by Lisa Henry
“Don’t bother going easy on him,” Boru said, a smile lifting his voice. “He can take it.”
Please no. Darragh tightened his hands, clutching at his half-fallen trousers. He’d gone against everything he stood for doing this at all. He wouldn’t let the king make him cruel, too.
Ciaran opened his eyes, caught Darragh’s gaze, and nodded slightly.
Permission. Permission to be cruel.
Permission to please their king.
He wasn’t sure he could do it.
Ciaran’s knees hurt. He shifted his weight as he looked up at the culchie—at Darragh—and waited for him to make a move. Did the man not understand that Boru hadn’t given him a suggestion? That the boon was not really for him, but for the king’s own pleasure? And that the “Don’t bother going easy on him” wasn’t advice. It was a fucking order. If Darragh didn’t obey, they’d both be punished. And no way in hell was Ciaran going to suffer one of Boru’s punishments just because Darragh didn’t want to put his cock in Ciaran’s mouth again.
He leaned forwards and sucked it in before Boru got angry.
Darragh grunted in surprise.
Dumb culchie. No. Out-of-his-depth culchie.
And big. Big all over, like Boru had said. Ciaran’s jaw would ache tomorrow. It was more chore than pleasure to try to deep-throat him, but wasn’t that always the way? He could do more with his hands in play, but Boru didn’t get the same visual pleasure out of that. He preferred to see Ciaran struggle to breathe. He liked to hear him make ugly choking sounds and see his tears mingling with the drool on his chin.
Right now, Boru looked bored. Darragh was big, sure, but he wasn’t the brute Boru clearly wanted and expected him to be—and it was going to be Ciaran who paid the price for it.
“Take him by the hair and fuck him, damn you!” Boru shouted, his impatience following the exact pattern Ciaran expected.
Ciaran sat back on his heels and opened his mouth wide, staring up at the stupid culchie as he jerked that massive cock with both hands. He let his tongue flop out of his mouth. Couldn’t think of a more blatant invitation than that.
Come on, he willed Darragh. Come on!
Darragh’s hands twined in his hair. He was shaking, and not with anything approaching passion. Was he so repulsed by Ciaran?
I used to be just like you, culchie. The sooner you learn what’s expected, the better for you. Grit your teeth, close your eyes, and think of someone else.
The way I’ve been thinking of you.
Ciaran ignored the sudden stab of misery in his guts. So what if the fantasy was dead now? It had been short-lived anyway, like all his fantasies here. He’d replace it with another one sooner or later. One disposable fantasy after another, until he didn’t need them anymore, until he was as used up as Boru thought him to be already. It was only a matter of time.
Maybe before then he’d die of some leftover sexually transmitted disease still strong enough to infect the blood and seed of the hardy survivors. At least if that happened, he’d take most of Boru’s court with him.
Maybe even the great king himself. Now there was a fantasy he could hold on to.
Big fingers combed into his hair, and Ciaran cried with relief, ready to take that cock, ready to have this over with. But the hands didn’t yank or grip or tug, they petted him gently instead, fingering the strands of his filthy hair as if it were soft, fine silk.
You’re doing it wrong, he wanted to shout. Why the fuck can you not see that?
He really was stupid.
He really was so very, very kind.
And just like that, a long-dormant shame and humiliation washed over Ciaran. It was one thing to play the sex toy for Boru and his animals, another to debase himself at the feet of a genuinely honourable man.
His eyes stung. Hot tears pricked at their corners, then slipped down his cheeks.
“Ha!” Boru’s voice echoed in the silence. “Do you not find my Boy to be a treasure worth your attention, Darragh?”
“I …” Darragh’s voice was soft, confused. “He has tears.”
“They shine like jewels,” Boru said. “For you. In fear of your manhood. Don’t you hate his weakness? Snivelling little girl of a man. Little cunt. Don’t you want to destroy him?”
Darragh’s fingers trembled in Ciaran’s hair. “I …”
Ciaran wiped his face stubbornly. “Just do it. Go on. Fucking do it.”
Darragh gazed down at him, wide-eyed.
“Presumptuous little slut, isn’t it?” Boru laughed. “And now here it is taunting you! Are you going to take that? Turn him onto his knees and bust his hole open. Show him what use a real man has for a cunt like him. That’s what I’d do, if I were you.”
Not a suggestion, Ciaran thought, holding Darragh’s gaze and willing him to understand. It’s not a suggestion.
For a moment Darragh hesitated, then he lifted his hands from Ciaran’s head and gestured at him. Ciaran moved quickly, shoving his trousers down and exposing his arse. He turned on his hands and knees, facing away from Darragh and from Boru. There was some relief in that, at least. He lowered himself onto the cold floor, resting his weight on his forearms. Shifted his legs apart and waited.
Don’t fuck it up now, Darragh. Please.
“King. I need …” Darragh grunted, a noise of frustration, not arousal. “Wet.”
Lube. The idiot was asking for fucking lube. Ha. Now there was a luxury Ciaran could hardly dream of.
“Spit on him,” Boru said. “Spit on the pig. He deserves no better.”
Ciaran tried to relax. He’d wiped himself after Sean but was still stretched, still wet from his cum. Maybe that would take some of the inevitable pain out of it. Though Darragh was big. Bigger than Boru. And he had all the finesse of a barnyard animal from what Ciaran had already seen. Not just careless, like most of Boru’s men, but almost clueless.
Now there was a thought. Was it possible that the big, dumb culchie was a virgin? That he’d never stuck it in anyone before? Maybe he’d learned everything he knew from watching dogs in the street or from some of those books in his library with their tricky English words. If he hadn’t done it before, at least it would be over quickly.
Darragh spit. Ciaran hunched his shoulders, squeezed his eyes shut, and took what he had coming.
“Did you like it, hmmm?”
Ciaran turned his head towards the sound of Boru’s voice. The blindfold slipped, allowing him a sliver of light. He saw a glimpse of Boru’s boots on the grimy floor.
“If it pleased you, Majesty, then I liked it.” His arms were bound behind his back. The rope had slid off the gold armbands and was cutting into his flesh. His right shoulder was still troubling him, occasional sharp twinges of pain laid over the persistent ache.
Boru’s boots disappeared, and a moment later, Ciaran felt a hand on his arse. He flinched as Boru pulled his cheeks apart and wiped his fingers down his cleft. Stung like hell.
“Blood,” Boru said, sounding delighted. “Ah, he did rip you apart, didn’t he? What a beast!”
He’d had worse. “He did.”
“You liked it, you little cunt.”
Ciaran bowed his head. He hadn’t … hadn’t hated it. An inexperienced man like that, with a cock that size and nothing to ease his passage but spit—of course it had hurt. No surprises there. Despite that, Darragh had tried to be kind. He’d held Ciaran’s hips gently, rubbed his back when he flinched, gentled him like he was a skittish animal. It had been so long since Ciaran had been shown any consideration.
The pain … well, fuck the pain. Ciaran had plenty of practice dealing with that.
That gentleness, though. For the first time in a long time Ciaran wasn’t sure of himself, wasn’t sure of anything. It was easy to hate the men who brutalised him, easy to sneer and talk back and invoke the king’s protection. It was even easy enough to suffer Boru’s unpredictable temper: you expected the worst and sometimes you were pleasantly surprised. But Darragh, from Cor
k without a king, was something unexpected. Something new.
Boru placed his hand between Ciaran’s shoulder blades and pushed him forwards.
Ciaran took his weight on his torso, resting his cheek against the cold floor. That sliver of light teased him. More boots—dirty, one lace knotted in several places where it had torn, the other a piece of brown string. Noel.
“Lights in Drumcondra again, boss,” he said. “There’s a nest on Milbourne Avenue.”
“Clear them out,” Boru said.
“They’re fast,” Noel said. “They’re organised.”
“They’re not organised,” Boru growled. “They’re fucking rats!”
“Might be the same group as last time.”
Ciaran heard the uncertainty in the man’s tone. Not because Noel thought he was wrong, but because he was wary of contradicting Boru. A dangerous business, that. Noel might have been running in Boru’s gang since before the disaster, but he still had to tread as carefully as any other man.
Ciaran had heard mutterings since his capture. This Boru was not the same canny leader they’d followed since the fall of civilisation. This Boru did not see reason, did not take counsel. This one had been poisoned by his gold, and his slaves, and his stolen sceptre and Woolsack throne. Blinded by his own monstrous ego. And if his men whispered these things carelessly where even Boy could hear them, he wondered what they spoke of when out of his hearing.
One day, Ciaran hoped one of them would plant a knife in Boru’s heart. It would be too late then for Ciaran—either he would die with his master or he would be taken as spoils by Boru’s successor—but at least Boru would be dead.
“Then burn them out,” Boru said. “Take some men and burn them to the ground!”
“It’s an ambush,” Noel said. “Must be, boss. Nobody would light fires at night unless they were looking for the attention.”
Ciaran shifted as Boru kicked his ankles apart.
When Boru spoke again, his voice was lifted by a smile. “Have a look at what Darragh did to Boy.”
“The culchie?”
“He’s an animal.” Boru laughed.
Ciaran winced as Boru pressed the toe of his boot against his balls.
“He’s big,” Noel said. “Could be useful. Boss, about Drumcondra …”
Boru stepped away from Ciaran. “What do you need?”
He sounded almost reasonable, but Ciaran knew better. So did Noel. Boru’s moods were more changeable than the weather.
“Petrol,” Noel said. “For all the trucks, and to make Molotovs.”
Boru laughed. “All of that, for one little nest?”
“One of the rats we caught last week says there’re a hundred of them. Says they’re drilled. Says they’ve got a fortified place on Milbourne Avenue …” Noel’s words trailed off uncertainly.
In the silence, Boru breathed heavily.
“There are no enemies of the king this close to College Green!” he screamed suddenly, his voice rising to fill the room.
Ciaran flinched at the noise.
“They’re rats! Fucking rats, that’s all!”
“Rats, Majesty,” Noel echoed. “As you say.”
“Get out of here!”
Ciaran watched Noel’s mismatched bootlaces retreat from the narrow field of his vision. He listened as Boru paced the floor, grunting and muttering.
Ciaran’s shoulders ached, the right one worse than before. The muscles in his thighs burned from holding his position, and his stomach growled. Couldn’t remember the last thing he’d had in his mouth that wasn’t cock.
Suddenly Ciaran was wrenched back up onto his knees and the blindfold was pulled off. Ciaran squinted in the light.
“What do you say, Boy?”
Ciaran blinked up at Boru and moistened his lips. His voice grated in his raw throat. “There could be no enemies so close to your court, my king.”
He hoped it was a lie. He hoped that Noel was right, and the group in Drumcondra was trying to entice the king’s men to attack. He hoped the group in Drumcondra slaughtered them.
“There cannot,” Boru said, his expression softening. “Clever boy.”
Ciaran lowered his head as Boru stroked his hair. He thought of Darragh’s touch instead, so tentative.
“Come to bed, clever boy.” Boru helped him to his feet.
Ciaran padded over to the bed, relieved and gratified when Boru untied his arms. He swallowed down a moan of pain as the circulation returned to his fingers.
He thought Boru would have his ravaged arse, then, after all the time he’d spent petting it and prodding it and showing it off, but once they were in bed, the king drew Ciaran’s head to his lap, instead. Well, that was fine. That was all right. His jaw still hurt, but much less than his hole did.
But Boru didn’t want a suck; he just cradled Ciaran’s head in his lap and stroked his hair, like he would a favourite cat.
“My beautiful, clever Boy,” he said to himself, fingers stroking and petting and stroking, half-lulling Ciaran to sleep. “Sometimes I think you’re the only loyal one left.”
Now there was a dangerous thought, one that could never be taken back once spoken aloud, especially not when it had left the lips of a petty tyrant like Boru.
“I will always be loyal to you,” Ciaran replied.
“You’re loyal to my cock, you little slut.” Ciaran winced, expecting a blow, but it never came. Boru just laughed, no trace of temper in his words. He seemed strangely peaceful. The eye of the storm, maybe, before he rained down hell on his enemies—real and imagined alike. “Maybe I did a bad thing, then, introducing you to that big culchie.” His hand on Ciaran’s hair became ever so slightly tighter.
“No, Highness. You would never. You could never. Everything you do is right and just.” He swallowed. “I’ll never stray. I love you.”
A gamble to say such a loaded, powerful thing to such a changing, untrustworthy man, but it was the last card Ciaran had to play. He shuddered.
Whore.
Slut.
Cunt.
Nothing that Boru had ever called him had made him feel as vile, as filthy, as uttering those words did. He hated himself. He hated the scared, twisted, fucked-up thing that Boru had turned him into. Oh, but all his wild thoughts of standing up for himself, of refusing to be cowed again, of clutching at some remaining shred of dignity—all those thoughts vanished the second Boru turned his attention to him. Because, beneath everything, he was so afraid to hurt. So afraid to die in agony.
“I love you,” he whispered again, raising his eyes hopefully to his king.
Boru smiled. “Of course you do, my pet. Of course you do.” He reached across the bed for a discarded dinner tray and lifted the lid. Plucked something from among the tray’s contents and lowered it daintily to Ciaran’s lips. Dried apple. Its sweet, fermented perfume took over Ciaran’s senses as he accepted the gift and chewed, forcing down the urge to groan with pleasure and scarf down this morsel and beg for more. Better not to let on just how hungry he was. Just how much he wanted it. He never wanted to give the king that power. He’d rather starve.
But he didn’t starve. More dried apple reached his lips. Almonds. Tiny shreds of beef jerky. All of it good, if preserved; even the king himself was not so extravagant as to waste fresh food on a slave, even the one who warmed his bed.
Even the one who said he loved him.
Darragh didn’t sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Ciaran on his hands and knees, his spine bowed, his body shaking. He saw blood. Darragh hadn’t meant for that to happen. He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen, but especially the blood. He’d hurt him. The king’s hostage, who couldn’t be happy here, not for all the gold in Dublin. The beautiful man who cried over forgotten books in a decaying library, who’d told Darragh to forget his name. Except, of course, now he never, ever could.
His first time and he’d been a monster. That was the sort of stain that Darragh knew he would never be able to c
lean. Because it didn’t matter how guilty he felt or how both their safeties had depended on it. A part of him had liked it, liked the tightness and heat of Ciaran’s hole clenched around his cock. Liked the small, soft grunts that every one of his thrusts drew out of Ciaran. Liked the feel of Ciaran’s smaller body underneath him. That part of him wouldn’t have stopped even if he’d been allowed.
That part of him was beyond redemption.
Afterwards, when Ciaran had limped away behind Boru with his head bowed, Darragh had gone outside. He’d leaned against a dark stone wall, filled his lungs with cold air, and then vomited.
When he was done, when his clenching guts couldn’t bring up anything else, he’d crept back inside to the room he shared with a few of the others and climbed onto his narrow cot.
He hadn’t slept.
Then, at dawn, Michael shook him on the shoulder. “Culchie. Wake up, man. We’re goin’ on a raid.”
Less than ten minutes later he was climbing into the back of a van. Not the same one that had brought him to the king’s court. This one was a delivery van, with a bakery sign on the side. Darragh piled in with nine others. He recognised Noel from the day before, and Seamus was driving. Michael stood beside him, but the others were strangers. Someone pressed a worn, old hurley into Darragh’s cold hands.
“Right,” Noel said, as the van started up. “We’re going to Milbourne Avenue to clear out the nest of rats that’s been holed up there, lighting fires.”
A few of the men murmured some discontent.
Noel held up his hand. “Just rats, boys, just rats.”
Darragh glanced at Michael, sure he was missing something. Michael’s face was drawn with worry.
“Ten of us,” one of the men muttered. “Is he fucking serious?”
“Shut your mouth,” Noel said, but he said it without anger.
“And only the one fucking gun between us? He’s got a whole fucking stockpile, doesn’t he? Isn’t that what half the fucking slaves are traded for? What the hell’s he saving them for, the apocalypse? Doesn’t he know it’s already happened?”
