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1)
It never occurred to Sausage that two dozen stomping feet on wooden planks, a few clanking cups, a scratchy lute, a shawm and a llama gurgling in protest behind the bar would make for adequate dancing music, but he has to hand it to the residents of Chromia: they know how to lay down a beat. The whole tavern vibrates with it, from the windows to the walls.
Sausage rolls his hips against his newly erected structural supports and lets the thrumming wash through him. Someone whistles. Lips curling, Sausage pops the fourth button on his shirt.
At the table by the window, his emissary and the lord of Chromia’s advisors are putting the trade deal they just negotiated onto pale, pristine parchment paper.
The ruler himself sits beside them, his cheek pillowed on his open palm. Instead of tracking the scratching of the quill, though, his heterochromatic eyes are fixed on the stage. Sausage shoots him a wink, grabs the pole with one fist and hooks his knee around it.
Warm wind rushes through his sweat-soaked hair. The audience cheers. He pivots once more to repeat the movement, then lands easily on his feet.
When he’s back upright, the ruler’s chair is empty. Sausage scans the room, brows furrowing, and catches a clattering noise by the edge of the stage. Gold nuggets scatter across the planks.
Sausage skips over, lips curling. ‘My apologies, your highness, but I am not that kind of dancer.’
‘That’s too bad.’ Scott’s gaze dips into the open front of Sausage’s shirt. ‘Considering how much you were showing off. I hope you don’t take offence at my interest?’
Sausage hides his grin behind his fingers. ‘Oh, of course not. I would never!’
‘Good, because I liked what I saw. Still do.’
‘He’s not the only one.’
Both of them turn just in time to see a short figure emerge from the crowd. He’s wrapped in a black, woollen traveller’s cloak, but the giant ears, the shock of red hair and the leathery, moss-green skin leave no doubt as to his identity.
Sausage bows to the goblin. ‘I’m sorry, lead architect fWhip. At the moment, I am here on official business with the empire of Chromia and therefore at its ruler’s disposal.’
fWhip scrunches up his nose. ‘Pity.’
‘I’ll find a reason to drop by the Goblands in the near future,’ Sausage promises.
‘See that you do.’
He stalks off, ignoring the triumphant smirk on Scott’s face.
The lord of Chromia extends a hand towards Sausage. ‘Allow me.’
He guides him off the stage. Sausage’s gaze flickers to the window table. ‘Are they still not done? I’d hate to leave without having everything in order.’
Scott’s grin doesn’t waver. If anything, it gets sweeter; teeth showing. ‘You won’t need to. This establishment has rooms upstairs and as luck would have it, I know the owner.’
*
2)
The lead architect of Gobland kisses like he’s mining for treasure. His tongue thrusts into the wet-hot cavern of Sausage’s mouth like a pickaxe splits apart smooth-stone and, once inside, he maps out his dimensions with the same meticulous attention he’d afford a diamond vein. His claws fist in Sausage’s loose-fitting Sanctuary shirt.
Sausage is not opposed to being pulled down and held within reach. He braces his hand on the blackstone wall behind fWhip’s head and gives as good as he’s getting. Using his free palm, he cups the goblin’s cheek.
fWhip’s skin does feel like leather, but not the type one would make shoes out of. It’s softer. Cool and flexible and almost slick to the touch. Snakeskin. Sausage jangles the line of thick, golden hoops pierced through his earlobe – the same kind which adorn Joel’s nipples under his pristine white tunics – and tugs on one.
fWhip bites his tongue. Laughing, Sausage lets go, shifting his grip to the pointy end.
The goblin’s breath rushes out of him on a small ‘oh’ sound, filling the space between them with the sweetness of the honey wine they shared back at the courthouse. fWhip welcomed him there earlier, accompanied by a couple of officials interested in a shipment of jungle wood, before swiftly dragging him off to what was, presumably, his house. Or at least his bedroom.
The green appendages twitch in Sausage’s fingers. Fascinated, he follows the contraction of the muscles under the skin. fWhip groans.
‘You have sensitive ears.’
Sausage circles his thumb around the tip.
The goblin slumps against Sausage’s clavicle, a shaky ‘yeah’ falling from his lips. Mouth curling, Sausage shifts his other hand towards fWhip’s second ear, toying with the stud threaded through the upper edge.
Sharp claws dig into Sausage’s shirt, stretching the fabric until it creaks. When he looks up, a verdant dark green flush suffuses the other’s cheeks. His sloe-eyed gaze seems to have trouble focusing.
‘O-okay, okay. You gotta stop.’
Sausage pulls his fingers away. ‘Oh. Too much?’
‘Kind of, yes.’ fWhip takes a deep, controlled breath. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I’d hate to miss the main event of the night. After all, you came all this way.’
He starts unbuttoning his overall, revealing broad, bulging pecs and abs covered in red curls. Sausage’s mouth goes dry.
fWhip quirks a brow, then nods at his shirt. ‘You gonna lose that, or what?’
Sausage jolts and quickly fumbles for the strings at his collarbones. ‘On it.’
The goblin throws off his outer layers and stalks over to one of the tiny tables framing the low, four-poster bed. He pulls two vials from its drawers. One of them contains a yellow liquid sloshing sluggishly against the glass, the other holds a thick jelly.
‘The oil,’ decides Sausage, suddenly inspired, and snatches it up. ‘Lay down on the bed. I want to give you a massage.’
‘Oh, void.’
‘Huh? Afraid you can’t handle it?’
‘Maybe.’ fWhip shucks off his pants, leaving him in nothing but his bare, green glory. It’s very green. And very glorious. ‘I haven’t had this kind of foreplay in a long time. It’s usually, uh, quicker.’
Sausage hops on the bed, grinning. ‘You’re getting the Sausage special tonight. Strap in, deputy.’
*
3)
‘Alright,’ says Pix, closing the door behind him. ‘Some of these things might look scary if you’ve never been in contact with such items before, but I promise I’m not going to use any of them without discussing it first. You get to veto everything.’
He turns the key in the lock, which is probably not necessary considering they’re the inn’s only customers. There isn’t much traffic in the South of the Ancient Capital. The big cities, like Stratos, Chromia and Cogsmeade, all lie to the North. Every one else of importance is easier to visit by boat than on foot – which is exactly why they’re here.
Sausage, sitting cross-legged against the headboard of the bed, watches Pix open the drawstring on his canvas bag of toys. Several of them tumble onto the bedspread in a heap: a curled rope, probably hemp, a long strip of cloth that could be fashioned into a blindfold, a pair of cuffs, a couple of flat wooden rings, a handful of clothes-pins, a flogger, a candle, et cetera.
Sausage picks up a spiky disc on a stick and pokes it with his thumb. It turns, making a soft metallic sound. When he looks up, Pix’s eyes are focused on him. His shoulders form a tense, rigid line. Like he’s waiting for Sausage to run, or scream, or at least recoil. Sausage’s chest constricts.
He puts down the wheel in favour of the blindfold. ‘Yes,’ he says, placing it carefully beside his knee. Then he selects the handcuffs – ‘Also yes.’ – and adds them to the blindfold.
Next up is the flogger. Its leather grip lies solidly in his hand. Each of the thin strands spouting from the root has a peanut-sized knot at the end.
‘No,’ says Sausage, and drops it on top of the empty canvas bag. He pauses. ‘But I have a riding crop, if that’s an option for you. I’ve always wanted to try that.’
‘Absolutely.’
Pix’s face is red as a tomato. But there’s a sparkle in his eyes that kindles a fizzling warmth in Sausage’s stomach. He digs into the pile and adds the rope to the ‘yes’ side, as well as the candle, hyper-aware of the other tracking every single one of his movements like a hawk. Like he’s cataloguing Sausage’s decisions in real-time, locking each up in his memory. Which he probably is.
There are only a few items left in the middle when he’s done. One of them is the spiky wheel.
‘I haven’t tried any of these,’ Sausage says, ‘But I’m willing to give it a go. I can always change my mind later, right?’
Pix, who’s all but doing the sitting-down equivalent of bouncing on the balls of his feet, nods. ‘Of course.’
Sausage beams. ‘Alright. Start me off easy on the pain and we’ll be good.’
‘Safeword?’
‘Red, yellow, green.’
Pix picks up the rope. Sausage puts his wrist together and holds them out.
‘I… To be honest, I didn’t expect this to go quite this smoothly. You told me you’ve never done this before.’
‘I haven’t,’ says Sausage. ‘But I like being clear on my boundaries with new partners. They’re important.’
‘Boundaries are important,’ Pix echoes. He ties off the rope and his lips curve. ‘I appreciate it.’
Sausage falls back against the bed, grinning. ‘My pleasure.’
*
4)
Tumble Town itches beneath Sausage’s skin. The stale air is dryer than it is in Sanctuary and the speed at which his sweat evaporates leaves his body tight and sticky.
Luckily, the dust bowl is not the only hot thing in the mesa. Jimmy’s wriggling in his arms, slippery as a wet cod just pulled from a gurgling stream. His hair is slick at the roots, sticking up in every direction. Sand clings to his temples. There are dark circles under his armpits and he smells of straw and horses. No amount of kissing, so far, has managed to soften his chapped lips. For some reason Sausage can’t quite grasp himself, all of that put together has his blood running hotter than ever before.
He knows he has a thing for thick biceps, bulging pecs and legs like tree trunks. Apparently he can add scratchy stubble from a haphazard shave, a black-eye from a run-in with a bunch of pillagers and burnt-clay-coloured grit beneath too-long fingernails to that list.
He exhales hotly against Jimmy’s jaw.
Jimmy’s grip on his wrists tightens. He could swing Sausage around like that, push him up to the wall of the tunnel and use his superior height to keep him pinned right there like a butterfly on display. It’d be so easy for him to spread Sausage’s thighs around his own, thick and muscly from riding horses all day and–
Sausage moans, overwhelmed by the image. Frantic to make it happen, he loosens his hold on the Sheriff.
Jimmy’s eyes snap open. ‘No,’ he sputters, yanking the other back towards him.
Still panting, Sausage freezes. ‘You don’t wanna–?’
‘I– I do, but can you– hnng.’
He swallows. Then he takes Sausage’s hand and guides it to his Adam’s apple. Unsure of what to do, Sausage waits.
Jimmy huffs through his nose and uncurls Sausage’s fingers one by one, until he can fit the flat of his palm over his throat. When he puts his own on top and pushes down, that’s when it finally clicks.
Sausage’s eyes widen. ‘You want me to choke you?’
He tightens his grip experimentally and Jimmy grunts. His eyelids droop. His pupils go black as the tunnel stretching out behind them. He’s perfectly pliant except for the massive tent in his pants. The bulge is framed almost obscenely by the edges of his ass-less chaps, which end just below where his legs meet his torso.
This wasn’t how Sausage thought the night would go. He’s not usually in the dominant position with most of his partners. But when he uses his weight to put more pressure on Jimmy’s neck and shoves his knee up between his thighs, the broken choking noise the other makes goes straight to his dick.
‘Good boy,’ he coos.
Jimmy whines and oh, Sausage can absolutely roll with this.
*
5)
She’s beautiful as the sun is beautiful and in the glow of her presence, the world disappears. The moment his gaze first landed on her, Sausage was aware who stood before him.
Technically he knew what he had to do, too: fall to his knees and kiss the soles of her delicate feet.
Yet when her eyes found him, taking his measure, strange and familiar all at once, he could do nothing but quiver like a newborn fawn in five inches of snow.
Sausage is not sure how he ended up on a bar stool in the farthest corner at the Hermits’ welcoming party, with his back against the wall and her petite form perched on his lap. One of his hands clutches her sheer dress, the other cradles her skull, brushing the tiny sunflowers woven through her hair. She smells of strawberries in the first days of summer. There’s beer on her teeth. And blood, and iron. It took him three shots to work up the courage to approach her; now he doesn’t think he can let go.
Luckily, getting away seems to be the opposite of what she wants. She bites his lip, drawing soft moans from him like tribute she’s owed.
‘There’s a room upstairs,’ he breathes into her mouth. ‘If you wanna, um.’
Please say yes. Please, please, he prays.
Her coral blue eyes are so dark they gleam almost red. Her tongue peeks out between her incisors. ‘I do,’ she says, tapping her lower lip.
Sausage’s stomach swoops.
‘But not in a room.’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s kinda boring, isn’t it?’ She pops the topmost button of his shirt and pushes her little finger through the hole. ‘I’ve heard about you, Sausage.’
‘You did?’
‘Mhm, a few things. That you’re great to be with.’ She spreads the syllables across her tongue like honey. ‘And that you’re open to trying interesting stuff.’
She leans close to his ear and tells him what she wants.
Sausage gapes at her. ‘You’re insane.’
Her grin widens. ‘But wouldn’t it be fun?’
‘We’re gonna die!’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think that’d even remotely work on a practical level, to be honest.’
‘Ah, but we won’t know until we actually try.’
‘That’s… true.’
Pearl beams. ‘So, do you wanna?’
What the heck. ‘Sure.’
Sausage slides off his chair and puts her on the ground, using the opportunity to cop a feel of her ass. He can’t help it, it’s literally right there, and all the self-control he usually has got blown out the window the moment she stepped into the room.
Pearl rubs her palm across the tent in his pants.
A hot frisson rushes up Sausage’s spine, setting his nerve endings tingling. He clings to her waist to keep himself upright. ‘Hnng.’
Her laugh rings bright and sharp in his ear. She presses a kiss to his cheek, then vanishes out of his arms like a wisp of smoke.
‘Go get your elytra,’ she calls, over the noise of the tavern. ‘I’ll meet you on top of the Hermitshire scaffolding.’
*
6)
Sausage’s breath comes out in ragged, wet puffs into dark skin. Heat curls in his guts; a flaring, white-hot magnesium flame, and before he knows it, he’s right on the edge. He doesn’t even try to hold on, just digs his fingers into the other’s hips and lets it shake through him, rattling his teeth and burning him to his core.
Afterwards, he slumps, exhausted.
There’s a wet, muffled sound against his shoulder. ‘Oof.’
‘S’ry,’ Sausage mutters. It takes all of his concentration to make his jelly-limbs move, but he manages to slide himself halfway off of his partner.
Bdubs gasps for breath under him, then bursts out laughing. ‘That was great.’
Sausage’s lips twitch. ‘I’m glad.’
A hand comes down on his ass, hitting it with a resounding slap.
‘It looked great from my angle, too, mi amor.’
‘Ah, papi lindo,’ Sausage purrs, rolling onto his back. He’s just in time to reach up and catch Keralis in the act of swinging a leg across his thighs. He’s very excited, which Sausage can both see and feel, because his papi lindo is not wearing any pants.
The other’s usually wide eyes narrow to slits of starless black. He runs his palms up Sausage’s stomach until he finds his nipples and pinches them.
Sausage gasps. ‘Ah!’
‘Are you tired, sweetling?’ Keralis mutters, circling the hard nubs with his fingertips. He leans in, tongue-first. ‘Do you need a break?’
Bdubs’ hand squeezes Sausage’s thigh, kneading its way up to his hip. Sausage grabs Keralis by the collar of the flannel shirt he’s still somehow wearing and pulls him down on top of him.
‘Not a chance,’ he growls. He cants his hips up, to make a point, and catches the other’s mouth with his. The taste of copper only spurs him on. ‘I can do this all day.’
*
7)
‘Oh, that was wonderful,’ Oli moans, falling forward and stretching out on top of Sausage. ‘That was really nice.’
Having him so close this soon makes Sausage want to flinch. They’re both hairy and sweaty and that’s not even all that’s slicking their bellies. He suppresses the urge and wraps his arms around Oli instead, spreading a damp palm over the base of his neck.
Oli pushes his nose up under Sausage’s chin, but jerks away immediately, snuffling like a dog. Probably because of the beard. When he settles in the next time, his face ends up mashed against the other’s clavicle. The heat of his breath is pretty uncomfortable, but if Sausage has to choose between sucking it up and disturbing Oli’s afterglow, well. He’s not moving anytime soon.
His thumb comes to rest on Oli’s tail-bone. ‘How’s the pain?’
‘Non-existent.’
‘Oli.’
Oli shifts, then yawns. His lips smear a wet streak across Sausage’s skin. ‘Not too bad. It’s more of an ache, not a sting. Definitely worth it.’
‘I got a healing potion, if you want it.’
‘Hmm, later.’
‘Or juice,’ says Sausage. ‘Or water, or cookies. Oh, and golden apples. And I brought a pack of cured meat. I made sure it’s not pork, don’t worry.’
Oli hums. ‘My god, you are prepared.’
He sounds very sleepy. Sausage’s mouth twitches. He rubs his palm in a circle and slides the other hand into Oli’s hair to scratch lightly at his scalp.
A shudder runs through Oli’s body. There must have been, impossibly, some tension left in him, because his weight melts over Sausage like butter in the midday sun. He turns his head into Oli’s curls. His scent is already starting to go stale, but it’s Oli; warm and boneless and happy. A flutter fills Sausage’s belly, like gravity just disappeard. All of a sudden, his mind feels cushioned in cotton. He tightens his grip, revelling in the soft moan muffled against his neck.
‘Can I, uh, hold you for a while?’
Instead of an answer, Oli falls asleep on top of him. Sausage takes it as a ‘yes.’
*
8)
Scar pushes a half-full crate of carrots across the dirt with his foot, towards a merchant, who hands him a leather-bound, purple-shimmering tome in response and then slaps his arm with a laugh and a well-wish. In Sausage’s own trading hall. His jaw drops.
‘H-how did he do that?’
An arm drapes itself around his shoulders. Grian, who’s perching on a stack of vegetable boxes behind him, snickers into his ear.
‘Scar’s an absolute savant at negotiations. When he comes in with his little glasses on and his abacus under his arm, you know deals are gonna be made.’
‘Hey, Grian, look what I got,’ Scar calls. He saunters over and tosses the book at Grian. The inscription on the front reads “Lava Walker.”
Grian’s eyes widen. ‘Dude! You’re a genius!’
‘Well.’ Scar shrugs, spreading his arms like what-can-you-do. ‘We all have our talents. Speaking of which, I heard that you–,’ he says, addressing Sausage, ‘– are very talented indeed.’
He places his abacus on Grian’s lap and leans closer. ‘Care to share here, Sausage, my friend? You must have gone through most of the Hermits by now.’
‘If not all of them,’ laughs Grian. ‘There can’t be many left.’
Over Scar’s head, Sausage catches another Hermit’s gaze. Cub hasn’t shown any interest in participating in the conversation since he came in; too absorbed in inspecting a different trader’s merchandise. He seems to have his eye on something more rare than books, if the way he’s testing the blood-red fletching of an arrow is any indication. But he must have been listening, because he meets Sausage’s eyes with a heated glint.
Sausage remembers that expression. It was the last thing he saw before darkness fell over him. He learned all the things those needle-sharp vex teeth could do to a man, that night. Most of them he had never dared to dream of.
Something tugs low in his belly.
Scar kicks his knee. ‘Come on,’ he whines. ‘It’s no fun if you keep it all to yourself.’
Sausage looks from Cub to the pout on Scar’s face and his lips twitch. ‘Sorry, mi amigo. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.’
*
9)
‘Impulse,’ Sausage purrs, cross-legged on a double chest in the Hermitopia tower. ‘You can blow my horn anytime.’
Impulse, who’s working on a bunch of wiring in the guts of the robot Grian’s building, laughs. His palms are streaked with red stone dust; it’s gotten all over his cheeks, and there are several splotches of coal in his hair. Whenever he moves too quickly, observers fall out of his pockets.
‘You know, I’d take you up on that, but.’
He picks up a repeater, places it and adjusts the signal strength.
‘But what?’
Impulse shrugs.
Sausage furrows his brows. He’s aware that ever since he came to visit with Oli in tow, who had been in top form that day and played into every innuendo, no matter how small, the Hermit has been shooting him rather contemplative glances.
‘Impulse?’
The other rubs a hand across his forehead, leaving another colourful smear. Then he shakes his head. ‘I don’t do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Romance. Love.’ He winces. ‘That whole thing.’
Sausage blinks. ‘Oh! Really?’
Impulse’s lips press together. ‘Yeah.’
He looks like he’s waiting for Sausage to jump up and run. Sausage hooks his fingers under the lid of the chest he’s sitting on and leans closer. ‘Never?’
‘Not really, no. I just don’t… It’s not my speed.’
‘But you do all the other stuff? Sex,’ he clarifies.
Pink creeps across Impulse’s face. He coughs into his palm, magnetizing his gaze to the red stone at his feet as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
‘When I get the chance, yes. But not everyone’s cool with an arrangement like that. Most people prefer it the normal way.’
‘I’m not most people.’
Impulse stills. His cheeks are tomato-red, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes which cuts straight through Sausage. ‘Yeah, I noticed.’
A pause.
Sausage clears his throat. ‘So, do you want to come over here, or what?’
The other’s attention burns sharp as a paper cut. Slowly, Impulse puts his repeater down and dusts off his hands. His footfalls, when he approaches, seem to shake the entire building.
Sausage looks up at him. Even though the Hermits all appear to be a tad vertically challenged by lore, it feels right to stay below his line of sight.
Impulse cups his cheek. ‘Promise me.’
Sausage swallows. ‘I promise I won’t fall in love with you.’
The other leans in. His words are a whisper, just before he brushes their lips together.
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
*
10)
Thick, grey clouds gather over Stratos, churning like eddies in a stream when Sausage approaches, riding the gale howling around the floating isles. He tucks his wings against his back and dives. The moment his boots hit the marble, he crouches.
Joel busts out of the closest doorway. ‘Oh, my go– um. Me. Sausage, I’m so glad you’re here.’
The wind tears the words from his lips.
Sausage grasps the trailing edges of his elytra and pulls them in, to make sure the wind doesn’t catch them like a slack sail and blows him right off the island.
From Lower Stratos, the sound of drums reaches his ears. There’s also–
‘Is that smoke? What in the world is going on here, Joel?’
‘Hurricane,’ shouts Joel. ‘Um. Actually, my hurricane.’
He grabs Sausage’s arm and yanks him into his washboard abs. This close to the god of thunder himself, the air speed abruptly drops to zero. Sausage curls a hand into Joel’s tunic.
‘But don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.’
Sausage cranes his neck to peer through the gap separating the floating island they’re on from the next one over. ‘Is there a revolt going on?’
‘I’m taking care of it, okay?!’ Joel shrieks. ‘Hermes, darling. Look who’s just arrived: Your other dad!’
Hermes – Sausage’s baby boy, his angel, his cariño; round-cheeked and pink in the face, with golden hair to rival Cupid’s beauty when it shines in the sunlight – toddles out of the doorway Joel came through and Sausage nearly has a heart attack. He lurches towards his son.
‘Mijo, be careful!’
The boy freezes, eyes widening. ‘Papa?’
‘Shh, shh. I got you, I got you,’ Sausage mumbles, sweeping him up and pressing him to his chest. The same slipstream-effect that Joel has going on seems to apply to Hermes, too. Sausage still shakes. He touches his lips to his son’s locks. ‘Hello, my sweet. Ready to go to Sanctuary?’
Hermes wraps his arms around his neck. At first, Sausage thinks it’s to hug him back, but then the boy holds out a handful of feathers, ripped straight from the top of his elytra.
‘Do you have your shulker box, kiddo? Did you eat the sandwiches Lizzie made you?’ Joel turns to Sausage, an epic pout on his face. ‘She says I’m not feeding my child properly. Can you believe that?’
Hermes giggles. ‘Cookie dinner!’
‘No, I totally can’t,’ Sausage says flatly. ‘I think they’re a hair’s breadth away from chopping somebody’s head off down there, by the way.’
‘What?!’ Joel leaps for the gap. ‘Oh, me! Me! Sorry, Sausage, gotta go!’
He throws himself off the edge.
Sausage blinks.
Joel soars high over the top of the island, loops around and plummets towards them. He comes to a sliding stop a mere inch in front of Sausage’s face and plants a smacking kiss right on his mouth.
‘I’m glad you came when you said you would. Really dependable, you are.’ He holds up both of his thumbs. ‘Ten out of ten, would get unintentionally pregnant by again.’
Then he’s gone. Probably for good this time, hopefully to clean up the mess he’s made. Sausage sighs fondly. With a swell of warmth in his throat, he straps his son to his chest so the boy won’t fall and heads towards home.