Icebound

by Corinna Rogers

  “Aw, quit struggling. We both know you’ve sucked more cock than anyone in this room. Do you even have a gag reflex?”

  He doesn’t, not really. That doesn’t mean that much cock down his throat doesn’t make him choke and cry and struggle for air.

  Feeling nothing has to be better than feeling this.

  He can feel the ice waiting, always inside him, creeping over his feelings. The magic he’s been controlling it with is gone, nothing left to protect him against the ice.

  If only pain would go first, but it won’t. Pain will go last. He’s known that forever.

  “Lift him up. I’ve been wanting that ass for years.”

  Someone slaps his ass, hard, and he wants to sneer at them, tell them he gets more pain recreationally from Drake than they could ever give him. They flip him over so he’s on his back, slamming him down onto some sort of ice table a mage conjures. It’s so much easier for Roy to slide down his throat this way, and his legs are yanked wide apart, all the better to let whoever it is fuck up into his ass.

  Something warm straddles him, a woman, he thinks, from the general contours he can feel against his torso. He can’t see anything but upside-down hairy legs and balls, can’t move, can’t breathe. He hears a woman purr, “You’re not so gay now, are you, boss?” before a tight wet sheathe sinks down around his cock.

  “Holy shit,” Roy crows, “I think he just gagged for the first time!”

  “Oh, fuck you, Roy.”

  Roy changes while he’s fucking Shane’s mouth, though the only way he can tell is by the shape and size of the cock lodged down his throat. Sometimes the color of the legs changes, too, from white and hairy to sleek smooth black to stocky and tan. It’s an odd sensation, and the cock in his mouth is always too-big, always hard and leaking the same bitter flavor.

  Maybe if he just stopped fighting the ice…

  “Move over. I want in too.”

  It sounds like one of the new guys, someone who only let the Ice King into his life a week or so ago, someone who probably still thinks he made a great decision. There’s a moment of awkward maneuvering, and Shane tenses hard, feeling two men standing between his legs.

  No—too much, I can’t—don’t—

  New Guy shoves in hard, and Shane gags, choking and drooling around Roy’s changing cock as he’s spread, stretched too wide and opened by two cocks even as the woman rides him, even as others grab his hands and hump against them. Something hot and wet hits his chest, and even over the pounding of blood in his ears he can hear laughter.

  He can feel the Ice King’s eyes on him.

  After what feels like an eternity, Roy pulls out of his mouth, leaving him to cough and retch and heave breaths while he can. Seconds later, he flinches as Roy comes on his face, hot liquid dripping down his lips and cheeks, up his nose in the awkward position. “There,” his old subordinate says with a grin. “Now you look pretty.”

  Shane doesn’t have time to say anything before someone takes Roy’s place, and this man’s cock is odd, too hard, too smooth, and there’s too much hair rubbing against his face. Not a human, then. The taste is strange, if not necessarily worse, and at least his aching jaw has a bit of a rest around the man’s slender cock.

  At least, he wants something of a rest. The man, creature, whatever he is, thrusts hard and fast and deliberate, using his mouth brutally, and everywhere he slams against the delicate flesh it hurts.

  It doesn’t sting as much as one of the men coming in his ass, pulling out with a laugh and a slap to his ass, and Shane doesn’t even have time to sigh in relief that the nauseating, cramping ache of being so overstuffed is finally gone before someone else shoves in.

  The ice creeps over a lot of things. It freezes steadily closer to his core, and he really wishes he could remember what his first time with Drake was like. It was better than this, for sure. If it was with Drake, it was definitely good. He thinks he sort of remembers giving a blowjob for the first time, but that was to an awful foster parent, not to Drake. He doesn’t really remember that man’s name.

  He doesn’t remember if he ever told Drake about that.

  When the next two men come in his ass, they leave him empty for a moment, laughing at the way he whimpers and twitches. A whisper goes up, and if he weren’t having his face fucked by a series of increasingly ruthless men, he might have been able to make something out.

  As it is, it’s a surprise when something slippery and long winds its way up one of his legs, then the other, each cold slick appendage forcing his legs wide apart. The woman riding him comes, sliding off his dick as she crows, “I’ve got to watch this.”

  If everything is ice, he doesn’t have to feel what comes next.

  He knows what it is. Everyone’s seen the creatures that live in the icy pools, inky black and slithering, that only come out whenever there’s prey that won’t run away anymore. Shane can’t stop himself from trembling, no matter how hard he resolves that he’s going to become one of the Frozen Court, that he’s not going to let himself care anymore.

  He’s seen it before.

  It was funny, then. He distinctly remembers being amused by watching a person thrash around while icy black tentacles wormed their way inside his or her body being slowly filled beyond capacity.

  Someone comes in his mouth, and he’s free for just long enough to mutter, “Please, don’t, Master—”

  It’s not as bad as he’d expected, at first. One cool slick tentacle slides into him, not much thicker than a man’s cock but long, god, it feels endless. Someone starts to grab his face, but Roy grabs the man’s arm, pulling him back. “Leave it free. We all want to watch him scream.”

  Of course they pay attention to Roy now. That talentless hack will be First Vassal now, the best of the pathetic lot now that Shane’s going to be decorating the Frozen Court.

  He’s seen men last for six, seven days as the Court’s playthings. At the time, he’d been impressed. Now, he just wonders why they’d bothered.

  Another tentacle forces its way into his ass, and this one makes him cringe, arching back and away, trying to escape the cramping ache in his abdomen. He pants, shallow breaths coming fast, and he tries to stay calm, tries to just hold still and let the ice take him and god damn it, after nine years of trying to get in the ice is picking now to be slow.

  When the third one goes in, Shane starts screaming. He’s never been so full in his life, and the creature only holds him tighter with every thrash of his body. It gets tired eventually, Shane knows. He’s seen it play with its victims for hours, but it always crawls back to the pool eventually. Then the other members of the Court get nasty.

  The ice closes over sadness, and humor, and longing. That changes everything. He can feel the pain, feel it in the most all-encompassing way he can imagine, but he doesn’t care if it stops anymore. He doesn’t want. There’s nothing to want. He remembers Drake, dully, remembers that there was a man with a sword and a really nice ass, but that’s fading too, bound away in the ice, and he knows better than anyone that whatever’s truly frozen doesn’t thaw. It doesn’t ever thaw.

  He still twitches when the creature pulls out of him, scuttling away and leaving his body trembling in agony. His eyes flick upward when the Ice King stands over him, something glowing white-hot and intense in his hands. “I have never cared how much my betrayers suffer,” the Ice King says, “only that they do. You are different. You conspired with my most hated enemy to defeat me, and for that, I will watch you know true pain.”

  Three things happen very fast.

  Shane freezes to ice.

  The Ice King drops his soul.

  Drake breaks down the door.

  Sixth Interlude

  Twenty Years Earlier

  “There’s a boy in the street.”

  Drake doesn’t look up, bent over his homework, trying to figure out how to get to the answer in the back of the book. “Oh yeah? New boy from next door?”

  “I didn’t hear they were gettin
g another foster kid, but he must be.” Clara strains her neck, resting her fingers against the window, breath fogging up the glass. “Oh, you should give him one of your coats, he looks cold.”

  “Uh, yeah, I think I have an extra one that Nana gave me for Christmas. He’s not fat, is he?”

  “No, he’s really hot.”

  Clara snorts as Drake finally looks up from his homework at that, elbowing him in the side when he joins her at the window. “You’re so gay.”

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s okay, Mom and Dad aren’t home.”

  Drake hardly hears her. The boy is short for his age, slender but muscled, like an athlete, probably not far from Drake’s fifteen years. He’s pale, and pretty, with slightly pink lips and thick glossy black hair, sharp features that manage to avoid pointiness, and legs that are too long for his jeans. There’s an inch or two of ankle sticking out, though the primary cause of his shivering is probably from the light t-shirt he’s wearing.

  “Yeah,” Drake says slowly, mouth dry. “Yeah, I’ll just…go get that coat.”

  “Gay!”

  “Shut up!”

  It’s the work of seconds to grab the coat, a puffy blue thing that keeps him plenty warm, but is just unpardonably ugly. He grabs a pair of jeans while he’s in his room, pauses, then grabs a couple books as well, running down to make sure the boy doesn’t retreat back into his house. Just before leaving, he straightens his hair in the hall mirror, trying to look nonchalant as Clara snickers at him. Then, he strolls outside, trying to look for all the world as if he’d just accidentally happened to wander outside with extra clothes and books in his hands. “Oh, hey,” he says, affecting surprise. “You’re, uh, must be—there’s some people—my grandma gives me—”

  The sentence goes quickly to hell, and no matter how he struggles, he can’t seem to wrestle it back on track. Dismayed, he falters to a stop, unable to quite think of words when he sees the boy’s eyes, a deep, sparkling, long-lashed blue.

  They’re expressive, somehow softening the words as the boy says, “Did you come out here just to stare at the new kid, or are we supposed to be having a conversation?”

  Drake’s face burns, and he holds out the coat, an awkward peace offering. “My grandma gave me this for Christmas and I already have one I like more, and you look really cold, so I’d be really happy if you took this one off my hands. Oh, and these jeans, I figure it must be a pain finding jeans that fit on a budget, and I have these left over—oh, and I know the Nelsons don’t believe in TV, so you might be bored, and I brought you some books. So, here.” He shoves the bundle in the new boy’s hand. “And my name is Drake. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  The boy stares at him, emotions flickering across his face. There’s gratitude in the softening of the hard set of his jaw, hurt pride in the way he draws back, relief in the widening of his eyes.

  Watching his face probably shouldn’t be so captivating.

  “I…oh.” The boy swallows hard, looking down. “I’m not a beggar or anything.”

  “No, whenever we have anything left over, we usually bring it over to the Nelson place. I figured you had to be one of theirs because—”

  “Because I look like a foster kid?”

  Drake can tell that the boy’s on the verge of throwing the clothes and books to the ground and storming off, and holds up his hands, pleading. “Not like that! I just—I know everyone else on the block!”

  God, Clara was probably laughing herself sick.

  “Oh.” The boy hefts the clothes up, frowning. “Okay. Sorry. Thanks. Is this a loan?”

  “No, you can keep it.” Drake shrugs, and damn, this was easier with the ugly girl who’d taken his old textbooks. At least then he hadn’t been continually distracted by the fluttering of her eyelashes, or the way her slender fingers gripped the present.

  “Shane.” The boy juggles the clothes around, offering a handshake, which Drake takes gratefully. The boy’s hand is warm, startlingly so, and he doesn’t squeeze too hard to try and show toughness. He holds the shake for a little too long before letting go, holding Drake’s gaze the whole time.

  Drake swallows hard. The last thing he needs is for the kid to think Drake is hitting on him or something. He seems nice enough so far, but he really doesn’t need word of a fight like that getting to his parents again. “So, I’ll see you around. And probably at school.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. Thanks.”

  “It’s no problem. I hope you enjoy them.” Stupid thing to say. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Drake shoves his hands into his pockets, awkwardly turning to go back inside.

  “See you around,” Shane calls. “Oh, and if you want to make out, I’m gay too.”

  Drake’s pretty sure his heart stops for a second, and that he can hear a little shriek from inside his house. All the blood drains from his face, and he stammers, “What? I—I never said…”

  Shane shrugs. “Or not. Must’ve read you wrong. See you around.”

  “Wait!” Drake hurries after the boy, grabbing him by the shoulder before he can retreat into the Nelson house. “You can’t just say something like that to someone!”

  “Why not? You gonna hit me?” There’s a definite glint of challenge in those bright blue eyes, even as Drake backpedals.

  “No, of course not, I just—”

  “Then I’ll say whatever I want.”

  “Just because I won’t doesn’t mean someone won’t hit you if you say you’ll make out with them!”

  Shane grins, and it lights up the whole street. “I know. Pretty good test to see who’s a homophobe, though, huh?”

  Later, Drake learns that he’s not the only person Shane introduces himself to this way, and he’s had no shortage of fights over it. But that’s after he learns that Shane isn’t a mind reader, and that Shane’s just as surprised to find out his guess wasn’t bullshit when Drake takes him up on the offer behind the bleachers at lunchtime.

  It’s hard to tell, looking at the excitement, the gratitude in Shane’s eyes, why Drake feels like he’s the one that’s been saved.

  Chapter Ten

  Finding the Frozen Court isn’t a problem. It never has been.

  The problem is the sense of foreboding Drake can’t shake, the one that comes from the same place as his sword, as the inhuman strength his position as Champion gives him.

  He remembers believing in God. Back then, he’d thought of God as a big guy in the sky, granting the prayers of good people and sending sinners to Hell, like a cosmic Santa Claus. He remembers going to church with his family, putting on his best Sunday clothes and loading up the station wagon and trying to mess Clara’s hair up without getting smacked.

  He’d never made a conscious decision to stop believing in God. It wasn’t until the Church had come to him, after he’d lost Shane, that he’d realized he hadn’t prayed since the death of his family.

  After accepting his post as Champion, doing battle with the Church’s enemies, being lent the power to fight the creatures and people that terrorized its members, he’d started feeling the, well, feelings. Sometimes they’re strong, sometimes weak, and they always feel like danger.

  He’s never had one as strong as this.

  Part of him misses the solid weight of a gun at his hip, back before he’d had the sword. Then again, a broadsword is a hell of a lot easier to explain in the backseat of his car whenever the cops pull him over. There’s also the fact that it’s a lot more difficult to hurt people by accident. There haven’t been many accidents, but there have been some, and more close calls.

  Some dark part of him, something practical and analytical, tells him it’s stupid to go. There’s no point, after all. Shane isn’t Shane, and Deborah’s probably long dead. He’s avoided the Frozen Court for years, because damn it all, he knows how much the Ice King, the Fire Queen, the Darkfae Premier and the Woodsprite Governor want to get their hands on him while he’s vulnerable. At first, it had just been because he’d put so many of their people away
. Now, he’s valuable.

  Drake turns the corner, jacket buttoned up against the wind, and the pink-haired girl, Astra, stands in front of his path. “Hey. You should like, turn around and go the other way.”

  “And if I’m going this way?”

  The girl spits out a wad of gum into the snow. “Then I’m gonna fight you.”

  “Come on, girl.” Drake unsheathes his broadsword, raising an eyebrow. “I go toe to toe with Shane.”

  “And he doesn’t wanna beat up your ugly face because he likes your butt too much. Come on, Sasquatch. Let’s party.”

  Human mages are weak. They’re weak, and they rely entirely on magic, Drake’s found more often than not. It’s easy to play into her hands, to make a show of ducking bolt after bolt of power, no matter how they’d just fizzle out against his chest if they connected. It’s easy to feign berserk fury and swing wide at her with his sword.

  “Aw, that’s the best you got? Come on, I want to dance!”

  She leaves herself wide open, and Drake has to work not to sigh. He fakes a stumble, comes up with a handful of snow that he lobs into her face, throwing her off balance, and whacks her with the flat of his blade.

  She tumbles to the ground with an indignant squeak. “Hey! You—”

  Drake grabs her hair, yanking her head back. “You,” he informs her, “remind me of every obnoxious videogame character I wanted to beat up as a child. Let’s see if you’ve still got the stink of human on you.”

  “If I what? What else would I be?”

  “I don’t make the rules.” Carefully, Drake turns his blade, nicking the skin of one exposed thigh. The flesh parts easily, but doesn’t bleed, and molds back together as soon as he removes the sword. “Lucky for you. Do yourself a favor and freeze over soon, or next time I come after you, you’ll bleed.”

  The girl looks scared. That’s good. “What if I bleed?”

  “Then I kill you.”