings. But Gareth was also an honest person, through and through, like the strong upright core of an oak. And this was important.

He wanted to believe it. He curled one hand into their blanket, a gathered knot.

Gareth went on, “But I don’t want to hurt you, either. So if you’re not comfortable—I said it was good, but I’m not going to think it’s good if you’re not feeling that way too, understand? I’m not asking you to hurt yourself for me.”

“I’m not—”

“You don’t deserve that, and I don’t want it.”

“But,” Lorre said, somewhat plaintively. “I like making you happy.” It was something he could do.

“You said you’d listen.”

“You said I’d listen. Which I am. Listening. I didn’t mind. Any of that. Magic, I mean. I can do that. It was just…I don’t know. And that’s not something I’m used to saying.” He aimed for humor, almost made it, gulped down emotion. “You shouldn’t trust me. But you do. And I…don’t want to break that.”

“Then you won’t.” Gareth drew him closer, kissed him: commanding and confident. “You won’t.”

“Optimist,” Lorre said, shaky.

“It’s got us this far,” Gareth announced, and gathered him in and eased him down across the blanket, scattering kisses over Lorre’s chest, stomach, hip. “I’m thinking maybe it’s my turn. Doing some of that taking care of you that we both like so much. Letting you feel all soft and nice and cherished, the way you should be feeling. How’s that sounding?”

“Ah,” Lorre managed. Gareth was gently nuzzling his prick now, offering devout attentions and kisses; Lorre’s entire body woke up, naked and sensitive with too many emotions, and trembled with need. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Gareth mused, “I think so,” and kissed him more, took him in and sucked at him, and paused to run hands all over him, teasing his nipples, studying each reaction and response. “So lovely. So sweet. You said it about me, but you’re wrong there, too.”

“Is that some sort of goat-herding idea of a compliment, or—”

“It is, and you know it.” Gareth settled against him, beside him, practically wrapped around him: the larger broad-shouldered spoon, one who liked nibbling the nape of Lorre’s neck. He’d somehow maneuvered an arm under them, so he could cradle Lorre against himself; his other hand was caressing Lorre’s cock, which by now was aching with stiff heat. “You might not be innocent, but you’re sweeter than I am. You try so hard to give me everything I want, and then you just come apart when someone’s kind to you…oh, you’re needing this so much, aren’t you, you’re so beautiful, let me help.”

Lorre meant to answer; the word became a gasp, a shudder of helpless pleading, a ruby that took shape out of fireglow. He felt his length in Gareth’s steady hand, Gareth’s other arm a solid anchor around his chest, Gareth’s body pressed against his back and also hotly aroused. Tongues of firelight licked and spread over his skin, and rain beat down on the window-glass. Their blanket was thick and homespun.

Gareth moved against him, hips and cock pressing into Lorre’s backside. Lorre whispered, “Yes, please, yes,” and tried to spread his legs, to open up; Gareth caught his leg and repositioned him, and the large blunt head of Gareth’s desire rubbed at his opening.

Lorre whimpered with want. Gareth reminded him, “We’re not hurting you, only just taking care of you,” and the words brushed Lorre’s ear in that deep bronze Northern accent, making him shiver. Gareth stroked him some more, gradual and deliberate, and murmured, “What you did, before…making it all nice and easy…if you want, only if you want, it’s up to you, I’m good with just this,” and kept him secured in place.

Lorre said, “Gareth—” because that was the only word he had, just then: all of his awareness had become pleasure, woven of Gareth’s touch and presence and incontrovertible solidity, an anchor that held him and shaped him and gave him a place to stay. He knew the fire was glittering, throwing sparks; he knew it because it was him, and the sparks were him, everything burning and flying and sizzling.

He reached out blindly and found sweet oil, slickness, something he pulled out of memory and an apothecary’s shop halfway across Averene; the scent filled the bedroom with almond and roses. Gareth’s prick nudged against him; Lorre heard himself moan.

He didn’t want to wait, and he didn’t want Gareth to worry; he persuaded his body into swiftly relaxing, opening, stretching wide. Gareth thrust against him again—and into him, pushing ahead without meeting resistance.

Lorre breathed out, heart thumping, whole world pounding: full of that length buried in him, the weight and heft and thickness, the presence and the knowledge that Gareth wanted this too.

Gareth, sounding astonished, said, “You—that—don’t let me hurt you, Lorre, please—” His voice was ragged.

“You’re not,” Lorre whispered, “you’re not, now move, let me feel you,” and Gareth did.

Deep thrusts. Rocking ones. Unhurried, drawn out, and thorough. Plunging into him. He took it all, felt it all, and shivered and sobbed and moaned and even begged, as Gareth held him and held onto him and filled him and stroked his prick until Lorre was crying out and trying futilely to writhe in place and dripping with need.

Gareth kissed the side of his face, clumsy because of the angle but heartfelt. A strand of auburn hair brushed Lorre’s cheek.

“Please,” Lorre pleaded, unsure for what; and Gareth’s hand on his prick sped up, and Gareth’s thrusts sped up to match, right over the wild singing spot within him. Gareth’s voice whispered, “So beautiful, so sweet, go on, let me help you, let me give you this, what you need,” and the fire streaked along Lorre’s veins and burst and broke into fireworks—

He caught the eruptions. Turned the heat into brilliance, clear as stars, formed by flame.

The peak went on and on, indescribable bliss that poured out of him and over Gareth’s hand and his own body and also the blanket. Gareth groaned, tensing, cock pumping; slick heat filled Lorre’s body. He loved feeling it, knowing it, being wanted and claimed by the sensation. By Gareth, his ridiculous wondrous hero.

Gareth kissed him again and again, in the wake of it. Lorre, breathless, discovered he was clinging to firm tree-limb arms around himself. He said weakly, “I’ll handle clean-up…”

“That you absolutely will not,” Gareth said, and found a corner of blanket, and took care of them both, with proprietary gentleness. “I’ll wash it later.”

“I can do that. Give me a minute.”

“How’re you feeling?” Gareth lay back down with him, scooping him up for more firelit cuddling. “Good, I’m hoping?”

Lorre began to answer, heard the other way the question might be meant—you’re a good person, promised Gareth’s voice in his thoughts—and hesitated.

But he did feel marvelous. Drained, sated, replete with dizzy satisfaction and a curious lightness, as if honey had learned the properties of levitation. A cloud, ethereal and weightless. Floating.

He said, tentatively, “Yes. I think…yes.”

“Good, then.”

“Also you might want to examine your fire.”

“Why,” Gareth said, sleepy, wrapped around him, contented. “I trust you.”

“Ah…how do you feel about diamonds?”

“Diamonds—?” Gareth sat bolt upright. Stared. Pale fire-forged gemstones glittered among coals and flames, amused. “Oh Goddess. You—you made…diamonds.”

“I think technically it’s your fault.” Lorre reached for him, a gesture not planned and in fact moderately dismaying—he hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to be held—but clearly welcome: for some reason this made Gareth smile and settle back down, arms around him.

He added, “You fucked me so well diamonds happened. So. Your fault.”

“Diamonds,” Gareth said again. “I don’t even…how…what…oh, no, imagine me trying to explain to Dan why we suddenly have a supply of precious gemstones…”

“It’s definitely a new verse for the heroic Gareth ballad cycle.”

“I’ll whistle ‘Jack Scamper’ at you. And it’ll be off-key.” But Gareth was entertained, and pleased, and also feeling contented, and a little shyly proud of having helped; Lorre could see as much.

Secure in that knowledge, he rested his head on Gareth’s shoulder. “I’m cleaning your blanket. And now that’s done. No arguing.”

“Useful of you.” Gareth smoothed a hand over his back. The circle was lopsided, etched in firelight and drying exertion. “But I get to take you to bed properly, in a moment, and keep you warm. There, that’s my bargain.”

“You’d be a terrible negotiator. That outcome benefits me.”

“And that’s what I want, so I’m thinking it’s a good outcome.”

“Hero.”

“Magician,” Gareth said. “Magical. Because you are.” He even tightened the circle of his arms around Lorre. “You make me feel as if I’m part of your magic. You asked me about joy, earlier. There’s your answer. Since you’re good at listening.”

Lorre snorted at him—Gareth kissed the top of his head—and complained, “You said it, not me.”

He was listening, though. To the world, and his wards. To the rain and the crackle of fire and the ripples of light that made up the village and the Marches and the sprawling Middle Lands below. To the slicing lines of cold, and the tiny distant unhappy presence at the core of it, which he had an unformed idea about, and wanted to know more.

Most of all he was listening to Gareth’s heartbeat: sure and sincere and strong.