King of Dublin

by Lisa Henry

  Fuck.

  He cried out in surprise, hips arching off the floor. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected Darragh to concern himself at all with Ciaran’s pleasure. He’d expected Darragh to be courteous, sure, and gentle—maybe even timid—but he still expected to be turned over and fucked like the obedient little whore he was. But Darragh didn’t even undress himself, just threw himself wholeheartedly into sucking and licking at Ciaran’s quite suddenly hard cock.

  Ciaran moaned and closed his eyes. “Jesus, Darragh …”

  Darragh moaned as well, and Ciaran gasped at the sensation of the vibrations running through him.

  “Wait,” Ciaran managed. “Wait. I want you inside me when I come.”

  Darragh lifted his head. “You sure?”

  Fuck yes. Ciaran nodded. Much more of this, and he’d be the one unconscious on the floor instead of Darragh. “Get undressed. I want to see your body.” Which, he really did, especially now that Darragh had awoken this hunger in him, but also because if Darragh fell asleep naked, it would buy Ciaran a sliver more time.

  Darragh rose to his feet slowly, and Ciaran saw that his hands were trembling. Was he shy? Was that even possible? Inexperienced maybe, but surely he knew he had nothing to be shy about. Nothing at all.

  It had been a long time since Ciaran had watched a man undress with anything approaching an appetite. But as Darragh shrugged his jacket off and then lifted his shirt over his head, Ciaran couldn’t pretend that the sudden flicker of spiralling heat in his gut was anything but want. The man was huge, barrel-chested and muscular but with a trim waist and the lightest scattering of brown hair at the centre of his chest and below his navel. The fresh narrow scar across his heart reminded Ciaran of exactly how naive and dangerous the man could be. He had a flowering brown-and-yellow bruise on his ribs as well. From Boru’s Sacrificial Games. But those marks couldn’t take away from the fact that he was a strong, handsome man. More fucking virile than any specimen Ciaran had gotten on his hands and knees for in Dublin. Exactly the sort of man who would have caught Ciaran’s attention when he’d been free.

  He sat up to get a better view.

  Darragh knelt down to take his boots off, then stood again. He looked almost hesitantly at Ciaran, and hooked his fingers over the waistband of his trousers. Tugged.

  Good God his cock was huge. Ciaran felt himself blushing just looking at it, that thick, veiny length that he could barely get a hand around. His hole clenched, and his nipples tightened under the fabric of his shirt. He shuddered with a sudden chill.

  Darragh lowered his eyes, taking himself in hand. “I never felt abnormal, before. I never knew any different. I wouldn’t have been afraid to … love you, before. But the king … he made me feel like a beast. I still do.”

  Love? Guilt clawed at Ciaran again. This wasn’t love. He forced a smile. “You’re not abnormal. You’re not a beast. You know what it is, Darragh? You’ve a big build anyway, and those small, skinny fuckers in Dublin are malnourished.”

  “You’re small,” Darragh said hesitantly.

  “Yeah, but I ate all my vegetables. I’ve only got genetics to blame.”

  Darragh smiled, his shoulders sagging with relief. “I like how small you are. I would say you would thank them, so, instead of blaming.”

  “You wouldn’t, if you were always getting the shite kicked out of you on the playground. By girls.” Ciaran liked the sound of Darragh’s laugh, so free from malice. “Come down here. You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

  Darragh hesitantly lowered himself to his knees and crawled up between Ciaran’s legs, still clutching the lube in one fist.

  “There he is,” Ciaran murmured, raising both bound hands and cupping Darragh’s face between them. He kissed Darragh gently. “Put some of that on your fingers. I’ll show you what to do.”

  He laid back, then, and spread his legs wide, using his hands to pull his cock and balls up and out of Darragh’s way. He watched, with more arousal than he was rightly allowed to feel, as Darragh fumbled with the tube and squeezed a generous glob.

  “That’s it.” Ciaran praised him in a soft, sultry voice, eyelids low. “Now come and touch me between the legs with it.”

  “T-touch you?”

  Ciaran nodded, spread his legs a little wider. “It’ll make me slippery. Then it won’t hurt.” He shivered as Darragh touched him, and then, before Darragh could draw back again, he added, “It’s just a little cold is all. Push your finger inside.”

  Darragh didn’t, at first. Just massaged his fingers in slow, curious circles, gently skirting the edges of Ciaran’s closed hole. Ciaran moaned softly in encouragement, lifting his hips in entreaty.

  Finally, one of Darragh’s lube-slick fingers slipped inside him. Ciaran sighed, concentrating on the pleasure and refusing to be sidetracked by that tiny, panicked voice in the corner of his mind that would always equate this with a violation. That voice was there every time, but Ciaran had learned to ignore it. Learned to play nice. And it wasn’t fair that he didn’t like this, couldn’t like this, because it did feel good. How could he like a thing and hate it at the same time?

  “That’s it,” he murmured. “Put another in. Keep moving, keep stretching me.”

  Darragh obeyed, wide-eyed. “It doesn’t hurt?” he asked.

  “Not at all. Feels good. I can feel your fingers stroking me.”

  His words earned him a blush. Darragh stared down, focused on what he was doing, concentrating hard even as that bright red crept across his face and neck. “How do you know when you’re ready?”

  “You just know.” Ciaran smiled. His cock hardened underneath his hands. “Almost there.”

  A third finger slipped inside him. The stretch was good, barely painful at all, and then quite by accident one of Darragh’s fingertips brushed his prostate, and he cried out.

  “Oh!” Darragh said, withdrawing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His lip wobbled. “I’m a big, clumsy—”

  Ciaran laughed and shook his head. “No, it was a good thing, I promise! Really!” He shifted his hands, revealing the leftward curve of his erection. He wasn’t used to seeing himself this way; it gave him a hot thrill. “Look how hard you made me.”

  Darragh didn’t look convinced.

  “Lie down, Darragh,” Ciaran said, sitting up awkwardly. “I want to try something different. Something special for you.”

  “I don’t deserve it,” Darragh protested, but laid back anyway, uneasily at first but soon settling. He folded one arm behind his head as a pillow. “Like this?”

  “Just like that. Yes.” Ciaran found himself blushing too, looking at that big, beautiful body stretched out before him. All for him, including that thick cock pointing to the ceiling of their shelter. Propping himself up unsteadily on his tied hands, he crawled forwards, slinking up Darragh’s body until he was straddling that big prick, feeling it nestled up the curve of his arse. “This way you can watch me. Do you like that idea?”

  Darragh nodded. “You’re so beautiful. The first time I saw you—”

  Ciaran used both hands to cover his mouth, cutting off the pillow talk before it made his heart break the rest of the way. He gave Darragh what he hoped was a twinkling, mischievous smile. “And I’ll be in control of how deep and fast we go, too, so you know you won’t hurt me.”

  “Deep,” Darragh said into his palms, transfixed. “Fast.”

  “Yes,” Ciaran purred. “Deep and fast. And tight, Darragh.” He bit his lip. “So tight for you.”

  Darragh’s eyes widened. His breath was hot against Ciaran’s palms.

  “Put some lube on your cock,” Ciaran said. “Then keep it straight, just until it’s in.” He flashed Darragh a grin. “I’d love to do it myself, but you know the saying—my hands are tied.” He held them up in illustration.

  Darragh responded so well to his stupid jokes. They soothed his nerves. They opened him up. He even managed a grin as he lubed himself up, Ciaran leaning forwards over him to allow h
im some room. Close enough for a kiss, which Ciaran took. Soft. Sweet. Eager.

  “Ready?” Ciaran whispered, and Darragh made an answering sound of assent. “Hold it still for me.”

  Ciaran kissed him again and shifted back, wondering how the hell he was going to keep this smile on his face when he knew exactly how big Darragh’s cock was, and how it felt inside him. Not that he couldn’t take it, and not that he couldn’t fuck himself to an orgasm on it, but it would take some effort, and there would be pain first. And there was no way that Darragh would want to keep going if he saw there was pain. He had to hide it, had to force his way through it. He held his breath as he felt the head of Darragh’s cock pressing against his entrance, splayed his bound hands against Darragh’s chest, and slowly eased himself down.

  He needn’t have worried, after all; Darragh couldn’t have seen any expression of pain on his face because as soon as Ciaran began to open up around him, Darragh tossed his head back with a loud groan, shouting, “Christ!”

  Good. Ciaran gritted his teeth and pushed past the initial sting. The fullness, the pressure, he could manage. Just as soon as he took the whole thing …

  His breath shuddered out of him. His erection flagged. Darragh was fucking big. Not the brute animal Boru had styled him as, no, but big just the same.

  “So good,” Ciaran whispered, willing himself to believe it. The pain eased, and Ciaran relaxed. “So good.” This time he did believe it. That big cock inside him seemed to fill every inch, stretched him so wide, stroked him and flooded him with almost unbearable pleasure. What a difference lubrication and willingness and preparation made. He moaned softly, just resting, too overwhelmed yet to even consider moving. And anyway, did he really need to when sitting still felt so amazingly good?

  Darragh’s hands closed over his. “Ciaran … Ciaran …”

  Ciaran stared down at him, breathing heavily. It was hard work, taking a length like this.

  “Can you … can you move?”

  “I …” He had to do it. Please Darragh. Give him pleasure. He had to. There was no choice. This was what he was … no. No, this wasn’t what he was for, it was what he’d chosen. Even if it was for the wrong reasons, he had chosen.

  Darragh’s face was a twisted mask of pleasured torture. His fingers tightened around Ciaran’s, but other than that he didn’t move. Fucking amazing. A man of his strength … and he was using it all to force himself into stillness. He could easily grip Ciaran by the hips and force him to move, or simply roll him onto the floor and set his own pace, but he didn’t. Because he’d fucking promised.

  “Yes,” Ciaran said. He raised himself up. Relief washed over him as Darragh’s cock nearly withdrew. And then he drove himself down again. It didn’t sting as much this time, but he still cried out, fingernails digging into the skin of Darragh’s hard chest. “Oh—yes, yes!” He rolled and circled his hips, letting Darragh’s rigid length shift and stroke inside him. And at last, the curve of it rubbed his prostate, flooding him with pleasure.

  “Ciaran …” Darragh moaned. His hands rubbed Ciaran’s hips and waist, rubbed and stroked but didn’t lift him or shove him down, like he clearly craved.

  Darragh wasn’t going to last. For once, that seemed like a bad thing. Ciaran arched his back. “Touch my cock.”

  Something he never would have dared to ask of any man back in Dublin, even those who didn’t actively brutalise him. But he wanted it now. Wanted it from Darragh. He gasped as Darragh’s big hand found his cock and wrapped around it. He clenched as well, and Darragh cried out. The pain vanished entirely. Ciaran rode Darragh furiously then, finding a rhythm and then losing it again as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside him and pushed him closer to the edge.

  So close. So close. He loved Darragh’s hand on him, jerking his cock, and the other cradling his hip. So tender and loving. So gentle. He didn’t deserve this. Darragh’s wondering eyes locked on him, watching him as he rode. Darragh’s mouth, grimacing with pleasure. Too much pleasure. Ciaran knew that feeling, knew it so well as Darragh speared up into him, pounding his prostate.

  “Darragh!” he shouted, and he came, clenching so tightly around Darragh’s cock that Darragh cried out and came as well, pumping him full of hot, wet cum. Ciaran fell forwards, and Darragh’s arms wrapped around him. He lay against Darragh’s broad chest, shivering, twitching. His heart thumping loudly in counterpoint to Darragh’s.

  Darragh shifted at last, letting his softened cock slip free of Ciaran’s body and easing Ciaran onto the floor. He reached over him and dragged the sleeping bag closer, unzipping it and shaking it out. He bundled it over Ciaran, then shoved his own folded jacket under Ciaran’s head.

  “No,” Ciaran murmured. “I need to put my pants on. Floor’s cold.”

  Still naked, Darragh retrieved Ciaran’s pants and helped him draw them up. He pulled his own on, as well, and grabbed the pack to use as his pillow. He slipped under the sleeping bag with Ciaran. For a moment Ciaran was tempted to shift closer to him, to forget his whole terrible plan and snuggle together and sleep, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Couldn’t waste this chance.

  “Thank you,” Darragh said, eyes already slipping closed. “Thank you, thank you, Ciaran.” His hand swept over Ciaran’s clothed chest, up his throat to touch his chin and turn his face. Darragh kissed him then, chaste and sweet. Ciaran’s heart squeezed. “Oh, Ciaran,” Darragh said, and then his voice slipped into soft, sleepy Gaeilge. Words Ciaran didn’t understand but that were kind and musical and hypnotic all the same. He wondered what Darragh was using them to confess. Maybe nothing at all.

  “Sleep well,” Ciaran whispered, and Darragh answered him with a smile.

  Ciaran lay there, fighting the urge to sleep, to sink into the warmth and safety of Darragh’s arms and body.

  Twenty minutes later he slipped out from under the sleeping bag, struggled into his unlaced boots, and crept away without a word of good-bye to the strange, unknowable man still sleeping there on the floor, as carefree as if he were truly loved.

  And ran.

  Thirteen months ago

  “Niall O’Connor is a dangerous man who means to upset our delicate relations with the government here,” Ciaran’s father said. “Former IRA. And don’t think I don’t know the sort of friends you’re keeping, either.”

  “He’s an elected member of the Dáil, the same as you,” Ciaran said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his father. “And he has as much right to speak as any other man.”

  “He surrounds himself with radicals, and so do you. What’s that fellow’s name? The one from your university?”

  “You mean Danny?” Ciaran prodded the yolk of his egg with his fork, then smirked as inspiration came over him. “Or maybe Ryan. I’ve got so many radical friends nowadays that it’s hard to keep track.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, boy.”

  “I’m not a boy, and I’ll take whatever tone I please.” Ciaran stood up and shoved his unfinished breakfast plate away. “I’m going out.”

  “Ciaran …”

  Ciaran ignored him. That pleading note only ever crept into his father’s voice when he was trying to pile on the guilt. Guilt for not getting better marks at school, guilt for not playing nice at some function where they were supposed to be begging like dogs for aid from the nations that still had wealth to spare. But especially guilt for daring to have different ideas, and different friends. Ciaran’s father was a coward and Ciaran wasn’t, and that was all there was to it.

  Ciaran didn’t bother to take his jacket. It was warm enough outside. Besides, Danny would be waiting down the end of the street, like always, smoking those foul-smelling cigarettes that came from somewhere in Eastern Europe and staring down the Northern Paramilitary officers who guarded the street.

  This row of modest terrace houses in Belfast was all that remained of the Irish Dáil—no proper meeting place, no pomp and circumstance, but most importantly, no real power. The houses had been a
“gift” of goodwill from the government of Northern Ireland, who refused to contribute any meaningful form of aid to the Republic. Although Ciaran’s father said it was for the best, anyway, because any real action from Northern Ireland or the United Kingdom—especially the military action needed to reclaim and return order to the abandoned nation—would come at a terrible cost. Anarchy and sovereignty, or order and occupation? An unpalatable choice. That was how Ciaran’s father justified these years of inaction.

  But that was ignoring the third option. Niall O’Connor’s third option. Ireland taken back by the Irish. Which would require cowards like Ciaran’s father to give up their powerless but sheltered existence. Just a bunch of politicians in exile, pretending they still had a country to govern, bowing and scraping to the governments that did. A waste of space, all of them, Ciaran’s father included. Ciaran’s father especially.

  Not Niall O’Connor, though. Since when was a man considered radical just because he wanted to do the job he’d been elected to do? To govern Ireland, he said, meant to return to Ireland. No easy task, but a necessary one. Why the hell was that such a dangerous idea?

  Ciaran snorted.

  The Dáil, and most of the people elected to it, had grown complacent in the North. Content to play their little power games on a nondescript Belfast street, content to bury their heads in the sand and ignore their own people who’d been practically imprisoned in the camps, and those left in Ireland living without basic infrastructure or law. Politicians like Niall O’Connor were labelled dangerous firebrands, but wasn’t complacency more dangerous? Ciaran thought so.

  He slipped past the barricade at the end of the street.

  Danny was waiting, hunched over in his hoodie, his hands jammed in his pockets. He turned away as Ciaran approached, and they fell into step together. No destination yet, just walking. Getting out of earshot of the police, that was always the first priority.