Hayride

All characters from Forever Knight belong to Sony/Tristar and were created by Barney Cohen and James Parriot. I do not have authorization to use these characters. This was written for entertainment purposes only; I make no money on this story. No copyright violation is intended.

My eternal gratitude to three amazing people;
Marcie, for all the great sugguestions, and catching my mistakes
Ms. Pickles, my Grammar Dom
Lyddie Starkiller, for all her support and encouragement!

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Hayride (c) 2002 by Mom-Ra

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Screed pulled the heavy door closed, and leaned against it, wiping the sweat from his head, panting for breath, as though he actually needed the extra air. He grinned at Vachon, and said, "That was a right close 'un and no mistake."


Vachon shook his head and rolled his eyes at him. To hear Screed talk, one would have thought they'd just had some sort of lark, instead of a narrow escape. The vampires had stayed out later than they should have, and had barely missed being scorched to death by the rising sun. With a backwards glance at the skinny, bald sailor, Vachon wandered into the darker recesses of the building, to look for a comfortable place to spend the day.


Further examination revealed their shelter to be a carriage house, and it seemed as if no one had used it for some time. Although the floor was covered with dirty straw, the feed boxes were empty, save for a thick accumulation of dusty cobwebs. Vachon and Screed could take their ease here; there was little chance they'd be disturbed. The only other occupants in the place were rats, much to Screed's delight. Suppressing a grimace of disgust, Vachon leapt up into the hayloft. Screed could drain every rat in the place, and good riddance to them, but Vachon had no desire to be near the carouche while he fed.


Vachon took off his coat, then his waistcoat, and laid down in the moldy straw, with his hands tucked behind his head. His hungad bad begun to stir, and he wondered whether he'd be able to sleep. He'd fed well, but that had been in the early part of the evening, then he and Screed had spent the remainder of the night whoring and gambling. The last bordello they'd visited that night had provided varied and fascinating entertainment for those who could afford it, and Vachon could well afford to indulge any desire he could dream up. The Spaniard cursed the bad fortune that had brought him to this vermin-filled hole, when his own luxurious rooms were waiting.


Something of this must have been passing in Screed's mind as well, for he began to complain about their accommodations as he settled down into the straw, not far from where Vachon lay.
"I suppose *ye're* feelin' right cozy and cozened, cousin. After spendin' 'alf the bloody night flat on yer back." he said with a leer.

"You chose to keep at the gaming table, Screed. You could have spent your time in other, more comfortable pursuits." Vachon's English was flawless, despite Screed's teaching, and he spoke as a well-bred gentleman, showing his vampiric talent for perfect mimicry. Screed, however, stuck to his own brand of mangled English; rough and crude and still occasionally incomprehensible to Vachon, out of perversity rather than ignorance. He wasn't ashamed of his low beginnings.


The carouche patted his coat pocket, and smiled at Vachon, "And if I'd spent me time bein' comfortable, I wouldn't have meself such a nice, fat purse, now would I?" No comment seemed to be expected, and Vachon offered none. He closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep, but Screed's remark had sent his thoughts wandering back to the bordello. Those thoughts, although quite pleasant, drove sleep further from Vachon, and roused his hunger to a persistent ache. His companion's muttering and rustling in the straw nearby was beginning to grate on his nerves. "Lie still." he said sharply, "Go to sleep."

"Go to sleep, 'e says." Screed shot back, "Not likely, not with this ... this pikestaff a-pokin' at me belly."


Vachon raised up on one elbow to look at him, and nodded in understanding. Rats may have filled Screed's belly, but he was far from sated. The remedy was a simple one; Vachon would let Screed drink from him, then hopefully, they could both get some sleep. They had coupled occasionally to stay their hunger, or to occupy themselves while waiting for nightfall.


Screed was no beauty; in fact, Vachon didn't find him remotely appealing, so he was always surprised whenever his lust quickened at the thought of those rough, calloused hands touching him. That confused him somewhat, but Vachon put that down to feeling something for Screed that went much deeper than friendship. The onetime sailor had shown himself to be fiercely loyal, with a ready wit, and an eye for mischief, as well as an uncanny ability for staying one step ahead of trouble; Vachon couldn't have asked for a better companion.


He unfastened his collar and unbuttoned his shirt, then with a slight gesture, invited Screed to come closer. A faint golden light gleamed in Screed's eyes, as he scrambled over to him, throwing off his own coat. He grinned and licked his lips, but drew back when Vachon slipped an arm around his waist. "'ere, stow that!" he said, with a seriousness behind his teasing, "Save yer wooing for them as wot needs encouragin'."


With a shrug, Vachon lifted his long, dark hair away from his neck, and leaned forward. There would be no kisses, no caresses between them, not yet. In time, they might discover the pleasures that one man could give to another. When Vachon saw Screed's fangs swell and lengthen, he closed his eyes and braced himself for the sharp bite. Screed lunged against him, and together, they fell into the straw. Vachon pulled Screed's shirt out of his trousers, and pushed it out of the way, while he maneuvered his body to have as much contact as the carouche would allow; he might as well enjoy himself, too.


An urgent need whispered to Vachon through their blood-bond, a need that grew more apparent when Screed began to thrust against him. Quickly, Vachon unfastened his friend's trousers, and was rewarded with a grunt of pleasure when he closed both hands around Screed's hard cock. Screed dug his fingers into Vachon's shoulders, and rutted against him while he fed. He was sweating, and Vachon rather liked that; Screed had an interesting, musky tang to his blood. Vachon ran his tongue over his neck, and nibbled at his ear. Screed hadn't quite drunk enough of his blood to mask the taste of rat, but he didn't mind; it would pass soon enough.


That small taste of blood sweat ignited the cold fire of Vachon's transformation, and he writhed against Screed when the bloodlust started to burn deep and slow through his body.
"That's good," he moaned softly, "So good."
He drew his lips back to bare his fangs, and pressed the sharp points into the side of Screed's neck at the place where the great vein was close to the surface. Blood seeped from the tiny wounds, and Vachon licked it off, then pushed his fangs in a little deeper. Screed shoved Vachon's legs apart with his knees, and drove against him with redoubled fury; he wouldn't last much longer. Vachon did him one-handed while he got as much of their clothing out of the way as he could; no need to mess them any further, if it could be helped.


Vachon had only just begun to drink when Screed tensed, and shuddered violently. Vachon's hand was flooded with a cool, slippery wetness. Screed jerked a few times, then collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily. He lay still for a moment, then started to pull away, but Vachon restrained him with a hand on the back of his head, and rolled him over onto his back. Vachon took one last sip, then sat back on his heels, smiling down at his spent companion. Ruby-tinged semen dripped from his fingers as he slicked the viscous fluid over his own erection. "You would leave me like this?" he murmured.

"Tit for tat, I suppose." Screed rolled his eyes, and grinned up at him, "Turn about for fair play, an' all that. But," he held up his forefinger in a gesture of warning, "I'll not be turnin' about for any play, fair nor foul."

"Nor would I ask you to." Vachon said with a laugh. He shared Screed's conviction that, in this instance, it was far better to give than to receive, and that such receiving was reserved for women, or boys. For a brief moment, he wondered if Screed had ever buggered the odd powder monkey below decks; some pretty lad, whose face was still soft as a maid's.


With his clean hand, Vachon took his shirt off, then lay down on Screed, and slid back and forth against his furry, semen-slicked belly. He sensed that Screed was feeling unusually generous, and for once, was in no hurry for him to finish. He licked and sucked at Screed's neck, as much for his own pleasure, before he bit down, and slowly pierced the large, bluish vein. He held the first mouthful of blood, and fanned it with his tongue before swallowing, then took another, deeper drink. The feeding rekindled Screed's appetite, and Vachon smiled to himself when he felt his wet, flaccid cock swell and stiffen. He closed his fingers around Screed again, and stroked him nice and slow; he liked the feel of the thick, heavy phallus in his hand.


Screed enjoyed it as well, for Vachon's hand, although calloused, was smoother than his own. Once again, Screed felt the burn of his change sweep though him, and sunk his fangs deep into Vachon's throat. The blood seemed to explode into his mouth. Screed gulped it down greedily, barely noticing his own essence, distilled through Vachon's blood, flowing back into him. He ran his hands over Vachon's body, feeling the shift of muscle under his cool skin, and let his fingertips wander down to the small of his back, then back up to his shoulders, up and down, again and again.


Screed hooked a leg over Vachon's and tried to thrust faster into his teasing hand, frustrated by the agonizingly slow, light touches that kept his climax just out of reach. Vachon tortured him for a few more minutes, then took pity on him, and finished him off with quick, clean strokes. Their cool, slippery skin was lubricated further by this second gush of semen, and Vachon was driven to unbearable peaks of pleasure. When Screed wrapped his arms about him, and grabbed his ass, he tried to slow down, to make it last a little longer, but he couldn't hold back. With a strangled cry, Vachon spilled his seed onto Screed's belly.


Screed let Vachon lay on him for a little while, then pushed him off. Vachon flopped back into the straw with a deep, contented sigh, and gave Screed's arm a brief squeeze in a gesture of thanks and affection. Screed raised up to grin at him, and said, "There! Knackered yer knickers right proper, I did. But you!" he leered, with his snaggle-toothed smile, and jabbed a finger at Vachon, "Twice in one go. Ye've a rare talent, me aye-me-go."

"I've been practicing." Vachon said, and motioned with one hand, with his fingers curled in a loose circle. Screed crowed with hearty amusement, and Vachon laughed along with him, showing a row of even, white teeth. He grabbed a handful of straw to wipe the sticky mess off himself, before it could dry any further, and was dismayed when bits of straw stuck to his belly. Screed found this extremely amusing, and laughed all the harder when Vachon told him to be quiet. Sputtering with suppressed giggles, Screed offered to wipe him off with his shirt.

"No." Vachon sighed, "Thank you."

"Yours, then." Screed picked Vachon's shirt out of the straw. The disapproving look that Vachon gave him set him off again, and he howled with glee. "No need to take on so," he said, when he could speak again, "It's nowt but a bit o' straw."

That drew a smile from Vachon. He plucked off an offending piece of chaff, and flicked it away, then laid down beside the still-chuckling carouche. Tonight's first order of business, he decided, would be a long, hot bath.