by Jenya Keefe
“No. I knew how it would be.”
“When you had sex with me, did it mess up their data?” Ángel tried to match Oberon’s light tone, but it came out bitter.
“I was never given instructions not to have sex with a human,” said Oberon, meeting Ángel’s gaze, still playing. “Perhaps it didn’t occur to anyone that I might. It would be considered rather kinky, you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Ángel sat back, shook the tension out of his hands, and set his fingers to his guitar again. He tried to copy Oberon’s melody. Oberon slowed down, letting Ángel follow him, and they played together for a while, a sort of dueling-banjos exercise in which Oberon played a riff and Ángel copied it; then Ángel would play, and Oberon would mirror. Adapting, improvising.
“It makes me nervous that everyone knows,” Ángel said eventually, chest aching a little.
Oberon stilled the strings on his guitar with his flattened palm. “Explain to me why?” When Ángel hesitated, Oberon said, “Once when I didn’t understand something, you told me to take your word for it. I didn’t, and I regretted it. Help me understand.”
Ángel plucked his A-string, let the note resonate in the room. He said slowly, “People will think I’m a pervert. I mean, a lot of people already think I’m a pervert. My mom thinks I’m disgusting. I guess, part of me doesn’t mind confirming their low opinion of me. But part of me does.”
Oberon played his own A-string. “I understand that if the world knew, it would be a scandal. The fact that we are both male would be a problem for some people. And in many states, including this one, it is illegal for humans to have sex with nonhumans. The publicity might be extremely unpleasant. Of course, the world does not know.”
“No,” agreed Ángel, who was unaccountably blushing. “I just . . . I don’t actually care what Chandler and the security team think, not really. They must be so damn bored out there, a little deviant nonhuman sex will be good for them. I just— Marissa—”
“Do you truly think Marissa will judge you so harshly?”
“I hope not,” he said, disconsolately.
“Do you think you are disgusting?”
Ouch. “Oberon, I don’t think you’re disgusting.”
In a very gentle tone, Oberon said, “I don’t think you’re disgusting, either.”
“And it doesn’t mean I want to stop,” added Ángel.
“Ah,” said Oberon, voice brightening. “That is what I was waiting to hear you say.”
That night, Ángel surfed the internet in bed, naked, waiting for Oberon to come to him. Eventually his eyes grew heavy, and he tossed the tablet to the carpet, wrapped himself in the peacock duvet, and fell asleep.
He woke up smiling, feeling hands on his body, fingers running over his scalp and neck. “Oberon,” he said, eyes still closed, recognizing the stinging, singing magic of the fae’s touch.
“You are so very sweet,” murmured Oberon in his ear. He was kneeling beside Ángel’s body, sliding his hands all over him. The deep purring growl of his voice resonated through Ángel. Drowsy and half-asleep, his body tingled with arousal as Oberon kissed his neck, his shoulders. “So sweet.”
“I was waiting for you,” mumbled Ángel, allowing himself to be rolled over onto his stomach. “Where were you?”
“Thinking about you.” Oberon massaged his ass, and licked hot kisses down his spine.
“Me too. I wanted you all day,” said Ángel into his pillow. His dick was hard, balls tight; he ached with want. Oberon’s mouth reached his tailbone and sucked there, right above the cleft of his ass. Ángel whimpered, hot pleasure sparking through his veins. He spread his legs and Oberon headed south. The tip of his tongue swirled around Ángel’s hole, and Ángel’s body jerked. “Oh yeah,” he moaned. “Love that.”
Oberon made a muffled hum and his tongue flicked around Ángel’s opening. His touch was so light it tickled, and Ángel began to giggle. “I was afraid my mouth was too dirty for you.”
“Nothing about this is dirty,” said Oberon, and then he stopped playing and buried his face in Ángel’s ass, opening him with his thumbs and drilling in with his tongue. Ángel yelped. He grabbed handfuls of the sheets, raised his hips. Oberon’s tongue worked him wetly and Ángel moaned, closing his eyes.
Delight and need spread through him with every silky stab. “Oh yeah.” He rocked his hips almost involuntarily, trying to fuck himself on Oberon’s tongue. Good, so good, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he needed—he wanted to be filled up, stretched, taken.
“Oh please,” he begged, writhing. “Oh, Oberon, please. I want you so bad.”
Oberon prowled up Ángel’s body and ground his slender, hard dick through Ángel’s spit-wet crack. Ángel emitted a shattered groan of need. Oberon slid up and down—and he was doing that magical thing, self-lubricating. Moisture surged intimately against Ángel’s opening, trickled down his thighs, pooled in the small of his back. The smell of Oberon’s lube was thick in Ángel’s nostrils: musk and pepper and lush sweetness. “Please,” he whispered again, aroused almost beyond speech by Oberon’s cock sliding up and down between his cheeks.
“Slow or fast?”
“Fast,” whispered Ángel, arching his back, spreading his legs, giving himself to Oberon. “Fast.”
Oberon hauled Ángel’s body to the edge of the mattress, stood between his parted thighs. He rubbed against Ángel’s ass, interlaced his fingers with Ángel’s, pushed Ángel’s hands above his head to stretch his body out, teeth scraping Ángel’s nape. Overwhelmed by the feel and smell and power of Oberon’s body, all Ángel could do was beg: “Please. Come on, please.”
Oberon slid inside him in one long thrust, and Ángel yelled with triumph.
“You need it fast?” said Oberon, pumping his hips, fucking Ángel in short rapid strokes.
“Yes, oh God,” panted Ángel, his sweating face pressed to the mattress.
Oberon started medium-sized, but with each smacking penetration he got bigger. Ángel was distantly aware that he was crying out, his voice melding with the slap of Oberon’s body against his ass. His cock was grinding into the mattress with every jab of Oberon’s growing cock.
Oberon growled as he fucked him. He was everywhere at once: on Ángel and inside him and around him. Ángel’s brain went blank like he’d taken a shot of Novocain to the cerebral cortex, and he came, mouth open in a silent scream, pleasure arcing hard through his body, semen streaming out of him in hot spurts.
He must have actually passed out from the power of it. When he came to himself again he was on his back, arms splayed. Oberon was on his side, tucked against him so that Ángel’s legs were draped over his thighs. Oberon’s cock, large and hard, was buried inside him.
“Oh, Jesus, Oberon,” he managed to say.
“There,” murmured Oberon, warmly. “Now you can relax.” He was possessing Ángel’s body completely. He ran a lazy hand over Ángel’s belly, rubbed semen and lube into his skin, stroked his dick and balls.
“Aaah. Oberon.” Ángel’s body jolted, still wildly oversensitive. The big hand on his scrotum sent sparks of discomfort up his spine.
“Relax.” Oberon shifted that hand to Ángel’s hip, and he began to move, dragging his fat hard cock endlessly out, surging slowly, slowly back in. “Feel free to take a nap.”
Ángel’s toes curled. He moaned, helpless to do anything but feel, as Oberon continued to sinuously slide in and out of him, and thumbed his nipples. Oberon cupped his balls again, and his body jerked.
“Too much,” gasped Ángel.
Oberon crooned, a pleased noise, as though Ángel had done something particularly skilled, and he took his hand off Ángel’s scrotum and used it to hitch one of Ángel’s legs higher, over his waist, opening Ángel and sinking deeper. “Better?” he murmured, stroking Ángel’s belly, pulling slowly out.
“Nnngh—”
“You’re very sensitive,” said Oberon. He toyed with Ángel’s navel and gradually thrust h
is hips, pushing back in. “Should I stop for a few minutes?”
“No,” whispered Ángel. He dared a glance at Oberon’s face; his eyes were closed, his expression peaceful. But his hands were commanding and the air was thick with an erotic thrum. Ángel closed his eyes as well, letting Oberon move his body, use him for his pleasure. This soon after climax Ángel was even more pliant than usual. Palms open, he melted into the mattress, enjoying the drag of Oberon’s dick against his prostrate.
“At last you are still.” Ángel could hear the tease in Oberon’s voice, the playfulness. “You’re like one of those little hovering birds—what are they? They fly around in the flowers?”
“A hummingbird?” Ángel huffed a laugh. “Shut up.”
Oberon mouthed his neck, his shoulder, and continued to leisurely grind inside him. “Always in motion,” he said. “You’re always dancing or pacing or singing or jumping into swimming pools. The only time you hold still is when I fuck you unconscious.”
“This is the worst sexy talk I’ve ever heard,” said Ángel—which was not true. The timbre of Oberon’s voice was pure sex, and the words fuck you unconscious made his skin flush hot all over.
“It’s not criticism,” murmured Oberon. “I enjoy making you jump.” His fingers ghosted over Ángel’s nipples, pinched them, and Ángel jolted.
Ángel’s nipples stood up against Oberon’s fingertips. His dick was valiantly trying to get hard again, which was ridiculous. It never knew when it was down for the count. “More,” he whispered, seeking Oberon’s mouth. Oberon pulled out and rolled on top of Ángel, drawing him into a voluptuous kiss that made Ángel’s senses swim. Ángel moaned softly in acquiescence. Without breaking the kiss, Oberon caught Ángel’s knees and pressed them up toward his chest, curling Ángel’s pelvis off the mattress, and pushed back inside him. Ángel gasped and cried out against his lips.
“Mnh,” said Oberon. “So good. So perfect. Ángel.”
Oberon settled into a lazy, comfortable fuck, his weight on his arms, Ángel's legs draped over his shoulders.
“I can feel you getting aroused again,” whispered Oberon, grinding into him, breath ghosting across Ángel’s neck. “I can feel it. It feels so good.”
Ángel moaned as Oberon changed the angle of his thrusts, making his dick stroke Ángel’s prostate. “I cannot believe,” panted Ángel, “what you are doing to me.”
Oberon possessed him. Held him tight and helpless, fucked him slick and steady. His relentless touch lit Ángel on fire. His bulging shaft dragged slowly in and out of Ángel’s tenderest flesh. Ángel stopped thinking and just drowned in sensation, in Oberon’s scent, in the pleasure that went on and on.
Gradually Oberon’s pace changed. He began giving it to Ángel in short, driving strokes that made him gasp and cry, and murmured, “Perfect,” as he drove Ángel to climax again. Then Oberon went rigid and came and came and came into Ángel’s ass, his seed overflowing and dripping onto the sheets.
After, Oberon slept as if stunned, his head heavy on Ángel’s chest, big body relaxed. Ángel rested his cheek on Oberon’s shoulder, his body warm and sore and stretched in all the best ways, satisfied in a way he hadn’t even known he needed to be satisfied. You are ruining me for humans. Ángel didn’t say it out loud, but was sure it was in his skin and sweat, in his mouth, everywhere that Oberon touched him.
He couldn’t sleep. Drowsily he stroked Oberon’s hair, wondering why he was so restless. Unable to just be still, like a hummingbird—the memory of Oberon calling him that made him smile.
Then he remembered Oberon calling him perfect, and sweet, and discomfort intruded upon his contentment.
“You are so very sweet.”
But Ángel was far from sweet, and he knew it. He was antsy and demanding. His moods could turn on a dime. “You fuck like an alley cat,” Con had said. “But you’re such a prick when you’re not playing or fucking.”
Oberon, though, was sweet. So brilliant, so courageous, so alone. So generous, even in his need. He was so . . . He was so . . . Ángel couldn’t think of words to express how much he admired him. Respected him. Loved him?
He squirmed out from under Oberon and, wrapping himself in a sheet, went over and curled up on the purple chair. He needed to think.
“So perfect,” Oberon had said. But no, Ángel could never be perfect for Oberon. They were two different beings, from different worlds. Ángel couldn’t give Oberon the communion he needed. But Ángel was the only thing around. Years of abstinence, and then one willing body? Of course Oberon was happy for it, was grateful for it.
That didn’t mean he loved Ángel. Not the way Ángel loved Oberon.
Loved Oberon. He loved him.
Oberon, alone in the bed, began to purr.
Ángel knew that Oberon found him attractive. He believed that Oberon liked him. He knew the fae didn’t see him as an available hole, and he didn’t begrudge Oberon the use of his body. Obviously. Oberon could have him whenever he wanted. Whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
But he didn’t want to be told that he was perfect, or beautiful, or beloved, when he wasn’t. He was just a session man.
“That’s okay,” he whispered in the darkness. “It’s okay.” Oberon didn’t love him, but by God he needed him. No one had ever needed Ángel before. His mother had left him when he was a boy. His father certainly didn’t want a fag musician for a son. His friends were fine without him. Miami was crawling with competent guitarists.
But Oberon, this one great, strange, lovely creature, Oberon needed him.
“You are thinking hard, beloved,” Oberon murmured.
“Bad habit.”
Oberon opened his eyes and gazed at him like a lazy tiger from the welter of sheets.
“So . . .” said Ángel. “If you were home. You’d be in a house with lots of others. And when you had sex, everyone in the house would sense it?”
“Yes.” Oberon stretched, then relaxed again. “Well, of course, they would probably be the ones I’d be having sex with.”
“Oh.” Ángel had never had group sex. “Like, five or six people?”
“Sometimes.” Oberon rolled onto his back, his lean shoulders shifting. “Before I came here, all my friends came to say goodbye.”
“Wow.” Ángel’s imagination grappled with the image of a group of fae, all as beautiful as Oberon, having sex together. “And your magic feelings would all meld and harmonize together. Like a chamber ensemble.”
Oberon’s eyes drifted closed. “Yes. That is a nice metaphor.”
How lonely Oberon must be, stuck with just him.
Oberon scratched the center of his chest, drowsy. “Of course,” he added, “I am getting older. Usually by my age, someone like me would have settled in with a single lover. Or sometimes two. Someone permanent. Someone who . . .” He yawned. His voice was deepening toward sleep. “Someone whose magic would suit mine so perfectly, give me so much joy, that they’d change me. And I would give them joy and change them, and over the years we would grow together and become attuned, and suited for no other . . .”
Itchy and trapped and miserable, Ángel stared out the window.
Oberon’s eyes snapped open. “Ángel? What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“No, no. It is too late for that, beloved,” said Oberon, rolling over onto his stomach, resting his head on a propped-up fist. “I know you too well now.”
Ángel wrapped his arms around his knees, curling in on himself like an armadillo. He was being ungrateful and wrong and stubborn. He was supposed to be happy. He was having great sex with a good friend who was amazing, who liked him and needed him, and he had no reason not to be happy. If anyone should be dejected and grouchy, it should be Oberon. He was the one who had lost everything, who was making do with a substitute for what he really needed.
“Why do you call me ‘beloved’?”
Oberon gazed at him. “You know the meaning of the word.”
“I call you ‘bab
y,’ but you aren’t one.”
“You have been undervalued by many. But not by me.”
What was that? Evasion? Distraction? “You have to value me,” said Ángel. “You don’t have anyone else. I can’t harmonize with you. I can’t do anything with you except get you off. I’m sorry,” he added. “I am not trying to be a jerk. Or to make you change. I love how it is with us. I don’t want to stop. I just want to be clear.”
In spite of the conciliatory words, he could hear the sadness in his own voice.
Oberon rested his chin on his folded arms. His eyes glowed. “This . . . is not the kind of conversation my species has to have. You should be able to feel my feelings in the air.”
“I can,” said Ángel, smiling through his sadness. “It’s sort of like baking bread.”
Oberon held out his hand, palm up. “And when you touch me?”
Ángel shook his head, still hugging himself.
“I am clumsy,” said Oberon, dropping his hand. “But I, too, want to be clear. I do not have to value you, but I do. I have been alone for a long time, but my judgment is not impaired. I see you.”
Ángel looked away.
“You are . . . you are harmonizing with me. I feel the magic in your skin, and your skin feels mine. Your magic is different, your taste and smell are different, but we are learning. I am learning you.”
“I’m learning you too,” admitted Ángel.
“There would be a process of learning between any lovers. It would be easier with a member of my own species, but . . . How do I explain? Right now you do not play the mandolin very well. Someday you will, but you need to learn it. It takes time for the music to be good. That is all.”
“I’m the mandolin in this scenario?”
“Ah, it’s not a good metaphor. You are my lover.” Oberon’s voice was unusually hesitant, though his face was unchanged. “And I am yours. Your skin changes when you are near me, and mine changes when I am near you, and soon—if we go on like this—we will have created a new kind of music that no one else will be able to hear. A new language that no one else will know.”
