booshslashhaven | fic: The Power of the Amulet

Title: The Power of the Amulet – Part 2 (of 3)
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Author: Unbelievable2
Rating: NC-17

Word count: 4,542

Summary: The aftermath of Howard’s encounter with Vince in “I Love the Chosen One”.

Special note: So sorry for messing up the earlier post. If you refused to read it then on account of that error, do please give it another go.....

Notes: This first fic has been waiting around for months until the wonderful obeythebunny and coeur_de_noir persuaded me to post.

It takes forward the storyline started by Phoon in that fantastic fic, “I love the Chosen one”, the first fanfic I ever read. I have asked for, and kindly received, Phoon’s permission to use her idea in this way. This story does, of course, mean an alternative ending to “Fountain of Youth”.

Thanks again to the wonderful obeythebunny for her kind beta-ing skills. XX
And sincere apologies for messing up the posting earlier .

Warnings: A bit more violence, smut, and an inexorable descent into fluff – plus changing the ending of FOY.

Disclaimer: Sadly I own neither the creators nor their characters, and I will not, nor would I ever wish to, profit from either.

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Part 1 here: http://community.livejournal.com/booshslashhaven/775464.html#cutid1

Part 2.

Just that touch.

The moment his hands hit the hard frame of Vince’s neck they flinch. It’s partly Vince’s strange, triumphant shout that comes with the blow – Howard feels it, physically, in the depths of his gut - and partly the scorching, blazing heat of the white skin and the realisation of – Christ! What the fuck! What the fuck am I doing? The hesitation is enough to shift the precarious balance between the two men in Vince’s favour, and he’s quick to take advantage of it. There’s no respite in his attack. Suddenly Howard finds himself flipped onto his back, with Vince’s fists slicing into his ribcage like knives. He brings his hand up and strikes Vince a solid blow on the chin, driving his head back and dazing him sufficiently for Howard to get the advantage again. But there’s a different charge to the atmosphere now. They roll, pummeling. It’s no longer about vengeance. It’s not even about an amulet, if it ever has been. It’s just about not being the one to give in.

Howard finds himself on top of Vince again, the cushions giving no purchase whatsoever. He is prone on Vince’s body, their torsos matching, holding him down by weight alone. Now he has him. His legs are pressing into Vince’s, his hands have caught Vince’s arms at the elbows. The sensation of power, of being so in control of this man, of being able to feel this man’s whole body subjugated beneath his own, brings him to a dead stop. He holds Vince in the vice of his limbs, motionless, breathing heavily. Vince is still trying to arch up, trying to fight back, but Howard has him crucified on the cushions. With some degree of triumph, and not a little relief, Howard keeps him there, wriggling and spitting, but then suddenly he’s realised quite a number of things, all at once. Enough for a nice orderly list, in fact, though order of priority is out of the grasp of his still boiling brain at this moment.

The loin cloth is gone.

He hurts, a lot.

Hitting Vince is wrong.

He’s lying on top of him, their bodies exactly in line.

He doesn’t hate Vince. Not ever. Never.

He’s hard.

In fact, they’re both hard.

It’s enough to make him laugh, an involuntary snort of amusement at the ridiculousness of the situation.

What the fuck are we doing? he thinks. What the fuck am I doing…?

And while his body stays strong and dominant, mantling the other man, his mind and his heart relax. He looks down at the spitting, swearing, sweating face below him. Vince isn’t looking that pretty at the moment, he thinks, with more amusement.

What the fuck am I fighting him for? That’s not what I want to do…

He bends over, still pinning down Vince’s arms, and presses his mouth in a hard kiss on Vince’s brow. Like a benediction. He breathes into the skin, drawing up into himself the scent and taste of the other man. Some of that is now blood, their shared blood.

Everything in this tent is mine. Everything…

His lips brushing against Vince’s temple, he speaks. So softly, he can hardly hear himself.

“I’m sorry. Christ, I’m sorry…”

Vince twitches and holds still, Howard pulls back. The face beneath his has stopped snarling, the ugliness and hate dropping away like a mask, but what’s left looks lost and confused, not sure about this new turn of events.

Howard bends over and blesses Vince’s brow again. Then gently and tenderly, not even a conscious act, he begins to kiss his face. Hairline, eyebrows, the slide of his strange nose, the bruise on his cheek (oh God, what has he done?), an ear, his jaw-line, down to his throat (oh, his throat; beautiful, unbruised, unbroken)…. And between the kisses the soft, insufficient words are repeated:

“I’m sorry, so sorry…”

Now Vince is making a sound; nothing comprehensible, just a primitive word that could be a moan or a whine or even Howard’s name. Howard looks up again, with a hesitant smile. Vince’s eyes are wide with wonder. They flit to all angles of Howard’s face, but keep darting back to hold Howard’s gaze. They’re deep, darkened. Something glows in their heart. And his mouth starts to turn up at the corners.

“Howard…” - a breathy noise.

The returned half-smile is all the absolution Howard needs.

He bends right down, feeling Vince’s lashes on his face as he kisses his eyelids gently, first one, then the other, and then he begins his tour of the rest of Vince’s face again, touching lightly. It’s an unusual role for him. He knows he’s teasing.

“Howard…Howard…!”

Vince starts to struggle again, the breathless voice below him becoming agitated. But now it’s not resistance. Howard realises that Vince is trying, desperately, to find Howard’s mouth with his own, trying to trap and take to himself the kiss that Howard is doling out in fragments to the rest of the face.

Howard isn’t really that cruel. Howard lets him.

The kiss has all the intensity of those earlier in the day, all the lust, all the power, but is somehow sweeter. Again their blood mingles, but it’s passing, soon washed away. For all the violence, the damage is surprisingly slight. Their lips are meshed. They breathe with each other, neither wanting to break apart. Vince’s tongue is in control, and Howard lets him, relaxing into the scent and the taste and revelling in Vince’s moans that seem to come from deep inside his narrow frame. Howard moans too, feeling his whole body gathering for something that’s really going to happen this time. Oh yes, sir, no doubt about that…

He shifts his hands and eases his weight off the other man, one arm now arched protectively over Vince’s head, the other on Vince’s chest, the hand gently caressing the bruises the amulet has left there. The relaxation is his undoing. Vince’s arms are now free. In an instant Howard is flipped over onto his back, with Vince straddling him, and he’s staring back up at that strangely beautiful face framed by wild hair. A face wreathed in smiles.

“Got you now, Howard Moon! Now you’re never going to get away!”

Howard grins back, despite his predicament, which is, after all, a pretty good predicament to be in. He raises his hand, cupping Vince’s jaw and bringing him down into another kiss which threatens to deprive him of all breath and life, and he goes willingly to the slaughter…

And suddenly Vince is pulling away. Howard looks up with disappointment only to get a face full of hair. Vince is repaying the torture, trying to kiss every inch of Howard’s face, drawing shapes with his tongue, whispering foreign, unknown words into Howard’s ear even as he bites down. Howard moans and presses his head back into the cushions and as his neck arches so Vince attacks his throat, mouthing and licking the sensitive skin beneath his ear and then down across the pulse in his neck, the breathy panting increasing Howard’s state of arousal. He feels he’s going to burst.

“Oh ,Vince… Oh, Christ…!”

Vince is clearly enjoying this sadism. And below it all, their hips are locked together, Vince’s leg between Howard’s, their erections pressing against each other’s thighs, hot and hard.

And now Vince is moving down over Howard’s body, his tongue leaving Howard’s neck to trace strange patterns over his collarbones and chest, his hand on Howard’s ribcage. His lips caress the welts and bruises he finds, his tongue lapping at Howard’s nipples, and Howard cries out with the sensation, not clear how his body is able to hold out against this onslaught. But beneath the beautiful surface torment his inner self is warm and calm. He watches the dark head progress down his belly, and moves his hands in the hair, the beautiful hair, that he has always longed to touch. Vince’s face is over his groin. And as Howard gazes down at him he feels a fierce possessiveness, something he has never acknowledged before, his heart swelling with the thought.

Vince touches him. That touch. Howard’s hips jerk instinctively and he moans. Vince looks up and smiles - a warm, tender smile. Not that unusual, but special this time. Vince is stroking now, slowly, finger and thumb encircling, his breath itself tantalizing Howard’s skin. Howard sees how Vince’s other hand has slipped down to his own thighs, and he groans to see it move. Vince turns away and now Howard feels his tongue slide slowly up, root to tip. And again. And Vince nuzzles and kisses Howard’s slick skin, his hand squeezing, moving gently, at the base. He looks up at Howard again, the smile now eclipsed by something like awe, his eyes wide. Howard can hear his breaths and they are ragged with this barely-contained lust.

“Oh, Howard…” the voice is deep, roughened. “ I love how I’ve made you so hard.”

Howard gasps as the words and the voice deliver yet another rush of sensation.

Howard knows Vince is touching himself, stroking; he can feel the movement by his thigh. He desperately wants his hand there too. Fuck it, he wants his mouth there….he wants to possess every inch of this other body. But breathing is difficult now, the tent is spinning, and all he can do is lie spread-eagled under Vince’s ministrations, paralysed. He’s sure the merest touch now will make him come. Vince is making a whimpering noise, his eyes rolling back.

“Oh fuck, Howard, if you’re this hard, how hard do you think you’ve made me…?”

At this, Howard can’t stop the huge groan that surges out of him, racking his whole body. His hips thrust upwards into Vince’s hand, which tightens again, and then suddenly Vince has opened his mouth and he’s taken Howard in. Howard feels lips and tongue slide wetly, hotly down to meet Vince’s fist. His hips jerk again, and then again as he feels himself hit the back of Vince’s throat, and those lips close tighter round him, the suction starting, the caress of the tongue. Warmth, pressure, suck and swallow, wet, tongue sliding, teeth grazing, moving…Howard bites his lip, trying to quell the moans that hang in his throat, and grapples with one hand on Vince’s hair, the other on the cushions beneath them. But he can’t control the cries that come out of him, torn out from his heart and gut. The feeling of that mouth around him… at once so unexpected and yet just as his dreaming mind has often told him, though he’s refused to understand, to remember, until now.

Howard throws his head back, lost in the sensation.

Vince draws back gently. Checked, Howard looks down in despair to see Vince gazing at him, serene, calm, but with his eyes darkened and his lips swollen with desire.

“Look at me, Howard. Come back to me.”

He’s never before heard this deep voice - quiet, tender, yet commanding - from Vince, and he obeys, transfixed.

Vince sweeps his hair back so that Howard can see, then slowly and deliberately he licks the shaft and head and then again takes Howard in, this time all the way. The electric charge that flows through Howard as Vince sucks and then swallows around him is something he has never experienced. Vince, one hand on Howard’s cock, the other on his own, looks up again, his eyes dreamy and unfocussed. But they say to Howard, you want me, don’t you? You need me. You belong in my body...

Oh yes, thinks Howard, let me show you how much you belong to me…

Vince pulls away in surprise as Howard, lifting from the waist, grabs his shoulders and draws his face back up level with his own.

“Howard, whadda ya doin’? Why not?” There’s hurt wrapped up in the confusion.

Howard locks Vince’s gaze, trying to communicate what he wants to say but has no words for. Instead he kisses him again, drawing him close in a fierce embrace, stuttering something hopeless into his ear; something like Want, and Please, and Need to. How to say it without risking a slap in the face, metaphorical or even physical?

Vince pulls back with a questioning look in his face, his eyes wide and searching, and then he relaxes with a kind of joy. Now it’s his turn to pull Howard close, pressing his mouth against Howard’s jaw so that the other feels the words as much as hears them, breathy and rough.

“Oh Howard, fuck, yes… oh, Howard, fuck, please!”

And now Howard is above him again, kneeling between Vince’s opened legs, his fingers closing around the other man’s erection, triumphant as Vince gasps with pleasure, his eyelids fluttering, his face distracted. He kisses Vince deeply, stroking and pulling on his cock, hearing - no, feeling - Vince moan deep in his throat, vibrations against his lips. Then Vince gently disentangles Howard’s fingers and leads them in between his thighs. Howard wonders briefly what to do, but the gentle pressure of Vince’s hand makes everything clear and he gives himself over to instinct. He curls his arm under Vince, caressing the tight skin. One finger pushes inwards.

Howard hesitates at Vince’s sharp gasp, but his hand is grabbed hard.

“More!”

And Vince clutches reflexively at the cushions, his knuckles whitening, as two, three fingers push in. He cries out again, and this time Howard pulls back, disturbed, looking searchingly into his friend’s eyes.

“Vince, are you sure? That you want this?”

He puts a reassuring hand up to Howard’s chest. Howard’s arms come automatically around Vince’s back, supporting, protective, and pull him close. Howard looks down with such an expression of concern that Vince has to blink hard and look away from Howard’s eyes for a moment. A soft hand cupping his jaw brings him back. Vince looks up with a dazzling if shaky smile, his voice a rough whisper.

“Howard, you idiot! I’ve been waiting so long for you to do this!”

Howard tries his best to look shocked. Vince grins again, stronger now.

“Ever since I saw you in those chains!”

Vince doesn’t see his joke until it’s out of his mouth. And weak as it is, they both splutter with laughter, pulling together in a hard embrace that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with belonging. Then it starts again as abruptly as it stopped; they are staring deep into each other’s eyes, intense, their breathing erratic. Howard reaches out to Vince’s face and suddenly Vince is on him, his hands pulling on Howard’s unruly hair, his limbs crushing their bodies together. Their kissing is deep and desperate, while they grasp and tear at whatever part of the other they can reach.

With something like a growl, Howard throws him backwards onto the cushions and Vince lies there, smirking for a moment before Howard pushes his thighs apart again and, barely thinking of his actions, grabs Vince’s hips, pulling him closer. Vince gropes wildly for something on the floor next to them – it’s one of the oil flasks, clearly already a victim of the fight, as much of its contents have spilled down the neck. It smells nutty and slightly sweet. He tips the rest of the contents messily into his hand and smears it down Howard’s torso, nipple to groin, sliding his hand up over Howard’s cock. Howard’s response is to bite down hard on Vince’s shoulder. He takes hold of Vince’s cock again with one hand, stroking and pulling and sharing the oil. Then, without Vince having to prompt him, he slips his other between Vince’s legs, and finds entry again. He pushes in hard, and then begins to slide his fingers in some kind of a rhythm whilst Vince cries out again, and now in pleasure, moaning deep in his throat.

And as that rhythm builds up Howard drops his head and brings his lips to where his hand is working at Vince’s cock. He licks upwards and mouths the tip, flicking his tongue across, and then takes in as much as he can while his other hand pushes in hard, stretching and feeling. The pressure on both sides, the feel of Howard’s mouth – the sound all this wrenches from Vince almost makes Howard come there and then. And something flips in Vince and he’s lost all control. He grasps at Howard’s hair, his shoulders, his forearms. His legs kick involuntarily as he writhes on Howard’s hand.

“Oh, Howard, Oh fuck, oh holy fuck, oh Howard please? Howard - want you in me… please? Please…?”

Howard feels a power and a knowledge he never imagined he could claim. This new ability to make another writhe and moan and lose all normal control is arousing to a degree he has never encountered before. Part of him wants to push the other man further, further, watching the extremes of pleasure and frustration fight it out in his body, but more than anything he wants to come - to come inside Vince, to stake his claim.

Howard pulls back. His throat is tight, he can barely swallow. He withdraws his fingers gently and watches the other relax a little, opening his eyes, huge dark blue pools full of anticipation, and something like apprehension. What Howard can’t see is the expression on his own face, something quite fierce, unfamiliar, dominant. Nor can he see it soften as he takes in the image of Vince lying below him, wild and in disarray, and for this wonderful moment, all his. He bends over and gathers Vince up to him, then twists his body so that Vince drops limply face down in the cushions, moaning softly, his eyes now closed. Howard pulls Vince’s slim hips up against his cock, and slides in.

From the first touch, he’s overwhelmed. The feeling of Vince tightly around him as he pushes inwards as far as he can go, his hips hard against Vince’s flesh, the sensation of pulling back and then thrusting in again …. he has no thought for finesse. He thrusts in harder and harder, increasing the pace, desperate for more. He’s rough and he knows it. He can’t stop himself. He hears Vince cry out, a high-pitched sound – a sound he keeps making as Howard thrusts deeper into him, more rhythmically, powerfully. But Howard can’t afford to listen. He can’t stop now, all would be lost.

He realizes Vince is pushing back into his thrusts, increasing the pressure, his cries now more like moans. He bends in from the waist to rest fully on Vince’s back, burying his head in the other’s neck, mouthing the soft skin, at the same time snaking his free hand round to grasp Vince’s erection. Vince’s hand is already there, stroking himself with that same rhythm. Their fingers intertwine, and move together.

But now there are words to Vince’s moans. Not just Howard’s name, not just the beautiful, imploring, heady obscenities that are torn unbidden from his mouth by Howard’s hand, Howard’s mouth, Howard’s cock. They’re something else, they’re spoken in little breathy gasps - sobs - laughs. The same things over and over again. They’re unexpected and unreal and they terrify Howard more than if Vince had been crying out that Howard’s killing him. Howard can’t afford to listen, because if he does, the world will change completely, and he won’t know what to do.

And that mustn’t happen because he can’t stop now; he will not fail. He will not lose this chance, this chance of all chances, because it’s all he wants.

He pushes Vince down hard into the cushions, trying to smother the words, trying to drown in Vince’s damp hair. And now all he can hear is what his own voice is saying, harshly, involuntarily:

“Vince. Oh fuck, Vince. Want you, Vince. Christ, want you so much…. you beautiful fucking…...” Each thrust forces out the words, thick with desire.

And suddenly he’s looking straight into Vince’s face, and Vince is looking back at him, distracted words silently coming out of his mouth. And Howard can see himself, his face in the crook of Vince’s neck, his eyes looking out, their joined hands, his arm possessively around Vince’s waist. It’s a pornographic astral experience; he’s watching himself fuck Vince, and Vince can watch too.

It takes him a second to re-orient himself, but it seems a very long second. He sees gilt edging and realizes that it’s Vince’s posing mirror, lying side-on at the edge of the tent, revealed as they’ve been rolling in the cushions. Vince speaks again to Howard, through the reflection, but his eyes are unfocussed and his jaw slack – no words make any sense to Howard – how could they?

Those words. The cushions move again and the mirror disappears. Howard puts his head down and now pushes with a kind of desperation. His own breath comes out in hard grunts as he slams into Vince’s soft arse again, again, again, each thrust taking him further and further until it’s no longer bearable. He’s got his own words to speak, but they’re just muffled cries that only he knows what they mean and he bites into the shoulder below him to stifle them. He feels Vince shudder and grind into him, tossing his head back against Howard’s face with a keening sound. Howard thrusts his hand roughly over Vince, and suddenly Vince is bucking and crying out Howard’s name and Howard’s hand is wet and warm and sticky. The spasm pushes him backwards harder against Howard, constricting around him. Two, three more thrusts and Howard comes, and comes, and he tries to shout Vince’s name, and it’s a sob smothered against Vince’s neck. He feels himself flow into another body and it’s like his entire being is melting and melding with that body. He can’t imagine ever being separated from it again – surely it’s not physically possible? Howard no longer exists, he’s just a hot, wet moan rising from Vince’s gut.

Slowly his breathing eases; the trembling takes longer to subside. He revels in the heat of their bodies fused together, and he rests his mouth open on Vince’s neck, feeling his own saliva damp on the skin. And slowly his heart beats to more normal time. He feels himself slip out and sighs, with a mixture of satisfaction and yet disappointment that it’s over. He’s still.

But Vince isn’t. Howard is suddenly conscious that Vince’s back is heaving, shuddering in a little descending scale of a rhythm. It takes a moment, but then reality throws ice water over his hot naked skin. Vince is laughing.

His anger and indignation snap right back, racing ahead of heartbreak. The bitch. No, not now, not after all this. He pushes up with one hand and rolls over Vince’s shoulder to see, and to make Vince realise that he sees…. and then the ice water drenches him again, this time leaving him shaking with sick panic.

Vince’s eyes are shut, but his face is working, his mouth in a twist, teeth biting the lower lip. His skin is bathed with sweat, but also something else – tears. Tears pooling at the corners of his eyes and now running down the side of his nose.

Oh Christ, oh fuck, no, no, I’ve hurt him. Oh Christ, Vince, no, I’m sorry, I hurt you. Oh Christ no, don’t let this happen…

Frantic, he lifts their still-joined hands up to inspect them in the dim lamplight, but all he can see is a sticky sheen. Pulling back, he checks his own body. Nothing. He doesn’t know what to expect – blood? His guilty memory suddenly needles him about Vince’s cries and Vince’s words and how he ignored them, refused to hear them.

Now he swings Vince round by the shoulders, scanning for signs of damage. His eyes quickly find the expected; scratches, stubble burns, a smear of dried blood from his mouth, the bite marks on the shoulder and neck, the ugly welt on his chest where the amulet struck, the bruise on his cheek where the vicious blow hit home. But nothing else, nothing more severe.

By now Vince’s eyes are open, and his sobs have turned to a mild hiccup, but he’s clearly now in as much of a panic as Howard.

“Howard! What is it?” His eyes search the tent. “Are they coming?”

Howard shifts Vince’s body round so that they face. He cups Vince’s jaw with his hands and peers into his eyes, looking for an explanation there.

“Vince, you’re crying! Did I hurt you? I must have hurt you – I’m so sorry, Vince. Forgive me, little man? Where did I hurt you?”

Over and over.

Vince hiccups again and tries, with difficulty, to shake his head, trapped as it is in Howard’s hands. His smile, a bit watery, lights up.

“Howard, you idiot. As if…”

And at that moment, with the shifting of their bodies, the cushions part and the amulet puts in another appearance, sliding coldly down over Howard’s shoulder and landing with a thunk where their hips join with so much the look of a golden snake that both men jump. Vince is the first to recover, his hand darting down and re-emerging with the chain draped over his arm, a triumphant look on his face. Howard gazes on in benevolent resignation, the amulet now meaningless to him.

“Any bright, shiny thing...” he thinks fondly.

And then Vince brings the chain up over Howard’s head, and loops it clumsily around him, getting it caught on an ear, his nose, so that it’s some moments before the amulet nestles on Howard’s chest, with Vince proudly looking on.

And Howard is suddenly hollowed out, devastated by the gesture. He’s overwhelmed with guilt at his own accusations, his meanness, his violence; for what? This outcome is so wonderful, so beautiful, how could he have been so colossally stupid to have tried to deny it? He can’t understand….

He stares, dumbstruck, back at adoring blue eyes.

“Vince,” he eventually croaks, his throat hurting inexplicably, “I’m sorry… I asked for this but I don’t want it. I fought you for it – I don’t know why - but I don’t want it. But I won’t let them hurt you. I promise, little man, I promise. I won’t let them hurt you….” He has no idea how he’s going to keep this promise but he means it just the same.

Vince gives a big, shuddering sigh and smiles gloriously up at Howard.

“Doesn’t matter really…”

Howard stares at him, in an agony of guilt, for a long moment. Then he smiles back, hesitantly, shakily. The pain is still with him. But he knows what Vince means.

It doesn’t matter what happened then; this is now…

It doesn’t matter who wears it. We’re in this together

Vince pats the chain, then pats Howard’s chest, and in one languid movement turns so that his back rests in the curve of Howard’s body and his head leans back on Howard’s shoulder. Two long arms close around him instinctively, and, just as instinctively, and predictably, Vince goes straight to sleep.

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