скачать книгу бесплатно
“Fucking suck my dick!”
Drake laughs, and in the second he turns his head to watch Shane slam what’s left of the door, the liquid fire moves. He sees it out of the corner of his eye, but not fast enough to get a hand on his sword. His mind misfires, going for a reaction that won’t get him killed, and comes up blank for the first time in years.
They’d had a code, back when they’d first started hunting down the magical creatures that preyed on those less able to defend themselves. They’d sworn it then, in blood and when looking in each others’ eyes. “No matter what, we keep it from getting out into the world if we can help it.”
Drake throws himself sideways as the liquid fire streaks towards the door, and if his size is good for little else it’s at least good when he wants to act like a barrier. Out the door is where Shane is, Drake remembers just in time, and opens his mouth to call.
The fire darts sideways at the last second, neatly zapping itself down his throat, and Drake almost blacks out from the pain. He would scream, if screaming didn’t involve his throat. He throws himself back violently, slamming his back to the wall with the last bit of his conscious effort, trying to dislodge whatever it is in a haze of blinding, searing pain. The fire feels like it looks, which is no consolation; searing fire made liquid feels a hell of a lot like a huge gulp of boiling oil, and Drake can feel his insides roasting more every millisecond. His lungs lock up, unable to function when something tears its way through him. He only has a fleeting second to wonder whether the creature will burn a hole out or be suffocated inside his corpse when warm hands clutch his face.
It would be nice to have his face be the last thing I see, Drake thinks dimly. It’s the only thought that registers through the pain, through the smell of his own melting insides, but forcing his eyes open is a hundred, a thousand, times harder than usual. He can feel every slide of the creature in his throat, every frantic wriggle, and as a vague plan to suffocate it Drake closes his jaw as his last act of defiance.
Something long and cool presses into the palm of his hand, and Drake’s eyes snap open.
The sword in his hand blazes, pressed there by Shane’s hands around his, and the light from the sword envelops his body. Everywhere it touches, it seals, making his flesh stronger, making his body hardier, and Drake almost lets out a sob of relief when the pain starts to fade. He tries to take a breath and his lungs slowly, begrudgingly, start working. The first gulp of air banishes the firespots on his vision, and the second makes him feel like he’s not actually dead, something he considers pretty helpful.
Drake’s fingers close around the sword without Shane’s help, squeezing it tightly for the salvation it is. The creature is still inside him, thrashing around, and Drake doesn’t dare let go.
“—Got to open up for me, baby, let me see the damage. You need to call me before you start doing idiot things like—“
Shane has been talking for a while, Drake realizes, and has to wonder whether he’d passed out after all.
“Swallowed it.” He’d expected his voice to be a raw rasp of a thing, but it sounds as normal as ever to his own ears. “It came at the door. I didn’t know what to do.”
Shane’s laughter borders on the hysterical. “Oh, now your first impulse is to swallow.”
“Shane.”
“Sorry, sorry, but don’t expect that joke to die any time soon. Is it still…”
Drake grimaces. “It’s still in me. Gimme your hand.”
He grabs Shane’s hand with the one not clutching the sword, and brings it to his own belly. Shane lets out a startled curse and yanks his hand away. “It’s—it’s hot!”
“Having any more luck with that ice?”
Shane makes a face at him and helps him off the floor, where he’d apparently fallen without realizing it. “Not sure what’s up. Might have something to do with being so close to a bunch of fire.”
“Never stopped you before. I’ve seen you make fires when you were surrounded by ice.”
“Yeah. It’s probably to do with the Ice King. Maybe he took that away from me. Pretty small revenge for destroying his palace and murdering all of his servants, but maybe he’s also a petty son of a bitch.”
“Wouldn’t you know if he is?” It’s a delicate question. Drake isn’t sure how much Shane really doesn’t remember and how much he’s just repressing because he doesn’t want to remember it. Honestly, knowing even a small fraction of the things Shane had done in the Ice King’s service, he can’t say he blames him.
Shane hesitates, then shakes his head, kicking what’s left of the door off its hinges. “I don’t remember much of that time, you know. Plus, I’m pretty sure we weren’t exactly best friends. Even when I was his number one, I was still scared as hell of him, back when I still had fear. Can you walk?”
“Nothing wrong with me.” At least, nothing feels wrong. The sturdy truck Drake bought second-hand to replace the SUV that had flipped on him is a wide older model, but neither of them blink at it when they hop into the cab. Drake gets in a bit more carefully than Shane, on the passenger’s side, and carefully lays the sword diagonally across his lap.
“Not sure I’m real comfortable with this,” Shane admits. “What if I hit a bump and you impale yourself?”
“What if you don’t drive like an asshole? Besides, I’m a lot less fond of some flaming slug eating its way through my intestines.”
“Yeah, it might damage the upholstery if it gets out. You need to go by the Church?”
Drake chews on his bottom lip for a minute, thinking. “I’d better. The sword is working really well against it, better than most things. I might be able to get something out of Father Aaron there.”
“I bet you will,” Shane mutters.
Drake shuts his mouth, clenching his jaw shut. There’s nothing good he can say to that comment that won’t start a fight, and both of them know it. Shane has never liked Father Aaron, but Drake had always assumed it was some natural aversion to the Church in general. It hasn’t abated since he got his soul back, however, and the idea that he’ll just have to accept this animosity rubs Drake the wrong way.
Shane pulls jerkily out into the street, amid unhelpful tips from Drake about how to handle the stick shift. At least he doesn’t stall at the intersection this time, which Drake decides to consider a small win. “You want me to wait in the car?”
“You don’t like it inside.”
Shane’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and his voice is tight when he speaks. “That wasn’t me. You know that. Christ, why are we still even having this conversation?”
Drake gives him a sideways look, then focuses on the road so he doesn’t lose his temper. Shane might not remember all that well, but Drake had lived through that decade and remembers it plenty for the both of them. “You’re saying you want to come in and talk to Father Aaron?”
Shane almost swerves into traffic and Drake grips the sword as tightly as he can. “Is there some way I can avoid going in and avoid you being alone with him?”
“Why don’t you want me alone with him?”
“Nothing against him, I just don’t like you hanging out with guys that want to bone you into next week.”
Drake’s eyebrows shoot straight up and he turns, incredulous, to stare at Shane’s clenched jaw, his fingers tight on the wheel. Whatever reply he’d been about to make fades on his tongue. Shane is a lot of things—irrational, flighty, over-eager, occasionally petty—but he’s not jealous for no reason. At least, he hasn’t been in the past, Drake reminds himself.
Not for the first time, he has to wonder how much of the boy he’d loved is in the man driving the truck.
“He’s a priest,” he says quietly, trying not to dismiss Shane’s feelings just because he thinks (knows) they’re ridiculous. “Even if he had some weird thing for me—which I really don’t think he does—“
“He does.”
“Even if, he’s still got his vows.” Drake carefully transfers the grip of his sword to his right hand and reaches the left over to squeeze Shane’s shoulder. “I’m flattered you think I’m hot enough to turn a priest, but seriously.”
Shane takes his eyes off the road for longer than Drake is entirely comfortable with, then grins. “Because you’re all mine, right?”
There’s something about the way he says it—relief, pride, pleasure—that makes Drake’s expression soften. “Yeah. Feels good to say it again.”
“Yeah, well, talk is cheap.” Shane’s hand tightens on his and yanks it down, pressing Drake’s palm between his legs as he drives with one hand.
“Um?” Drake looks from the road to Shane’s hand to his face, searching for something besides cocky good humor and finding nothing. “Jesus, you hedonist, wait until we get home.”
“Don’t wanna. You know fighting always makes me hard.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Always makes you hard, too.”
“That’s my problem. Dammit, concentrate on the road!”
“Road isn’t going anywhere. Come on, baby, your hand feels so good. I love the calluses and how strong you are. Feel how hard I am.”
It’s hard not to. Shane’s cock throbs under Drake’s hand, even through the denim of his jeans. Drake swallows hard, fingers curling in spite of himself. Shane’s not wrong, and that’s a problem. Fighting does usually make him more than eager to fuck, but there’ve been too many years when he wasn’t able to indulge those desires. “I’ve gotten better at holding it in,” he grumbles.
“You’re not exactly pulling away.” One hand on the steering wheel, Shane flicks open his jeans with the other, enough to make it obvious he’s wearing nothing underneath. In spite of himself, Drake swallows hard, mouth gone dry.
Shane lets out a sigh that turns into a groan. “You have about five seconds to stop looking like you’re gonna eat it, or I’m going to pull the truck over and—”
“Pull the truck over.”
Drake barely has enough time to think frantically, I meant at an intersection! before Shane swerves sideways, pulling roughly parallel to the curb and braking hard. The car is still lurching when Shane grabs his face, kissing him fiercely until they’re both flushed, sucking Drake’s bottom lip into his mouth to scrape his teeth across it and make them both groan.
“Every time,” Drake mutters, fingers flexing on the sword he can’t goddamn put down as he rearranges his position. “You’re so damn needy whenever we get into a good fight.”
“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.”
