King of Dublin

by Lisa Henry

  Darragh had thought Ciaran beautiful from that very first moment he’d emerged from the shadows dripping in gold. But before now, he’d been beautiful only in a sad way, like ruins, like fraying yellowed lace, like tarnished silver. He’d been soiled, a pale shadow of what he must once have been.

  Not now.

  Now, he glittered—not the gold at his throat and wrists from the flickering lamplight, but an inner light that coursed through him, filling his eyes from within. Life returned to him as his palm swept down the nape of Darragh’s neck and gathered him in for another kiss.

  Even if they did nothing else here, the kiss would be enough. Darragh had never kissed anyone before, not beyond a cautious peck on the lips with Maeve when they’d been children, before he’d understood what he was and what he wanted. Ciaran was what he wanted.

  Bad. He groaned into Ciaran’s soft mouth, hips lifting of their own accord under the sweet weight of Ciaran’s body. Ciaran made a noise that was almost like a huff of laughter and rubbed himself against Darragh, wrapping his arms around Darragh’s neck.

  “Been so long,” he whispered in Darragh’s ear, his breath hot.

  For a moment Darragh didn’t understand. He turned his head and caught Ciaran’s mouth against his own again. So long since he’d kissed, maybe. So long since he’d been willing. In a different place, what must he have been like? Carefree, Darragh thought. Smiling in the sunlight. As golden as he was now.

  Inside his worn workman’s trousers, Darragh’s cock thickened, following the curve of Ciaran’s arse as he eagerly rubbed and ground. He couldn’t help but remember the sensation of that hole clenching around him, so tight and hot and—

  Unwilling. Bleeding.

  “No,” he said, gripping Ciaran’s shoulders and forcing him still. “This is wrong. I hurt you.”

  Tears. Like jewels, the king had said. It had frightened him.

  Ciaran groaned in frustration, twisting against Darragh’s grip. “You won’t. Not this time. It doesn’t have to hurt, Darragh.”

  Darragh frowned. “Maybe not this time, but I did. Hurt you. Before.” He remembered it so clearly, it was like being stabbed in the throat. Ciaran crying and squirming, his breath coming in laboured pants. His body writhing in a sick parody of pleasure. “I don’t deserve—”

  “Shut up! Shut up, damn you. I want this, damn it. I want this, and I need you to trust me.” Ciaran’s small fist pounded Darragh’s chest, barely missing the half-healed wound hidden under his bloodied shirt. The wound that promised loyalty to the king of Dublin. “I know what I want. I know what my body can take. What the hell would you know about it? You were a fucking virgin until last night.”

  Darragh had nothing to say to that. He’d only been trying to protect Ciaran, but it seemed he’d just caused fresh hurt instead.

  Ciaran’s head fell, and it was easy for Darragh to gather him in until his forehead rested on Darragh’s shoulder. Darragh petted his furiously trembling shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” Ciaran mumbled. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You must think I’m so … so … dirty,” he whispered at last. “I’m as bad as the king, forcing you.”

  Darragh’s heart turned to ice in his chest, and he pushed Ciaran back, nearly off his lap altogether. “Never,” he growled. “Never.”

  Never again, my beautiful young man.

  He frowned, searching for the right words. “You are what I want, but not here. Not with tears. Not with hate.”

  Ciaran shook his head, a curious smile coming to his lips. “I hadn’t planned on either of those things. Lie down.”

  A little stunned by the change in Ciaran’s face, Darragh did, slowly lowering himself onto his back on a bed of scattered old books. Ciaran came down with him, straddling his body and kissing him hard. On the lips, at first, and then his jaw, the softness of him scraping up the rough growth of beard on Darragh’s skin.

  Kisses on his neck now, hot and wet, making his blood stir and his body arch. Hands cupping and squeezing his pecs, finding the hardened shapes of his nipples under his shirt. He’d never been touched there before, hadn’t even touched himself there, not like this, but it felt good, so good. He whined with pleasure and Ciaran chuckled in reply, nipping Darragh’s muscle through the fabric of his shirt.

  Ciaran’s teeth and hands stilled, and when Darragh looked down his body, he saw Ciaran lying there, gazing back up. “Here and now is all we have, Darragh. I’m sorry. I can’t wait until things are different because they’re not going to change.”

  They’re not going to get better. I’m never going home.

  Darragh struggled not to throw Ciaran off for saying that. Even if it was true, it wasn’t Ciaran’s fault. And if it was true, if all they had was now, then Ciaran was right. He could take what the moment offered, and at least that was something. Even if he never saw Ciaran in the sunlight, it was something.

  The corner of a book dug into his spine, and Darragh wriggled. Ciaran slid down his body, into the space that opened up between his legs. He tugged at Darragh’s trousers, grinned at the noise that escaped Darragh, and raised a finger to his lips. “Quiet as mice, Darragh.”

  The expression made Darragh want to laugh. It was the sort of thing you said to children playing hide-and-seek. Strange and perverse that he was thinking such things while his cock was still so aching hard. It almost helped, though, to imagine this as a game. To forget the danger and the horror of this place, just for a little while.

  And it was oh so easy to forget when Ciaran slunk down the rest of his body and pressed the side of his face to the line of Darragh’s erection through his clothes. “Oh,” he murmured. His trousers felt oppressively tight. He bucked his hips.

  “You want this?” Ciaran asked sweetly, his smile sexy and teasing. “My mouth on your big cock? I do.” He licked his lips, nimble hands moving to the fly of Darragh’s trousers.

  Darragh had the sudden memory of Ciaran on his knees at Darragh’s feet, hands at his sides, gagging and crying as his mouth stretched around Darragh’s horrible thickness. “No …” he whispered.

  Ciaran kissed the fabric stretched over the straining head of Darragh’s cock. “Shhh. Forget before. This will be different, promise.” He unzipped Darragh’s fly and stripped his trousers down his thighs, then stood and did away with his own, stepping right out of them so that he was completely naked. Darragh had seen him naked before, but not like this with his curved, pink cock hard and leaking at the slit. It made Darragh’s mouth water.

  “I want …” Darragh said, his voice hoarse.

  Ciaran smiled. “Yes. Both of us, yes?”

  Darragh nodded wordlessly, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. He watched as Ciaran wrapped a fist around his own cock and gave himself a slow stroke. Darragh wanted to touch that cock, wanted to feel it in his hands, even taste it, maybe take it inside him somehow. He reached up with his arms, opening them, welcoming Ciaran against him.

  Ciaran lowered himself to his knees again, straddling Darragh’s body. Kissed Darragh again, a slow lingering kiss with a teasing tongue.

  “Please,” Darragh moaned into his mouth, arching his body, desperate for contact, for pressure against his cock.

  Ciaran’s hand wrapped around his shaft, giving him a rough tug before those fingers worked backwards to roll and cage his balls. Darragh grunted. “So sensitive,” Ciaran praised. “Making it hard for me to keep on teasing you. Oh well. I’m impatient, too.” And with that, he winked, and suddenly he was shifting around, turning his beautiful body so that his cock and balls hung tantalisingly over Darragh’s face. In that moment Darragh understood what he’d meant by both of us, especially when Ciaran dipped his head and wrapped his wet lips around the crown of Darragh’s cock.

  The sensation was so much better than before. So much better, so much wetter, so much tighter and more playful. Darragh lifted his head, trying to see between Ciaran’s thighs, but found himself nudged by Ciaran’s balls instead. Wordl
ess, slurping, Ciaran dipped his hips in entreaty.

  Both of us. Do for Ciaran what he was currently doing for Darragh.

  Yes, he could do that. He stretched out his tongue, lapping at the salty head of Ciaran’s hanging prick. The taste was strange. He wrapped a hand around the shaft and pointed it down to his mouth so he could suckle it.

  Ciaran’s fingernails dug down into Darragh’s thighs, and he pulled away from Darragh’s cock just long enough to groan, “Oh yes, just like that, yes …” before dipping his head down again.

  Darragh was breathless with need. Ciaran’s mouth was so hot, his tongue so clever. Darragh tried to reciprocate, sure he was clumsy and messy in comparison. He lifted his head and, absurdly, couldn’t shake the image of a calf frantically suckling a cow. He tried not to snort.

  Ciaran moved above him, and Darragh marvelled at his strength. He was small, so slender, but he was the one doing all the work: bracing himself, bobbing up and down, his body undulating as he sucked so deeply and rocked his hips so gently. Gently, as if Darragh were the fragile one. Darragh let go of Ciaran’s cock, keeping the tip of it between his lips, and reached up for his narrow hips. He gripped them firmly and pulled Ciaran closer.

  Felt Ciaran’s surprised grunt around his cock as much as heard it.

  It was good. Not just the receiving, but the giving as well. Felt better than good. This was like nothing Darragh had ever experienced. Ciaran’s cock dipped deep into his mouth, and he held tight against Ciaran’s hips to keep him there. He massaged Ciaran’s thighs, hands wandering inward to knead his round arse. He couldn’t help but spread Ciaran’s cheeks to steal a glance at his tight hole, which may have been pink once but was now a ragged red and scarred from frequent abuse.

  Darragh shut his eyes again, tried desperately to learn Ciaran’s rhythm. Tried to do the same things with his lips and tongue that Ciaran did, but it was too much too process. Just sensation piled on sensation, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

  Is it good? Does he like it? He couldn’t tell if the noises Ciaran made were appreciative or surprised. Darragh sucked harder, his jaw aching, needing to give as good as he got.

  Nothing existed outside this moment. Not the cold library, not Dublin, and not its king. Only Ciaran, and the way he moved, and the sounds he made as they rushed together towards completion.

  It was over as fast as it began. Ciaran let out a high, strangled cry, mouth releasing Darragh’s cock head, and his hips snapped forwards. Darragh began to gag on the movement, his mouth flooded with hot, bitter cum. He swallowed some, coughed and spat some out, and before he could even catch his breath Ciaran had dived back down onto Darragh’s cock and then he was coming as well, hard and fast.

  He lay gasping for breath on the floor.

  Ciaran spun around, graceful as a cat, and straddled his thighs. “Messy,” he chided with a smile.

  Darragh raised his hand to wipe his mouth.

  “No,” Ciaran said. He leaned forwards, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and pressed his fingers to Darragh’s lips. He gently wiped his cum from Darragh’s mouth and chin, his gaze intent. Darragh’s whole body tingled and prickled with something bordering desire and shame.

  “I should go,” he said, trying to push Ciaran away from him. “We should not have— The king—”

  Ciaran shrank back, falling naked and sprawling to the floor. “Of course. Right. Yes. I should get back where I belong.”

  Darragh opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  Ciaran’s lips hardened into a thin line. His eyes blazed for a second, then he turned and reached for his trousers.

  “Ciaran?”

  Ciaran stood, not facing him. “Don’t say my name!” His shoulders sagged. “It’s dangerous, I mean.”

  Darragh slowly climbed to his feet and fastened his fly.

  “If the king finds out I trusted you enough to tell you, then … then …” He pulled his trousers on and turned around again. He crossed his arms over his slender chest, his gold armbands gleaming. All the signs of his strange, fleeting temper had vanished. “Be careful.”

  He reached down and picked up the book. Clutching it against his chest, he hurried away, and Darragh couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that, somehow, without intending it, he’d managed to hurt Ciaran in an entirely new way.

  When he was eight, Ciaran had had a dog. A stupid dog. He’d thrown a ball for it once, and every time he raised his arm afterwards, the dog would go rushing off, whether Ciaran had actually thrown something or not. “Why do you torment the poor creature?” his father had chided him. “Don’t tease it.” Stupid dog had looked confused for a while, then disappointed, then plain sad, like it didn’t know what had gone wrong. Which was pretty much how Darragh had been looking at Ciaran since the library.

  “Why do you torment the poor creature?” Ciaran whispered to himself. Stupid dog, dumb culchie. Same thing.

  “What’d you say, Boy?”

  Ciaran raised his head. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

  Boru smiled dangerously. “No, if my Boy has something to say, then he can say it to everyone.”

  Ciaran glanced around the court. Men filled every seat along the table, and Boru was perched on the Woolsack, brandishing his sceptre like a weapon and staring down at him.

  Shit. It was dangerous to get lost in his thoughts. Everything about this thing with Darragh was dangerous. Darragh, most of all.

  “I—” Usually words came easily to him; they were the only reason he was still alive. The more empty the flattery, the better it flowed. Today, nothing. “I—”

  Someone laughed. “Boy’s got a stutter!”

  Boru laughed as well, and reached down to tousle Ciaran’s hair. Ciaran leaned into the affectionate gesture, bowed his head gratefully, and risked a glimpse around the room. Saw Darragh standing at Noel’s side, not smiling.

  Laugh, damn you. Laugh or he’ll know. Pretending you don’t understand won’t save you.

  Boru had a way of seeing secrets. Maybe it was because he saw conspiracies in everything, because he was ruled by his paranoia. He’d accused Ciaran once before of infidelity—as though it were a commitment that bound them, not a chain. The suspicion had been groundless, but Ciaran had paid for it regardless. If it were real … he’d be dead. Tortured to death like one of Boru’s enemies.

  Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad at this point, but Ciaran was a coward, afraid of the pain that he’d have to suffer first. He’d watched Boru cut out tongues, eyes, and tear men limb from limb by tying their ankles and wrists to the tailgates of lorries. A betrayal from his treasured pet … well, Boru would outdo himself. And subjected to that torture, Ciaran would surely reveal the name of the man who’d tempted him away. That was, if Boru didn’t sniff out Darragh on his own.

  Either way, Darragh would die, too. Both of them, left on pikes at the edge of the king’s territory like all the others the king had executed.

  Darragh laughed, and Ciaran breathed a sigh of relief.

  Boru’s eyes narrowed. He twisted his fingers in Ciaran’s hair and tugged Ciaran’s head to his lap. Ciaran rested a cheek against the king’s thigh, trying to relax, trying to just close his eyes. The men would make their reports now. About the various smaller factions in the city and whether they posed a threat. About the supply levels in the king’s vaults. About recent or upcoming trades of weapons and flesh and food. They’d argue. And then Boru would hand down his judgements, like a king of old, dealing death or reward as he saw fit.

  Ciaran wasn’t sure how Boru had come by his name. He likely hadn’t been born with the name of one of Ireland’s old high kings, but to have chosen it for himself? Certainly he had no real knowledge of history, although he loved to surround himself with historical artefacts. Using the past to justify his own power, a tyrant through and through, from the seat he occupied and the sceptre he carried, to the name he’d taken, right down to the gold he dressed his favourite slave in. Ciaran touched the gold cuffs at his
wrists surreptitiously, then swept his hand up to feel the edges of the one around his biceps. Priceless artefacts plundered from the national museum, and now they were nothing but a symbol of Ciaran’s subjugation. Ireland herself, just a toy for Boru to play with and abuse.

  He thought he was a king, but he was nothing but a usurper.

  Ciaran had told him so, the first day.

  “This food is for the people, not for your thugs. You’re no king.”

  Maybe it was his arrogance that had saved him, or condemned him. Maybe if he hadn’t spoken up, the king would have just killed him rather than sparing him that crucial extra second.

  The second it had taken Boru to demand, “And what’s your name?”

  “C-Ciaran.” Trying so hard to hold on to his courage. “Ciaran Daly.”

  It had been a mistake to tell him that, to assume that Boru wouldn’t recognise it. Or, if he did, that he would be in any way impressed.

  “That’s not your name anymore, cunt. Your name’s Boy.”

  Until Darragh, the last time Ciaran had heard his own name, Danny had been screaming it, and all he’d been able to think was how he didn’t want Danny to watch as Boru raped him. Now, Danny was dead, and Boy was well used to having an audience.

  There was power in words, and even more in names. Sharing his with Darragh had given it life again. Had made Ciaran stronger and made Boy shrink away just a little. It was a precious, secret word, and he’d shared with Darragh because Darragh was from Cork-without-a-king. Maybe one day Ciaran could be without a king, too.

  Ciaran shifted slightly, trying to ease his aching knees.

  What had he expected from Darragh in return? Of course he was fearful of discovery—so was Ciaran. He didn’t really know what he’d wanted or why he’d been angry when Darragh had pushed him away.

  Because he was supposed to be better than that.

  Well, that was a fool’s hope. It was enough that Darragh was better than every other man in the king’s court. And he was, even though he was afraid, and said the wrong things, and kept looking at Ciaran mournfully. He wasn’t anything close to perfect, but that didn’t matter. He was still the best thing in Ciaran’s life in a long time. The most hopeful thing. Ciaran intended to hold on to that hope for as long as he could.