by J B Black
The Wandering Warlock’s Fated Mate
Gay Mpreg Fantasy Romance
J.B. Black
The Wandering Warlock’s Fated Mate
by JB Black
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.
WANDERING WARLOCK’S FATED MATE
Copyright © 2020 J.B. Black
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Chapter One
Castor adored dreams. During his warlock apprenticeship, he would often sneak out into fields of wildflowers and find a comfortable spot to disappear within the tall grass. Rabbits and hedgehogs would cuddle up against his side as he closed his eyes and fell into a soft sleep with little effort. His astral projection and clairvoyance opened worlds for him while he slept. Through Faerie and across continents, he traveled in his dreams long before he would ever walk upon those paths with his actual feet. Whenever he woke, the dryads would have woven flowers into his golden blond hair, and at the sight of his sleepy smile, his mother - a hedgewitch - lost all her anger and pressed a kiss to his forehead instead.
“Be careful, my sweet boy, or you’ll dream your life away,” she warned.
But how could he resist?
“Mama,” Castor called, following her as she gathered herbs. “Did you dream of Papa before you met him?
Her pink lips stretched into the dreamy smile he often saw in his own reflection. “Your father came to me in a dream. I saw his tree first. Tall strong oak towering over me - shading and guarding me.”
Glancing to his father’s tree in their backyard, Castor frowned. “Did it scare you to know he wasn’t a warlock?”
“No, sweet boy. Witches and warlocks rarely marry amongst themselves,” his mother told him. “A dryad wasn’t too unusual.” Adjusting her hat, she wiped her hands on her apron. “I didn’t expect him to be the main advisor to a forest god. That was a surprise.”
Humming, Castor ran off, finding soft ground to cuddle up for a nap. A fox curled up on his chest, and at the soft snores eased the young warlock into sleep, he dreamed of battlefields. They had once scared him. Blood and fire and swords, but the older he became, the more certain he was that these were memories rather than acts. If he wanted, he could walk away from them to explore the future or astral project, but this time, he stayed within them.
“Hello?” Castor called into the dream. “Are you my fated mate?”
A shadow shifted, and the battlefield fell away. Cold and gray and empty sprawled before him. A chill settled in his bones. He couldn't see the other’s face, but the warlock recognized their soul. A red string tied them together. This one belonged to him.
Smiling in his sleep and in his dream, the young warlock reached out. “What’s your name?”
There was no answer.
“Where are you?”
The other said nothing.
Unused to being ignored, Castor huffed, “I’m going to find you. Wherever you are, whatever you’re called, I’m going to find you. You’re mine, and I am yours.”
A sense of foreboding fell over him, but the young warlock refused to relent. This was his mate - his love - his life. They would grow old together. Like his mother, he would love them with all his heart, and like his father, he would protect this person. If they were too shy - too worried that he wouldn’t like them, Castor intended to prove to whoever they were that his love came unconditionally.
In the swirling gray, two eyes formed in the shadowy form. They were beautiful. Liquid silver pools shimmered - staring back at him through the mists of his dreams which were usually so clear. Castor’s breath caught in his throat. He yearned for more. The eyes called to him, but wakefulness beckoned him back, his hands reached forward to cling to the shade before him.
When he woke with a shadow leaning over him, Castor gasped, sitting straight up and almost bumped his head into his father’s. “Dad! I saw my fated mate!”
“You did?” the dryad said, smiling. “Can’t you dream of them in your mother’s garden?”
Castor’s nose wrinkled. “They had silver eyes.”
“Silver, hm? Perhaps they’re a dragon,” his father suggested.
Though he couldn’t explain how, Castor knew that wasn’t the case. Over the next few years, he dreamed of his mate often, but each time, the only clear part was those beautiful quicksilver eyes. Color came slowly. Pale skin blurred, and dark hair flowed about broad shoulders. He could never draw the image after he woke, but bits stuck inside his head. His mate was a man. He was significantly older than Castor, which had led to his discomfort with being so intimately attached to someone so young. Although Castor understood the other’s reasoning, the warlock had no intention to allow the other hold him at arm’s length. He pushed and pushed to learn more every time he dreamt.
“You could give me your name,” the warlock pushed.
His mate sighed. The man’s voice was deep and smooth. Something tired and forlorn thrummed in his tone on the rare occasions where he decided to speak, but the warmth of his back against Castor’s already was more than he had ever had before.
Tilting his head back, Castor nuzzled against the other’s long dark hair. “Please?”
“You’re still an apprentice. You should be concentrating on your studies,” his mate informed him.
Reaching back, the warlock brushed his hand against the other’s. Their little fingers touched, and when his mate didn’t pull away, Castor entwined their fingers. “For someone so stalwartly against me, you’re awfully gentle.”
“I’m not against you.”
“No, you’re just worried that I’m too young,” Castor complained, but he smiled at the other’s sort huff. Pressing a kiss to the back of his fated mate’s hand, the warlock yearned for more. “You know that paired us. We belong together.”
His fated love hummed softly. When the warlock awoke - slowly and surrounded in warmth, he sighed. Fate assured they would meet one day. Despite the other’s relative silence, he never outright rejected Castor, so when the time came, the warlock had no doubt they would be together. Glaring at the top of the tent above his head, the warlock debated going back to sleep, but with his apprenticeship finished, he had decided to attend a festival on his own before he would go off as a journeyman. This was his last chance to meet with his friends and enjoy the relative ease of life before focusing his training as a journeyman.
Not that he had decided what his focus would be. He had no particular talent at anything. His mother’s proficiency in herbs and his father’s position as a dryad gave him no favors in druidic or herbalist magic. He recognized enchantments and curses with ease, but recognition hardly meant much. A friend of his, Ronan, had a talent for battle magic, and that seemed so much more interesting even if Ronan swore he would stick to potions and charms.
Ruffling his blond hair, Castor ditched the cot he had borrowed for a quick dream visit with his mate before meeting his friends. Bright morning sunlight nearly blinded him when he stepped outside.
The annual fair always had the most interesting people around, but he only cared about saying his goodbyes before heading out on his quest to find his wayward mate. Love seemed a good enough journey if he couldn’t figure ou
t a specialty. After having some fun in the main warlock and witch tent, he found Ronan trailing after a journeyman warlock in all black.
“Castor! How are you?” Ronan called, bouncing over with his familiar on his shoulders. Ronan’s dour friend, Fannar, trailed behind him, studying a small notebook and a map of the festival. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”
Laughing, Castor reached out to pet the familiar, but like liquid, it ducked away. “Not particularly friendly, is he?”
Ronan frowned, and the cat nuzzled his cheek. “I think he’s shy. We’re still pretty new.”
“He can talk for himself,” the familiar grumbled.
Fannar scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Are we just going to stand here? I have druids to find.”
“Nobody’s keeping you here,” Castor retorted, and when Fannar huffed and left the two without further comment, he beamed. “I had another dream about my mate.”
Ronan squealed with glee. “Did you? What was he like? What did you learn?”
“I saw his lips,” Castor announced. “They were full, and there was a scar, but they looked so kissable!”
Pressing his fingers to his lips, Ronan ran in place as he released an inhumanly high-pitched sound. His reactions were always the best. “And did you kiss him?”
Castor shook his head. “He said I was too young.”
“That’s so unfair!” Ronan grumbled, cuddling his familiar to his chest.
“I feel like I’ll never get enough information to actually find him,” the blond warlock complained.
Ronan sighed. “There has to be a way…”
The cat purred softly before opening one green eye to look up at Castor. “Why don’t you ask a seer?”
Both warlocks grinned. Hugging his familiar tightly, Ronan praised, “You’re so smart, Ciar!”
“Come on! The tents are down by the fried dough tents,” Castor said, already running towards them.
The seers gathered in a mass of purple tents. Lines waited on the edges at some, but there was one free, so before another could take the seat, Castor slid into the tent.
“I need you to -”
“Find your fated mate?” the seer asked, cocking a gray brow.
Castor nodded, leaning forward in his chair. “You do palmistry, right?”
“Yes, give me your hands,” the seer asked. Putting his hands in the old seer’s gnarled hands, Castor studied the woman’s face. Her eyebrows were gray, but her hair was a powdered pink beneath a colorful scarf. Biting a thin lip, the woman hummed. “That’s unfortunate.”
“What?” Castor leaned forward. “What do you see?”
Her eyes glowed with her foresight. “Your mate is trapped. It seems he’s been cursed. The thread which binds you has been obscured.”
“Can you see where they are? What kind of curse?” the young warlock pushed.
Ronan peaked in the tent. “A curse?”
“I can see very little. Whoever he is, he is royalty and cursed. I’m sorry,” the seer said, shaking her head. “I can’t see anything more.”
In a daze, the blond warlock stood, wandering from the tent. Ronan followed. As far as Castor could see, he had two choices. Either he allowed himself to be overwhelmed, or he became the best curse-breaker the world had ever seen and tracked down his wayward mate.
“If he can’t come find me, then I’m going to find him,” Castor proclaimed.
Ronan cheered, hugging his familiar to his chest. “You’ll be amazing, I know it!”
With a quick mirror call to announce his intention to his parents, Castor ventured forth. He would show his mate how perfect they would be together, and as immature as his mate considered him, the blond warlock would show his mysterious soulmate how reliable he could be.
Chapter Two
What had begun as an optimistic teen’s journey quickly fell heavier upon Castor’s shoulders. Year by year, he traveled, learning about curses and training under the best curse breakers he could find. Few warlocks dedicated their lives to undoing curses. Even fewer sought out every curse they could find and worked them over like puzzles to tear them apart, but the blond warlock had every intention of living a happy life with his fated mate.
“How long do warlock’s live?” his mate once asked him.
Castor shrugged. “Longer than most.”
“You’ll have wasted most of your life if you spend it looking for me,” his mate murmured, but he didn’t fight the kisses which Castor left upon the wrist of their joined hands. “You could be happy with someone else.”
“Don’t underestimate me.”
With a slight huff, he turned quicksilver eyes upon the warlock, and Castor grinned, nipping at his fated love’s wrist. Exhaustion lined those eyes, but no matter how much he stared, he couldn’t tell the age of them. Whoever his mate was, they had lived for centuries before him, and if the curse had its way, there existed a chance that an ordinary warlock might be outlived by him. However, Castor was no ordinary warlock. Dryad’s blood strengthened his veins, and even if he had been born without a connection to a particular tree, he could reverse the hand of time by taking shelter in an old forest with the blessing of the local forest deity. Regardless, Castor planned to find his mate long before that became anything more than a last resort.
“Stubborn doesn’t fight back time,” his mate forewarned.
Holding tight to the hand in his, Castor straddled his lover’s lap. He rested his weight on those muscular thighs, enjoying the way those shimmering eyes widened in surprise. Every touch left his mate startled despite the decades between them. Sliding his fingers up muscular arms and scars he couldn’t see but felt beneath his fingers, the warlock resisted the urge to rock down as his cock throbbed in want.
“If you told me your name, this would be easier,” Castor told him. Whether the hesitation came from the curse or from the misplaced certainty that Castor deserved better, the warlock never understood. His body ached for the man made for him, and the shy touches only coiled that heat tighter in his belly. “You’re so beautiful.”
A flush of soft pink on pale skin left him all the more desperate. When the man ducked his head, Castor caught him by the chin and lifted the face which enthralled and mystified him. He saw without seeing the beauty before him. Scars and bones and places soft and sharp. His mate held multitudes within him, and if only the strong hands upon his waist would knot in his hair. Castor ached to swallow the other’s cock.
“Lies won’t loosen my tongue,” his mate whispered.
Cradling the man’s face in his hands, the blond warlock silenced the self-deprecation before it could begin with a kiss. He trailed his tongue over the familiar scar his eyes failed to consistently perceive. Slowly - cautious and shy and coy in ways which belied the strength of his limbs and the chiseled physique of his body, his fated mate kissed back. Though Castor never asked, he recognized the other’s skill, and it embittered him. The body beneath him walked the world long before the warlock, and curse aside, he lived a life without his mate being alive. If Castor asked, perhaps the binding between them had existed in some form, but it stretched tight and cruel between them, suggesting it hadn’t formed until his own birth, leaving his mate unattached for all those years. How long had his mate worshiped others? How many people had these hands which held firm to his hips touched in such tentative caresses?
His mate had skill. He knew where to place his fingers to bring pleasure, and when their tongues entwined, ambrosia coated his tongue. This love clawed at his heart. Pleasure and sweet agony in knowing this world existed only in his mind - a dream which would shatter when he awoke. Castor loathed to leave, but he intended to live a waking life with the man beneath him, and as he tangled his fingers in long dark hair, he yanked, drinking the gasp as he nipped and sucked down the column of the other man’s throat.
“C-Castor,” his mate gasped, and the sound of his name on those lips sent a shiver down his spine.
“Say it again,” the warlock demanded.
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br /> Biting hard where neck met shoulder, Castor rocked down only to be frustrated when his throbbing cock found his mate’s disinterest. He seemed a wreck, panting and trembling, yet his cock never hardened.
His mate trembled. “Castor, please…”
With a sigh, the warlock stilled. “Am I repulsive?” When his mate shook his head, Castor pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes to rest. “You kiss back. If you don’t want to…”
“I want to,” the other softly confessed, and the way his voice shook with unspoken emotion clenched around the warlock’s heart. Leaning forward, he pressed their lips together in the softest, sweetest, chaste kiss they had ever shared, and it was the first contact he had initiated. Castor’s heart raced in his chest. “But you deserve more, and I can never give that to you.”
Frustrated and aroused, Castor awoke. His body thrummed with want, but his anger kept him from taking himself in hand. Instead, he rose from where he had laid his bed in the woods. With a wave of his hand, his gear packed itself away, and the wards fell apart as he stormed down to the nearby stream. He striped, tossing his clothes wherever they landed and jumped into the cold water. As a grown man, the lack of completion paled in comparison to the knowledge that once again he had drawn close to the edge of ecstasy only to be reminded that his mate did not feel the same. Whatever misplaced and misguided self-loathing trapped him, Castor intended to break through it, but every time another year passed, the warlock wondered if the words weren’t just kind excuses. Perhaps his fated love wished to let him down kindly.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Castor washed and dressed, heading out onto the road once more. While he began his journey years before with little more than his ingenuity, the blond warlock held a better kit nowadays. He enchanted his pack to be light despite being capable of carrying an entire house’s worth of goods. The rings upon his fingers hid his scent and hummed to forewarn of any trouble which might be on the road ahead. Each piercing in his left ear warded against particular curses and forms of spying. Those which decorated the right prevented poisonings and parasites. Around his throat, he wore a binding of leather and runes which allowed him to speak with animals.