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Dalinar sat alone, as he often did, with only the company of his guards in his presence. The man of the hour was one of the newer guards, the recently freed bridgemen. He wanted to say his name was something like… Meash? Moash? Something interesting and uncommon. Just one more intriguing thing about the man, who was tall and solid, and had beautiful wavy hair, brown and black mixed together, and a dashing scar on his face…
No. It wasn’t Dalinar’s place, not anymore. Childish flights of fancy about handsome men in his periphery were fine in his youth, but he was very much above such things now, a man of honor, incestuous sister romance notwithstanding. Everyone looked to him: Adolin, Renarin, Elhokar. Perhaps even Jasnah had as well, although seeing as she was now a corpse at the bottom of the ocean, what Jasnah thought was inconsequential.
Storms, but that bothered Dalinar. Though as a baby Jasnah had been nothing more than a bitter reminder in Dalinar’s mind that Navani had chosen Gavilar over him, he had gained a special fondness for her as she grew up. She was the woman who had made him an uncle, for Taln’s sake. Her keen mind and quick wit had delighted Dalinar since she was very small. Sometimes Dalinar had gotten caught up thinking about the crown, something Jasnah never would have inherited, and turned too much of his attention on Elhokar. Sweet, misguided Elhokar. It was something he regretted now. After all, Elhokar was still very much here, and would be for a long time, Almighty willing. And Jasnah…
Dalinar’s heart wrenched inside of him. He got up and started to pace, mind lost in thought. All the time he had spent in Jasnah’s company, from babysitting her when she was a child to the fateful night when they had read The Way of Kings together, he had taken it utterly for granted. He had thought, very naively, that since Jasnah was not in the line of battle, she’d be guaranteed to always be there. This was very obviously not so. If only he could have one last word with her, his wonderful, intelligent, perfect gemheart of a niece, if only she wasn’t dead… deaths didn’t bother him much. Not really, not usually. Grieve later, was the thought process. He supposed the “later” was now.
His guard had taken notice. “Are you… well?”
Dalinar cleared his throat. “Of course. Just a bit of stress. Inevitable in this situation. Thank you for asking…” Dalinar paused for a name, flushing a bit with embarrassment.
“Moash, sir,” the guard said.
“Moash. Thank you, Moash,” Dalinar said.
“You look upset,” Moash said, and then flinched a bit, as if uncertain about if he was allowed to say these things. Guards were often like that. Dalinar thought, after his lifetime of wrestling all his elites no matter their rank, that he would be a hypocrite if he took offense.
“Things are plaguing me. Stressful thoughts. It’s not your place to take on those burdens emotionally. I’d never ask that of a simple guard.” Dalinar paused. He thought of his Elites, of the escape lever. “But of course, one thing that lets me clear my head is wrestling. I’d never ask that of a guard, not without permission…”
“I’ll do it,” Moash said quickly. As if he’d been wanting this, daydreaming about it. “Can’t say for certain that I’ll win, but I’ll put up a storm of a fight.”
“That’s all I need,” said Dalinar. “I don’t mind if I win, I just want somewhat of a challenge. Not an easy fight. Some struggle. You’re young, and you seem to have a bit of muscle on you…” Dalinar trailed off as he thought, shamefully, of Moash’s strong arms, his large pectorals… it wasn’t proper. But did that matter?
Moash cleared his throat. “Yeah, for sure. Just give the word, and I’ll take off my shirt and wrestle you.”
“Full permission. Give me everything you’ve got,” said Dalinar, and Moash nodded, pulling his shirt off over his body. Dalinar figured he should do much of the same. He and Moash were built so differently. Moash, solid and broad but not as big as Dalinar. Generally speaking, nobody was ever as big as Dalinar. This was fine; Dalinar was used to the delicate balancing act with normal people, non-Blackthorns. He’d done it numerous times with Sadeas back in the day. He could do it with Moash, control himself well enough to not bash his head in, injuring him for life.
They both crouched down next to each other, daring each other to make the first move. Dalinar, privately, would not strike first, he wanted a truly fair chance for Moash. Besides, he assumed with the man’s youth, he’d have a easily set off sense for this sort of thing. Wouldn’t resist a strike.
Dalinar was proven correct as Moash grappled onto Dalinar and began to shove. Dalinar wouldn’t be taken this easily and planted his feet into the ground. He wondered what people would think, the Blackthorn wrestling in naught but underwear with his guard. He also wondered if the lack of padding on the floor would be an issue. It had been, when he was younger. Now that he was older, he could avoid getting swallowed up by the Thrill. He didn’t need to maim Moash, he just needed to win.
Moash, to his credit, seemed determined. He had youth on his side, but Dalinar had experience, and it wasn’t too long before Dalinar pinned Moash to the ground, as gently as he could, to avoid injury. It was a thing he worried about, a thing he took concern for. Still, Moash beneath him, Moash panting, Moash with a scowl on his face, but a flustered look in his eyes that betrayed desire… Dalinar was accustomed to men of his type, men like him, by now. He could pick up the signs. It would be dishonorable, sure. An insult to Navani. But surely taking a man as a lover had different rules than taking a woman? It had been the lie he told himself throughout his marriage with…
The thought slipped out of his mind the second he formulated it. He barely remembered his train of thought. Something about his wife? It wasn’t important.
Moash spoke from beneath Dalinar. “I’d go again, sir,” he said. “I think you’ll find I learn quick.”
The bratty confidence of the young man made something surge within Dalinar. A desire, ruled by the groin and not the head, to put him in his place. But of course, he’d get permission first. “Only if you’re sure you want to risk another round. I slammed you pretty hard, and—”
“The bruises make it better,” Moash said. “You know this, don’t you? You have to. You’re the storming Blackthorn.”
Dalinar cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. If you’re ready, then.”
Moash steeled his eyes, then went back for the grapple. Being bested once before seemed to put a fire in his soul, and Dalinar could feel that extra intensity acutely as he fought. Moash was good at what he did, Dalinar thought. If it had been the days where the Blackthorn remained at large, Dalinar would have recruited Moash into the ranks of his Elites for certain. He was almost finding himself tripped up as his mind wandered, an embarrassment. The only people so unlike him in size to defeat him in this way had been Sadeas, back when they were both youths. Although Dalinar had been watching Moash, not specifically, but taking note of him. He was lean and scrawny when the bridge crews were freed, but regular meals and some amount of training had made him fill out. He was wider now, broader. It suited him. Especially now, all sweaty and with a chest and happy trail unshaven…
This lapse in focus was enough for Moash to sweep Dalinar’s legs and send him tumbling. He had years of battlefield instincts that stopped him from his head hitting the floor, and he stared up at Moash, glistening with sweat, panting heavily. “Good work,” Dalinar said. “You’re a natural at this. And you learn quickly.”
Dalinar wasn’t always the most attentive person, but even he couldn’t help but notice that Moash’s trousers tightened in such a way that it was obvious he was hard. And what a great specimen of manhood he seemed to have… No. If anything happened, surely the younger man would want Dalinar taking him rather than the other way around. Well, that could certainly be arranged.
Moash’s cheeks looked to be darker now, flush with attraction. “Well, I mean… You can show me what you’ve got. I mean, really show it. You’re not scared, are you? I mean, you are the Blackthorn…”
Storms, Moash was tempting Dalinar beyond belief. He felt himself also growing stiff, and cursed himself for it, drawing shamespren all the while. Moash’s gaze flicked downward, and he saw a single gloryspren manifest. There were times Dalinar missed the relative innocence of youth, the days when a simple sign of mutual sexual attraction could draw gloryspren. He’d drawn his share of them, so had Sadeas, so had Kadash. It seemed to be universal among young men. Dalinar didn’t know what to make of all this.
“There’s nothing to use as…” Dalinar cleared his throat. “Lubricant. Surely you know that—”
“I’m from the storming bridge crews, I’m used to just spit,” said Moash. “Sure, it hurts like Damnation, but storms, I don’t expect you to have it on hand anyway. You don’t seem like the type. Not to stereotype, but you’re so masculine.” Moash hesitated for a minute, didn’t seem to know how to proceed, but tried to put on the list smoldering look he could, though it looked like play-acting on him. “That’s part of the draw, actually.”
“I’m obligated to state, due to my sense of honor, that this has the potential to be a bad idea,” Dalinar said.
Moash raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but do you actually not want to do something about it? Because I want it, very badly, actually. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Dalinar took a deep breath. “Forgive me. I was being foolish.” His heart pounded. “We should absolutely do something about it.”
Moash gestured towards the table in the corner of the room. “You ever fuck someone on a table before?”
Now it was Dalinar’s turn to blush. “Not yet. But I’d very much like to try.”
“What are you waiting for, then?” Moash asked, and all his remaining clothes went to the wayside. Dalinar, someone who could appraise these things accurately, took a moment to appreciate Moash’s ass, finely sculpted yet shapely and ample. I suspect it’s the time he spent running bridges that got him like that, Dalinar thought with a pang of sympathy. The situation was rough. How could Dalinar let himself enjoy this?
He pushed away the thought and ignored the few petals of shamespren that showed up. He wants this, Dalinar reminded himself. It’s something he wants as much as you do.
Dalinar did as expected and pulled off the last of his undergarments as well, cock finally free. Moash let out a low whistle as Dalinar did so, and he tried not to be flustered. This is fine, he reassured himself. You’re fine.
Dalinar made a big show of hocking up as much spit as he could in one go, trying to make things comfortable. He had been on the other end of this, back in the day. He knew it wasn’t truly enough. But if Moash wanted a rough time, so be it.
Moash looked at Dalinar expectantly, and so Dalinar manhandled him, bending him over the table. If he wanted the Blackthorn, he was going to get the Blackthorn.
Moash’s breath hitched as Dalinar touched him, and Dalinar in his mind felt that this would be a quick fuck. Moash wanted this very badly, and Dalinar felt that sober he came far too quickly. Maybe this would be a disappointment.
Dalinar entered slowly at first. Moash made a small yelp upon this, blindsided by the pain. Dalinar thought this wasn’t ideal. The heavy friction feels good, but I need a touch more of it. Storming recruit types. Dalinar had been in this position many times before, with many Elites. They all had to wrestle Dalinar, after all, and if Dalinar sensed an energy off of any of them — or noted them hard as a stone afterwards — he invited them to his chambers. It was what had kept him sane during…
The thought slipped out of his mind, butter in a pan, faint whispering in his ears. He didn’t remember what he had been thinking about. Storming Nightwatcher’s curse. How was his wife involved in any of this?
Dalinar took Moash not moving away as a sign he could keep going. He continued, firm and hard. He got into a regular rhythm, slow at first and then faster, as things got easier. As Moash’s entrance gained more pliability, as Dalinar had more room. Things were hot and heavy. Dalinar loved doing this, loved the little contented moans Moash made, loved the way he took a hand to stroke his cock as Dalinar went, hammering into him. The pubic hair was especially delightful. Dalinar had found that foreign officers tended to shave theirs off, especially the Vedens, but Dalinar had never met an Alethi who had elected to get rid of something so perfect. Moash had it especially bountiful, in a way that made him feel that much more aroused fucking him to pieces. It was delightful.
With a start, Moash groaned loudly, spilling himself into his hand, sticky and white and glistening. Already? Dalinar was surprised.
“I’m sorry, sir, I tried to contain it, it’s just… storms, I couldn’t help myself,” Moash said. Still in the headspace being fucked often gave, one especially deferential. Dalinar found this much unlike the little bits of Moash he already knew, and found it a bit distasteful.
“No problem at all. I know continuing with intercourse after you’ve finished is often unpleasant. You don’t need to do much, but if you want to help out, you can finish me off with your hands.” Dalinar paused. “This isn’t an order, though. You’re free to do as you wish.”
“You’re not making it fun. I’d much rather you tell me,” Moash said, candid as ever.
Dalinar sighed. Youths. “As your commanding officer, I order you to give me a handjob,” Dalinar said. Storms.
Moash saluted, then got to work. There was something… relaxing about it, something he had missed. Outright penetrative sex itself was fun, of course, enjoyable, but there was something delightfully nostalgic about getting jerked off at the end of a good fuck. And on top of it all, there was something about Moash’s youthful reverence that felt good, kept him going. It had taken him a long time in his life to warm up to being the one in charge, but now at the other end of the age gap, he relished in it.
When Dalinar came, it was abundant, haphazard, and he was acutely aware of how much of a mess he was making. A petal or two of shamespren fell around him, but they dissipated quickly.
“Your uniform,” Dalinar said. Some wayward splatters had found their way to Moash’s pant leg, sprawled on the floor. “I’ll send someone to spot clean it, I promise you.”
“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather this stay between me, you, and Bridge Four,” Moash replied. “I know there are… men among my ranks who would know something about. Uh. Cleaning this.” He blushed a little. It was cute.
“We shouldn’t have done this,” Dalinar said, taking a deep breath, beginning to put his clothes back on.
“Probably not,” replied Moash. “But I’m storming glad we did.”
This did make Dalinar feel better. And at the end of all of it, he realized his anxiety and grief were much less pronounced than they had been before all of this. Perhaps he had just needed to clear his head, the old-fashioned way.