The man, the dragon, permitted himself to be petted with obvious pleasure, but paused to make something clear. “That is not my name. Not for you, bear-prince.”
“Ah.” Arthur was shaky and was not sure when he would cease to be so. Perhaps never. He had not intended to become the dragon’s lover, but it seemed he had, and the dragon wished to keep him. “Then what do I call you, Great Dragon, Lord of These Caves?” Giant teeth were close to his hand, should have been terrifying, and yet Arthur had loved the feel of those teeth last night.
The rumble that shook the ground turned out to be the sound of the dragon’s delighted laugh, as if the answer had been in front of Arthur’s face all through the night, which perhaps it had been. The dragon’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “You may call me Beloved, my pearl.”
Arthur blushed hot, and held the name to chest where it would continue to warm him.
The One That Would Be
Without opening his eyes, Edgar could see strong Red Wolf trembling, fighting to restrain himself. Red’s every breath was torture. The moon was full behind him, encircling him, large and white and low in the sky. It both called to him and separated him from what he wanted the most.
Small, human, and oblivious, Rum was positioned a few yards away. Damaged, mentally frail Rum in his disheveled uniform was smiling for once, perhaps at the beauty of the moonlight.
It was winter 1943, and Rum was a human born to fight, but slowly losing pieces of himself to the war. He still didn’t understand what it meant to fight alongside a wolf, and he was still a human who didn’t recognize love as beings do. In the bitter cold, somewhere behind enemy lines, Rum was a human standing beneath a full moon with the werewolf who loved him, and that werewolf was in agony.
Edgar almost couldn’t breathe. He knew how he wanted the story to end, how every fan of theRed Wolf and Rumgraphic novels wished that scene had ended. But already, Edgar could see the thousands of possible twists and turns ahead, all of them exquisite, most of them as painful as the actual moment in the book.
But today, he wanted Rum to look up. Today, Rum should look up in time to catch the longing on Red’s face and for once understand it, and be strong enough to accept it.
Edgar would prefer that Rum then leap into Red’s arms, but considering he had written a 9k college/coffee shop AU of them last week where that had happened, he supposed he should wait.
Anyway, the mood was wrong. The many possible variations of the story vanished one by one as Edgar contemplated that one crystalline moment between them. If he made Rum turn around when Red Wolf was the most vulnerable, something bad would happen. Most likely, one of them would run away. They weren’t ready, no matter how much Edgar wanted them to kiss.
Edgar sighed. After four books, the fans deserved some kissing. But he wouldn’t get it today, not for that scene. Maybe he could go back and do a quick porny sequel to the coffee shop AU. He always felt silly for sharingthosesorts of stories, which were probably laughably bad. But Edgar could while away whole afternoons thinking about what sort of passion Red might reveal, or all the little ways Rum would show affection.
Soft kisses from Rum would leave even the fiercest soldier weak.
Edgar hummed as he felt it, the spark, the absolute certain knowledge that when M. Greenleaf finally let the boys get together—as she must—that it would be Rum who took that step. And though Edgar could, and had, imagined violent passion between them, it was that first gentle kiss that would take the great Red Wolf’s strength and leave him even more firmly bound to his mate.
And then, if she were cruel—and good—she would tear them apart again, for a while, for long enough to take her readers’ hearts and keep them for her own. And M. Greenleaf was just that good—and cruel.
Edgar reached blindly for the cup on the table at the end of the couch and drank the last of the cocoa although it had gone cold. When the two mates finally reunited, Red Wolf would claim Rum. Edgar might die of feelings.
He shivered and nearly dropped his cup as he set it back down. Werewolves were sodifferent. He could not imagine how Rum would feel in that moment and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Edgar was dragon and so no one would ever claim him. But oh, to know without a doubt he was wanted, to feel such strength over him, he would—
A scent in the air stopped his thoughts completely.
Warm scent, dragon and male and just… so very male and so verydragon, curled around Edgar from across the room. It had not crept to him because Justin would never have allowed it to. Justin’s scent did not creep or tiptoe. It filled up space, conquered it, and it was oxygen to the fire deep inside Edgar, heat lightning to his every patch of exposed skin.
Edgar took a deep breath and then opened his eyes.
Instead of a werewolf, Justin Khan stood before him. But he might as well have been a werewolf, no matter how many dragons in Edgar’s extended family who would consider that an insult.
Justin wouldn’t. He was, after all, the dragon who, outraged at the many human sports organizations that banned beings and magic users from their teams in the interest of “fairness,” founded his own group for beings who wanted to play in their free time.
When Justin, who had just started grad school, was supposed to have free time was a question Edgar knew better than to ask. Justin would make time for what he wanted. That was to be expected, even by dragon standards. No one would name a child Justinian Khan and expect him to be meek and retiring.
Justin played rugby with werewolves, and football with trolls, and once, baseball with elves who were obsessed with the numbers of the game more than the sport itself.
Edgar had seen pictures, although he’d wisely not attended any of the games, despite invitations. Werewolves wouldknow. Dragons also knew, or at least suspected, but they would never offend Edgar’s dignity by mentioning it. Even Justin said not a word. Edgar liked to think it was a sign of respect, but he suspected his family was silent on the subject out of hope that someday Edgar might do something about his very obvious feelings.
He would not, for many reasons. Not the least of which was the silence from Justin himself.
“Hello, Ras,” Justin greeted him, unusually quiet. But the room itself was quiet, and others were often hesitant to change that.
Edgar blinked rapidly, trying to pull himself from the vision of tortured love to the present moment of Justin’s form in the doorway, the dramatic black and gold of him only made more so by dance of flames from the fire in the fireplace, and the last burst of sunset through the stained glass windows of the library.
Because Edgar’s feelings were already obvious, it was all right to stare for another moment at the height and breadth of Justin, a dragon of a size to almost rival the old ones. Edgar’s heart beat faster as all his silly tales spun out before his eyes, but with Justin the hero. Justin, black and gold and too clever, thorough and persistent and determined to show humans he felt no fear of them.
