Flameborn

“After,” Shane corrects, and pulls himself out of his jeans. He’s obviously achingly hard, and Drake’s own cock gives a twitch in his pants at the sight. “God, you look like you want it. Only takes a near-death experience to make you act like a slut, huh?”

“Shut up.” Drake bends, sliding his lips around the head of Shane’s cock, eyes fluttering closed at the taste. He swipes the flat of his tongue over it, and Shane grips the steering wheel, a hand coming to tangle in his hair, pushing him down without any pretense, without any apology.

Drake doesn’t want pretenses and apologies. He wants the slick, musky scent dragging over his tongue, the soft skin over hard muscle stretching his lips, the sound of Shane panting heavy and quick in his ears.

“You act,” Shane says, and gasps occasionally when Drake scrapes his teeth gently, “like I n-never let you do this, fuck.”

Drake pulls off for a second, letting the swollen head rub against his lips, sticky and slippery with his spit, so hard it quivers against him. “You’re usually too eager to jump on my dick.”

“Uh-uh,” Shane teases. His hand grips Drakes hair tighter, not letting him up again. “You can’t dirty-talk me like I’m the slut when you’re practically inhaling my dick. God, you must be gagging for it.”

Shane is the one that gets off on dirty talk. Usually, Drake is only too happy to oblige him, shoving him over a table and nailing him into next week, and Shane gets off on every second of it, but now…

Now, he’s having a hard time denying just how much he likes having it in his mouth. It’s stupid to try, when his own cock is trying to drill a hole through his jeans just from the taste of Shane’s dripping all over his tongue, making it slippery and forcing sloppy, messy noises out of his mouth with every thrust.

Shane doesn’t move his hips much when he’s getting blowjobs, Drake knows, even if it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s had his mouth around it. Long fingers tighten in his hair, and Drake tries to relax, letting Shane move his head up and down, the thick head pressing at the back of his throat, the taste everywhere in his nose. Even now, there’s the dark urge to grab Shane by the throat, to flip him over and take him rough and hard, to slap him around a little until he comes all over himself.

They’ve always been a little fucked up.

Drake curls his tongue around the length, sucking hard and long, his fingers coming up to knead into Shane’s thigh.

“That’s it, baby,” Shane grunts, letting his legs splay farther apart. “I know you’re dick-hungry as hell right now—yeah, just like that, shit, you’ve got a slutty tongue for such a respectable guy.” His voice is fond, heavy-laden with arousal and that same hunger, and a tenseness that means he’s got to be almost there. He laughs, a hitching breath, and warns, “You better clean it up real good, or you’re gonna be going into your precious church with come in your beard.”

You bastard.

Drake starts to pull off, probably to growl and snap at Shane, but Shane’s hand is strong in this position and holds him down hard. That thick cock bumps the back of his throat one more time, and Shane sucks in a breath, yanking back on his hair, the asshole.

Wet heat floods Drake’s mouth, spilling over his tongue in thick, bitter ropes. Drake tries not to gag, breathing through his nose and grabbing at Shane’s jeans, hand curling into a fist as he tries to choke it down. He manages a couple mouthfuls, then pulls off when Shane’s hand goes limp, coughing and scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You fucking asshole,” he croaks, voice hoarse as his hand comes away wet.

Shane shrugs. “Not my fault you’re such a bad gay. I like the taste of yours just fine.”

“Mine tastes better! You eat all that junk food shit, no wonder.”

Shane laughs, then reaches out and grabs Drake’s hand, bringing it up to his own lips. Slowly, holding Drake’s eyes the whole time, he runs his tongue up through the sticky smear on his hand, grinning when he gets to the end of it, and swallows. Drake’s cock makes a valiant attempt to punch its way out of his jeans. “I think I taste just fine.”

“Shane.” Drake’s voice is hoarse and needy, and Shane just rolls his eyes. “Of course, baby.”

Half a second later Drake has to wonder if Shane used magic to get his cock out that quickly. His mouth is searingly hot, tongue lashing against his length, and Drake’s head tips back against the car’s seat. “Now who’s the one with a slutty tongue?”

Shane pulls off, delicately tracing the slit at the end of Drake’s cock. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s always me. Fuck my face, I want you to shoot it down my throat.”

“I just bet you do.” The sentence turns into a groan when Shane dives down, taking him all in, swallowing around the thick length of Drake’s cock, making his balls ache from being so ready. “Jesus, just—you fucking whore, I’m going to throw you onto every surface you’ve ever seen later—“

Shane looks up at him, eyes dilated, lips stretched wide, shiny and wet from the drool and precum coating his face, and Drake loses it. He humps up frantically into Shane’s mouth, holding him down with one hand, thrusting deep into his throat over and over again, bruising those pretty lips. All so Shane can feel how hard he is, how much he wants.

The sudden impulse to pull out and come all over Shane’s face is so strong, Drake almost gives in. Only the thought that they’re going into the church in a second gives him pause and he lets out a frustrated noise, slamming his cock so deep down Shane’s throat that he can hear Shane choke for the first time. Then everything goes white, bursting behind his eyelids, pleasure exploding through his body when he comes long and hard down Shane’s throat.

For a long time, Drake isn’t aware he’s breathing. The only sounds in the cabin are Shane’s breaths, ragged and labored and a little panicky towards the end, until he slaps Drake’s wrist. “Huh? Oh, sorry.”

Shane pulls off with a gasp as soon as Drake removes his hand, wiping his streaming eyes with his thumbs, coughing a little. “Rude.”

“You like it.”

Shane punches him in the arm, not exactly gentle. “Still rude. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you what’s in your beard.”

Drake pulls the mirror down from above the passenger’s side window, scrutinizing his face closely.

“Kidding.”

Drake gives him a glare, noting the marked lack of blotchy redness in Shane’s face. He’s used to seeing Shane use magic for big things—he’d seen him re-grow an entire hand once, though that had been when his powers had been augmented by the Ice King—but the tiny casual displays are the ones that make him nervous. Of course, those are the things that Shane had concealed from him before, for exactly that reason. Flashy Mages don’t live as long, he’d said years ago, but seems to have dropped that concern.

Drake shrugs off the uncomfortable thought, twisting to open the door with his left hand, right still firmly gripping the sword’s hilt. If it weren’t for the boost of endurance and power the sword lends him, he’d probably be feeling his fingers cramping by now.

“How long are you gonna hold it?” Shane asks, mind obviously running along the same lines as they climb the stone steps.

“Until I figure out how to get the damn thing out of me.”

“That’s gonna be awkward if we want to go out to dinner.”

“With what money?”

Shane makes a face at that, but doesn’t argue. “Your fingers are gonna freeze that way. At least they’ll be stuck in a shape that’s easy to—“

“Not in church, Shane.”

That earns him an eyeroll as Shane tosses back his hair, letting it shimmer into blue-green waves, hanging just past his shoulders in the back, rippling with magic as it changes color. “Not that guy anymore, Drake. Quit forgetting.”

It isn’t easy to forget when a little slip-up could mean losing everything he’s finally regained, but Drake tries to remember. He reaches for the door, but Shane is there first, eyes fixed on the high vaulted ceilings.

The church is anything but ostentatious, for a big stone building. All mentions of saints, kings, and angels have been removed, leaving empty recesses in the stone where statuary used to reside. Only two pews remain, kept near the back for the disabled and anyone who can’t physically stand for more than an hour at a time. The windows aren’t made of the glass they look like, but crystalline, and reinforced with plexiglass. Drake isn’t entirely sure what denomination the building used to belong to, not that it matters much.

Shane breathes in deeply through his nose, exhaling with a long sigh. “I can’t believe I hated this place,” he says, eyes half-lidded, fingers twitching. “The air in here is fantastic.”

“Seriously? You used to say you couldn’t breathe in here.”

Shane blinks. “Really? Huh. Must be… hmm.” He flicks his tongue out a couple times, rubs the pads of his fingertips together, and frowns. “Yeah, there’s magic in here. Like, not just in use, but in the air itself. You can feel it, right?”

“The only kind of magic I can feel is when the sword wants me to kill it. Don’t forget I’m just an ordinary human.”

“That’s an awful and untrue thing to say about yourself! You’ve seen wonders and horrors humans never have, you’ve fought false gods and kings and monsters.”

“You think that makes me less human?”

Shane gives him a thoughtful look, then deliberately shrugs. “I think it makes you more something else.”

Drake shifts uncomfortably, looking around for any trace of Father Aaron or one of his junior priests, anyone that could put a stop to this conversation. Shane had never said things like that before his ordeal, before they’d been separated. “I’m just as human as I ever was. I just have a fancy sword and a magic boyfriend.”

It sets off an old worry in him to hear Shane talking like that. He’d wondered a hundred times, before, if Shane would ever get sick of his pet human and find someone better, someone stronger, more powerful. It’s possible that just a human isn’t enough for Shane anymore, not after everything he’s done, everything he’s been.

The Church only has one bell, a mournful, serious brass bell that Drake knows all too well. It rings now, one deep, penetrating note that always sets Drake’s teeth on edge. He looks around just in time to see a junior priest, Father Thomas, he thinks, scurrying for the door before it’s thrown open by Father Aaron.

“Champion!”

Father Aaron is a trim man in his forties, with a shock of thick black hair and a deep- bronze complexion. At least, Drake is fairly certain he’s in his forties, since he looks almost the same as he had ten years ago. He felt younger then, though, even though there are still no wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and he doesn’t move any more slowly. His back is straight, perfectly so, and long-fingered hands lace together in front of the stark black of his robes. “We ring the bell in joyous celebration, that our Champion has returned.” Despite the severity of his demeanor, there’s a warmth in his dark eyes that Drake finds comforting.

“I’ll just bet you do.”

“Shane.”

Father Aaron’s eyes flick over to Shane, and now lines do appear at the corners of his mouth. He wrestles with himself for a moment, obviously trying to decide whether to avoid conflict or seek it out, and then swallows hard around the impulse and just ignores him instead. “Have you been victorious in your battle, my Champion?”

“He’s not your anything—“

“I have, Father. We slew the Inferna before it could claim further lives.”

Father Aaron finally turns fully away from Shane and frowns, eyes searching as he steps forward. He lays a hand on Drake’s head, though he has to reach significantly upwards to do it, and Drake pretends he can’t hear Shane grinding his teeth. “Why so much energy?” Father Aaron wonders aloud. “Why do you hold the sword even now? Surely you aren’t expecting an attack from those you keep safe.”

“I was… injured, Father. This is the only thing that stopped the creature from consuming me whole.”

Dismay spreads over the priest’s features, and the hand on Drake’s hair gets stronger, more possessive. “I have heard,” he says carefully, “that the partner you chose once more in life despite all wishes of the Church—“

“Who is standing right here. Geez, you people wonder why no one wants to join you.“

“—has some skill in healing.” Father Aaron’s voice is cool and humorless. “Is he unwilling to save your life?”

“I, uh, don’t think he can.”

“Ah, so he is merely incompetent rather than cruel. I am relieved to hear that he is at your side in these difficult battles.”

Drake’s expression hardens. “I’m finding precious little of the Church’s blessed forgiveness in you, Father. You and yours want me to be your guardian against the night. That’s fine, but that doesn’t give you any right to govern my choices.”

“No, sadly.” Father Aaron gives him a small, sad smile and withdraws his hand. “I just personally think you have abominable taste.”

“Which I’m pretty sure is none of your concern,” Drake responds evenly. “Can you help me out with the fire slug in my gut, or what?”

Shane nudges his arm, not-so-subtly. “Ask him if we’re getting paid,” he stage-whispers.

“The position of Champion of the Church is a vaunted, highly-respected, volunteer position,” Father Aaron snaps, “and occasionally, some of our flock choose to generously contribute in a monetary sense to the care and upkeep of the Champion’s generous—“

“So we’re not getting paid.”

“You aren’t getting anything,” Father Aaron says firmly. “You are not affiliated with us, and we do not beg for you. Our Champion, however—“

“What’s his is mine, and what’s mine is his.” Shane starts to step forward, challenging with every flash of his eyes and every movement of his shoulders, and Drake flings out a hand to push him back. He falls back easily, which almost makes Drake angrier. Shane knows this is wrong, and he still does it, still pushes those buttons, as if he has no other choice.

“I will make you wait outside again,” he warns, and Shane settles slightly. He isn’t exactly mollified, but Drake is willing to settle for a lack of current intent to harm. “Father, I do hate to ask, but it’s been a rough month for me, financially.”

Father Aaron’s face softens. “Of course, Champion. I’ll pass the basket for you at tomorrow’s service. Stick around after we’re finished.”

Drake isn’t especially fond of Father Aaron’s sermons, but the idea of being able to pay rent on time is an attractive one. “I’ll be grateful, Father. Uh, any idea if there’s anything the Church can do about the thing eating me whole? Besides talk about how my boyfriend should be able to fix me?” Against his better judgment, he does sort of enjoy the way Father Aaron flinches whenever he says “boyfriend.”

The priest’s lips thin. “It’s stopped by the sword, which is good. Will you allow me to pray over you?”

Drake hesitates, then nods. “I hope this is one of those prayers with extra juice.”

“Nothing less for our Champion.”

Drake settles down onto his knees, and Shane abruptly turns and walks away, pacing against one wall in obviously uncomfortable strides. Drake takes a deep breath, finding that peace he usually only sees when he’s practicing martial arts, and closes his eyes.

Father Aaron’s hand on his head isn’t exactly a surprise, but the feeling it brings is. Instead of gentle pressure, there’s a soft crackling of power, tamed lightning in every tiny brush of his fingers against Drake’s hair. “All-Seeing God,” the priest says, bowing his head, “bless your Champion, defender of the flock, he who believes not and fights still. The warrior of your peace has cast his cloak over your undeserving servants. Remove his obstacles, heal his wounds, staunch the flow of his life’s blood. Make him whole and well again that he may sacrifice himself in your name, for your pitiful devoted.”

Drake winces at the language, but keeps his head bowed. The hand on his head trembles, and white-hot power spills into him, purifying and scouring him from the top down. His stomach turns, and even with the sword in his hand, he can feel the frantic thrashing of the little Inferna creature, thudding against his intestines as the holy fire makes its way down. For a second, he thinks he’s imagining the dying screech, but a sharp intake of breath from Father Aaron tells him that it isn’t in his head. Drake keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and after a moment, the power scorches through his legs and feet, leaving him shaken, empty, and alive. “Did it work?”

Father Aaron sighs, and withdraws his hand, leaving a tingling, cooling patch on Drake’s head. “You truly are still a nonbeliever, aren’t you?”

“I’d let you know if that changed.” It’s not so hard to flash a bit of magic and call a man a god. Drake has seen Shane do more miracles than he’s seen from the being behind the Church.

“Have I ever let you down before?”

Drake looks up, meeting his eyes, and says levelly, “Yes.”

That at least causes something of a twinge. “Test it yourself. Let go the sword.”

I hate faith magic, Drake thinks vehemently. Any time the choice is to trust and possibly die or to stay safe and distrustful, he rarely finds himself on the side of the faithful. He lays the sword on the ground, then carefully, slowly removes his hand.

Nothing sears or flops. His stomach doesn’t twist. The usual surge of fatigue hits him, reminding him that his body has human limits even if he can ignore them while he’s holding the sword, and old aches so familiar that he rarely feels them make themselves known. Drake exhales deeply, and nods his head. “Thank you, Father.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank God.”

Drake gives a pro forma nod to the ceiling. He’s never yet been struck down for not believing, despite being a theoretically important Church person. “Anyway, I’ll be back for service tomorrow,” he says, rising to his feet with a grimace as he sheathes the sword on his back.

“Before you go…” Father Aaron reaches out a hand, gently grasping Drake’s sleeve. “Could we speak in private for a moment?”

“No.” Drake raises an eyebrow, and Shane strides over, less repelled by the obvious faith magic. “We’re going.”

Father Aaron lets out a breath that’s closer to a huff, and gives him a truly annoyed glare, which Drake returns placidly. It’s a lot easier for the Church to find new priests than new Champions, and unfortunately for Father Aaron, Drake knows it. “You cannot let these fires continue. More and more of us are dying every day.”

“If you know where to start looking for her, I’m more than willing to listen.” He doesn’t have to say who he’s talking about. With the Ice King gone from the city, the fires have been closer and closer together, Inferna multiplying, and it’s all Drake and Shane can do to keep up.

“I hear the Fire Queen is difficult to find.”

“We could have told you that. In fact, we did.”

“But she is drawn to those…” Brown eyes flick over to Shane, who takes a half-step back. “Those of her kind.”

“Why is it literally always my fault?” Shane doesn’t sound terribly perturbed. If anything, his voice is amused. “I’m pretty sure she’s not a Mage. Last time I checked I didn’t have anywhere near close to the kind of juice she likes throwing around, and I’m the most powerful Mage we’ve ever met.”

“Humility is a virtue—“

“Not one I’m entirely fond of,” Shane admits cheerfully. “Not when it’s false modesty. I’m the most powerful Mage you’ll ever meet, that’s for sure.”

Father Aaron’s jaw clenches, and he draws himself up to his full height, which is still a few inches shy of even Shane’s. “You have no concept of what I’ve seen or who I’ve met. A child like you could never comprehend—“

“I’m older than I look, promise. And better than you seem to think.”

“Unless you can tell us where she’s hiding,” Drake interrupts, stepping none-too-subtly between the two men, “We’re going to go find her ourselves. We’ll make one of the Inferna talk before dying, eventually.”

Father Aaron looks between the two of them, then finally nods, face drawn and less than pleased. “If you ever need to find her, open him up. See what’s inside.”

Shane grabs the priest by a handful of black fabric, hauling him nearly off the ground. “You little piece of shit, I’m trying to be civil,” he snarls. “What if I open you up and she shows, huh?”

Father Aaron just blinks at him, unmoved by the words or the display of violence. “Then you’d know that you and I are one and the same. Is that a risk you want to take, Shane Connell?”

“I hate the way you say my name, you goddamned—“

“And we’re going.” Drake’s hand isn’t gentle on Shane’s shoulder, but it is effective, hauling both of them out of the Church as fast as long legs can carry him, Shane nearly keeping up and having to trot the last few steps.

He doesn’t speak for long moments, not until he slides into the driver’s seat, sword unbuckled and in the back. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and he breathes out heavily through his nose, staring straight ahead without seeing much as Shane settles himself into the passenger’s seat.

“Well, that was—“

“Not now.”

The drive home is silent, save for the occasional clicking of a turn signal and the revving of the motor. Drake pulls up in front of an apartment building that’s reasonably shabby for the money (a sign in the window says “Magic and Pet’s Allowed!”), but doesn’t unbuckle his seatbelt.

Shane raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re not even coming in? What, just because I grabbed him?”

“You know this is what I’m doing with my life.” Drake rubs at the back of his neck, short hairs bristling under his hand. “I’ll be home in a few hours. Got a class to teach.”

There’s something tense and unhappy in Shane’s body language as he slides out of the truck. He looks for all the world like he wants to say something, but Drake drives off before he can turn around.

Through the entire drive to the karate studio, Drake feels three things: the dull ache of heat in his lungs, the tingling print of Father Aaron’s palm on his head, and the taste of Shane lingering on his lips.

~

Chapter Two

~

Smashing something isn’t nearly as much fun when Shane knows he’s the one who’ll have to pay for it in the long run—or worse, that Drake will have to take late-night classes to pay for it, and that drastically cuts into the time he usually considers “fun.” He’d like to put his fist through a wall, annoyed at himself, annoyed at priests who don’t seem nearly as free from worldly desires as Shane is pretty sure they’re supposed to, annoyed at creatures that don’t play by the rules when it comes to dying when they’re supposed to.

Being a destructive asshole was a lot more fun when he didn’t give a shit about the consequences.

Underneath the anger, there’s a sulking resentment that it’s Friday night and literally no one he knows will want to go out. They’d been that couple for a while in their twenties, the ones who rarely went out except with each other, but he had friends. He had people to call up and go clubbing with. Now, with his new “freedom” from the Ice King and ten years down the drain, everyone he knew is either far too involved in their children and work, or have died from a slew of the unnatural causes that normal people like to pretend don’t exist.

The ringing of the phone jars him out of his anger, but the sullen, prickling feeling stays. He knows without picking up the phone that it isn’t Drake, and grabs the ancient thing off the wall mount. “Yeah?”

“This is a recording. Do not attempt to answer. Your utility bill for this month is past due. Please pay the amount of… One. Hundred. Seventy. Seven. Dollars. And. Fifteen. Cents. By the shut-off date, or your service will be discont—“