Chapter 5 #2
“It’s…” Beacon grapples with his own mind, trying to find a compliment. Something more than ‘nice’ because he can already tell that Laurel would interpret that poorly. He finally settles on: “Cozy.”
His struggle does not escape Laurel’s notice. Fortunately, instead of going red or pale or green—any color indicating an emotion other than pleasure—Laurel looks amused.
“You fought for that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
His voice softens into something shy, something small. “Is it because you hate it?”
“No,” Beacon replies in full honesty. “I’m not accustomed to this.”
“Being nice?”
“Being soft, Laurel.”
And then he laughs, releasing his tail and allowing it to swish behind him in a wide gesture, like an enthused cat. “You’re not soft.”
Beacon smiles, both weary and fond—an emotion he’s struggling to make sense of. “Exactly.”
Laurel steps forward, entering Beacon’s space. His chin tips up to account for their not-insignificant height difference. “You’re trying, though.”
“Am I?”
Laurel laughs again—or maybe it’s a giggle. Beacon doesn’t know how to describe it other than lovely and delicate, verdant freckles sparkling on his rosy cheeks. He asks, “Are you going to deny it?”
Shaking his head, Beacon says, “No.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“There is none.”
Laurel gently sets his hands on Beacon’s chest, fingering the embroidery along the edge of the vest he’s wearing. His thumb toys with one of the elaborate copper buttons, rolling it in circles on the threading.
“What’re you doing?” Beacon asks, even though he’s smart enough to pick up on flirting when it’s happening. It’s something he usually avoids, but as he’s getting married to Laurel in two days, he probably shouldn’t. And more privately, he doesn’t want to.
“Well,” Laurel begins, tone diplomatic. “I’m trying to get a feel for the man I’m supposed to be marrying in… less than forty-eight hours, is it now?”
“I’m not going to do the math.”
Laurel chuckles. “That makes two of us. Here’s what we can do instead.” He doesn’t make Beacon ask, just crawls his perpetually stained fingers up Beacon’s shoulders to wrap behind his neck.
And then he kisses him, much like yesterday.
Then he kisses him again, in a manner very unlike yesterday.
Beacon doesn’t know what to do other than kiss back.
There’s no logical reason to fight it, so he doesn’t.
He leans into Laurel, holding him closer as Laurel pries his mouth open, lips aggressive and teeth a tender threat.
Beacon allows Laurel’s tongue to meet his own, welcoming the sensation of being filled.
He takes great handfuls of Laurel’s raven hair and holds tight against the back of his neck, cradling him.
Laurel begins to steer their bodies backward, heading for his workbench.
Beacon follows obediently, maybe more agreeably than he has gone for anything in ages.
His mum would be proud. Maybe not of how lewdly Laurel is sucking on Beacon’s tongue or how enthusiastically Beacon is allowing it. That detail will be private.
When Laurel’s back hits the workbench, Beacon fits his hands around Laurel’s narrow hips to help him jump and sit on the worn surface.
“Is this cheating?” Laurel asks, and that’s definitely a giggle this time.
“Cheating on each other with each other?”
A louder burst of laughter makes Laurel shake in Beacon’s grasp. “No. Doing this before our wedding.”
A slice of a smile allows a wave of unfiltered joy to fill Beacon’s mouth and slide down his throat. He swallows, ending up swollen with it, pressure migrating until it’s low in his belly and pounding like need. “No one has to know but us,” he says.
“You won’t expect me to be blushing and chaste on our wedding night?”
“I’d be shocked if you were, beautiful as you are,” Beacon replies without thinking. Laurel’s amber eyes grow wide, almost watery, shining in the light streaming through the west-facing window. “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”
Laurel shakes his head but doesn’t speak.
Beacon waits, allowing Laurel to press his forehead against his chest, body language transforming him into a shy slip of an elf.
He continues to wait, even though a shudder runs through him when Laurel splays his palm across Beacon’s stomach.
The vest he’s wearing over a starched white shirt is nicer than the thin cotton he’d wear during a game; Beacon wishes he were wearing that instead so he could feel Laurel’s touch more acutely.
As is, the formal vest is so thick he’s sweating through the shirt, more sweat running down his legs to dampen those damn woolen calf-high socks.
But although Beacon wants to tear the unbearable clothes from his frame, he continues to wait. Because if there’s anything Beacon is good at, it’s taking his time.
Finally, a fragile whisper, half-buried against Beacon’s chest, falls from Laurel’s lips. “Don’t be shocked.”
It takes a moment for Beacon to reach back into their conversation far enough to put the pieces into place.
Ah. Laurel must be more inexperienced than Beacon would have thought, regardless of his beauty.
Nothing in that vein would bother Beacon, not in either direction.
Whether innocent or experienced, he desires Laurel all the same.
Cupping the smaller elf’s chin, Beacon lifts his head. “You find new ways to surprise me every moment we spend together,” he confesses, “and I would never wish for it to be any different. I couldn’t imagine wanting you to be different.”
It’s good Laurel kisses him then because with that last statement, Beacon has exhausted the last of his energy for speech. Taking Laurel’s mouth, however…
Beacon has a wealth of energy and desire for that.