All is fair in love and war
Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.
A/N 1: As you'll soon see, I took some liberties with the restrictions of Tarrant's compact. He still can't participate in any acts of procreation in the literal sense of the word, but seducing Damien doesn't count considering that two men are out of the game for obvious reasons (other than in certain fanfics I won't mention, that is ;-)).
A/N 2: I know that I had a similar scenario before (Gerald teaching his favourite priest something about the male anatomy and laying with him afterwards), but as the plot in general is different, I hope you don't mind too much. After all, there are only so many ways two men can have it off with each other, lol.
A/N 3: This is one of the fics I started quite a while ago but somehow got stuck in medias res. As the Christmas season is approaching with rapid strides - and with it writing the traditional X-mas story - I pulled myself together and finished it at long last. As this is always a very busy time of the year, everything else will have to wait until 2016, I'm afraid...
A/N 4: Greetings to Morgana who's hopefully still 'lurking around', Silvereyedbitch, Shadowystar, Herdcat, Puffskien Overlord of Darkness and all the other Coldfire fans out there. May you have a happy Advent!
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"Why don't you stop getting on my nerves for a change and kill a few rodents instead, Vryce? They've become a real plague lately."
Muttering a rather colourful and anatomically impossible metaphor involving not rats and what a certain adept could do to them under his breath, Damien descended into the bowels of the God's Mercy, his spring-bolt slung over his back. There was no doubt that Tarrant could have handled the infestation quite well on his own. A dose of Coldfire, and the furry little pests would find themselves in rat heaven before they could do so much as move a whisker. But although the Hunter had no qualms whatsoever about using his limited resources for keeping his own below-deck hold immaculately clean, he obviously saw no reason for an intervention for the sake of his human companions.
Their return journey seemed to be ill-fated, anyway. After more than ten months at sea there was still no end in sight. Fearing retribution at the hands of his merciless benefactors for what he perceived as a violation of his compact, Gerald had been in a foul mood since their departure from Mercia. There were no animated discussions about the principles of their faith any longer, no keeping each other company in amicable silence under a blanket of stars. If the adept wasn't holed up in his lightless lair, he usually stood at the bow and stared out into the night, the aura of 'do not disturb or suffer the consequences' about him almost palpable.
As for himself, Vryce was teetering precariously on the brink of a nervous breakdown. So much had assailed him over the last years, from the death of cherished comrades and witnessing the destruction of entire areas and the butchering of hundreds of innocents to his own pangs of conscience about allying with a creature anathema to everything his faith was standing for, and being forced to feed the Hunter again in the wake of poor Sisa's suicide only helped to make matters worse.
But there was more to it than that. He had always loathed the ocean and everything connected to it, and the violent volcanic eruption which had very nearly burned the God's Mercy and her companion ship to cinders before they had come even remotely close to the Fire Islands supposed to grant them passage into warmer climates had been anything but helpful for reconciling him with the fact that there was nothing between him and a wet grave but a few miserable planks. But the growing tension which had been building up inside him for quite a while now couldn't simply be put down to the undeniable hazards of seafaring.
Maybe he was just suffering from a bad case of sexual deprivation. He had never been promiscuous by any stretch of the imagination, but as the Prophet had taught that there was no need for the faithful to repress the natural urges of the body, he had thought nothing of enjoying a fling every now and then. The unfortunate Rasya Maradez had been the last to share his bed, or what counted for a bed aboard a ship, for a longer period of time. What had followed were one or two one-night stands in Mercia and an occasional act of masturbation to take the edge off his libido. Not exactly what one could call a healthy sex life, as far as he was concerned.
Thinking of it, it wasn't altogether surprising that the few hours of sleep unfettered by the horror scenarios crafted by an unrivalled master of fear were disturbed by erotic dreams with increasing frequency lately, dreams he barely remembered in detail but which left him restless and edgy for hours afterwards. After finding himself at the receiving end of one of his temperamental outbursts the day before yesterday, even the ever so talkative Lio Rozca had started to give him a wide berth, and that was saying something.
Calling himself three times a fool for dancing to Tarrant's tune like a puppet on a string instead of relishing the fresh night air on deck, the warrior knight trotted down the last few steps into the moist heat of the cargo hold, just to freeze when a very faint sound reached his ears which bore no resemblance whatsoever to the squeaks of a rodent. There it was again, a low moan, followed by a chuckle. "Like this, eh?" a hoarse voice rang out to his left. "Gods, you're so tight, boy, Take it easy, or the fun will be over soon."
What the hell...? Intrigued very much against his will, Damien inched closer and poked his head around the corner ever so carefully. It took his eyes some time to adjust to the dim light shed by a single storm lantern dangling from one of the ceiling beams, but when he finally could spot more than just a moving shadow at the far end of the tonnage, he forgot how to breathe.
Right beside the now empty board partitions which had harboured several not pigs and a few dozen nuchicken at the beginning of the journey, Micah Gallagher, the boatswain of the God's Mercy, was kneeling on a blanket, his pants pulled halfway down over his ass and his cock buried to the hilt in the lithe but undoubtedly male frame crouching on all fours in front of him. With regard to the long auburn mane tied together by a leather strap, his partner could be no other than Jamie, one of the two cabin boys Rozca had hired out of a bunch of juveniles desperate for leaving their war-torn homeland.
Vryce swallowed convulsively. Of course he had heard stories about sailors turning toward their own gender in order to sate the needs of their bodies although they had a wife or girlfriend waiting for them ashore, but encountering the living proof of it in the dead of night was quite different from listening to pub gossip over a glass of ale. A part of him, his priestly higher self, felt slightly revolted, but the instinct driven animal deep inside him he usually kept strictly under lock and key couldn't help but reacting to the sight of the two sweat-slicked bodies moving in perfect harmony with the gentle rolling of the vessel.
Almost painfully hard all of a sudden, the warrior knight pondered his options. Venting his sexual tension while following the proceedings up to their climactic end was sorely tempting. The mere thought of jerking himself off to the sound of the lovers' low sighs and moans very nearly made him come in his briefs without even touching his genitals, something that hadn't happened to him since the long gone days of his youth. In his state of feverish arousal, he surely wouldn't need more than a few quick strokes to find release. But voyeurism was an aberration, a vile act utterly unbefitting a priest of the One God.
If he truly repented, the Lord in His wisdom might forgive him this transgression, just one more on an ever lengthening list, but the Hunter was an altogether different kettle of fish. In all likelihood, he was still on deck, stargazing or whatever he was keeping his brilliant brain occupied with during the long hours he was wont to spend at the bow of the God's Mercy, but he'd rather not take any chances. May God help him if Tarrant ever found out about him acting like a vulking peeping Tom. The man would never let him live it down, that was as sure as day followed night. No, as much as he might wish otherwise, he was well advised to make a strategic retreat to his cabin and get rid of his erection in more private surroundings.
But then the boy threw back his head in ecstasy, panted forth "oh God, yes, right there. Faster, Mic. I'm getting close," and his good intentions instantly went to hell in a hand basket. As if on its own account, his sword hand strayed towards his crotch and started to massage the impressive bulge tenting his pants until his breath came in short, ragged gasps.
The blood pounding in his ears, he allowed his imagination to run wild for a moment. Now it was him who was pumping his hips in a rhythm as old as the human race, his hands tangled in silky strands of light brown hair that seemed to reflect the golden glow of the Core. Grey eyes stared up to him, their pupils dilated with pleasure, and long limbs tightened convulsively around him shortly before the first flutters of orgasm rippled through Gerald's abdomen and tore a hoarse scream from his throat.
For crying out loud, cut the crap, Damien," the ever diminishing area of his grey matter still capable of rational thinking piped up. That's a bad idea. A very bad idea.
"Are you sure? I dare say you might find the experience rather... enlightening."
Tarrant's voice hit him like a blow. Almighty God in Heaven, this had to be a hallucination, spawned by an untoward combination of a bad case of hormonal overkill and a hell of a guilty conscience. At least he prayed with all his heart that it was nothing more substantial. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
But he could feel the Hunter's familiar chill at his back now, the man's unique aura he had learned to tolerate over the years, even welcome. If he wasn't busy with kneading his throbbing erection through layers of denim and not cotton, that is.
His cheeks flaming with embarrassment, he pivoted on his heels and headed for the stairs, but a slender index finger against his sternum stopped him dead in his tracks. "I'd rather you stayed," the Neocount of Merentha whispered, an elegantly arched eyebrow raised in sardonic amusement. "It would be a real shame to miss such a wonderful opportunity to broaden your horizon, wouldn't it? You needn't be shy, by the way. I've Worked an Obscuring."
As far as Vryce was concerned, there were much more pressing matters at hand than broadening just anything, namely fleeing the place of his humiliation with a modicum of dignity still intact, but his body obeyed to the deafening power behind the ever so quiet voice as if he had no will of his own, turned around and stepped closer to the couple like one of old Earth's legendary humanoid robots, and there was nothing he could do against it.
To all appearances, Gallagher was quite apt at screwing the living daylights out of the youth. He thrust into the tight channel in a hard, fast rhythm, but each and every time Jamie tensed up and his moans increased in volume, he froze to utter motionlessness until his lover had calmed down a bit, obviously relishing in keeping him on tenterhooks. Damien himself had practised the so-called 'edging' method more than once and had found it quite useful for both delaying his own ejaculation and intensifying his female partner's pleasure, but if he hadn't seen for himself, he wouldn't have given the foul-mouthed, rather crude mariner credit for any sophisticated sexual techniques whatsoever.
Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he saw that the adept's eyes were narrowed in concentration, and it suddenly dawned on him. The son of a bitch is Controlling us all, he realized with grudging admiration. Effortlessly, as if tinkering around with several human minds at the same time was just child's play. And for him it very well might be no more than that. God knows that he's got ample experience, bringing his victims' worst fears to life for his benefit.
Whatever the exact nature of Tarrant's Working, something struck Damien as rather odd. As the strong desire to alleviate human suffering had been a deeply ingrained part of his personality for as long as he could remember, he had acquired a profound knowledge of human anatomy over the years albeit he wasn't a healer in the strict sense of the word. He was well aware that the anal walls were rich in nerve endings, a fact which could account for certain lustful sensations, had even heard it on the grapevine that applying light pressure to the prostate gland could significantly enhance a man's orgasm. But he hadn't thought it possible in his wildest dreams that it could do the trick without an additional amount of direct penile stimulation.
The Hunter chuckled. "That's one of the things I'd like to teach you tonight. Any acts of procreation are forbidden to me, but I suppose what I've in mind doesn't fall under this category. But enough talk. Just open your fly for me and pull down your pants. The rest is up to me."
"Like hell I will!" Damien growled. "I've always suspected that you aren't quite right in the head, but tonight you're outdoing yourself. I can't quite grasp the crazy scheme your brain has concocted this time yet, but what the blazes makes you think that I'll play along?"
"It wasn't I who indulged in sexual fantasies about laying with a man, Vryce. And now get on with it. Slowly but surely, I'm running out of patience."
The warrior knight couldn't help himself. Whether Gerald was tampering with his mind again or the last barricades of his self-control were crumbling under the sight of one of the most erotic scenes he had ever witnessed he had no idea, but he followed his ally's orders with shaking fingers and bared himself no more than a few feet away from Gallagher and his juvenile lover. At the very next moment, a weird tingle flashed through his rectum, drawing a surprised gasp from him. "It's just a Cleansing, an advisable precaution when indulging into any form of anal play," Tarrant reassured him. "Relax now. I promise I won't hurt you."
A chill finger slipped into the cleft between his nether cheeks and entered him without further ado. It burned a bit, but it wasn't half as bad as Damien had expected. In fact, being stretched felt strangely pleasant after the initial discomfort had passed, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that the adept's gentle in and out motions would suffice to get him off, even if they kept at it for the reminder of the night. But then the digit curled, brushed something that had never been touched before, and his entire perception changed.
Caught off guard by the lustful sensation shooting through him like a bolt of lightning, Vryce heaved a lout moan, just to clamp his sword hand over his mouth in order to stifle any further treacherous noises. "You needn't worry about becoming vocal," the Hunter purred into his ear. "As I've already pointed out, our seafaring friends here are perfectly oblivious to our presence. Feel free to scream as loudly as you want to."
The priest had no intention whatsoever of giving him the satisfaction. But when Gerald repeated the manoeuvre, tickled and teased that sensitive spot inside him with a mastery revealing that he was no novice in those matters, he forgot all about exercising self-restraint.
The urge to come soon became so overwhelming that he set about making use of his hands like he had done a thousand times before, but very much to his chagrin he seemed to have lost the command of his limbs all of a sudden, Tarrant's fae-strengthened willpower rendering him no less helpless than a pair of iron manacles around his wrists.
Utterly unfazed by his spluttered curses, the adept went on at the very same slow, deliberate pace until Vryce thought he had to spill or die. Right in front of him, the boatswain sped up once again, pounding into his lover as if there were no tomorrow, and this time he didn't stop when Jamie convulsed and cried out his name, his flushed face twisted into a grimace of sheer, unbridled ecstasy. Then spurt after spurt of hot seed splattered onto the planks while Gallagher emptied himself inside, and the stimulus of their bodies shuddering and jerking in the throes of passion was all it took to send Damien over the edge, as well.
His legs gave way under the onslaught of the nigh to unbearable waves of pleasure spreading through his abdomen, and when he was coming back to his senses again, he found himself on all fours, a tall, shadowy figure hovering over him like a hawk. "This was but a small appetizer, Vryce," the Hunter breathed. "Just in case you're hungering after the main course, you know where to find me."
The very next second he was gone without leaving a trace of his existence behind. At a complete loss as what to do, Damien raked his greying hair. As tempting as the idea of putting his newly acquired knowledge into practise might be, he wasn't altogether hell-bent on allowing Tarrant to manipulate him once again. But then he thought of pale skin so inhuman in its ethereal flawlessness and of silver eyes sparkling brighter than the constellations guiding them home, and he made his choice without thinking twice.
The Neocount of Merentha was lying on his bunk, wearing just a loosely belted robe of sheer midnight blue silk not leaving much to the imagination and a faint but annoyingly smug smile that made Damien's hackles rise in spite of the by all means delectable view. Damn the man in general and his inflated ego and aplomb in particular!
The corners of Tarrant's mouth curved further upwards, and there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes for anything but mischievous satisfaction. A slender arm rose languidly, beckoned him closer, and the warrior knight crossed the distance without ever realizing that he was moving. His shirt came off in a heartbeat, followed by his pants and briefs. Then it was him who was mantling over the object of his desire, his cock still rock hard in spite of his recent orgasm, and all the crap which had plagued him lately faded into non-existence as he slowly pressed inside.
Gerald surrendered to him without the slightest resistance. He fit him like a custom-made glove, tight and slippery and utterly irresistible, and it wasn't long before Damien could feel the familiar tingle in his balls and the base of his spine heralding his ejaculation. Loath to leave his lover high and dry, he tried to slow down, but it was to no avail. Growling deep down in his throat, the Hunter dug his fingers into his buttocks, urged him on in a wordless plea for more, and he lost his fight against the overpowering need to thrust as hard and fast as he could, screaming as the rhythmic contractions around him milked him dry to the very last drop.
"You and your vulking little mind games," Damien grumbled with feigned annoyance when his breath had finally evened out again. "I'm dead certain that you had it planned all along, so don't bother denying it. But why the heck didn't you hit on me outright instead of sending me down into the bowels of this wretched crate under the pretext that there were a few rodents to be done away with?"
"Why, considering your tendency to happily wallow in denial, I deemed it prudent to give you a little incentive, Vryce. A nudge in the right direction, so to say. I can't understand why you're complaining. My well-wrought strategy worked out to our mutual enjoyment, didn't it?"
"Yeah, but what you call a 'nudge' was rather a hammer blow right between the eyes, if you know what I mean. I'd have anticipated something a bit more... devious from you."
"I'm sorry for failing to meet your expectations, but it hasn't escaped me that the art of subtlety is utterly lost on you," the adept retorted drily. "And isn't it said that all is fair in love and war?"
Damien burst out laughing. Even basking in the warm afterglow of his climax, he harboured serious doubts that a demonic entity like the Hunter could love in the true sense of the word. Vulking hell, he wasn't even sure about his own feelings for the man, however agreeable their tryst had been. He quite liked Tarrant when his human soul shone through the layers of corruption he was shrouding himself in, a safeguard against the taint of the world of the living, and having it off with him had been bliss beyond words on the purely physical plane, but the hunt still stood between them.
However, Gerald had changed over the last years. Both of them had changed until the previously so clearly defined line between black and white, good and evil had blurred and they were operating in a kind of questionable grey area. On very rare occasions, the adept had shown not only compassion but also signs of affection towards him, something that would have been outright unthinkable at the beginning of their acquaintance. Letting his guard down for a single moment, he in all probability had even saved an entire continent from utter devastation, a deed that could very well have serious consequences for him. The Unnamed wasn't known for his leniency, after all.
Don't worry, my friend. Neither he nor the bastard Calesta will harm you if I can help it, Damien thought. I'll get you through this, no matter the cost to myself.
Giving in to the surge of tenderness welling up from a secret place deep down inside him, he wrapped his arms around his lover and placed a kiss on his beardless cheek. Then he closed his eyes for a well-deserved nap.