Page 57 of The Fall of the Orc

“Fuck,” Gerrard gasped, his back arching as Olarr drew his mouth away from his neck, so he could kiss down Gerrard’s belly, and latch onto his now-bared cock instead. “Fuck, that’s good, captain. So good. Just like that.”

Olarr’s groan vibrated all through Gerrard’s body, so loud that he almost didn’t hear Bassey’s low gasp — but a sideways glance showed Bassey still watching this, his dazed eyes darting between Olarr and Gerrard, and then back to his own still-sucking orc. But he wasn’t making the slightest effort to protest, either, and he’d even sunk his hands into Thorvald’s hair, much the way Gerrard was now doing with Olarr. So Gerrard dismissed it, forgot it, because Olarr was finally here, and this was his, this waseverything.

“So good, captain,” Gerrard gasped again, guiding Olarr faster, his fingers gently tugging at his hair, his leg hooking around his back. “You’re gonna suck up every drop of me, aren’t you? Gonna milk out everything I’ve been making for you? Saving for you?”

Olarr’s growl was pure hunger, pure palpable pleasure, and Gerrard drank up the dizzying sensation of it, the clustering coiling ecstasy, the worshipful shimmer in Olarr’s watching eyes. “Yeah, just like that, captain,” he breathed. “You keep kneeling for me, behaving for me. Drinking your sweet human milk like a good Bautul should, fuck, fuck —”

His voice had been rising, his body almost fully off the carpet — and he shouted as he poured out, sprayed deep into Olarr’s hot, sucking, all-encompassing mouth. And oh, there was nothing in the world like emptying into Olarr, like having his seed swallowed, wanted, worshipped by his own devoted, adoring orc.

Gerrard was still gasping once he’d finished, still spasming out into Olarr’s hot lingering mouth. And this was where Olarr would usually pull off, and offer a taste of Gerrard’s seed to whatever orc was with him — a bit of a reward, Gerrard knew, for making the journey, and staying the course beside him. But Thorvald was most certainly gaining a taste of his own right now, loudly groaning as Bassey’s head tilted back, his chest heaving, his brown hands fluttering in Thorvald’s hair.

But it was just as well, because it meant Gerrard got to enjoy this to its fullest, got to revel in his brilliant mate lingering on him, sucking him dry. A sensation that would once have been too strong to bear, but over the past few months, Gerrard had begun to suspect that this was part of Olarr’s seed-induced strength, too. Making it easier to control his body’s responses, somehow, to draw things out or speed things up, or even to go for another round, far sooner than he’d ever been able to before. Just one more miracle to add to all the rest, alongside the unnatural strength and speed, the much-improved night vision, the ability to go longer and longer without sleep — and even the surprising ability to sense when Olarr was nearby, or to sniff him out in a dark forest, or across a crowded room.

They were all incredible, unspeakable gifts, gifts that had vastly improved Gerrard’s ability to excel at his chosen work, and to push for his goals. But — he softly smiled at Olarr as he stroked his hands through his hair — he’d perhaps given Olarr a few gifts of his own, too. Because not only was Olarr noticeably faster on his feet in their sparring-matches these days, but he also seemed increasingly sensitive to touch, texture, and taste. He’d even developed a marked preference for cooked food, and he unabashedly adored the sweet treats Gerrard brought him from the city’s bakeries and markets. And maybe it was all just coincidence, all Gerrard’s imagination, but he liked to think of him and Olarr influencing each other, strengthening each other, expanding their abilities and worldviews and experiences, deepening their pleasure together.

And oh, hell, the pleasure was deepening now, because Olarr was shifting further downwards. Slipping Gerrard’s bollocks into his mouth one at a time, rolling them on his tongue, before yanking off Gerrard’s trousers the rest of the way, and kissing lower. And lower, and lower, until that stunning, slippery tongue was easing itself deep into Gerrard, opening him wider and wider, while he shuddered and shouted and keened upon it.

But wait, Bassey and Thorvald were still here, still witnessing this — and Gerrard’s brief, searching look sideways showed them both blatantly watching, now. Watching a fully bared Preian general writhing and moaning on an orc’s invading tongue, in a highly revealing, highly compromising scenario. And it distantly occurred to Gerrard that maybe he should care, maybe he should hide this. Because his past self would most certainly be shoving Olarr away right now, and then launching into a round of furious self-loathing, inwardly bleating on about pride and power and shame…

But maybe this was part of Olarr’s gift too, or maybe it was a gift from the Bautul, or the goddess. Or maybe — maybe even just from Gerrard himself, with all he’d learned these past months, all the choices he’d made. Because he wanted this. Hewasthis. He was a warrior, a killer, a spy, a revolutionary — and also a hungry, lusty, reckless man who wanted to use and enjoy his body, wield it to honour himself, his goddess, his mate. And right now he had his mate’s glorious mouth fastened to him, his mate’s tongue twisting inside him, and oh, nothing was this good, nothing had ever been this good.

“If you haven’t tried it yet,” he heard himself gasp to Bassey, pulling his thighs up higher so Olarr could go deeper, “it’s fucking spectacular. And he’d absolutely go for it, no question.”

Bassey’s wide eyes shot a shocked glance down at Thorvald, who was currently giving Gerrard a deeply grateful look, and then plucking hopefully at Bassey’s trousers. While Olarr still hadn’t taken the slightest notice of any of it, because he was busy yanking at his own trousers, and shifting his way up again. Settling his swollen, dripping head against Gerrard’s wet, willing, wide-open heat, and slowly, surely, piercing him deep.

Gerrard writhed and hollered, arching up to meet it, scraping his fingernails hard against Olarr’s back. And if Bassey was staring slack-jawed again, while Thorvald eagerly spread his now-bared thighs wide, Gerrard truly didn’t care. Because there was only this, only the rioting reeling pleasure of his mate finally here, finally inside him, ploughing him wide open, breaking him apart upon his altar.

“Goddess, yes, captain,” Gerrard gasped, clutching Olarr tight and close, clamping around him as hard as he could. “Fuck me. Make me feel that good Bautul prick, ploughing all the way up my arse.”

Olarr was growling now too, plunging harder and faster, as his hands swiped for Gerrard’s arms, and firmly pinned his wrists to the carpet above his head. “Ach, I shall, my pretty human,” he hissed back, his sharp teeth snapping close against Gerrard’s ear. “And you shall beg and squeal beneath your strong Bautul captain, ach? You shall be a good, snug, sweet little hole for me. You shall let me rut you, bind you, mark you all over, open you so wide you shall never closeagain.”

Gerrard was rapidly nodding, fighting for it, begging for it, as Olarr kept pounding into him, conquering him, his sharp teeth bared, his eyes blazing with raw, ravenous greed. “And” — Olarr’s voice dropped deeper, into a vicious, thrilling rasp — “you shall welcome my triumph, my beautiful warrior mate. You shall whimper and weep and wail for me, as my strong Bautul prick fucks you, and feeds you, fills you, floods you only withme—”

And yes, yes, it was this, it was shrill screaming wonder, flying all through Gerrard’s body, lighting him up from the inside out. And surging him full of Olarr’s worship, his offering, his fierce unflinching care. While Gerrard kept thrashing and shouting and pleading for it, until his own seed again spurted out, streaking across his chest, his breaths breaking into something almost like sobs.

But Olarr was still here, Olarr was still with him, rocking gently into him, kissing softly at his lips again and again. And then carefully slipping out of him, easing downwards again, so he could kiss Gerrard’s seed-spattered chest, could taste him, could lavish and lick him all over, not wasting a single drop. Until Gerrard’s breaths were slow and steady again, his sweaty body sprawled lax and languid on the carpet. And his belated hazy glance over at Bassey showed him looking just as stunned as he felt — until without a word, Bassey yanked up his trousers, prodded Thorvald to his feet, and strode toward the adjoining room, his head held very high.

Thorvald’s expression as he followed looked both rapt and gleeful, as if a priceless, long-awaited gift had just been dropped in his lap, and Gerrard let out a breathless laugh as the sliding door slammed shut behind them. But Olarr still hadn’t even spared them a look, and instead he was sliding to his side on the carpet, and gathering Gerrard’s boneless body into his arms.

“Ach, this was so good, Aulis,” Olarr murmured now, stroking at Gerrard’s back, his arse, his hair. “All I could have dreamt of, all these weeks apart.”

Gerrard huffed a contented sigh and curled closer, breathing in a slow, deep breath of Olarr’s rich-scented skin. “Goddess, yes,” he whispered back. “Missed you so damned much, captain. And now” — he shot a shy, teasing smile up at Olarr’s face — “talk to me, yeah? Tell me everything.”

Olarr chuckled and nodded, and kept stroking his big hand up and down Gerrard’s back as he began speaking. Indeed telling Gerrard everything that had gone on since they’d last seen each other, including Grimarr’s ongoing plots against his vile father, as well as his latest target — none other than Lady Norr, apparently. And then on to the orcs’ perspective on the newest battles and raids and victories and deaths, what the repercussions had been among them, what they expected to come next.

It was a decidedly heavy discussion, so at Gerrard’s prodding, Olarr then told him all the latest Bautul gossip, too. How two opposing captain candidates in the south had settled their differences by mating the same woman. How Silfast had decided that the goddess wanted to grant him a mate, but only after he’d worshipped at an unspecified number of Bautul altars, all over the realm. And how, most surprising of all, Kalfr had recently discovered he had a one-year-oldson, after a short fling with a woman had apparently gone very wrong, many moons before. To the point where even now, this woman refused to see Kalfr, or to allow him — or any other orc — anywhere near her orcling.

“I can’t imagine Kalfr mistreating a woman,” Gerrard said at that one, frowning up at Olarr’s face. “Enough that she’d hide a son from him for that long, and keep Kalfr from even seeing him? From doing his part, and being a decent father? Making his son part of his clan?”

Olarr grimaced, looking genuinely pained, because Gerrard well knew how glad he would have been to welcome any son of Kalfr’s to the clan. “No, this was not Kalfr’s doing alone, I ken,” he said heavily. “But Gaelfr was mixed up in this also, ach? They will not say what went amiss, but they have fought bitterly over this, and now Gaelfr has gone south, and says he will never again return.”

Gerrard had now met this Gaelfr multiple times — he was the cool-eyed orc who’d tasted him with Kalfr at the altar — and he also knew that Gaelfr was Kalfr’s bond-brother. It was a kind of pact young Bautul often made with one another, often when their families were already tied in some way, and it generally extended to caring for each other’s future sons and mates, also. And while Gaelfr had never seemed like a particularly friendly fellow, to have broken his bond, and deprived his bond-brother and clan of a son, seemed like a damning development indeed.

“I’m so sorry, Olarr,” Gerrard said, quiet, stroking his hand up and down Olarr’s side. “I know how much a new Bautul son would have meant to you. Maybe they’ll still work it out, yeah? Or maybe Silfast will have some luck with the altars?”

Olarr huffed a short laugh and shook his head, but his eyes on Gerrard were still sad, glimmering with genuine grief. Calling up the many conversations they’d had about this, about how the future of the Bautul was one of Olarr’s greatest growing concerns as captain. How every son lost, every life lost, was a blow that might never again be overcome.

It was enough that Gerrard had tentatively asked Olarr, months ago, whether he wouldn’t prefer to find a woman after all — but thank the goddess, Olarr had been aghast and offended, and Gerrard had needed to spend the entire night working him over, reassuring him that he hadn’t wanted that, either. That he only feared for their clan, and wanted Olarr to be content with his own contributions, and his own choices.

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