Page 33 of Tossing the Caber

Curiosity finally wins out. Slowly, Beacon removes the clear phallus from the box. Its center is vibrant green. “Is this the same stone you used to create your…” He gestures to Laurel’s hands.

Surprised, Laurel tries to hide his wrists, mostly out of shyness. “Yes. I didn’t expect you to notice.”

“They’re stunning,” Beacon says with a bashful shrug.

Laurel flushes with pleasure, then gestures to the final model. “This one was a risk, but I didn’t know if your dysphoria would want something completely unrealistic?—”

“Wait. That word you just used…”

“Dysphoria?”

“What does that mean?”

With a soft smile, Laurel indulges in the desire to run his fingers through Beacon’s messy hair, coppery in the workshop’s yellow light. “It means you don’t feel entirely connected to your body. Like some parts of it are wrong because you see those parts as belonging to an inaccurate version of yourself. Am I out of line in suspecting this might resemble your experience?”

Beacon shakes his head but doesn’t speak. That’s alright.

“It’s not exactly the same, but I felt similarly after my accident—” Laurel sucks in a sharp breath. He never told Beacon about the event or showed him the half of his hand that’s artificial, the rest disfigured. Will his husband be upset at the deceit or disgusted by its appearance?

“It’s alright, Laurel.” Beacon lays his hand over Laurel’s damaged one, even though he should have no way of knowing.

“Your father told me about the accident,” Beacon says. “I thought it rude and inappropriate of him, so I didn’t mention it to you. I assumed you’d tell me when you were ready.”

Laurel’s face burns.

“It’s not the same, no, but that’s why you understand what I… How I feel about my body. Yes?”

He sounds sokind.Accepting.

It’s Laurel’s turn to nod.

“You’ve dedicated your life to helping people feel right in their bodies because you don’t feel right in yours.”

Tears well in Laurel’s eyes. The reveal wasn’t supposed to play out like this.

Beacon continues, “Thank you. I never would have asked for anything like this, even knowing your capabilities.” He catches the tip of Laurel’s tail and twists it around his wide thumb. “I’m not sure how to use them, though.”

“Don’t you want to hear about the last one?”

Beacon looks warily at the third phallus, then laughs. “I don’t think that one suits me.”

It was a gamble, certainly. Laurel designed the shape of this one to be very different from the standard elven penis. “That’s more than alright. We will consider it a failed experiment.”

Beacon returns the crystal phallus to its slot, then withdraws the realistic one. “How do I use it?”

“You want me to show you right now?” Surprise colors Laurel’s tone, and his cheeks warm.

“Is there a reason we shouldn’t?”

“Ah. No. There isn’t. Are you sure?”

“Very.”

With a firm nod, Laurel sends a flicker of his magic to the door, locking it. “You’ll want to start by removing your kilt.”

Laurel’s heart pounds as he watches Beacon slowly unfasten his accoutrement—boots and socks on the floor, sporran and sgian dubh set on the workbench. He unbuckleshis kilt fittings, unwinds the pleated garment from his hips, and folds it respectfully before setting it beside his effects. Beacon keeps his buttoned white shirt on and only hesitates a second before sliding his small pants down his thickly muscled legs. Laurel appreciates the rock-hard definition even more after having seen those legs in action—and he doesn’t say a damn word about the jokes pertaining to what Beacon wears underneath his kilt.

The shirt hangs low enough to conceal Beacon’s lower body. Laurel adjusts the chair to allow space for both of them, stroking Beacon’s arm as he retakes the seat. He doesn’t verbalize the sentiment, but Beacon appears a touch more relaxed after.