Page 36 of Tossing the Caber

Beacon fucks Laurel ruthlessly, the smaller elf still somehow finding the breath to beg for more. His thighs clap against Laurel’s ass, pounding it dark as a ripe plum. A puddle of precome has spread over his stomach, running down his side. Beacon sweeps it up, using it to ease the punishing grip he takes on Laurel’s cock. The skin is burning hot, shaft pulsing.

He strokes in time with his thrusts, thumb circling the head, squeezing and relaxing like he imagines he might like while on the edge. Laurel tenses, and it’s the combination of body and mind that nearly brings Beacon off too early a second time.

“Don’t you dare,” Laurel rasps, fingernails digging into the tabletop.

Choking on a laugh, Beacon pours everything he has intoLaurel, possessing him in that dizzyingly mutual way. Clutching, grasping, being held back, drawn-dragged closer. Laurel’s heels dig into Beacon’s back as he wails, fighting over that final hump.

“Come on, beautiful.”

Laurel opens his eyes, amber gaze watery. A tear slips down his cheek. Their connection sizzles, and Beacon doesn’t know exactly what does it—his hand, his expression, hiscock—but Laurel’s lips round, and an escalating cry works its way from his chest to his throat, vein pulsing under the sheen of sweat. What pours out is an animal sound, a howl rich with need as come spurts from his cock, striping his chest and chin.

Beacon smears his palm through it and holds Laurel down using the evidence of his pleasure, falling down the gap alongside him with no further prompting. Watching his husband is enough.

“Fuck!” Beacon doubles over, rewarded with Laurel’s fingers fisting in his hair. Bumps break out across his skin as he delivers a few final, punishing thrusts, wringing himself dry even though nothing physically emerges.Next time, he hears in Laurel’s voice.

Impulse has him sucking come off his fingers. Beacon releases Laurel’s shaking legs so they can kiss, moaning when Laurel’s tongue meets his beyond the threshold of their swollen lips. Tasting himself.

They tremble together, Beacon having to support himself on arms like gelatin so his legs don’t give out. Gently, carefully, Laurel pushes him back with a foot on his shoulder, guiding him to sit back down. Beacon isn’t sure the chair will survive when Laurel flops into his lap, but it does.

Somehow, they both survive. Maybe more than that. Maybe they’re holding hands and leading each other into a future that looks likethrivinginstead.

Soft kisses and minutes of panting bring them down tonormal heart rates. Laurel sits up, cringing when his naked skin peels away from Beacon’s. “Ew,” he grumbles.

Beacon is no stranger to the discomfort of sweaty flesh on either end—just thinking of getting a shirtless hug from Raibull after a workout would be enough to go flaccid if the prosthetic cock was capable of that. On that note… “How do I get this off?”

Laurel oozes fluidly off his lap to the floor, landing with a moan in a tangle of sore limbs. “It’s not difficult, but it feels weirder than the initial application.” He closes his eyes, and then, heralded by an awful, sucking sensation, removes the phallus from Beacon’s crotch.

It leaves him feeling a combination of relief and loss. Beacon touches the area where the hair has been shorn, everything around it a mess of sexual aftermath, returned to his disappointment of a body.

“Hey.”

Beacon blinks at Laurel, curled on the floor with his cheek against Beacon’s knee.

“It doesn’t change anything about you, you know.”

With a shuddery exhale, Beacon says, “I know.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Yeah.”

Laurel drops a quick kiss onto Beacon’s knee, then wobbles to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

“I don’t suppose you have a shower hidden in here,” Beacon teases, scanning the small workshop.

Chuckling, Laurel shakes his head. “No. There’s a bucket and a hose out back, though.”

“Just like home.” Beacon stretches, joints cracking, then pops up to follow Laurel into the tiny overgrown garden. Vine-covered trellises block most of the view of the alley behind them. Beacon doesn’t care if anyone sees his body, but the idea of someone peeping at Laurel triggers a surge ofpossessiveness. He puts himself between the gate and his husband’s back, and if Laurel notices, he doesn’t mention it.

“It’s cold,” he’s explaining instead, “and the water pressure can be inconsistent. Always dribbly when you want a steady stream, and then suddenly it— Ack!”

A pulse from the hose squirts Laurel in the face. He recoils, scrubbing at his eyes so hard, he doesn’t notice the skin peeling off his knuckles until what Beacon belatedly realizes must be prosthetic fingers detach from his hand and clatter to the footpath below.

Confusion registers on Laurel’s face until the spiky clumps of his eyelashes go wide. He holds up his hand, only two fingers and his thumb intact, the other two missing along with a substantial section of his palm. Mortification paints over Laurel’s lovely face, leaving a twisted, crumpled mess that summarily bursts into tears.

For too long, Beacon stands there, naked and frozen, watching Laurel sob with his damaged hand clutched—hidden—against his chest. When he finally thaws, Beacon lunges into motion. He turns off the hose, kicking it out of the puddle of lukewarm water surrounding Laurel’s feet.

Laurel struggles like a caught cat when Beacon grabs him, but the imbalance in their strength isn’t in question, and it doesn’t take long for him to go lax, crumpling against Beacon’s chest. Beacon strokes his hair back, twisting the clumped strands into a thick tail. In its current state it’s too dense for Beacon to weave his fingers into, but he does his best, holding Laurel and petting him as he cries himself out.