Blind Faith

Author's Note:

Hi! So, this is different. It's a modern day urban fantasy, which is more like what I "really" write, but I don't usually include explicit sex in that. There will be sex scenes in this, but that won't be the big focus. I guess I would call it an urban fantasy with some erotica in it instead of an erotic urban fantasy.

It's also a little different because I'm going to be posting as I complete chapters instead of writing the whole thing first.

A few content warnings - blood and violence. Knowing me, probably drugs and alcohol in later chapters. None of the violence will be sexual in nature. All sex shown explicitly in this story will be consensual.

Owen

The day was gloriously sunny. I supposed the locals would call it a hot day for April, but I was pretty happy to enjoy a nice, warmish day near the end of the bleak, cold months I'd spent in Manitoba. Sitting on top of a flat roof of a picturesque, two-story Italianate building somewhere in the business district of Winnipeg, I turned my face to the sun and sighed happily.

It was the waiting phase of my current task. I'd tapped into the line I needed and successfully logged myself into the intranet of the shady corporation housed in that particular cute little building. My bugs were crawling and downloading as I stretched out and pushed my hood off to let the sun warm me in the chilly spring breeze. I would have pretty safely perched up there like a malevolent sparrow until I got what I needed, but an unwelcome amount of police presence on the street drew my attention. I crouched and crawled to the parapet to peek out over the wide eaves down at the street.

That was the first time I saw Flynn. He was grinning sheepishly, sitting on the curb with two cops standing over him. Even sitting on the sidewalk, I could tell he was tall and the kind of wiry guy who would surprise you with his strength. He had on a dark denim jacket covered in some kind of embellishments I couldn't make out at that distance with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in blue tattoos along with fingerless, black gloves. His hair was the aggressive pink I associated with an upset stomach. One of the cops was taking items out of his backpack and laying them out on the hood of the cruiser - several battered composition books, some folded clothes, what appeared to be a pouch full of pens and markers, and a lot of spray paint.

Flynn's cute grin and handsome face intrigued me. The fact that he was apparently caught vandalising the boring bricks of the city in the middle of that busy, sunny day charmed me. I was always a sucker for a clueless, artsy guy.

The cop not emptying out his backpack grabbed Flynn's arm and twisted it to examine his tattoos with a flat, dubious look. He didn't say anything to the detained man as he leaned to the radio clipped to his shoulder and spoke.

"We have a possible unregistered acolyte on Portage Ave and Smith," the cop said. Uh oh. If that was true, that cute street artist was about to have a rough day. Canada had very serious opinions about rogue devotees roaming their country.

To be fair, most countries did. The blessings carried by a truly zealous, unmonitored acolyte could be a serious public threat. Registered temples would never allow their members to reach that type of power, but that couldn't stop individuals willing to make the intense sacrifices demanded of them from forming direct contact with a deity.

"Ah, no, those are just, you know, trendy?" Flynn giggled nervously. "They aren't real."

The officer pushed the sleeve further up and arched an eyebrow at Flynn.

"So the burned ones are just part of the look?" he asked pointedly.

"Well, yeah. Protection? They make me look dangerous?" Flynn suggested. "Come on, do I really look like a godchaser?"

Oof, yeah, he absolutely did look like the kind of person who happily dropped out of a safe, stable life to throw themselves into wild devotion. His sweet face was enough to convince me to help. I was, after all, in a uniquely advantageous position to do so.

My own backpack had a number of working, untraceable cell phones loaded with my own personal mix of useful, homegrown apps. I selected one and got to work finding a building a few blocks away with an unsecured security system. Setting that off was easy. Faking a few panicked calls and a handful of hangups from that location to 911 was a little harder, but I could make it happen. I heard the cruiser below me scream away with its alarms blaring. I scooted back to the edge to peer over the parapet and see if I had successfully gotten their attention off the cute, tattooed man on the sidewalk.

Flynn was slowly collecting the items from his backpack that had apparently been swept off the cruiser to scatter on the sidewalk. He paused in his attempt to pack them all away and turned his disarmingly dark eyes up to make direct eye contact with me. That silly, helpless grin I'd seen before was a surprised smile as he laughed and gave me a little wave. With all his paint safely stowed, he took the same roof access ladder I'd used to get on top of the building and popped over the parapet to meet me.

I was right about him being tall. To be fair, I was notably short and I dressed to look smaller and less noticeable in plain jeans and a black hoodie. Up close, the decorations on his jacket turned out to be a mix of patches from various cities around North and Central America and little painted figures of bright, cute monsters in various scenes of daily life. He also had rainbows painted like epaulettes on his shoulders.

"How did you know I was up here?" I asked him instead of introducing myself.

Flynn cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.

"Intuition," he said slowly.

"Acolyte intuition?" I pressed him. That was absolutely something he could be getting from whatever deity he had given himself to, though it wasn't usually so accurate outside of the various chains of oracle farms scattered around the globe. Those places were pretty good at searching out any talented seer and locking them in with anything from a life of luxury to modern slavery. Usually it was a mix of both.

"She speaks if I listen. Especially when I'm in danger," Flynn agreed with a nod. "I'm Flynn. Thanks for the save."

"Owen," I answered and offered my hand. He gave me a curious look as he accepted the handshake. The fingerless gloves he wore had worn leather pads on the palms that felt rough against my own hand.

"You're not worried I'll curse you if I touch you?" he asked me. I didn't buy into that kind of superstition.

"I'm kind of hoping you'll touch me a whole lot more," I chanced suggestively. "You know, if you're allowed."

Flynn chuckled and broke into a heartstopping grin.

"Oh, I'm allowed. Encouraged, even," he giggled. "But I'm a romantic. Can I take you out to dinner?"

"Sure," I said. I jerked my head towards the laptop quietly running its attack on the hot roof surface. I had rigged a blanket up over some of the pipes and various mechanical bits sticking up through the roof to provide it with some shade in hopes of avoiding overheating before it finished. "I have to finish up some work first, though. Can you wait for a while?"

"Ooh, hacker?" he asked me.

"Something like that," I shrugged.

"I can't finish my own work today," he said and sat down against the parapet with his long legs stretched out in front of him. "I can be a fawn."

"What?" I laughed and sat beside him. I was already charmed by his disarming grin even with the disquieting way his dark eyes looked right through me. "You can be a fawn?"

"I can wait," he said like it was an obvious explanation. "I'm usually a rabbit because I listen and I run, but I can wait."

"Hm, interesting," I chuckled to myself. "So, you're a rabbit. What do you think I am?"

Flynn looked at me for a long time. There was a pressure to the air as he did it, like I was suddenly deep underwater with the weight of the fathoms above me for a brief moment. An odd little smile tilted his lips before he spoke again.

"A shark," he said finally. "Because you hunt."

"A shark because I can hunt, hm?" I repeated. "Not a wolf? That would be sexier." Flynn shook his head.

"No, a shark," Flynn said. "Hunting is in their nature. It's their existence. Just hunting and instinct. It's why you're not afraid of me. Sharks don't understand fear."

I thought about that for a while as fluffy puffs of clouds crept across the blue expanse above us.

"Do you think I

should

be afraid of you?" I finally asked. It was a real question. There were reasons acolytes were supposed to be limited by temple regulation. Even if this cute guy spoke in strange little metaphors and had an open, sweet smile, he could absolutely be dangerous to get close to.

"Well," Flynn sighed. He was looking up at the clouds with his head tilted back to touch the parapet behind him. "I won't hurt you. My goddess isn't under my control, though, and I'm an open conduit. I'm just a rabbit, but she's a deity. She pointed you out to me, though, so it's probably safe for the moment. I won't stick around if she tells me to leave. You should be ok."

"Which goddess?" I asked.

"She doesn't have a name," Flynn answered. "Or, um, not one I'm allowed to know."

Oh, shit. That could mean a lot of things, but an unnamed deity was a major risk no matter who it was. It meant that Flynn had dedicated himself to worship without much information on what that might ultimately mean for his own wellbeing. Plenty of deities would toss their worshipers to painful deaths for little more than a bit of entertainment when they got tired of them. I loved a reckless boy, but that level of suicidal carelessness was a shrieking red flag.

"She picked me," Flynn added, guessing where my thoughts had gone. "I didn't go to her."

That was a different kind of problem. I wasn't entirely sure the risk was worth playing with a goddess's favorite toy.

"I can go," Flynn offered neutrally. "It's a lot. I get it."

"What do you do for her?" I asked.

"Graffiti," Flynn answered with a dreamy smile. Oof, that smile made my heart jump. I wondered how he looked when he was painting. I wondered what kind of focus would grace that cute face. I wanted to see him in his element. I had a feeling the tingles in my stomach would awaken to a full fire for that man. "I paint her shrines in every city I can get to. If I do a good enough job, she feasts on the glory."

I went to check on my laptop to give me a moment away from his overwhelming presence. He waited patiently, watching the clouds with his arms loosely cast around his knees and his heavy, well worn black boots planted on the roof. Once I was sure my head was clear, I went back to sit beside him again. He fixed those unnerving eyes on me and tilted his head to one side again. I expected to feel that same pressure I felt before, but he must have just been gauging my reaction instead of probing my heart.

"So, should I go?" he prompted. "I appreciate the save. I can write you a blessing if you'd like, but I can go. No hard feelings."

"I think you owe me more than a blessing," I said. The warmth in my guts wouldn't be denied. I wanted to see how bright that flame would get. This cutie was ticking too many of my boxes. "I have to ditch a SIM card now. I think you owe me dinner."

Flynn's big grin was exactly the spark I needed.

Flynn

That day on the street, I knew some kind of divine intervention was at work the moment the cops put me on the concrete and started looking at my tattoos. Those things were undeniable. Those sigils, mostly designed by me for custom-tailored purposes and tapped into my skin with a sewing needle, could do a variety of things. Most were passive wards providing protection from nosy occultists or random spells I might encounter out in the wild. A few were single use offensive spells. I tried not to use those. The scars from the few times I had resorted to that left patches of my skin a gnarled, burned mess that rejected all ink afterwards.

Other occultists might think their greatest strength was in learning the esoteric languages and writing systems needed to write spells and construct sigils or in their ability to endure the agony of casting. My goddess had made it clear to me that she valued my ability to listen above anything else. So, I listened. I played at being stupid and amiable for the cops, but I was focused on the pull of the air and the beat of my own heart.

Wait.

She said wait, so I bought time with the officers and I waited.

After the cops threw all my worldly belongings to the ground and raced off on a mysteriously convenient call that took priority over one dumb possible acolyte, I heard her voice again.

Look up. Go say hello.

I found the most lovely face peeking at me from his perch above the heavy corbels of the unmarked building behind me. My heart jumped up in my throat in delight. I thanked my goddess and scampered up to meet the cutie on the roof.

Owen surprised me. He was small and slender, with dark curls and thick glasses. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, his smile crooked, charming, and somewhat hard to tease out. He recognized me for what I was and still wanted to get to know me.

Dinner was easy. I already knew he was some kind of bounty hunter based on what I saw when he asked me what type of animal he was. He told me he hunted digital bounties, sometimes information, sometimes assets, and sometimes people. He was in Manitoba finishing up a job that had taken him months of infiltration and he was eager to move on to another city as soon as he had the information in hand.

His voice was quiet, but smooth. His pale skin and gray eyes gave him a somber, Victorian look, but he was all confidence and mischief once he started talking. My breath hitched a little at his giddiness at reaching that long-sought goal. I shook myself from watching him talk when I realized I needed to respond in some way. Owen smirked at my distraction.

"You want to get out of here?" he asked me, his voice dripping in suggestion. I nodded dumbly.

Owen squinted at me dubiously when I dug out a handful of change and loose bills to cover the cheap diner meal, but he said nothing. I followed him like a lanky, oversized puppy out onto the street.

"Your place or mine? Mine is a sketchy motel that smells like ammonia at the moment," he chuckled, looking out at the passing cars as he spoke.

"Mine is whichever overpass isn't already taken, so yours is probably better unless you're into that kind of thing," I answered without really thinking about it. Owen spun around to face me. His adorable smile disappeared and his eyebrows snapped together.

I flinched back from his sudden movement. Owen softened immediately and reached for my arm with a concerned look settling on his face. Ah, shit. Stupid Flynn and my clueless mouth. One of the many reasons I did better as a nomad living on the edges of society than I did in any kind of civilized setting - I never really figured out how to act like everyone else. Owen had, so far, been charmed by my eccentric babbling. Cowering from a guy nearly a full foot shorter than me and admitting to sleeping under a bridge was a lot less charming.

"Hey, you ok? I'm not going to... I wouldn't hit you," he said warily.

"I'm not around people that much," I said lamely. "At least, um, not nice people. Sorry."

"Come on, my place," Owen said after giving me a long, measured look. He drew me along with him into a Taxi that whisked us out to a rough part north of the city to a motel that looked straight out of a crime movie. Owen led me to a door that had suspicious-looking holes patched over with unpainted putty. The room inside had two double beds, a boxy television wired to the wall, and not much else. There weren't even any personal items in the room. I suspected that Owen carried everything with him on his back much like I did.

I was standing there, looking around like I'd never seen a rented room before, when Owen caught me from behind and wrapped his arms around my middle.

"You want to grab a shower? The pressure is shit but the water actually gets pretty hot," he said.

"Do I smell that bad?" I tried to joke. I might have. It wasn't very hot yet, but there was only so clean I could get on the street.

"You don't, but I imagine a shower would feel nice if you really have been sleeping outside," Owen said. "Come on. I'll start."

He let me go and spun me around with a cheeky grin. I was confused until he dropped his hoodie and yanked off his shirt. I was dumbstruck, staring at his pale skin and the slender, graceful curves of his torso. My throat was dry at the thought of tracing the ghostly lines of his veins and very visible ribs.

"Hey, Rabbit! You better catch up or I'll leave you behind," Owen giggled. "I don't know much about fish, but I think I heard once that sharks die if they stop moving."

"Some of them do. The great whites and makos can't breathe unless water is moving over their gills," I answered as I slowly moved to shed my own jacket and shirt. "Those ones can sleep with just half of their brain so the other half keeps them swimming." He didn't react badly to me telling him animal facts in what was probably not the right setting. That was promising, because I was definitely going to say stranger things as the night went on.

"Hmm, you have more muscles than I expected," Owen purred happily when he saw my tattooed chest. The sigils on my arms were rough stick and pokes. The large tattoos on my chest and legs were more carefully done, but still self-inflicted symbols either designed for specific purposes by me or mysterious symbols given to me by my goddess. I didn't even know for sure what some did.

"I have to be able to get around," I said. "Like, um, freerunning I guess. Creative evasion."

Owen circled me like the shark I saw him as, lightly touching my tattoos as he went. I shivered under his attention, but I held still.

"Gorgeous," he breathed. "Come on, let's get cleaned up."

...

Owen

The shower wasn't because Flynn smelled bad no matter what he suspected. I was feeling overprotective from the moment he said he was sleeping outside. The way he flinched away from me sealed the deal. I had to take care of him. I hoped showering together would start to break down some of his tension.

He was hot as hell, all long, lean muscle and gorgeous tattoos with a narrow waist and tempting ass. He let me peel his boxers off with a whimper that made my guts churn. Now freed of the plaid fabric, his dick strained in front of me, long and thick and absolutely dripping precum for me. He shuddered when I lost my boxers and pumped myself for him.

There were scars on his arms, the kind occultists often had from high level casting, and one really concerning mark on his back that looked entirely too much like a knife wound to me. He felt me tracing it with my fingers while I generously applied the hotel's mediocre soap to his skin.

"That was a long time ago," he said quietly.

"It looks like someone stabbed you in the back, Rabbit," I answered. It was high on his back, just below his shoulder blade. It had healed to a gnarled, pink divot.

"Yeah, but it was a long time ago," he repeated. He twisted in my arms and took the soap away with a wolfish grin. "You didn't bring me here to hear all my sad stories, right? I was under the impression you wanted me to touch you."

I chuckled and let him run his hands down my chest. He lightly traced my ribs with his fingertips and leaned forward to capture my lips. I gave myself over to his lead, letting him part my lips and explore my mouth. I felt the vibration of his moan when I sucked on his tongue.