by K. L. Noone
“You like watching me eat…chestnuts?” Justin asked, though his eyes were bright, and those eyelashes came back suspiciously damp when he blinked. “I’ll remember that.”
“Cheeky,” Kris told him, “just for that you can’t move your hands,” and Justin’s mouth fell into a very satisfactory soundless oh.
He listened, though. Nothing keeping him in place except obedience, except desire; and Kris slid down and employed mouth and tongue and fingers this time, coaxing the second peak from him and drinking it down when it came, tasting Justin on his lips, swallowing him down.
The third time he wanted more, wanted to be inside Justin, wanted to feel that loveliness around him; he couldn’t wait, watching the wave crest and break and spill and quiver in the aftermath and Justin’s shaky breaths. He moved fingers. Further back. Brushing the opening of Justin’s body.
Justin sighed and spread his legs even further, murmuring a sound that might’ve been Kris’s name, affirmative and drowsy and euphoric. “Hang on,” Kris said, swearing at himself; and plunged into a drawer. “Lube.”
“Hmm?” Justin blinked at him, well-pleasured and languorous and molten.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t say you can heal.” More lube, just for that. Slippery and wet and careful, though Justin felt already relaxed and blissful. One finger. Two. “All right, love? Talk to me.”
“Good.” Justin blinked at him again. “More?”
Kris laughed, sighed—more out of joy and responsibility, a grave and tender care that that reached into his soul and sank strange new strands of gold down to heighten his arousal—and moved fingers, searching.
Justin gasped. Said his name, voice breaking.
Ah. There.
More. Over and over. Until Justin was crying his name, clenching around his hand, hips moving to push back against him, writhing in silky black sheets—
Justin did come again somewhere in the middle, shuddering and sobbing, cock spilling more whiteness across himself, unable to hold back. He was crying more after; Kris pulled back and used the other hand to brush away tears. “What’s wrong, love?”
“I…I don’t know, I…” Justin gulped, turned his face into Kris’s hand, didn’t move his arms. That obedience nearly shattered Kris in two: a sword-blow of trust, and he had no counter, no defenses against the emotion that followed. “I feel so good, and I want you, and you’re making me feel so…and I didn’t ask, this time, I wanted to but…I couldn’t stop it…”
“Oh, love.” He cupped Justin’s cheek. “It’s a yes. If you’re feeling that much, if you need to. I want to make you feel good.”
“But I—you—I’m sorry, I’m yours and I—”
“And I’m saying you’re good. I like hearing you beg for it, I do, I like that too, but if you can’t wait, I like knowing you’re feeling that good too. You’re wonderful. No apologies.”
Justin turned into his hand more, but nodded.
“Want more?”
“I want you.” Small but clear. Very sure. “Please, Kris.”
“I want that too.” He took the hand away from Justin’s cheek, touched a wrist. “You can move them.”
Justin nodded again.
“Do we…” He hovered, unsure. “Ah…condoms?”
“What? Oh. No.” Justin seemed to wake up somewhat. “It’s not…I’m sort of…permanently safe, I think. As far as I’ve been able to tell.”
“So…would you want…me to…”
“I want to feel you.” Justin’s smile began tiny and private. It blossomed into infinite happiness, unrestrained. “I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” Kris whispered back, “anything you want, love, always,” and came to him, and came into him.
They fit. They fit as if they’d always been meant to. Kris sliding into him, at first slow and careful and then slow because Justin felt too good, too slick and hot and tight around him. Justin wide-eyed and making gorgeous sounds, gasps and shivers, hips moving to urge more. Justin’s hands reaching for him, and the way their mouths met, breathless and chasing brilliance.
When Kris moved faster, harder, testing, Justin caught breath and then matched him, meeting him, moaning the yes. Kris’s heart pounded; sensation and emotion stampeded through his veins, his blood, every crackling nerve ending. He thought of music, of choruses, of flight; Justin moaned his name, and every melody quivered and strained, every cord of empathy he’d ever held in his hands, every harmony of self and universe bleeding into each other—
Justin inhaled sharply, caught in place, eyes enormous and awash with those same harmonies.
Kris went utterly still. Projection, losing control, pushing it all into Justin without thinking—if he’d made Justin want something, do something, desire more or harder—
“You can’t,” Justin panted. “You can’t hurt me with it—I don’t think so, anyway—I can feel you but I’m still me—gods, this feels amazing, I can feel you and me and everything—” He put a hand up. Fingers over his own prints on Kris’s arm.
The world sang. Crystal and gold. Rubies in sunlight. The high soaring note of heaven, of reverence, of endless unutterable glory, vast and wild and thundering. Everything they both felt, resonating through bones and bodies and moving together.
Kris groaned, thrust—hard, primal, deep enough to make Justin cry out and plead for more, body and voice and emotions as one—and did it again, and that was it, that was everything: Justin made a sound and tightened around him and began to come, cock spilling itself helplessly yet again; Kris gasped, “Yes—” and followed, dissolving into lightning.
They collapsed into each other, shaking and sweaty, in the afterglow. Kris cradled Justin close, kissed him frantically: an eyebrow, his nose, a cheekbone, parted lips. Justin made a quiet awestruck sound and clung to him, shivering, crying a bit but in a good way, taken apart by diamond tides. They were both messy now, sticky with climax and lube and amazement. Justin curled into him trustingly; Kris felt himself softening, slipping, buried inside his demon, and after a second eased out and then into proper cuddling position.
They slept, on and off, for a while. Justin woke and kissed him; Kris petted all that glowing exhausted hair. Justin wept once, briefly, upon waking, and then tried to explain through tears, “It’s good, I’m good, this feels so—”
Kris held him more tightly. “I know. I know, love, I’m here, I know.”
One of the pillows had ended up on the floor. It lay there and smirked mouthlessly up. It knew Justin. It knew Kris. It had seen them both. It knew his heart, and the way that battered old organ overflowed with this moment, as Justin fell asleep with his face tucked into Kris’s chest.
The night drifted toward day, leisurely.
They woke entwined. They made love again, giddily, dreamily, exploring like wanderers unable to believe their good fortune. They mapped out hills and valleys in kisses, and the scar on Kris’s knee from tripping over a speaker while getting back on stage after a run through a crowd, and the nutmeg sprinkle of freckles across Justin’s hip. Kris kissed Justin’s shoulder-blade in a sunbeam, drenched in light.
Justin tended to be sweet in bed, more yielding and eager to please, but unafraid and excited about experimenting; he’d done a lot, but never, he said, with Kris; and he got bashful and precious while saying this. Kris rolled them over and tugged Justin on top and positioned those hips just right, and thrust up into him, and then demanded that Justin tell him about some of those things, not about the other people but about toys, positions, anything he liked, how he’d felt when being laced into a corset or fucked by a vibrating dildo with hands tied behind his back or making himself come for a seventh time, alone in his bed, bringing himself over the edge again and again. Justin trembled, rocked his hips—fucking himself now on Kris’s cock—and whispered answers, voice soft and demure and unbelievably filthy.
Kris offered a few stories in return—he absolutely had them, and Justin shivered in his lap at the one about the pretty young man
in the mini-skirt who’d gone to his knees backstage. Kris petted him, pushed fingers into him, played with him until he begged to come, and was allowed to at last. Justin seemed a bit out of it after that one, not quite focused, eyes huge. Kris talked to him, rubbed his back, let him come back down gradually.
They learned.
Justin did not mind being on top if requested—he tended not to, but it was only a preference, and he’d done that too and liked it—and Kris wanted that also, wanted to feel him every way possible; Justin was good at that because of course he was, strong and considerate and experienced. Kris, on his back with his demon moving inside him, gazed up at Justin’s face, Justin’s eyes intent on his, watching for signs of yes or wait or another angle. He felt full with it, filled up by Justin, gladly so.
They took a break for sandwiches, summoned out of thin air and a local deli by demon magic. Kris ran into the kitchen and made coffee so Justin wouldn’t have to exert himself more. Justin took the mug from him, naked in a pile of sheets, and smiled.
They showered. They made love in the shower. They made love not in the shower, back in the bedroom. They made love in the kitchen while gathering food. Justin ended up on both knees with his mouth full of Kris’s cock. Kris, not being a demon in his twenties, had physical limitations; but Justin’s mouth felt nice, and Justin said that that felt good too, being simply told to stay there and be useful. After a while Kris told him to come back up and kissed him. He’d have to think about that one. Justin had a praise kink a mile wide and zero inhibitions, but Kris’s heart wasn’t sure it was comfortable with keeping Justin on the floor.
Anyway, cuddling was easier in the same spot. Lots more touching.
Justin’s paperwork arrived from Randolph Media mid-afternoon. He read through it naked, with Kris alternately sipping tea and distracting him with random caresses. He looked at the proposed salary the longest. “This is more money than I’ve ever had. This is more money than Kelly’s physics lab has.”
“They think you’re worth it.”
“I hope they’re right. And I hope Willie has some good support staff for me.”
“Of course she will. She wants this to work too. And you’ll be brilliant.”
“Do you think I can wear nail polish to department meetings?” Justin looked at his hand. Purple, like his much-loved suit, and shimmery. “Probably not, right?”
“She said a lot of words about diversity and representation,” Kris said. “She knows your background. Charles knows your background even better. I don’t think they’d care if you showed up in the corset, as long as you’re as good at finding stories as you are hit bands.”
“Hmm,” Justin said, but in a way that meant he was willing to be convinced. “You know, if she wants me to launch a magazine too, I know quite a few free-lance writers who might want to come on as contributors…people who’re even more into the underground music scene than I am, these days…and some of the people I knew way back when might even have book projects…of course it can’t all be my friends. I think Anna knows some people, too.”
And you’ll be so good at this, Kris thought, watching him. You already are. And you don’t even know it. Plans and organization and knowing what you don’t know, asking for support staff, coming up with ideas.
He could see that future. He could see it all. With sunshine woven through Justin’s bare toes.
Justin set down papers. Turned his way. “You do keep mentioning my corset.”
“Ah,” Kris said.
“I can do something about that for you,” Justin said, and waved a hand.
The corset did indeed still fit. It wrapped Justin up in black and blue and silver breathlessness, drawing in that slender waist and elongating those baby-egret legs; and he posed briefly, laughing and showing off matching lacy underthings, until Kris shoved him down onto the bed and proceeded to appreciate every inch of that sight. Thoroughly. With tongue.
They called Justin’s family after signed paperwork went back. Ecstatic babbling happened on the other end; Bill, reclaiming the phone for a moment, said, “Congratulations to both of you,” and Kris heard that emotion without even being a receptive sort of empath. Justin said, “It’s thanks to Kris really, he got me to call her when I—I might not have,” and Kris said, “No, it’s all about you, you save babies, you’re the hero,” and Justin started to protest and gave up and kissed him.
The twins, on the phone, asked, “Can we come visit your new office?”
“Maybe,” Justin said. “If you want to help decorate.” They made noises of glee. Kris felt immense skepticism about this offer, but then again Justin knew his siblings best, and they did love him. They’d likely stay within the bounds of good taste. Possibly. Even odds, at least.
Justin spent some time doing research. What his new job might entail. Comparable positions. Duties and responsibilities. Kris made more coffee—and tea for himself, because he adored Justin but there were limits—and considered his guitars, standing like loyal troops in the other room. He thought about firework nights and spinning lights and himself back to back with Reggie and playing their hearts out, on stage.
His heart was currently reading an article about good hiring practices and trying to consume all the coffee in New York City. As he watched, Justin made a little note next to something in the article, saving it in the reading app, neat and studious.
Kris smiled to himself, picked up his favorite mellow-voiced guitar, the one he now associated with writing and Justin, and went back to working out the chorus for that rock anthem. He could fill a stadium. He could hear it.
Justin, naturally—that organization again, and oh Kris loved that about him—was the one who remembered the interview. “We have to be up early. It’s a morning show.”
“What? Oh, yeah.” He set down the notepad he’d been scribbling lyric ideas into. “When?”
“We have to be there at seven. I can get us there, I’ve been over there before, but still. Early.”
“Yes,” Kris said, “you’re not a morning person, are you, that’s right…” and meant: are you spending the night, then? Are you staying here with me? Please?
“Mornings happen to other people,” Justin muttered. “I’m sure there’s a demon exemption. Time is a human construct. Something like that.”
“I’ll make your hazelnut vanilla coffee.”
“Of course I’ll stay,” Justin said, putting aside the laptop. “If you want me here. I would—Mel says I should speak up. About wanting things. I want to stay with you. If you want that.”
“Babe, you know I want you,” Kris sang back, fifty-year-old bubblegum pop that managed to be exactly how he felt, “babe, you know I need you…”
“Babe, you know I got you, all of the time,” Justin leapt in to finish with him, and Kris sat there on the bed gazing at him; the feeling came up again like fountains, like rivers, bubbling up through his heart and the next words.
Those words turned themselves into, “I love you,” out loud and unprepared, right there on the tip of his tongue and falling free.
But even as he was saying it Justin was saying it too, a half-beat behind but catching up, so their voices didn’t quite mesh but mingled and folded into each other and overlapped, entwined and perfect.
“I love you,” Justin said again, wide-eyed and astonished and adorable,, “I always have, I think, but I never knew—I never knew how much I could love you. I love you.”
“I love you.” Kris cradled his face, drew him in for a kiss, stayed put with their foreheads resting together. “Justin Moore. My demon.”
“Kris Starr,” Justin whispered back, hair becoming a delighted luminous corona. “You keep saving me. Every time I need someone, there you are. And you tell me I can do anything, and you look at me like—like that, and I think I can, with you…”
“I love you,” Kris said again, nose to nose, clumsy with exultation. “You make me want to be there. To try. To write music. To buy hazelnut pecan praline mocha whatever i
t is that you order. To hold your hand while you go change the world. And I want to make you smile. Like that. I love seeing you smile. I love you.” He could say it aloud. He could say it over and over, again and again.
“You love me,” Justin said, and Kris said, “Yes, I’ve been saying it, haven’t you been hearing me, love, I love you,” and kissed him, as Justin’s laughing arms came up to tumble them both down into the bed.
They slept naked, tangled together. They woke the same way, sleep-rumpled and trading kisses. Kris awakened first—he suspected this would be a routine, and his heart performed somersaults: they had a routine—and left Justin enfolded in pillows and ran out to make coffee. Justin yawned and tried to kiss him when he got back, missed and landed on the corner of his mouth, and got scooped up for more kisses. Kris said, “I love you,” because he hadn’t said it yet that morning, and Justin emerged from the glittery London landmark mug to say it back. They traded grins.
While Justin woke up more, Kris had a thought. Found his own mobile. Fired off a text.
“What’s that about?”
“You’ll find out later. Promise. Breakfast?”
“Breakfast,” Justin said, letting the question go, accepting this, “and I love you,” and Kris pondered how many eggs he’d need, to take proper care of a hungry half-demon.
Chapter 8
Justin came with him for the interview. Kris hadn’t wanted to ask outright, but his demon must’ve picked up the question drifting between them like dandelion wishes; Justin shrugged, made a why not sort of expression, eyed misty pensive New York streets through the big picture windows. “I might as well stop hiding, right? I’ll come along.”
“If you’re sure.”
Justin wriggled into his black leather jacket, black boots, shields of self to help face the world. Today’s shirt had a classic Star Voyager television show logo on it, the one from the sixties. “I’m sure.” And Kris loved him.
Marianne May proved to be shorter than he’d thought, blonde and petite, curls bouncing; she said hi to Justin with unconcealed fascination but no ill will. She had the voice Kris knew from the radio, low and sultry and supple as apricot honey; she asked whether Justin planned to be included in their chat.