“You just said you tolerate close family.”
“Do you have siblings?”
Jon opened his mouth and closed it again. After a moment, he said, “I see. No reason for the fight, combatants are invincible and bored, so it’s all in good fun?”
“You got it!” Barion beamed.
“Who do I cheer for in the fight you’re going to show me?”
“Whoever you want. Though the overall consent is that my great-aunt from Dre’s mother’s side, Augnielle, had the most beautiful form that day.”
“I’m cheering for Augnielle.” Jon leaned back on the sofa and took some chips while Barion did something with his hand. His claws were still out, creating a strange silvery effect in the air, making it shimmer as if it were a hot day. The waves of that shimmer expanded and all of a sudden Jon was sitting in the middle of a spirited fight and had a green demon with black markings running toward him, claws out, wings spread, incredibly sharp teeth bared.
“Holy shit!” Jon tried to sink into the cushions of his couch when the demon simply ran through him, causing not even a ripple in the air.
“Are you okay?” Barion sounded worried.
“Fine. I’m fine. Just wasn’t expecting to be in the middle of it all.” When the next demon, a black one with bronze markings, came stomping from the side, Jon was ready. It was intercepted by another demon, this one purple with bronze tattoos, who Jon thought could maybe be female. The scales looked a bit better groomed, like the owner took the time to oil them. Then again, manscaping was a thing, and who said male demons didn’t oil their scales? Jon glanced at Barion, wondering if this was something he could ask his friend or if he was crossing a line.
“That’s Augnielle,” Barion offered.
At least he had guessed right. Jon watched as the purple demon sidestepped the black one, whirled around with her wings close to her body and rammed her claws into the other demon’s side. He screamed, if in pain or outrage was hard to tell, though Jon was leaning toward pain the moment he saw the blue blood gushing from the wound.
“I thought you said demons are invincible?”
“Uhm, they are. See? The wounds are already healing.” Barion pointed at the demon whose wounds were indeed closing at a rapid speed. A few moments later, only the blue blood splatter indicated he had been wounded. With a roar, he threw himself back into battle.
The fighting went back and forth, and Jon would have lost track of things if Barion hadn’t provided him with additional info now and then. What he did learn quickly was that Barion had been right—modelling a video game after the demon wars could be a great success if done right. They would have to do some thinking on proper armor—apparently demons didn’t need it because their skin was thicker than anything that could be forged and their claws sharp enough to cut even through their skin—but that would be part of the fun of mixing reality with fiction, not that their audience would ever know. And just from the hour or so of what Barion had showed him, Jon was brimming with ideas for different levels and quests. His excitement must have been contagious or Barion simply was as hyped as he was because they spent over five hours planning the game, doing some rough sketches of a few of the avatars, Augnielle being the model for one of the fiercest. At seven in the evening, Barion got some pizza from Florence, and after they had eaten, they both slumped on the couch, mentally exhausted and with their bellies pleasantly filled. The silence between them was companionable, nothing Jon felt compelled to break.
After a while, Jon wasn’t sure if he hadn’t dozed off a little, Barion cleared his throat.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of beat. How about we watch something light and call it a night?”
“Sure. We were super creative today. We’ve earned ourselves a little treat. What do you suggest?”
Barion grinned wickedly. Waving his hand, this time with sheathed claws, the air started shimmering again. A well-known scarred face appeared in front of the couch, the body of Iron Bull almost as big as Jon imagined it would be in real life—if the characters from Dragon Age were real.
“I thought you can only show the past?” He raised a brow. Barion leaned back on the couch, crossing his hands behind his head.
“Somebody played the Iron Bull romance in the past and put it on YouTube. That means I can show it.”
“I’m so glad you’re my friend.” Jon looked at the huge form of Iron Bull and his much smaller Kadan, the characters appearing so real standing inside his living room and not confined to a screen. It was as if they were part of their personal peep show, and Jon started feeling the by-now-familiar stirrings in his lower body. He gulped. As happy as he was about his newly awakened libido, getting a boner in front of his friend was not—
From the corner of his eye, he saw Barion fidgeting where he was sitting. The front of his jeans showed an impressive bulge. Huge. Inviting. Calling to Jon and his urges. He felt drool gathering in his mouth. This was wrong, so wrong, but, oh, so beautiful, the way the denim stretched under the force of Barion’s erection. It was a thing of such beauty that Jon thought he should probably write a poem about it. He’d never written one before, but with such inspiration, how hard could it be? It would be something about flesh fighting against the confines of cloth, about the triumph of beauty and lust over common sense, about wanting something so badly it hurt inside his chest. Jon placed a hand on where his heart had once beaten, the emotions inside him a whirlwind he wasn’t able to stop.
Barion must have sensed him watching, because he slowly turned his head.
Their gazes met. Jon thought he ought to feel embarrassed, sporting an erection in front of a friend and now business partner, and being caught. As if Barion could see right into his head where all those naughty images of Barion naked, of Barion holding Jon down, of Barion taking what he wanted and giving Jon everything he needed, were running in an endless loop. Luckily, all he saw in Barion’s eyes was the same heat he was feeling. Jon realized his breath was coming faster, matching the rapid rise and fall of his demon friend’s chest.
In front of the sofa, Iron Bull explained to Kadan that his watchword would be ‘stop’. Jon’s jeans became uncomfortably tight when pictures of Barion telling him his watchword overlayed the hulky figure of Iron Bull.
Barion made a low, groaning sound, his huge hand hovering above his bulge, red bleeding into his eyes. Jon wasn’t sure if it was the lighting, but he also thought the demon had grown, was now closer to his true form. He was definitely broader in the shoulders. Bigger and broader than Iron Bull. And a lot sexier as well.
“Stop looking at me like that. You’re killing me,” Barion groaned. “Is this okay?” The demon’s hand went down to his zipper, fumbling for it, hesitating. He looked up, the red in his eyes a fierce glow, like lava spilling from a volcano. He was giving Jon a chance to tell him this was going too far, that it was inappropriate, that he felt uncomfortable—
Jon couldn’t keep his gaze from Barion’s zipper while his shaking hands reached for his own. He didn’t know what was going on, if this was a good idea or appropriate between friends. All he knew was that the fire burning through his veins needed an outlet and that Barion was offering something Jon had been dreaming of more and more frequently since he’d met the demon. His voice was nothing more but a croaking sound.
“Very okay.”
