Quake

DRUNK AGAIN

Two wolves carry Vaskar away. He will not die, but he is unconscious. Some of the pack filter down from the seating and actually congratulate Tucker on his victory. He has no clue how to react to their praise. He simply nods.

Pack members appear from the forest path, carrying tables laden with meat, kegs of wine and crates of goblets. They set the tables up in a ring around the bonfire. This all occurs in a matter of minutes, with militant efficiency. Renani appears amidst the crowd.

“You sneaky little s**t,” she chastises, “That’s the most cowardly victory I’ve ever seen.”

Tucker shrugs, “You knew I was faking the limp. You could have warned Vaskar. You’re an accessory to the deception.”

Renani rolls her eyes, “I’m beginning to understand what Damascus sees in you.”

Tucker’s ears perk up, “Damascus sees things… in me?”

He searches the crowd for his Alpha. He spots him beside the fire, in a heated debate with the blonde elite hunter Tucker recognises from the previous night’s dinner table.

Renani waves her hand dismissively, red nails cutting through the air, “Never mind that. Come, let’s drink.”

“Actually, I think I’d like to just head back to my room, wash off the blood. Sleep for fifteen hours.”

Renani looks back at him as though he just cussed her mother.

“This is your welcoming party,” she snaps, “You’re getting drunk whether you like it or not.”

She latches a hand onto his bicep and drags him over to the wine kegs. They each fill up a goblet. Some more packmates corner Tucker against the kegs, attacking him with congratulations. He tries to smile and nod and accept the praise gracefully. Renani chaperones him for a while, introducing him to the friendlier pack members, shielding him for hostile ones. Names and stories fly over his head. He is not sure how much of the information he is retaining, but he hopes some of it remains in his memory reserves by morning. He wonders what Damascus and the blonde wolf were arguing about, until he no longer needs to wonder, because the blonde wolf approaches him and makes his case very clear.

“You don’t belong here,” he catches Tucker alone at the table, next to the kebab spread, “We’ve enough strays among us as is.”

Tucker is not drunk yet, but he has enough wine in him to be braver than usual. He smiles stupidly at the elite hunter. The blonde wolf looks to be in his forties, unnaturally tall with a gaunt face and gold loop through his left ear.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Tucker. You must be a pureblood?”

The man shakes his head, “There’s no point giving you my name. You know nothing of the history behind it.”

“I’m open to learning, if you’d like to share the details of your lineage. Have you tried the kebabs? They’re delicious.”

He does not try a kebab. In fact, he knocks Tucker’s clean out of his hands and then turns and walks away. Tucker stares woefully down at his half-eaten kebab. He wonders if anyone is watching, and if they’ll judge him if he picks it up and continues to eat. He decides it is worth the judgement, he can’t bring himself to waste food. He crouches down to retrieve it. A black snakeskin cowboy boot lands on his food before he can reach it. Tucker looks slowly up, expecting the wearer to be the tall blonde wolf, returned. But instead he finds himself in the sites of those bottomless black eyes. Damascus Quake smirks down at him.

“Nice shoes,” Tucker blurts.

“Thank you,” Damascus replies, “Nice fight.”

“Calling it a fight is generous. I won off a series of cheap shots.”

Damascus shrugs, “Vaskar was dumb enough to fall for all of them. You wouldn’t have stood a chance in a fair match. You won through the only option available to you. I’d say that’s commendable.”

“Not everyone agrees.”

“Luckily, I’m the Alpha. Mine is the only opinion that matters. What are you doing down there? Stand up.”

Tucker takes one last look at the kebab under Damascus’s boot and then stands up straight. Damascus is wearing a tight black leather trousers and a mustard yellow silk shirt, unbuttoned to his mid chest. A small key hangs around his neck on a long silver chain, it sits comfortably in the groove between his pecs, on a thick mat of dark chest hair.

“May I ask you a question, Alpha?”

“Go ahead.”

“Could you move your shoe?”

Damascus blinks, “I’m not letting you eat meat off the ground, Tucker.”

“It’s just a little gravel. Give it a shake and it’s good as new.”

Damascus frowns at him for a moment, and then he lifts his boot. Tucker crouches down and picks it up. The moment he stands again, Damascus snatches the skewer from his hand and hurls it into the bonfire.

“There’s something I’d like to show you,” he says, picking up a fresh kebab and putting it into Tucker’s hand, “Care to take a walk with me?”

“Am I allowed to refuse?”

“This is your party. You can do whatever the f**k you want.”

Tucker nods slowly, “Alright. I could go for a walk.”

“Excellent,” Damascus moves past Tucker.

He picks of one of the wine kegs and hoists it onto his shoulder like it weighs nothing.

“Grab us glasses, won’t you?”

Tucker finds clean goblets stacked in a tower on the table. He holds his kabab in his mouth and takes two.

“This way.”

Tucker follows Damascus back along the forest path, away from the warmth and the noise and the light. Damascus is whistling. He carries the tune nicely. Tucker manages two hold both glasses in one hand, their stems between his knuckles. With his free hand, he continues to eat his dinner.

He has finished the meat, snapped the stick into little pieces and tossed it aside into the underbrush by the time they come to the end of the path. A pool of light seeps from the open doors of the games room, out into the yard behind the mansion. Damascus does not lead Tucker towards the light, instead he takes a right, heading for the barn. The smell of blood radiates from it, slowing Tucker’s pace the nearer he draws. He comes to a complete stop a meter from the doors. Damascus kicks them open with the steel toe of his boot and turns back to find Tucker frozen.

“Why are we going to the barn, Alpha?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Why would you think that?”

“This barn is where you gut and skin your prey.”

Damascus smiles, “You’re not that kind of prey. Come. I promise you’re going to like this.”

He goes ahead, through the doors. Tucker takes a deep breath of the death stink, then follows Damascus inside, trying to focus on the scent of his aura over the blood. Damascus does not switch on the lights, but he moves with a sureness that reveals his night vision is just as keen as Tucker’s. There are no kills hanging from the meat hooks above, but the tools and work benches are still heavy with the death stink. Damascus comes to a halt at the center of the barn. Tucker stops two steps behind him. He lowers the keg to the floor, then couches down. He reaches into the neckline of his shirt and pulls the chain with the key off over his head. He slides it into what an innocuous knot in the wood of the floor beam. He turns it until it clicks.

“This entire manor was constructed using the local resources,” he tells Tucker, lifting the lid of the incognito trapdoor, revealing a stone flight of stairs, “The masonry is all rock from the Knuckles. The timber was hewn from the surrounding forest. Even the metals were mined from beneath the mountains. My companies still operate some of those mines.”

“What about the wine?”

“I have vineyards, in the valley between the edge of the forest and the mountains.”

Tucker recalls passing grape fields on his way back to Black Reef.

“Wow. Cool. Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m trying to impress you with my self-sufficiency, and to segue into what I brought you here to see.”

He picks up the barrel again and descends the stairs with it on his shoulder. Tucker hesitates, but only for a second. He follows Damascus down.

“Shut the door behind you,” he calls over his shoulder.

Tucker has to back up a couple of steps to reach the handle on the underside of the door. He pulls it closed and hears the lock click shut automatically. Damascus flicks a switch at the bottom of the stairs. Bulbs hum to life overhead. The ceiling is high, many tall pillars span the length and breadth of the room. Between them spotlights lights cast narrow beams straight down.

“Ancestrally, my clan were renowned blacksmiths. During the war, the Quake family were the primary supplier of weapons and armor to most of wolfkind.”

An artifact is displayed beneath each spotlight. Swords and bows, helmets and breastplates, shields and spears. Damascus balances the barrel of wine on the workbench at the foot of the stairs and takes the empty goblets from Tucker. Tucker hardly even notices him. The room is colossal, it seems to stretch on forever, disappearing into an endless maze of pillars. His eyes jump from one sharp, shiny object to another. It’s like a murder museum. Damascus appears at his side again, to place a full glass of wine in his hands.

“What do you think?”

“May I take a closer look?”

“Get as close as you like.”

He takes a long sip of wine and closes in on the nearest artifact. A scimitar, half the length of Tucker’s body. It glows like a fallen sliver of moon.

“Is this…?”

“True silver. All the weapons down here are.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Don’t cut yourself.”

But Tucker immediately runs his fingertips along the edge of the blade and cuts himself.

“Hey! What’s the matter with you?”

Damascus pulls his hand away by the wrist. The wound burns hot and cold at the same time, his nerve endings don’t know what to make of it. He’s heard that true silver has that effect, but wanted to experience it for himself. A dull throb pulses up the length of his arm.

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

Damascus licks his bleeding fingers clean. The healing properties of his saliva slow the blood flow. It begins to clot almost immediately.

“How’s that feel? Better?”

Tucker nods.

“No touching anything else, you dumbass.”

Tucker moves on to a suit of armor. The breastplate reflects the room in a crisp fisheye bubble. He looks at himself, looking at the armor, at Damascus looking at him. They take a slow walk, weaving between the pillars. Damascus knows the full history of every single piece. He talks endlessly, telling Tucker of victories and defeats, battles and surrenders. At some point Tucker stops taking in the information and listens only to the tone of his voice. The passion he recounts these tales with is moving. It’s as though witnessed every single one of them firsthand. At some point they double back to refill their goblets, and then they start down another isle. The flood of history continues. Tucker wonders how Damascus remembers all of this, and wonders if he will retain any of it by morning. He takes a long sip of wine.

They are standing before a wickedly spiked mace when there’s finally a gap in the flow. Tucker seizes his moment and looks to Damascus.

“Alpha, why did you make me fight Vaskar?”

“Vaskar volunteered. It could have been anyone. He had his reasons.”

“No, I mean why did you make me fight?”

“That’s the way it is. Anyone who joins must prove themselves.”

“But why give me the option to join? You had me already. I have nowhere to go. I would have sold out Yvonne for a crust of bread. Why give me the option to run away?”

Damascus frowns. He does not reply. Tucker continues to talk.

“I could have died. Should have died. You had no guarantee I could beat Vaskar.”

“I had a hunch.”

“Were you hoping I would die?”

Damascus shrugs, “I knew it was a possibility. But I preferred that you survive.”

The exchange ends there. Tucker does not feel that his question was answered, but he does not pursue it any further.

They move on to a barbed whip. Damascus offers no information on this item. Tucker stares at the cruel teeth on the thing. Imagining it strike the soft flesh of his back sends a shiver down his spine. He takes the final sip of his fourth glass of wine and paces over to the next artifact. It’s larger than most of the others. It looks like a kind of operating table, a flat rectangular bed made of black marble, with four silver manacles gleaming invitingly on each of the corners.

“What’s this one?”

“Rack. Used for interrogations, torture.”

Tucker glides a palm across its smooth surface, chilling to the touch. Damascus allows this, knowing Tucker cannot injure himself on it.

“It’s only ever been used for torture? Nothing else?”

Damascus paces slowly around to the other side of the table.

“Can you think of another use for it?”

Tucker looks up into his eyes.

“Have you had your fill of f*****g me, Alpha?”

Damascus rests his knuckles on the table and leans forward, “Would we be here if I had?”

Tucker fiddles with the true silver shackles bolted to the marble. He knows what he wants but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“Would you like to… Maybe… On this table…”

Damascus does not wait for him to find his words, “Take your clothes off and get onto the rack.”

Tucker obeys. He starts with his sneakers and works his way up, leaves it in a pile on the floor. Damascus watches, leaning on the table.

“Lie flat on your stomach.”

Tucker climbs onto the table as told. His heart beats in his ears. Damascus closes the cuff around his left wrist and then his right. He runs his nails down Tucker’s back as he moves to secure his ankles. When he’s fully strapped in Damascus paces slowly around to the front again. Tucker meets his gaze. Damascus unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way down and lets it drop to the floor. His rounded shoulder muscles ripple with the movement. Tucker’s eyes glide over his dark olive skin. Between the patch of chest hair and the trail leading down from his bellybutton, his skin is smooth and totally unscarred. Either he has never seen battle, or his healing capabilities are extreme.

“You’re sure you want this?” he asks.

“Yes,” Tucker whispers.

“Tell me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Damascus undoes his belt, and then the leather trousers. He steps forward, so his crotch is right against Tucker’s face.

“Make me hard,” he orders.

He pulls his c**k out, revealing that he’s already at half-mast. Tucker opens his mouth and reaches out with his tongue. He’s able to lick it, but only just. Damascus closes the gap for him, taking another step closer and gripping Tucker’s hair by the roots. Tucker does his best with his limited mobility, sucking, moving his head back and forth, pressing into the shaft with his tongue. After a while, Damascus groans. He shifts his grip, holding Tucker’s head with both hands. He thrusts, f*****g Tucker’s throat. Tucker closes his eyes and fights his gag reflex. When he’s right near his limit Damascus stops and pulls out. Gasping at the air Tucker opens tearful eyes, but Damascus has already moved out of his line of sight. He listens to his footsteps around the back of the table.

“You’re wet already. You liked that?

“Yeah.”

“And the table? Restraint really does it for you?”

“Mh-hm.”

“Which hole do you want it in?”

“Any. Please just f**k me, I can’t wait anymore.”

Damascus laughs, “So impatient. Maybe I’ll just walk off and leave you here, go rejoin the party, come back in an hour or two.”

Tucker groans, shifting against the shackles. Damascus runs claws up the inside of his thigh. He shivers. Damascus slides his hand around the front, finding Tucker’s c**t. He strokes in rough circular motions. Tucker moans, arching his hips off the table as far as he is able. Warmth builds up in Tucker’s groin, spreads to the pit of his stomach, the candle that burns within him has grown, soon it will be the size of the bonfire at the arena.

“You smell so f*****g good,” Damascus murmurs.

His teeth sink into Tucker’s left ass cheek. Tucker cries out in shock and pleasure. His body convulses, the warmth in his belly explodes in a fantastic array of red and orange fireworks. He’s barely come down from the high of orgasm when he feels Damascus’s tongue between his ass cheeks. Damascus circles and probes while his fingers slip between the folds of Tucker’s p***y. Tucker doesn’t know which sensation to focus on. The warmth is building in him again, climbing steadily towards a second climax at an even taller summit. Eventually, Damascus pulls away. Tucker is lying face down, drooling a little. His nerves are on fire, he has almost forgotten his body entirely, forgotten himself. Tucker smells Damascus drawing near, then feels arms on either side of him and he rests on the table over him. Tucker feels Damascus’s c**k, slipping into his v****a. He gasps. Even with his wetness and the foreplay, Damascus’s girth is a shock to his body. Damascus is aware of this. So he starts slow, and he stays slow, torturously so.

“Please, Alpha,” Tucker groans, “faster, harder.”

“Take it easy,” Damascus whispers, “There’s no rush.”

He laboriously builds his pace. Tucker orgasms again. Eventually Damascus is drilling into him, and Tucker feels himself headed for a fourth climax. The slapping sound of their rhythm and their grunts of exertion echo around the chamber. They are both fully immersed in the present moment. Neither thinks about things that were or could be. Neither wonders at the mental condition of the other. Each inherently knows how the other feels. Their bodies and spirits are perfectly synchronized. Tucker reaches the peak and clenches.

Damascus moans, “f**k!” and lets go.

They c*m together. Damascus drops forward, laying his full weight on Tucker. Tucker is winded in the most fantastic way, with Damascus’s warm sweaty body pressed up against his own.

“How many? How many times did you c*m?” Damascus asks, shifting his weight off of Tucker and onto his elbows.

“Four,” he replies breathlessly, “That was incredible.”

“The most fun anyone’s ever had on this table, I reckon.”

Tucker wheezes a laugh.

“We can keep going, if you like, Alpha? You only came once, it’s unfair.”

“I just want to lie here a while.”

Damascus gets comfortable, lying half beside Tucker and half draped on top. Tucker feels he could fall asleep right then and there, despite having slept for fifteen hours the previous day. He feels Damascus’s hand in his hair, twirling a strand through his fingers.

“If Vaskar had gotten the upper hand," Damascus says, "I would have called him off.”

“…What?”

“I want you to live, Tucker.”

“I see…”

There’s more he wants to say, but he struggles with it. Tucker waits patiently for him to find his words. He does not turn his head to look at him, even though he wants to.

“I think I gave you a chance to leave because… I want you to want to be here. I know it’s foolish…” there’s an awkward pause, followed by a sardonic laugh, “I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this.”

“I’m willingly cuffed to a table in your basement,” Tucker replies, “I want to be here. I haven’t wanted to be anywhere in a long while. Thanks for wanting me, I guess.”

Damascus does not reply for a time. Then Tucker feels his hand, stroking his hair again. And then he feels the skin of Damascus’s chest brush across his back as he leans over him. Damascus’s lips appear against his own.

The kiss is long and gentle.