2015
Reykjavik
It was that time again.
Thirty-year-old Sören Sigurðsson looked at himself in the mirror, and specifically at the cat ears that had sprouted from his head, and sighed. His tail twitched with anticipation.
"Meow," said Snúður, his chartreuse-eyed tuxedo cat, as if to say you look fabulous.
"Yes, you're very helpful." Sören reached down to skritch the cat, who rubbed his face against Sören's hand, purring loudly.
Indeed, the cat had a long history of being helpful.
On Sören's eighteenth birthday - back when Sören Sigurðsson had been Sigrit Sigurðsdóttir - his mamma, Brynhildur, had revealed that she was a witch, and he had inherited the family gift of magic. Sören's first major spell had been to conjure Snúður as his familiar. The cat kept him sane during the long dark night of the soul where Sören struggled with his gender identity, deciding at last to live as male and take his great-grandfather's name. When Sören was twenty-five, his magic had become powerful enough that he did a spell to transition, removing his breasts, giving himself facial hair, thicker hair on his arms and legs, and a deeper voice. But before the spell could be complete, with transforming the bottom half, Snúður had hopped onto him and broken his concentration. Not only that, but when the spell was complete, Sören saw the cat's energy had given him cat ears and a tail.
Sören had not tried again to transfigure the rest of himself - just doing the top half had been exhausting, blowing out his magic for an entire month - and he wasn't prepared to go longer just to give himself a penis. As far as the unexpected part of the transformation, he couldn't reverse the cat spell without reversing the gender spell... and he thought he looked kind of cute as a cat. It made him feel sexy. So he remained a catboy. Unfortunately, sporting cat ears and a tail caused him problems, getting him fired from one job and not hired when he looked for a new job. He did eventually find work as a barista where nobody cared - half his co-workers had rainbow-colored hair and conspicuous piercings and tattoos.
But there were even more complications than his job. He started having heat cycles, like cats did, but his were every month, during the three days of the full moon, a special time for the witch-folk. He had a strong libido his entire adult life, but there was that and there was this. This was a whole new level of "highly sexed".
Five years later, he still wasn't used to it. He was also between relationships - he had been single for six months, and for the last four of them he'd been too depressed to go out and try to find a mate for his heat, staying in and masturbating. He had worn out his vibrator two months ago, and last month he'd gone to a club, picked up a cute redhaired girl, and had three days of amazing, wall-banging sex, where she'd begged for more and he'd made her squirt at least a dozen times. But despite the hot sex, they were otherwise incompatible in terms of personality and lifestyle, and Sören truthfully leaned more towards men, anyway. He wanted to take a guy home this time.
So here he was, getting ready to go clubbing.
His cat ears and tail were black, like the glossy curls that spilled down his shoulders, and the close-trimmed beard framing his full lips. His outfit also matched - he was wearing a black ruffly pirate shirt, and black leather pants; there was a hole cut out of the back of the leather pants so his tail could swing freely. His long-lashed brown eyes were accentuated by mascara and eyeliner; when he gothed out like this, he could get away with putting on mascara, eyeliner, and painting his nails black without feeling like he was doing something feminine. Sören debated whether to leave all of his hair hanging loose or tie some of it back, and when he finally decided to keep his hair down, he deemed himself ready to go. He put extra food in Snúður's dish, kicked on his Doc Martens boots on the way out, and headed down to where his scooter was parked outside.
As soon as the scooter was out of the parking lot and on the road, Sören knew he'd made a mistake taking the scooter, as the vibration of the engine was getting him even hornier, and he didn't want to end up soaking his pants or, worse, having an accident crashing into something or somebody. He turned around, parked his scooter back at the apartment building, and walked - it wasn't impossibly far to the club, just less convenient, and he got a lot of puzzled looks from other pedestrians passing by.
At last he was at the club. He always felt nervous in crowds of people even without the cat ears and tail making him conspicuous. But he also really loved music, and dancing. And as his senses were more acute when he was in heat, that made the music more intense, more immersive. As strange as this time was, when he was in heat, he also felt the most fully alive when he danced, like it was some sort of ancient healing ritual, cleansing away all the negativity of the week, setting him free, taking him to other worlds in his mind. Sometimes, he would paint those worlds.
Even if he couldn't find a mate for tonight, he could find himself, and for that, he would always be grateful to his cat, weirdness and all.
_
Macalaurë Fëanorion was tired.
He didn't, as a rule, like nightclubs. He would perform in them if he had to, but otherwise he preferred to steer clear of them. Too many shallow, image-obsessed people, putting on fake selves to show off and perhaps take home a partner for meaningless sex. Too many shallow, image-obsessed people, acting like idiots under the influence of alcohol or other substances.
Of course, the rest of his band wanted to go clubbing tonight, and dragged him along, scoffing at the idea that he would gladly spend this Friday night reading. So here he was, sitting at the bar, having a single shot of whiskey as he looked out at the gyrating fools under the strobe lights, counting the minutes until he could leave.
And then, something caught his eye. Someone.
There was a beautiful young man clad all in black, gothic attire, a mane of shoulder-length dark curls, soulful brown eyes, sensuous lips... with black cat ears on his head. When the man turned around to shake his lovely, firm arse, a black tail swung back and forth in time to the slow pulsing rhythm.
Maglor smiled despite himself. There was someone who dared to be different, and he approved of that. And the look was strangely alluring.
The way he danced was also alluring. He had the fluid grace of a cat, sinuous, and Maglor couldn't take his eyes off him. The young man seemed to be completely at one with the music... like a song come to life. He was dancing for himself, dancing for the sake of dancing, the sake of music. Maglor could feel him in the Song, shimmering and burning like the aurora over Reykjavik in winter.
A fire like his father's had been, once.
Maglor's breath hitched. His fist clenched so tightly around the glass of whiskey he could have broken it if he was not careful. He knocked back the rest of it, and strode over, singular in his pursuit.
As he approached, there was an intoxicating smell that made the young man even more delicious. Musk and a floral spice, a touch of woodsmoke. The man stopped dancing for a moment and looked at him with wide, surprised eyes.
"May I have this dance?" Maglor offered his hand.
_
Sören wasn't just dancing with somebody, he was dancing with the hottest man he'd ever seen in his life.
The man was close to seven feet tall, having almost a foot on him. He had raven-black hair to the middle of his back, thick stern eyebrows, piercing silver eyes. A chiseled face that was handsome more than pretty, but there was still a softness to it. He was wearing a white poet shirt with a black vest, and also wearing black leather pants. The clothes barely disguised definition in his pecs, his arms, thighs that could crack walnuts.
Sören took the man's hand, and then, boldly, ran his hands over the man's chest. "You can have more than this dance if you play your cards right."
The man grinned.
As they danced, it felt like they weren't just dancing but it was their spirits burning together, not just their bodies. Sören had never felt so in tune with somebody in his entire life - this was as intimate as sex, if not moreso, sharing music together, all the feelings of it.
"You look like you're having a religious experience," the man said.
Sören nodded. "I feel like that, when I really get in the zone. Sometimes, when I dance, it unlocks something inside me, where I can see colors, see... things." He tapped his forehead. "I know that sounds daft, but -"
The man put his finger to Sören's lips and shook his head. "No, it doesn't. Not to me. I get like that when I perform music."
"You're a musician?" Sören was impressed - he loved fellow creative people.
The man nodded. "My band's... well... they were over there, somewhere. I sing, too."
"I could tell." Sören thought the man had a lovely speaking voice, deep velvet, flowing like water.
Several dances later they were grinding up on each other, eyes locked, like their eyes were fucking... like their souls were fucking. The man leaned in and his warm breath caressed Sören's neck. "You want to leave and go somewhere more private?"
Sören nodded. "My flat? My cat is expecting me."
The man smiled, as if that answer pleased him, and he reached out to ruffle Sören's curls and skritch his beard as if Sören, too, were a cat - he wasn't quite wrong. Sören's response was to hook his tail around the man's waist, and they walked out of the club together. They barely got a few paces when they fell on each other, kissing feverishly, hands roaming over each other's bodies.
"Did you drive here, or -"
"I walked," Sören panted.
"We'll take my car." The man pushed Sören along, kissing all the way. Outside of the black Jaguar, the man paused and said, "I didn't get your name, I'm sorry."
"Sören."
"Mark."
Sören cocked his head to one side. "You from Reykjavik?"
Mark smiled. "I'm from all over."
"Not yet, but you're going to be," Sören growled, pulling Mark into another deep, needy kiss.
Mark grabbed Sören by the hair, shoving him into the back seat, climbing over him. It was a bit awkward - Mark was tall enough that he couldn't close the car door like this, legs dangling out, but they were too far gone in their lust to care, tongues teasing, grinding up on each other.
Sören wore a packer to give himself a bulge in public, and when Mark's hand strayed to the bulge in Sören's leather trousers, Sören put his hand on Mark's wrist and said, "Wait, there's something you should know before we go further." He knew this had the potential to be a dealbreaker, but he wanted to tell him rather than have it be a possibly unwelcome surprise.
Mark raised an eyebrow.
"I'm trans," Sören said. "I've got, er, my original plumbing."
"Oh." Mark shrugged, like it didn't bother him at all. He kissed Sören again, and Sören groaned into the kiss, bucked against him. Mark began to kiss down Sören's neck as he undid Sören's pants.
After Mark tugged Sören's pants down, and his boxer-briefs, and had pulled out the packer - so nonchalant about it, which thrilled Sören - Mark's fingers began to play between Sören's legs. Mark kissed him again and again and then his lips brushed down Sören's throat and he rasped, "You are already so, so wet."
"Wet for you," Sören husked.
Mark began to play with him, teasing Sören's cock with his fingertip in circles, rubbing it between his fingers, working his fingers in and out, rubbing his cock again. Sören arched to him, panting, and he let out an urgent mew when Mark tasted the juices from his fingers, loving the look of sensual enjoyment on his face.
They resumed kissing as Mark's fingers continued to pleasure him, getting him closer, closer, until at last Sören tensed and the orgasm surged through him, throbbing, making him gush over Mark's fingers as he cried out. Mark groaned and licked and sucked his fingers again.
"Fuck, I need to taste you," Mark rasped.
Mark slid down - getting on his knees right there in the pavement of the parking lot while Sören lay sprawled across the back seat of his car. Mark began to viciously devour him, lashing his tongue fast and furious, sucking hard, making filthy slurping noises as he sucked, moaning with his mouth full. Sören grabbed Mark's hair, and as he tugged on a lock he saw a pointy ear. Their eyes met and Sören knew this was one of the huldufólk that his mamma had told him about. As a show of acceptance - and solidarity, one magical person to another - Sören moved his tail to gently flick the point of Mark's ear.
Apparently, those points were sensitive - Mark whimpered into Sören's cunt and sucked on him faster, harder. Sören purred and let his tail caress Mark's ear some more, until he heard the zipper of Mark's pants and a rattling sound - Mark was stroking himself.
This hot guy is on his knees in a parking lot blowing me and is so horny he's jerking himself off. It was a power trip. Sören meowed and started rubbing against his face, fucking himself on Mark's lips.
Mark's free hand worked three fingers inside him, making a lewd, obscene wet suctioning sound as he slurped. Sören felt himself climbing again, climbing, climbing, flying off with a scream, squirting on Mark's face, into his hair. Mark laughed, licked his lips, and gave a few last slow licks as Sören contracted, shivering. "Oh, fuck, you taste so good." Mark kissed Sören's thigh. "Mmmmm."
"There's more of that if you get me home," Sören said. "My bed's probably more comfortable than this car... and the parking lot."
Mark chuckled. "I got a bit carried away."
"Good."
Mark grinned. He adjusted himself - he was still hard and hadn't come yet - and Sören lay in the back seat, dazed from two powerful orgasms, as Mark got in the driver's seat. Sören gave the address and a few minutes later they were there. Sören still felt like he was made of jelly, and Mark scooped him up and carried him, tender and gentle. Even though they had just met, Sören felt incredibly safe with him.
Once in the flat, Sören introduced Mark to his cat, who acted like Sören had been gone for days instead of hours, and then they got naked and climbed on Sören's bed. For a moment they just held each other, looking into each other's eyes.
"You're gorgeous," Mark said.
Sören smiled. "You're exquisite."
They kissed. Mark's fingers played down Sören's chest, lingering at a nipple. "Uh... is it OK if I touch you there? I don't want to make you uncomfortable -"
"It's fine, thanks for asking. Nipples are good."
"And words? What you call things? I don't want to offend you -"
"I have a cock, and a cunt." Sören's smile became a grin. "And they like you very much."
"I like them too." Mark started kissing Sören's neck. "I want to taste you again."
"Yes, god, more."
"But first..." Mark kissed down to a nipple. "Such a lovely boy. I want to kiss you all over."
That was what Mark did, kissing, licking, caressing every part of Sören, worshiping him, as Sören writhed and moaned and mewed and panted and purred, soaking the sheets with his wet, hot need. When Mark's tongue was on him again, Sören was so sensitized it didn't take long to come a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth, losing count as Mark lapped and sucked and slurped, like he was starving and had been presented with a feast. "Delicious," Mark said, before sucking on Sören harder. "Mmmmm, mmmmmm."
His talented fingers fucked Sören just right, and soon Sören climaxed again, shouting out with the force of his release. He drenched Mark with his juices all over again, and Mark came up to kiss him, letting him taste himself. Mark rubbed his hard cock against Sören's thigh, dripping precum.
"I need you now," Mark growled.
"How do you want it?"
"Yes?" They laughed together, then Mark gave Sören a little kiss and said, "Ride me."
Sören shoved Mark onto his back, straddled him, and sank down. Mark was huge, but Sören was so wet there was no pain at all, just pleasure. Mark reached to play with Sören's cock as Sören rode, his other hand roaming over Sören's body. Sören let his tail brush over Mark's body, stroking a thigh, his stomach, teasing a nipple... brushing that sensitive place between balls and ass, teasing around the rim of Mark's opening. Mark's breath hitched and his eyes widened. "Oh, fuck." Mark shuddered, rubbing Sören harder, free hand gripping Sören's thigh so tight it almost hurt.
Sören bit his lower lip. "You want that tail inside you?"
"Fuck, yes..."
Sören's tail wound around first to tease his own cock, getting the tip wet with juices, before it snaked around to fit inside Mark. Sören's tail flicked in and out of Mark in time with the rhythm of Mark's cock inside him, both of them moaning together, the bed creaking, rocking against the wall, the wet sloppy sound of their fuck almost as loud as their moans and cries.
"So good," Mark sighed. "So fucking good..."
Sören got close again, shaking, and Mark's fingers worked him faster, harder. "Right there," Sören breathed. "Oh shit, right there, more, more..."
"Come with me," Mark panted, quivering as Sören's cunt kissed his cock, Sören's tail rubbed that spot inside him. "Come with me..."
They came together, screaming. Sören leaned in to kiss him, and Mark wrapped his arms around him, started rocking him, laughing like he was high, a look of joy on his face that was so beautiful it brought tears to Sören's eyes. Sören touched Mark's face.
"I want to paint you," Sören said, not thinking.
Mark gave Sören a little kiss. "You paint?" He smiled. "I like artistic people."
Sören nodded. "Well, I'm a barista by trade, art is my calling but it doesn't pay the bills." Sören folded his arms. "I'm a witch, too."
"Is that how... you..." Mark tweaked Sören's tail, as if he wasn't sure how to ask politely.
Sören nodded. "And you're an elf," he said.
Mark nodded. "You got me."
"It must be hard. I at least can get away with looking like this as a barista, people just think I really like Japan or something. But you..." Sören touched Mark's face again.
"It's been lonely. Not just hiding who I am, but... even with people like us, there isn't a lot of magic in the world anymore. Most people don't get people like us."
"No." Sören gave a wry, sad smile; he knew that all too well. "But now you know someone who at least sort of gets it."
"It's funny, I didn't even want to go to the club tonight. But I'm glad I did." Mark took Sören's hands and kissed them.
"It feels like fate, that we met." Sören stole another kiss. "This could be the start of something beautiful. And magical."
"Magically delicious." Mark winked, and grabbed Sören's face, kissed him hard. "I made a big mess inside you, I think I better clean it up." He licked his lips. "Give my kitty a bath with my tongue."
"Oh, fuck, yes..."
Mark rolled Sören onto his back, and dove down. Sören purred as Mark's tongue played. He could get used to this. So used to this...