Wren couldn’t help smiling at that.
Shrike kissed him again, and it took all Wren’s resolve to remember their purpose this night. He guided them both down to lie on the spread cloak—Shrike beneath, and Wren above.
Wren straddled Shrike’s hips with more confidence than he felt. The brush of his prick against Shrike’s rigid length may as well have been a hammer striking an anvil, for it produced a like number of sparks behind Wren’s eyes. He’d oft imagined such a night as this, but he’d never found the courage to make his dreams a reality.
Until now.
Now, Wren kissed along Shrike’s jawline up to his ear. He nipped at the lobe—relished in the sharp gasp that resulted—then, on experimental instinct, licked its pointed tip.
A delicious shudder ran through Shrike’s frame.
Wren bit down in earnest—but not before he whispered, “Shrike.”
Shrike writhed beneath him with a deep groan that Wren felt as much as he heard vibrating through both their rib-cages. Then a hand tangled in his hair and pulled him down to join their lips anew.
Wren allowed himself to melt into Shrike’s touch and go where he willed. As Shrike took them both in hand, the warmth and surety of his grip contrasted with the cold night air just as the soft underside of his cock against Wren’s contrasted with the roughness of his palm. And as he stroked them both, building up rhythm until Wren’s gasps matched his rapid pace, Wren found his hips grinding against Shrike’s and thrusting into his fist, his hands clenching in Shrike’s long hair—and even this seemed to delight Shrike, who bit his scarred lip and let his eyes fall shut as he gave.
“Shrike,” Wren murmured into his mouth.
Shrike’s breath hitched. His back arched off the cloak, and with a curious twist of his wrist that sent Wren spiralling into a delirium of pleasure, he brought them both to balance on the knife’s-edge of ecstasy—then, with a decisive stroke, he seized Wren in body and spirit both and dragged him alongside over the precipice to plunge into the fathomless euphoric sea.
Wren collapsed atop Shrike, a sailor shipwrecked on unfamiliar shores. Yet, as Shrike drew him into his embrace, he found those shores warm and inviting, strong arms clasping him in the tenderest hold, lulling him down into the delightful dreams of lotus-eaters.
And when kissing proved more than Wren could bear, he broke it off to find Shrike gazing up at him as if he saw something beautiful in the moonlight reflection of his eyes.
But Wren could not permit himself to bask in bliss. There remained a ritual to perform. He forced himself upright. Shrike’s arms slipped from his shoulders as he went, Shrike himself seeming content regardless, though a faint grumble of protest emerged from his lips and tugged at Wren’s heart.
With trembling hand, Wren picked up the knife.
Shrike opened his eyes. Yet he did nothing more than watch as Wren held the blade over him. He had expectation writ on his features without any trace of hesitation or fear. Whatever Wren intended, Shrike trusted him.
Wren only hoped he could prove worthy of that trust.
And so he brought the knife to his left hand and with its wicked point sliced into the tip of his middle finger.
Wren withheld a wince at the sting. Blood welled up in the wound, trickled down the blade, and dropped onto Shrike’s bare chest.
The expectation in Shrike’s eyes turned to open fascination.
Wren grit his teeth and bore down on the knife. He needed more than a paper-cut’s worth of blood for his purposes. The wound split further. A steady stream of crimson pulsed forth. Wren ignored the throbbing pain and brought his bleeding hand to Shrike’s chest.
Shrike didn’t even flinch from Wren smearing blood over his scarred skin. It couldn’t have been comfortable; the blood cooled rapidly as it leaked from the wound, and the teat between Wren’s palm and Shrike’s chest could hardly combat the chill night air. Still, Wren kept at it until he’d turned Shrike’s bare skin into a scarlet canvas. Then he drew his hand down to where his and Shrike’s seed had pooled together by Shrike’s navel and dipped his fingertips into the silvery inkwell.
The shield of Gawain bore a gold pentangle on a red field. Wren’s blood gleamed scarlet, and as he drew through it with his and Shrike’s mingled seed, the tawny flesh of Shrike’s bare chest shone through, creating the golden pentangle.
Throughout this ceremony, and despite Shrike’s intrigued expression, Wren felt rather like a schoolboy scrawling skeletons in the margins of his Latin grammar. He knew nothing of magic. He had no idea what he was doing. It would never work. The moment he finished, Shrike would realize he’d allied himself with a fraud, and—
But as Wren connected the final point of the pentangle with the first, a jolt ran through him. From his fingertips all the way up his arm to the shoulder, to the nape of his neck and down his spine, an overwhelming sensation that drove the breath from his body and stopped his heart. It reached his navel, and lower still. His soft cock revived in an instant—Shrike’s did the same beneath it—and from both shot twin pulses of seed as an orgasmic tide far beyond what he’d experienced mere minutes before crashed over him. A keening cry burst from his throat, the sound of it lost with the roar of blood in his ears. Shrike arched and writhed beneath him, lost in the same torrent. Then his strong hands seized Wren’s shoulders in a convulsive grip, and Wren collapsed into his arms, their mouths meeting in a ravenous kiss that carried Wren on to oblivion.
When he returned to himself for the second time that night, Wren tasted blood. He ran his tongue over his lips in search of the wound. Though they felt bruised, he found no split in his flesh. He opened his eyes.
Shrike gazed back at him, their noses hardly an inch apart, their misty breath mingling. The dark pools of his half-lidded eyes reflected moon and stars alike. A soft smile tugged at his lips, which still bore the bite-marks Wren had wrought upon them.
Shame at his own feral nature burned in Wren’s stomach—but Shrike’s low laughter dispelled it in the next instant. On impulse, Wren leaned in to kiss him, gentler than before. Shrike returned it with a satisfied hum that rumbled up from deep within his chest to resonate through Wren’s own ribs. Wren had expected to encounter a cold and uncomfortable mess of blood and semen, but the sigil had vanished. As if by magic.
Because it was magic.
While Wren came to terms with this, Shrike reached across him to pull the edge of the fur-lined cloak up over his shoulders. Their legs tangled together within the cocoon warmed by the heat of their bodies. Shrike slung his arm over Wren’s chest and pulled him into a hearty embrace.
