Page 34 of Tossing the Caber

Laurel kneels delicately before his husband, tail curling around his body. “Will you hand me the prosthesis?” He decides to use more clinical, nondescript terms, at least for now, to keep Beacon from panicking at the depth of the moment. While Laurel is positioning himself, the state of Beacon’s thick body hair makes him chuckle. At the quirk of Beacon’s brow, he says, “Might have to trim it a bit.”

Beacon’s pale face goes almost as red as his hair. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have a hair removal hex that will keep some stubble intact without impeding the connection.”

“Ahex?” Beacon claps a hand over his face. “Fuck. Don’t explain, just do it.”

Laurel realizes Beacon has probably avoided grooming that area for a reason, so he pets the hair in apology before applying magic. The spell is quick and painless; Laurel is pleased with the results, having kept enough that Beacon’s discomfort with his lower body shouldn’t be exacerbated. “It worked great! Do you want to see?”

Instead of responding, Beacon adds his other hand over his face, covering his eyes and cheeks so only his parted lips are exposed, chest swelling as he breathes hard.

That’s a ‘no,’ then.

Holding the phallus carefully on his lap, Laurel nudges Beacon’s legs apart, spreading them to give him room to work.“The installation might feel strange at first, as your body adjusts. I’m going to use magic to align the prosthesis to your existing nerve pathways. Let me know immediately if anything feels painful or even mildly uncomfortable. Whether or not this continues is entirely within your control.”

“You don’t have to coddle me,” Beacon grumbles, peeking through his fingers.

Laurel flicks him on the inner thigh, smiling at the incredulous sound it wins him. “I’m not coddling you,” he says once he has recentered his husband’s attention. “This is the process for anyone I work with. In this regard, you aren’t special. I’m a professional, and I will treat everyone in my space with respect. Yes?”

Chastened, Beacon nods. Laurel smiles and kisses the spot he flicked, then launches into the next step. He didn’t have a model for Beacon’s existing anatomy, which he typically would for an installation as sensitive as this; remembering Beacon’s flesh, hot and throbbing in his mouth, had to do. Still, when he positions the phallus, it lines up agreeably.

“If you enjoy this, I can add testicles next time,” he mentions absently.

When Beacon wheezes his name, pleading, Laurel nearly doubles over. He isn’t laughingatBeacon, but he’s not laughingwith himeither, as Beacon isn’t laughing at all, so Laurel attempts to smother further noise. “Just keep it in mind! I’m going to start now.”

He presses the base of the phallus against Beacon’s pelvis. He has to close his eyes to see the nerve network, teeth sinking into his lip as he aligns magic pathways. It’s a complex task, but not one Laurel isn’t prepared for. He knows the prosthesishas linked properly when Beacon gasps, and the phallus jerks in Laurel’s hand.

Beacon shoots to his feet, staring down at his crotch with wide eyes. “Fuck the stars, this is?—”

“Incredible?” Laurel suggests, not unwilling to blow his own horn.

With shaking fingers, Beacon takes his new cock in hand. He holds it in place, tipping his head side to side to examine it. Laurel waits. Finally, Beacon strokes himself from crown to base, eyes widening when the foreskin—which had been a still fold on the unanimated phallus—slides fluidly in his grip.

It didn’t take Laurel long to learn that it’s not unusual for Beacon to struggle with words. Thus, when Beacon seizes Laurel under his arms and pulls him to his feet, up onto his toes, and kisses him for all he’s worth, Laurel figures that’s the sign of approval he’s been waiting for.

Chapter Eleven

Beacon

There’s pressure inside Beacon’s chest—a fullness he thought he’d never experience, not his entire life. And, yes, part of it is due to the new appendage throbbing as the magically-fused addition becomes engorged with Beacon’s own life-force, but that’s not all.

The rest is Laurel. Just him.

His kindness and enthusiasm, his beauty and intelligence, and the fact that Beacon has no trouble scooping him up and plopping him on the table. Laurel scrambles to close the case of his creations and pushes it aside; Beacon can’t escape laughing, choking out an apology even while Laurel giggles alongside him.

Then they’re kissing again, laughter pressed into each other’s lips and tongues, hands grasping. Beacon proceeds to strip Laurel of his clothes. He’s wearing those devastatingly short trousers again, exposing most of his legs with respect to the heat. Once he’s left naked and erect, spread out on the table, Beacon takes a moment to admire him, breath caught.

Misinterpreting the pause, Laurel shrinks in on himself. “I know it’s strange?—”

Beacon grabs him by the ankle, stilling him. He doesn’t know what to say—platitudes feel useless, reassurances empty—so instead, he kisses the inside of Laurel’s calf and watcheshis amber eyes go wide. Laurel relaxes, legs falling open so Beacon can explore him, mouthing down one smooth thigh while gripping the other, testing resistance. He might not be an athlete, but walking everywhere keeps Laurel toned and fit. The steep hills and peaks of Dun Steorra’s mountains won’t pose a major obstacle; Beacon finds the strength in this tiny man more admirable than he can verbalize. As usual.

But he wants Laurel to understand, so he spreads his thighs as far as they’ll go, cups his bollocks, and slides his lips down his slender length. Moaning, Laurel leans into it. His hips buck, thrusting his cock deeper, which Beacon allows for a moment before applying enough pressure to hold Laurel in place. Despite not being able to rival Beacon’s strength, Laurel fights back, squirming like a trapped eel.

Knowing the way to make his husband melt, Beacon adjusts his grip, spreading Laurel’s ass so he can pay attention to his hole. The skin flutters under his tongue when Laurel gasps, jerks, and then—as expected—goes limp on the table. The only exception is his tail, thrashing whenever the pleasure crests.

“Laurel, I need… Can I… May I—” He can’t bring himself to say it.

“Fuck me?” Laurel offers, pushing up onto his elbows so their gazes can lock.