by J B Black
This — more than anything else — was why he left magic behind. These uncontrollable urges and needs which more often than not left him crawling in his skin and tearing himself to pieces inspired emotions he rarely had on his own. His sister-in-law’s magic left him constantly tearing at the skin of his forearms while uncle had magic which left him vomiting in the back garden. No matter how old he grew, the way his body reacted to the magic of others never stopped leaving him in the lurch, and just when he believed he escaped it all, his body reacted entirely differently than it ever had before. Attraction came from nowhere, pooling in his stomach and leaving him clawing at the edges of himself.
Too desperate to continue with his fingers alone, Oliver grabbed the vibrating dildo and shoved it into his slick hole. All at once, he came into his hand, muffling his moan of pleasure in his blanket as he whimpered against the onslaught of frustration and embarrassment which quickly followed. Grabbing a tissue, he cleaned off his hand as his body clenched about the vibrator. Aftershocks trembled through him, but he pushed them down.
Humming a soft tune, he shielded himself the best he could, and pulled his boxers on as well as a pair of sweatpants. The tingles remained. No matter what he did, Oliver never managed to completely stop the way his body reacted. Throwing open his door, the drummer stormed out, glaring around only to stop as Taron smiled brightly at him from the kitchen.
“I made breakfast!” the fae cheered, gesturing to the food on the table.
Fruits, meats, and all sorts of pastries covered the table. None of which related to anything Oliver had in his fridge the night before. No wonder the fae’s magic coated everything.
Humming a bit louder, Oliver drummed his fingers on the counter as he pushed back the other’s magic, reclaiming his apartment. “As much as I appreciate your intentions, I’m extremely sensitive to others’ magic.”
Taron’s honey-comb eyes widened. “Oh no. Did I make you feel ill?” He rushed forward, pulling out a chair. “Please! Sit down! I apologize for my thoughtlessness!”
Rather than doing so, Oliver retreated, cracking open the windows despite the cold outside. It wouldn’t do much to dissipate the magic, but heat still pulsed through his body, leaving him aching and wanting. If the fae believed his magic made him ill, all the better.
“Just...don’t do it again,” he requested.
Shoulders sagging, Taron nodded. His heart sunk at the strained expression on the man’s face, and worse still, his heart ached at the sheer beauty of the newly woken Oliver. His brown hair tumbled about his shoulders, and the man’s bare chest drew the fae’s covetous gaze. Small rosy nipples had Taron biting his lips. His fingers itched to touch. The clear muscular of Oliver’s abdomen awakened an aching need to feed the man, but the food set upon the table and sprawling onto the counters only seemed to make the matter worse. He couldn’t even spell the feast away.
Glancing between the chair he had pulled out and Oliver, Taron released a slow breath. “What can I do?”
Oliver took a few deep breaths. “I don’t want to prevent you from doing magic. It wouldn’t be fair, but please keep it to a minimum, and if you can, please keep the influence contained.”
“Of course.”
Guilt curdled in Oliver’s stomach, and though the residual magic caused him to flush, he crossed back into the thick of it and sat down at the table, gritting his teeth through the worst of it. “Can’t let this all go to waste, right?”
“There’s tea! I also prepared different juices,” Taron exclaimed, racing into the kitchen to bring out a teapot which Oliver hadn’t owned the night before.
All the attention overwhelmed Oliver. Even his friends never focused so singularly on his comfort, and the aftermath of his guilty orgasm and the magic’s continued influence unmoored the man worse with each passing moment. He had no idea what to do. There had to be something he could do to mitigate the desperation which the fae felt.
“I can get my own drink,” he insisted.
Taron clutched the pot to his chest, crying out as the jostling sent scalding tea onto his hand. His magic rose, reacting to the pain, and Oliver threw himself forward, whistling a tune as he healed the fae before his magic could rise in full. Dragging Taron to the sink, Oliver turned on the cold water, guiding the still pink skin beneath it.
Hunger curled in his chest. Want brewed, and he struggled to push it aside when standing so close, but he just kept whistling, urging his magic to spread across the apartment and clean the mess though he usually would have done everything the mortal way. The teapot jumped back together. It settled upon the table and the tea poured and stray leaves poured down the sink, dodging around the fae’s hand. The pants which had been too short the day before fit perfectly, but Taron remained bare-chested. His paleness made him like a marble statue with muscles a Greek god would envy. His eyes watched Oliver, absorbing him like a black hole as the gold of them shimmered.
While Oliver feared his arousal might be recognized, Taron panicked that the brown-haired beauty stood so close when he seemed in obvious pain. Biting his lip, the magic user flushed. Already, he had stumbled and failed in so many ways. The laws of hospitality required so little of guests, but every move he made to become a welcomed new friend only solidified the fae as a burden. Through it all, Oliver moved with such grace. He offered comfort again and again. Each note he whistled sent a thrill down Taron’s spine. Yearning bubbled up. A maddening want which left him terrified of what he might do next as his own magic kept rising in response no matter how he pushed it down. Every fiber of the fae’s being reached out to this man before him, and suspicions arose of what Oliver might be to him. Surely, fate wasn’t so cruel in its kindness. All the misery of his brother’s marriage could not be the key which led to his own mate.
“I have hurt you again,” Taron lamented softly.
With a sigh, Oliver stopped whistling. “You’re a fae. Magic comes naturally as breathing.”
“So my very existence hurts you.”
Agony contorted Taron’s features, and the tears dotting his lower lashes drew honesty from the drummer that he wasn’t entirely prepared to give. “You aren’t the only one. I’ve been around fae before.”
“You attended the Treaty Celebrations?” the fae asked. His brows furrowed. “You must have been rather young.”
Oliver bit his lip, keeping hold of the fae’s hand for a moment longer before turning off the water. “Point is, the magic knocked me out for a week. This isn’t nearly as bad.”
Of course, coming in his pants at thirteen when he hadn’t even had morning wood or a wet dream had wrecked the warlock. He’d jumped into Loch Ness in a desperate attempt to stop the heat rising to his skin. All had been due to two fae in the garden. Mostly one, really, but he hadn’t been close enough to recognize which of the two cast the spell which affected him. A real eye-opener for his young bisexual heart, but the two were both tall and pale with flowers in their hair. They danced about in the garden, clearly enamored and likely mates, but one of them had spelled twinkling lights about them, and the aura of the magic had floored Oliver. He came. Hard and desperate and hungry for something he never considered before. Throwing himself into the loch hadn’t helped.
Every other fae’s magic left him clawing at his skin, choking like someone had sprayed too much perfume in the air, but when he went out for air, it was like destiny stood before him, teasing and torturing him as he processed what he saw and what happened to him. Frozen by the water, he sunk deeper and deeper. Oliver barely found the strength to pull himself above the surface, and the disappointment in his parents face when they found him back in their rooms half-comatose and clinging to the toilet, their disappointment nearly overwhelmed the snide joy they had when they told him of his brother’s match.
“I am a guest in your house. You pulled me from the wreckage of my impulsiveness. Every time I try to repay you some bit of kindness…” Taron swallowed, glancing away before turning his honeycomb eyes back onto the
drummer. “I am so sorry, Oliver.”
Stepping back, the brown-haired man shrugged. “This is your first time on Earth. It’ll take some getting used to.”
The urge to protest rose in the fae’s throat, but he swallowed it back down. Even though he had also attended the last celebration, it had been with Marguerite, and his heart ached at the thought. Regardless of how beautiful Oliver was, he had spent so long imagining a life with Marguerite, and if his magic made the other man ill, Taron dared not pursue the emotions the magic user inspired inside him.
“On the plus side, you won’t need to worry about magic for food again. This will feed us for a week,” Oliver said as he poured himself a glass of water and sat down at the table.
Taron ducked his head, smiling. “If you’ll allow me to stay, I’ll learn to cook the mortal way. It will be an adventure.”
“You’ll have to hide that you’re fae if you’re planning on leaving the flat,” Oliver murmured, and dread filled his stomach. Even if he weren’t around for that spellwork, glamors shifted and spread, leaking everywhere. “I’m not good at that, but please make sure to take it off once you’re back inside.” Leaning back in his seat, the drummer grabbed his spare key from the drawer. “Here. You can use this to unlock the door. Just don’t lose it.”
All the keys to the castle never seemed as precious as the single rough metal one which Oliver handed to him. Not only had the magic user welcomed him into his home, but he provided him with a key to enter and leave at his own discretion. This moved beyond hospitality laws. More solid bonds formed from the passing of keys. Whether marriages or adoptions, the presentation of a key so quickly undermined his belief that the other’s reaction to Taron’s magic would prevent the fae from exploring the growing feelings which the magic user inspired inside him.
Taking the key, Taron smiled. “I promise I will endeavor to do everything within my power to ensure my magic isn’t a burden with you.”
Oliver nodded, relaxing as the last bits of magic faded. However, he kept his guard up as he took the first bite, keeping his shields ready in case the magic would affect him, but the crispy bacon snapped, crunching pleasantly with no unnatural warmth behind it.
After explaining how to work the television and drawing a simplified map showing different stories, Oliver showed Taron how to lock the door and unlock it before laying out a set of clothes for the fae to magically adjust after he had left for work. The cold winter winds of London whisked away the last bits of unnatural heat from Taron’s magic. Guilt came in its place. Though he couldn’t control his body’s reaction to magic and refused to hold the fae responsible, he had taken himself in hand knowing what inspired the passion. His hole clenched around nothing, remembering the too quick satisfaction of hitting his release with such little movement of his own body. Blanketed by heat, he shot back in his mind to that garden where he came desperately at the magic of one so far outside his grasp.
Shaking his head, Oliver released a slow breath. None of that mattered. Taron remained in the apartment. If the fae vanished, that was up to him. Offering Taron a key made sense. It allowed Oliver to leave without the expectation that the fae had to remain, and if Taron intended to practice magic, Oliver could breathe easier with that spellwork happening outside his home.
Entering the shop through the back, the brown-haired man unlocked the employee entrance. The baristas came in later, so he had some time alone to prep the kitchen. He tied his apron on and started to make the bread for the day. Baking followed a beat. Weights and measures involved the same patterns showing up over and over again, and the feel of the dough as he kneaded it told him when it was time to move to the next step. Repeating the actions calmed him. The nervous anxiety of the morning faded, vanishing completely by the time the baristas came in for the day to open the front of the cafe.
Joe — the assistant manager on for the day — let them in, setting a cup of coffee down within Oliver’s reach. “Good morning, ladies. Hope you’re ready for a wonderful day!”
Annie groaned, “How are you so cheerful this early?”
“He’s probably already had three cups of coffee,” Teresa suggested as she put away her things.
Setting the last few items for pre-opening prep into their proper places, Oliver sipped the warm bittersweet brew. A hint of nuttiness melded into the warmth with a familiar vanilla.
“How is it?” Joe asked. “I’m back to basics.”
“Better than that disgusting peppermint-clove monstrosity, I bet,” Teresa said as Annie mimed gagging before setting her own apron on and heading toward the front.
Setting his hands upon his hips, Joe glared after the two women. “It wasn’t that bad!”
“I couldn’t taste anything for the rest of the day,” Oliver pointed out, and the other man gasped, pressing a hand to his chest.
His foppish ash blond hair flopped this way and that as he exaggerated his distress, casting a hand to his brow. “Unbelievable! After all my effort to woo you through your stomach, this is the thanks I get!”
Oliver snorted, rolling his eyes and not dignifying Joe’s teasing with a response. The other man always had a quick comeback, and no matter what the brown-haired man said, Joe would throw his response right back at him, even drawing close to sell his supposed crush. Most mornings, Oliver enjoyed the repartee, but with the tingle of Taron’s magic in the back of his mind, he longed for space.
Pouting, Joe grabbed the markers for the front window board. “You’re off your game today, Ollie baby. Daddy will leave it for now, but I’m going to find out eventually.”
“Ugh, I can’t believe you just said that!” Annie cried as she stuck her tongue out in disgust.
Smirking, Joe cocked a single brow. “Our love life is passionate and creative. If you don’t want to know, keep your nose out of it.”
“You barely reach his shoulder. I’m taller than you!” Annie argued, holding the door open for the assistant manager. “You’re nobody’s ‘daddy’! Urgh, I can’t believe I even said that.”
From the front, Teresa called, “No one forced you, Annie.”
“She’s right,” Joe agreed. “Plus, height means nothing. I dom like nobody’s business.”
Heading up front, the two continued to teasingly argue back and forth, and though Oliver could hear the basic points, he focused on his tasks, allowing the rest of the world to fade away. Jokes aside, Joe would pry. He always did, but there was no way to explain Taron. Not in a manner which didn’t lead to more uncomfortable questions that the drummer had no desire to answer. Just one shift and over to load his drums into Ben’s van for their gig tonight at a local bar. Sullivan — the man who owned the bar — often gave them dinner afterward, and every single time the food was enough for three meals, so Oliver could bring that back rather than cooking.
Best scenario: Taron left before Oliver returned home. Slightly worse: the fae did significant magic in the process of leaving. Hospitality prevented him from kicking the fae out without good reason, but while his absence could be explained by his duties elsewhere as another might have, the fae could still find it rude. Rude led to leaving or trouble. Taron hardly seemed the sort to seek trouble, yet he tore his way through the spellwork keeping Faerie a separate realm and traveled between without greeting any of the magical councils which made him something like a fugitive and broke so many laws. More than Oliver likely knew.
Despite Joe’s words, he never pushed Oliver, and the drummer’s shift flew by as the weekday rush left them scrambling in the morning to keep up with the orders flying in as office works came and then the university students. By the time his shift ended, Oliver neatly left without a word and rushed over to the warehouse to meet Ben.
“I don’t know why we still play at Sully’s place. Almost nobody comes around on a Wednesday,” Ben complained even as he helped Oliver pack his gear.
Shrugging, the brown-haired man sighed. “The food’s good?”
With huff, the bassist grumbled, �
�Yeah, I guess that’s worth the petrol.”
“Plus, he is Calvin’s uncle.”
Snapping his fingers, Ben almost poked Oliver’s eye out with his finger as he gesticulated excitedly. “That’s it! We get the food because we’re family, and we play despite the shit pay and timing because he’s family.”
“His bar isn’t really the music-focused sort. He’d probably get more customers if he stuck up a karaoke machine,” Oliver suggested, and Ben stared him dead in the eyes.
“If you suggest something that sickening again, I am disowning you and taking your share of the food,” the bassist asserted before shutting the back of the van. “Okay, that’s it. Let’s enjoy some London traffic.”
Despite Ben’s grumblings, the food wasn’t the only good bit about Sullivan’s bar. London Frost’s fanbase mainly consisted of university students and those in their late teens to early thirties; however, most of Sullivan’s patrons fell into an older age range, so it was easy to know whether the folks at the bar came for drinks or for the music. A good crowd came despite it being a weekday and a less than typical location, giving them time with fans who would be the most likely to buy their music when they finally had a CD to sell.
From the early evening into the night, they played. Nothing mattered in those moments. As the music soared louder and louder, the fae in Oliver’s apartment and the stress of the daily grind faded. Carried by the beat of his drums and Calvin’s voice, Oliver drifted away, harmonizing his magic and body to set his mind at ease. He had almost forgotten entirely about what waited for him at home when Ben and Calvin helped him unload his drums back to their practice room.
