Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit is intended.
Tried to upload this weeks ago under the "T"-rating, but failed. I don't really think this little story could do a teenager some harm, but to be sure I'm going to give it another try by publishing it under the rating "M".
A rustle in the night
Damien Vryce dreamed. Not a nightmare this time, but quite the contrary, although it included – embarrassingly – a certain formerly undead prophet of the church. Kissing him passionately Gerald wrapped his fingers around him and stroked, ever so slowly, teasing him beyond his limits of endurance until the priest bit down on his lips in a vain attempt to stiffle a scream of pleasure.
With a start Damien came awake, tasting blood. That had been frustratingly close; his hips were still pressed against the hard, unyielding underground, and flushed with embarrassment Vryce hoped fervently that in real life he hadn't been as noisy as in his wet dream.
Then he remembered: a strange sound had invaded his wanton activities and had woken him up. Years of fighting demons usually taught you some fine survival instincts, if you lived long enough, and although Calesta had been destroyed there were still a lot of nasty creatures roaming Erna.
Vryce forced himself to lay still as a stone, hardly breathing, and waited. There it was again: a very faint moan, stilled instantly, and a soft rustle of clothes. Alarmed Damien looked at his companion who rested an arms length away; in the dim light Tarrant's back was barely visible. Damn! Maybe Gerald was having another heart attack right now; under the dire circumstances healing had been precarious, and although he'd been fairly sure that the adept would fully recover it was possible that he'd missed something vitally important. Before he was able to move though the rustling noise became more rhythmical, and the adept's quiet breathing sped up considerably.
Damien blinked. Oh God! Obviously no heart attack, although right now he felt like getting one himself. His own arousal soared to unprecedented heights, and he didn't even contemplate going back to sleep in his current state.
A cold bath definitely wasn't available on the knees of Mount Shaitan, and Damien desperately considered his options. He could take care of the problem himself, hoping that his companion would be too absorbed in his own actions to take notice. Option two needed a bit more nerve and daring: fighting a furious Tarrant in the small hours of the morning wasn't one of his favourite pastimes. Gerald might not be undead anymore, but Damien had no doubts that he could still put up a good fight, with his bare teeth and nails, if need be. But would he fight at all? And if Gerald, whatever his motives, went along, could Damien live with the consequences and possible complications that might rear their ugly heads?
The former priest sighed inwardly. Maybe the time had come to face the truth: loathing and hatred had been substituted by compassion, admiration and affection long ago. Those feelings had evolved into something deeper and much more complicated than simple sexual attraction.
He'd fought and denied his emotions valiantly as long as possible, rationalizing his actions all the way, had even treated his companion more roughly than he might have had otherwise to hide his feelings, but when he'd offered his own life to heal Gerald's heart there had been no room left for fooling himself.
Calesta had been dead; he didn't need Tarrant anymore to save humankind. It would have been so easy to let the adept die of his heart condition: the monstrous Hunter finally brought to justice. One swift cut with his knife to spare Gerald the terrible fate of choking to death on the water in his lungs, and everything would have been over. Returning to Jaggonath with the news of the Neocount's death he might have even been reinstated in the church with good graces. But one undeniable fact had blocked that road for him with shocking finality : if ripping out his own heart would have been required to heal Gerald's he would have done so without hesitation.
Admit it, Vryce, Damien thought with a mental sigh. Damien Kilcannon Vryce has fallen in love with Gerald Tarrant. Evidently the world was still turning, and no flash of lightning had struck him down.
Nevertheless there'd never been any clear evidence that his feelings were reciprocated. All right, Gerald had refused to save himself by shapeshifting and had decided to stand by him instead that night on their way to Shaitan, an action so unlike the Hunter that it had filled Damien with wonder. And he'd repeatedly refused the priest's blood. Strange again. But that could have been revivalist honour, gratefulness, even friendship, a miracle all by itself. But more? Very unlikely indeed for a former family man and a connaisseur concerning women. In his own wicked way, of course.
Before he could make up his mind the link dizzyingly flared to life, showing Damien images that left no room for interpretation and uncannily resembled those vivid pictures which still haunted him from his lustful dream: Tarrant and himself writhing on the floor, oblivious to the bare stone's hardness, and now he was behind his crouching lover, hard as stone himself, and...
Damien blinked again, completely stunned. And blushed. His one and only experience with another male had happened in his middle teens, involving a boy barely older than himself. He dimly remembered some hasty fumbling under a shower, easily consumed and even more easily forgotten. Gerald's fantasies apparently went a bit beyond those rather harmless activities.
Damien swallowed, but decided not to worry too much. Never try, never know. More shocking for him was the sudden revelation that Tarrant obviously desired him as well, that at the very least the sexual attraction he'd been feeling for quite a while now was mutual. He felt dazed; the bare need and desire pouring into him via the channel overwhelming his rational thinking.
„If you haven't pondered your options to your heart's content yet I could send you a written invitation, priest."
For approximately a second Damien felt rebellious, those self-confident, haughty tones cooling down his desire by several degrees, but when Gerald turned round with a seductive smile and pushed back a corner of his blanket in a fairly enticing manner Vryce was quite sure that, no, he didn't need another invitation, written or not.
„Come to me, Vryce! I don't bite." Tarrant reached for him, that alluring smile still on his face, and Damien started to sweat, swallowing a, considering the situation, rather inappropriate retort. In his opinion Lucifer himself couldn't have looked more tempting inspite the ash and grime which still partly clung to Gerald's skin, and Vryce's tired body moved on it's own accord, joining his companion under his covers. Although his night sight had improved Damien still had some difficulties making out details, but he could have sworn that a hint of a satisfied grin tugged at the corners of Gerald's mouth. Damn that vulking bastard and his arrogance!
Gerald's bloody blanket seemed to be made of fire, not of plain, ordinary wool, and Damien absently pondered if he might have caught a fever. The adept's body seemed to radiate an unnatural heat as well which sent his nerves on fire. Pulse flying and his heart hammering Damien hardly dared to shift a limb, completely at loss how to proceed and praying silently that Tarrant would make the next move. His companion's obvious faint amusement wasn't helpful at all and just added to his uneasiness and insecurity.
The priest nearly choked on his breath when possessive arms embraced him and sharp teeth nibbled at his right earlobe.
„Damien?" Tarrant softly purring his Christian name was very possibly the most sensual sound he'd ever heard, and Vryce's heart skipped a beat, his hair standing on end. „I could need your help for some urgent scientific research."
By now Gerald's mouth had moved to his neck, gently kissing his taut skin, teasing him, and Damien felt the whispered words and the accompanying smirk rather than hearing them.
„Some urgent scientific research?" Repeating the adept's words like a well trained parrot Damien didn't feel like a very smart guy, but Tarrant had managed to baffle him. Again. A capacity that even death and resurrection apparently can't destroy, Vryce thought wryly.
Facing him Gerald graced him with a sweet smile. „Well, after more than nine hundred years of disuse I have to check if certain functions of my body work properly. Do you mind operating as my assistant?"
Obviously Gerald was having a great time poking fun at him, but Damien understood that there was neither malice nor cruelty in his behaviour, just a spark of genuine humour. Maybe the former Hunter not only wanted to try out his freshly regained mortal body but his human soul as well, and Vryce decided to play along. „And how could I assist you, I wonder?"
„By fucking me senseless, maybe?" Gerald whispered huskily, his reply so unlike his usual, restrained self that Vryce's last defenses crumbled into dust. All reason drowning in a sea of want and longing Damien obeyed. More than once. Just to be sure that a millenium of celibacy hadn't done any lasting damage to his lover, of course.
When they finally rested in each other's arms, exhausted, glowing and utterly satisfied, Damien perceived a very faint chuckle, quickly suppressed at his chest. „Mind telling me what's so funny?"
Gerald's eyes met his, sleepy and happy, and inspite his tousled hair and dirty face he'd never looked more beautiful to Damien. „Well, I just thought that, with regard to your obvious talents as a personal assistant, I might be seduced to offer you a more permanent position in my employment. Could you be tempted to consider my proposal, Vryce?"
„I might, Gerald." Yawning contentedly Damien pulled the adept into an even tighter embrace and kissed him on his cheek before he drifted off into a much needed sleep. They had bested the forces of hell and a sadistic, power crazed demon just to be confronted with a bloody crusade, but as long as they were facing the future together everything was well.