Fic: Heresy
Nov. 18th, 2005 04:58 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
carmentalis.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hunters_forestThis started out as a plotbunny strong enough to actually give me nightmares...
Fic: Heresy
Fandom: Coldfire
Rating: R
Pairing: Gerald/Damien
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alice_montrose betaed this, named this, and generally held my hand during writing. (And she also caused that plotbunny...) Many thanks!
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of C. S. Friedman. The original characters, settings and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with C. S. Friedman and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.
Cool air surrounding them. The scent of purest beeswax candles, their flames casting a soft, warm light. Creating a space in the darkness around him that felt safe, welcoming. Finest silk underneath his hands, soft against his fingertips, the weave not possible to feel. Twin breaths in a vast room, where even whispers have echoes.
The golden interlinked circles, moved to the side, where shadow meets light. Flame-drawn flickers on the surface, reflected on silk and numarble. The altar triptych above them, the stylized images the Church permits. Crusaders fighting, radiating determination. Light from the sky, casting the fae-light into darkness. The Prophet, victorious over Evil. No face in that image, no hint at who the man might be.
White robes on the ground, carelessly discarded. Warm against the shining tiles, sheltering the chain of golden flames. A sword in its embroidered sheath, gleaming in the semi-darkness with its own life.
Gerald Tarrant before him on the altar, blond hair darkened, almost golden in the candlelight. Pale skin on white silk, both smooth and cool. Grey eyes shadowed, darkened. A smile on his face, sardonic and amused at the same time, and so very familiar.
He moves closer, watches as the grey eyes follow him. Watches them close as he slides his hand across silk and onto skin, lets it rest where he can feel the heart beat. He waits then, feels the chest rise with each breath, feels the gentle pulse of a healed heart. Waits until a hint of impatience steals into the grey gaze, and only then moves his hand. Slowly, seeking those spots so sensitive to touch. His fingers lightly trace a collarbone, stop at the small dip at the base of the slender throat. Linger there, once again feeling the heartbeat, quickened now but steady.
There is tension beneath his fingertips when he moves them again, and he can feel a shiver of reaction when his other hand settles on a hip, then slides down to the smooth line of a thigh. Responsive, always responsive, and the grey eyes are half-closed now, but still watching him.
He explores slowly, mapping the body before him. Some touches draw the reactions he is looking for, trembles and soft gasps, strangely loud in the black silence around them. He memorizes them, ghosts over ticklish spots. Again feels the pulse, the delight of feeling life beating beneath his fingers. The candles slowly burn down as he takes his time. One flickers for a little while, then goes out, and the circle of light grows smaller.
Movement as he strokes a cheek, a flinch when he reaches the scar, soothed with murmured words. Comforting, arousing caresses, meant to distract, to take that sharp mind off memories which have no place here.
His touches turn firmer, more demanding, and there is anticipation in the grey eyes now. The lean body shifts minutely under his hands, no longer motionless. No longer submissive, and he does not mind because that is how it should be. He lets himself be drawn closer -
"Damien."
- the normally so smooth voice says, rough and husky now. He smiles, leans down for a kiss that is answered hungrily. He loses himself in it for long moments, holds still as slender hands keep him in place. Then withdraws again, protests turning into a soft moan as he resumes his explorations. Teasing, stroking. The grey eyes close, and the mien on the handsome face is one of pleasure and of tension at the same time.
Heartbeat quicker now, breathing faster, and he lets the rhythm catch him. Doesn’t resist when a hand reaches for his own and directs him.
"Damien."
He hears the command in the way his name is spoken. For a moment he feels rebellious, but that vanishes in a flash of arousal as skilled fingers tease in turn. He shifts, hands settling on narrow hips.
"Vryce!"
Irritation now, and somehow that isn’t right. He hears his name again, and suddenly the scene around him fades and he wakes.
***
When he opened his eyes, he looked straight into a flat grey stare. At first he wasn’t really sure what he had done to deserve being woken like that, but once his mind started to catch up with the situation again, he froze.
"Is there any particular reason," Gerald asked calmly, "why you thought that the middle of the night is a good time for this? When you were the one who said that he wants to get a good night’s sleep for once?"
Smiling apologetically, Damien moved off him, ignoring his body’s protests at the loss of contact.
"I had a dream," he offered by way of explanation.
"I gathered as much," Gerald said, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled hair. He didn’t sound annoyed, Damien noticed with some relief. "Next time, try not to involve me quite so much."
Damien could almost feel the flicker of fae as the flame of the lamp on the nightstand was extinguished again. Looks like the control over fire is getting better, he thought absently as he shifted into a more comfortable position, trying to convince his body that the fun for the night was over.
"What were you dreaming about, anyway?" Gerald asked into the darkness.
He sighed. "You didn’t see?"
"Would I ask if I had?"
"Probably not.” Damien sighed again. “It wasn’t anything important."
"Vryce, I just woke up and found you trying to molest me. I want to know why."
Damien knew that tone of voice, and knew that it was pointless to be stubborn. So he murmured an explanation, then waited.
For a little while there was silence, and he almost managed to convince himself that Gerald had fallen asleep again. He almost managed to fall asleep himself. Almost.
"On the altar of the Jagonnath cathedral?" Gerald asked eventually, apparently not really sure if Damien had lost his mind now. "That’s even stranger than that dream about socks you keep having."
Damien closed his eyes. "It was just a dream. And not even the weirdest one I’ve ever had in your company." He tried not to think of the nightmares, crafted by such a master of fear.
"Probably the most heretic, though," Gerald said. Damien felt him turn over, and silence fell again.
He was almost asleep when he heard the sheets rustle once more with Gerald’s movements.
"You know," the former Prophet said conversationally. "Perhaps we should try it."
Fic: Heresy
Fandom: Coldfire
Rating: R
Pairing: Gerald/Damien
alice_montrose betaed this, named this, and generally held my hand during writing. (And she also caused that plotbunny...) Many thanks!All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of C. S. Friedman. The original characters, settings and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with C. S. Friedman and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.
Cool air surrounding them. The scent of purest beeswax candles, their flames casting a soft, warm light. Creating a space in the darkness around him that felt safe, welcoming. Finest silk underneath his hands, soft against his fingertips, the weave not possible to feel. Twin breaths in a vast room, where even whispers have echoes.
The golden interlinked circles, moved to the side, where shadow meets light. Flame-drawn flickers on the surface, reflected on silk and numarble. The altar triptych above them, the stylized images the Church permits. Crusaders fighting, radiating determination. Light from the sky, casting the fae-light into darkness. The Prophet, victorious over Evil. No face in that image, no hint at who the man might be.
White robes on the ground, carelessly discarded. Warm against the shining tiles, sheltering the chain of golden flames. A sword in its embroidered sheath, gleaming in the semi-darkness with its own life.
Gerald Tarrant before him on the altar, blond hair darkened, almost golden in the candlelight. Pale skin on white silk, both smooth and cool. Grey eyes shadowed, darkened. A smile on his face, sardonic and amused at the same time, and so very familiar.
He moves closer, watches as the grey eyes follow him. Watches them close as he slides his hand across silk and onto skin, lets it rest where he can feel the heart beat. He waits then, feels the chest rise with each breath, feels the gentle pulse of a healed heart. Waits until a hint of impatience steals into the grey gaze, and only then moves his hand. Slowly, seeking those spots so sensitive to touch. His fingers lightly trace a collarbone, stop at the small dip at the base of the slender throat. Linger there, once again feeling the heartbeat, quickened now but steady.
There is tension beneath his fingertips when he moves them again, and he can feel a shiver of reaction when his other hand settles on a hip, then slides down to the smooth line of a thigh. Responsive, always responsive, and the grey eyes are half-closed now, but still watching him.
He explores slowly, mapping the body before him. Some touches draw the reactions he is looking for, trembles and soft gasps, strangely loud in the black silence around them. He memorizes them, ghosts over ticklish spots. Again feels the pulse, the delight of feeling life beating beneath his fingers. The candles slowly burn down as he takes his time. One flickers for a little while, then goes out, and the circle of light grows smaller.
Movement as he strokes a cheek, a flinch when he reaches the scar, soothed with murmured words. Comforting, arousing caresses, meant to distract, to take that sharp mind off memories which have no place here.
His touches turn firmer, more demanding, and there is anticipation in the grey eyes now. The lean body shifts minutely under his hands, no longer motionless. No longer submissive, and he does not mind because that is how it should be. He lets himself be drawn closer -
"Damien."
- the normally so smooth voice says, rough and husky now. He smiles, leans down for a kiss that is answered hungrily. He loses himself in it for long moments, holds still as slender hands keep him in place. Then withdraws again, protests turning into a soft moan as he resumes his explorations. Teasing, stroking. The grey eyes close, and the mien on the handsome face is one of pleasure and of tension at the same time.
Heartbeat quicker now, breathing faster, and he lets the rhythm catch him. Doesn’t resist when a hand reaches for his own and directs him.
"Damien."
He hears the command in the way his name is spoken. For a moment he feels rebellious, but that vanishes in a flash of arousal as skilled fingers tease in turn. He shifts, hands settling on narrow hips.
"Vryce!"
Irritation now, and somehow that isn’t right. He hears his name again, and suddenly the scene around him fades and he wakes.
***
When he opened his eyes, he looked straight into a flat grey stare. At first he wasn’t really sure what he had done to deserve being woken like that, but once his mind started to catch up with the situation again, he froze.
"Is there any particular reason," Gerald asked calmly, "why you thought that the middle of the night is a good time for this? When you were the one who said that he wants to get a good night’s sleep for once?"
Smiling apologetically, Damien moved off him, ignoring his body’s protests at the loss of contact.
"I had a dream," he offered by way of explanation.
"I gathered as much," Gerald said, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled hair. He didn’t sound annoyed, Damien noticed with some relief. "Next time, try not to involve me quite so much."
Damien could almost feel the flicker of fae as the flame of the lamp on the nightstand was extinguished again. Looks like the control over fire is getting better, he thought absently as he shifted into a more comfortable position, trying to convince his body that the fun for the night was over.
"What were you dreaming about, anyway?" Gerald asked into the darkness.
He sighed. "You didn’t see?"
"Would I ask if I had?"
"Probably not.” Damien sighed again. “It wasn’t anything important."
"Vryce, I just woke up and found you trying to molest me. I want to know why."
Damien knew that tone of voice, and knew that it was pointless to be stubborn. So he murmured an explanation, then waited.
For a little while there was silence, and he almost managed to convince himself that Gerald had fallen asleep again. He almost managed to fall asleep himself. Almost.
"On the altar of the Jagonnath cathedral?" Gerald asked eventually, apparently not really sure if Damien had lost his mind now. "That’s even stranger than that dream about socks you keep having."
Damien closed his eyes. "It was just a dream. And not even the weirdest one I’ve ever had in your company." He tried not to think of the nightmares, crafted by such a master of fear.
"Probably the most heretic, though," Gerald said. Damien felt him turn over, and silence fell again.
He was almost asleep when he heard the sheets rustle once more with Gerald’s movements.
"You know," the former Prophet said conversationally. "Perhaps we should try it."
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-18 04:22 pm (UTC)"Next time, try not to involve me quite so much."
Yay.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-18 07:51 pm (UTC)(And besides, it's much more fun to write them like that...)
no subject
Date: 2005-11-18 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-18 07:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-19 01:06 am (UTC)...could they actually do that? >.> Meaning, get into the Jaggonath cathedral. ...because that would be cool. XD
Somewhere in Heaven, the Patriarch's soul is restrained from attempting to return and haunt them. >:)
no subject
Date: 2005-11-19 10:18 am (UTC)When I think about some of the other places they got into, I'm sure they can find a way if they put their minds to it. :D
Somewhere in Heaven, the Patriarch's soul is restrained from attempting to return and haunt them.
*grin* Serves him right!