Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Laurel
Beacon’s passion is much more precise this time, focused and direct. Laurel nearly gets swept away by the force of his betrothed’s desire, stunned by Beacon’s strength as he draws Laurel closer.
Their mouths work with surprising harmony, only a few awkward clicks between their teeth when they try to climb deeper into each other.
Laurel has never felt this much passion directed his way before; even during his previous betrothal, his intended had not held Laurel with anywhere near this level of desire, never seemed so overwhelmed by the mere taste of him.
Laurel didn’t feel this way about his ex, either.
They’ve known each other for barely a day, and Beacon has already made Laurel feel hot and wanted in a manner he wasn’t aware he needed.
Craved.
Heart pounding, throbbing between his legs, Laurel drags himself away from Beacon long enough to pull the loop of his smock over his head. Or try to. It gets caught in his long hair, tangling. Laurel struggles, embarrassed, until hands cup his bare shoulders, and Beacon shushes him.
With tender care, Beacon rights the mess Laurel made of himself. It’s incredible how Beacon can be gruff and powerful, then switch to handling Laurel so gently.
“I thought you were no good at being soft,” Laurel teases.
Beacon smirks. “I have to be a quick study.”
“Fair enough. Study this, then.” With that, Laurel unties the strap around his back, allowing the smock to fall into his lap and exposing his upper body.
Beacon leans away enough for his hazel eyes to rove down Laurel’s chest, his throat bobbing when he swallows hard.
Laurel doesn’t ask if he likes what he sees.
He doesn’t get a chance, not with the way Beacon swoops in to latch his mouth onto the crook of Laurel’s shoulder where it meets his neck.
He drags his bottom lip up Laurel’s throat, groaning in answer to Laurel’s moan.
It’s been so long since someone desired Laurel in any manner that didn’t feel unsafe or predatory.
Beacon’s want is palpable but gentle, not roughing him up in the height of passion.
Laurel doesn’t enjoy being manhandled, and he might have been nervous about being given to a gruff, hefty athlete if not for the way Beacon has been so consistently delicate and precise with his handling of Laurel and, by extent, their relationship.
It makes it easier for Laurel to rock his hips, to creep closer to Beacon’s body, fingers raking through his mussed red hair.
Beacon runs his palms up and down Laurel’s sides, thumbs sampling the dips of his ribcage and circling his nipples until Laurel is panting.
“Beacon,” he gasps, ready to let his future partner take him right here and now.
“I know,” Beacon responds, mumbling into the sharp angle of Laurel’s collar bone. He grabs the smock, removing it from where the folds have bunched to separate them. Then he tosses it aside, disturbing the tarp Laurel threw over his work in progress before answering the door.
“Wait—”
But it’s too late to stop both pieces of fabric from sliding to the floor, exposing the project to Beacon’s curious gaze. And from the expression that crosses his features, he’s not fooled.
“It’s not what it looks like!” Laurel squeaks, even though it’s exactly what it looks like.
“Is that a—”
“No, it’s not a dildo!” Laurel cringes away from Beacon’s incredulous look. “Not exactly, I mean. And it’s not mine; it’s for a client.” That, at least, is completely true.
“What is it then?” Beacon sounds unsure.
“It’s a girth expander,” Laurel explains, his voice trembling.
His tail wraps around one of his ankles, trying to stabilize his nerves.
“It’s for a client who isn’t happy with his…
size. So, he asked me to engineer him an extension.
It’s not hard for me. The prosthesis is removable but will be safe for elongated, uh, periods of use.
The spell I designed is quite stable, and each piece is custom.
That’s why I…” He gestures to the tool holding the soft material he had just been giving a very realistic painting job.
Judging Beacon’s horrified expression, Laurel elects against explaining the lengths he went to remain professional while the client’s partner tried to help him stay erect long enough for Laurel to finish taking the cast he’d use to create a model of the client’s penis.
Which is… clearly visible underneath the prosthesis.
“Beacon,” he tries when the other elf doesn’t respond to anything he’s said.
“It’s just business. I help people with whatever body parts they want modified.
This isn’t something I would do for myself.
You know I wouldn’t. I mean, I suppose you don’t know…
but I’ll be happy with whatever you… more than happy!
I’m not obsessed with the shape of a partner’s, ah…
It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy a large—”
“Laurel, stop.”
Beacon’s plea is so low, Laurel almost treads over it in his frantic need to explain. He doesn’t understand why it’s such a big deal, but his future husband obviously doesn’t share the perspective.
“I won’t do it anymore if you’re upset,” Laurel says hollowly. “I’ll refund his money and tell him my husband doesn’t want me to—
Beacon shakes his head. His expression is haunted. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“I have to go, Laurel.”
“Beacon, wait!”
“I’m sorry, I… I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Beacon shows Laurel his back, rushing toward the door. Between one gasping breath and another, he’s gone, leaving Laurel sitting on the workbench, horror mounting.
His future husband left him. Maybe for good. If Laurel’s father gets wind of this—if, worst case scenario, Laurel has destroyed another betrothal—his life will be over. All luxuries, freedoms… No one would blame Rodney for giving up on a crippled son who can’t maintain an engagement.
Tomorrow. Beacon said they’d see each other.
Laurel can talk to him then, once their heads are cooled.
They can sort things out, establish whatever it was that spooked Beacon and make sure it doesn’t happen again.
Laurel will be ruined otherwise, his chances of meeting another potential husband as attractive and understanding as Beacon next to nil.
Except when the next day comes, Laurel returns to the spot by the campgrounds where they planned to meet, and Beacon is nowhere to be found.
The day of his wedding, Laurel wakes up feeling sick.
Beacon didn’t call off the engagement, but he also didn’t appear to meet Laurel for the entirety of the previous day.
Their promises to learn how to be good partners to each other have been dashed, both of them failing to a magnificent degree.
Now Laurel is back in the dark, not knowing what he’s about to walk into.
Will Beacon be stoic and cold again? Worse?
And as for himself… Will Laurel continue to fail?
Is there anything that could have prevented this?
He’s replayed the brief conversation endless times, wondering what he could have said to put Beacon at ease instead of having to watch him turn tail and run.
He’s not even the one who has a tail! Ugh.
Fortunately, Beacon doesn’t appear to have alerted any of their parents about the interaction.
Maybe he’s embarrassed, humiliated to admit to the Sure-of-Foot leaders what a disastrous mate they picked for their heir.
Naturally, they’d want to know why, and then the confidentiality of Laurel’s clients and the intimate modifications he offers would be compromised.
It’s one thing to tell the interested party that he’ll attempt anything. It’s another to be exposed as actively doing it.
Fuck. Shit damn fuck.
Laurel’s catastrophizing is cut short—well, not short, since he’s been agonizing since he awoke—when his father storms into his room.
“Laurel, you’re going to be late for your own wedding ceremony,” Rodney declares, disdain clear in his voice.
Over the last few days, rather than seem approving of Laurel’s attempts to socialize with his intended, Rodney’s attitude has veered more closely to disgust. Laurel has caught him staring more than once, expression tainted by open revulsion.
He doesn’t need another reason to hate how Laurel ended up. Along that vein, it might be nice to marry Beacon and have in-laws who actually love their only child.
“I’m sorry, Papa, I was—”
“Finish getting dressed.”
After the tailor fiasco, there was enough time to ensure Laurel’s wedding garments were properly fitted.
Laurel had expected to be provided with an attendant to help him prepare, but Rodney hadn’t hired anyone, so he sits in his bedroom alone, lining his eyes with kohl and rubbing shimmer on his cheeks and brow.
Even with modest embellishments, Laurel looks deflated.
Nonsensically, he checks the glass, even though he has no reason to expect any messages of congratulations when he had no one to tell of his engagement.
With a soft sigh, Laurel tucks the glass compact away and dons his plain off-white tunic and trousers; Rodney intentionally forbade color or pattern on his wedding clothes, citing Laurel’s alterations as enough of a spectacle.
In a small act of defiance, Laurel grabs a dusky pink, floor-length lace shawl, and slides it on over the rest of his attire.
There.
The tip of his tail twitches, but it’s otherwise still, a testament to Laurel’s bone-deep exhaustion.
When he exits the house, it’s to see Rodney has called a rickshaw for them. Less because he’s worried about Laurel’s exhaustion, more because the ceremonial garments were expensive, and walking to the legal pavilion would dirty the pale fabric.
Although they sit side-by-side, the ride is silent, Rodney cold and stiff. Laurel doesn’t try to engage him in conversation, and he doesn’t expect congratulations. Not even a bitter comment about finally getting Laurel out of his house or being free of the workshop rent cost.
It’s fine.
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.
That’s what Laurel tells himself, over and over and over again, eyes closed during the ride in hopes of avoiding the worst of the nausea.
The rickshaw jerks to a stop. Rodney hops out immediately to pay the driver and storms off, not offering to help Laurel climb to the dusty road without dirtying his clothes. Laurel wouldn’t have wanted his assistance anyway.
Heaving his last sigh, Laurel gathers the long train of lace and exits the rickshaw, thanking the driver before he pulls off to find another rider.
A gust of wind immediately destroys Laurel’s carefully brushed hair, which he left loose with only a few pink flowers pinned beside his ear. It yanks the pin free, sending the flowers tumbling down to the road.
Before they can blow hopelessly far, someone with a quick hand snags them from mid-air. Laurel lifts his gaze to thank the person, only for his mouth to go bone dry, and his outstretched arm to fall limply by his side.
“Beacon,” he says, and the wind steals his voice, too.
But Beacon dips his head, the white and blue flowers woven in a crown through his red hair pinned much more securely than Laurel’s own. “Good morning, Laurel,” he replies, equally hushed.
“I hope you slept well,” Laurel says around a numb tongue. His face flushes, hot from embarrassment at the foolish statement. It’s just that he doesn’t know what else to say to the sturdy, handsome man but a few paces away.
Beacon works his jaw but says nothing, not to affirm or deny, not to return the nicety. He clears his throat, the protruding knot working underneath his trimmed stubble when he swallows.
“May I?” Laurel asks, gesturing to the flowers Beacon is crushing in his grasp.
Lips parting, Beacon looks between Laurel and the modest pin as if he hadn’t realized he was still holding it.
He nods with a fraction of his usual poise, then immediately shakes his head.
“Allow me,” he says, or more mouths, breath barely carrying the words.
They’re less important than what he does next.
Beacon steps forward, hesitating only long enough to ensure Laurel doesn’t dodge, and clumsily pins the flowers into his hair. He positions them oddly and lopsided, but adjusting them is the last thing on Laurel’s mind with his future husband within reach.
The kilt and vest Beacon wears today are even more elaborate than the formal ensemble he wore the day of the Emberleigh dance.
Instead of bold colors, they’re muted, the seams lined with gold embroidery.
A similarly embroidered sash has been slung over one shoulder, stretched diagonally to the opposite hip.
Rather than wool socks and thick-soled ghillie brogue boots, Beacon wears modest deerskin shoes that lace up to his knees.
Laurel means to thank him, but only manages to caress the poorly pinned, wilted sprig, a few petals coming off in his hand. His eyes remain locked with Beacon’s hazel ones.
“Boys?”
Both of them jolt, turning toward Maura Sure-of-Foot as one. She and Donlan are dressed finely without being ostentatious, contrasting with Rodney, who stands at a distance in plain garb, overshadowed by his stormy expression.
Maura smiles. “Ready?”
No, Laurel almost says. Yes, he almost follows up with, but he doesn’t manage either. In the end, all he produces is a soft hum of acknowledgement as he offers his hand to Beacon, praying to all the stars in Dun Steorra that his soon-to-be husband accepts.