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A lot changes, in the weeks following their assault on Nebakov. For a start, Henry finds himself fighting alongside Žižka and his band of miscreants, rather than against them. He meets the Dry Devil, Hynek of Kunstadt and Jaispitz, a Moravian nobleman turned robber baron and quite possibly the most aptly-named reprobate Henry’s ever had the dubious pleasure of acquaintance with. The rest of Hynek’s band are as bad as he is; mercenaries, villains and drunkards to a man. Henry hasn’t felt so at home – so amongst friends – since the sacking of Skalitz.
In his cups one night at the tavern, the sounds of Janosh and Adder caterwauling their way through some shared drinking song in incomprehensible Polish and only marginally less so Hungarian, Henry nurses his tankard of ale and looks around at the lot of them. Žižka, the Devil and Katherine, holding some private council on a far table; Kubyenka and Godwin, absorbed in the sort of philosophical discussion that comes naturally to drunks and clerics, standing by the hearth, both weaving where they stand. Pasha and Hare, locked in an arm-wrestle on a rickety table in the far corner. He himself is flanked by Hans on one side, and Samuel on the other.
(Given the lack of love lost between the two, Henry had thought it wise to place himself between them, lest Hans open his mouth and start a fight over precisely who has the stronger claim over Henry, his lord or his brother. Henry doesn’t understand it, the level of animosity Hans holds towards Sam for nothing more than daring to be born the son of Henry’s Pa. Still, from what Henry knows of Hans’ own childhood, perhaps it makes a sad sort of sense. Hans has made no secret of how lonely he had felt growing up behind the walls of Pirkstein; had he had a sibling, a playmate with whom he could climb the fruit trees in the orchards and torment the local townsfolk with childish games, he might have grown up happier.)
All of them – the Devil’s Pack, as they are known; like wolves in the forest, this motley collection of mangy curs more beasts than men – surround him, and he feels it like a blanket wrapped around his shoulders on a cool night. Warm, comforting; camaraderie, shared jests and bonds of brotherhood. He’s missed it. He’s not felt its like since Fritz and Matthew, God rest their souls. He wonders if, when at last he takes his last breath, no doubt rattling around lungs full of blood and steel slicing him a second mouth across his scarred, stubbled throat, he will meet them again. Part of him hopes not. He’s not sure how he would face anyone from those previous lives of his, shed like a snake’s skin; innocence and boyhood fallen by the wayside as his hands grew bloodier and his heart heavier with the weight of the sins he carries in it.
The worst thing about Skalitz burning is that, deep down, there’s a part of Henry that’s grateful for it.
He’s visited, sometimes, by the spectres of those to whom he has bid that eternal farewell. His parents, watching with disappointment as his light fingers relieve another townsman of a full coin purse in Kuttenberg, or a dead man – a bandit on the road, who had the misfortune to meet him when his heart was full of grief and anger and his right hand itching on the pommel of his sword – of a pair of fine leather boots, themselves probably stolen from some previous victim. The man in black, his face twisted into that familiar smirk, jaw twisted and broken from his fall (Henry still thinks of it as a fall, almost an accident; part of him refuses to believe it was by his own hand), speaking to him in that mocking, sibilant voice: ‘What will you do now, bastard boy?’
Ištván Tóth haunts Henry’s every step. A persistence hunter, wearing him down. In his dreams, he wades through rivers of blood, shackles of bone around his ankles, dragging him under. Ištván saunters along beside him, stepping over the waves like Our Lord walking across the Sea of Galilee. Henry doesn’t know what to make of that, beyond that it sickens him. Guilt burns in his stomach like hellfire.
Janosh and Adder have finished their song, and the Pole slaps his comrade on the shoulder with one enormous paw and stumbles up from the bench, making his way outside. Henry knows enough Polish to understand that nature is calling him; sucked back into the taproom, stiflingly hot and stuffy from the crush of bodies and the thick fug of alcohol fumes, he stands himself, making the same excuse. Hans stands up to accompany him, and Henry forces a laugh.
‘Christ, my lord, I’m not so drunk I can’t hold my own cock for a piss.’
‘I’ve seen you rat-arsed before, Henry,’ Hans laughs, obediently sitting back down – since when did Hans Capon, lord of Pirkstein, take direction so sweetly from his page of all people? Where was the Lord Capon who told Henry to fuck off when he tried to enforce the curfew in Rattay, and left him black and blue with bruises to match the lashing of his sharp tongue? – and taking a sip of his own ale. ‘You can barely hold your breath, let alone your prick.’
‘Well, if I’m not returned in ten minutes, come and find me, then,’ Henry snorts. ‘Wouldn’t want you to let me drown in my own piss.’
‘If that’s what’s happened to you,’ Hans says, wrinkling his nose, ‘you’ll be on your own.’ His eyes, glassy and glazed though they are with drink, are sparkling, and Henry feels that sickening, sweet-bitter swoop in his stomach, like falling from a height with nothing to catch him.
There’s a shaded spot behind the tavern wall, where the brickwork is uneven and the plaster peeling from years of acrid alcohol-infused piss splashing against it; flowers sprout between the crumbling cobbles, dandelions and arenaria, watered regularly and growing like weeds as a result. It’s here that Henry stops and unties his braies to fish his cock out, leaning one hand against the wall for support as the other directs the stream away from his boots. He’s startled by the sound of heavy breathing beside him, Adder’s hand – broad, callused, heavy – splayed alongside his own, the Pole’s legs spread wide and his prick –
Jesus Christ, his prick. Henry has never seen its like before. Not, of course, that he makes a habit of allowing his gaze to linger on other men’s bodies, and certainly not on such intimate areas of them. Quiet, fleeting admiration of a man’s arm drawing a bow, he will permit himself. Perhaps a quick glance at the muscles shifting across a broad back when scything grass in the fields, or swinging a sword in the practice arena. A peek, from the corner of his eye, at strong thighs rising and falling with the jolting pattern of a trot or gentle rocking canter astride a horse, though that is riskier still. But never – never – at a man’s cock, even when he’s pissing. Never before the baths in Trosky, and even then, he had felt the dizzying shame-pleasure of it flush his cheeks red and make his heart race in his chest.
Adder tips his head back with a groan of pleased relief, shaking off the last drops. He lets go, and his cock falls – heavy, thick, softly silver in the moonlight – against the front of his braies. His head rolls to the side, his hazel eyes catching on Henry’s. Henry feels fear, cold as steel, slide down his spine as Adder slowly straightens up, turning to face him fully. He still hasn’t put it away. Dear Christ, when will he put that thing back, take it out of Henry’s line of vision? (Henry almost snorts. As if it’s not burned onto your eyelids like a premonition of Hell, you fool!). Henry swallows, his head bowed, looking anywhere but at Adder himself, like a man avoiding eye contact with a feral animal in the vain hope that it will make the creature go away. Adder’s face cracks into a wide, wicked grin as he grips his cock once more, brandishing it at Henry like a fucking sword – and it should be ridiculous, him waving his cock around like a boy writing his name in the snow; it should be ridiculous, rather than setting that low flame in Henry’s belly to burning, the steady simmer that is his body’s way of telling him he likes what he sees – and smirks at Henry.
‘Jak żmija, rozumiesz?’
Henry’s cheeks flush so bright, he can feel his ears glowing. Adder laughs, low and filthy, and finally tucks himself away, ambling back toward the tavern door and whistling tunelessly.
To tell the truth, Bartosch and the feast set a dangerous precedent for Henry. A few days later, he’s sat once more against the wall of Ruthard Manor with Adder and Janosh standing nearby, listening to them bicker. He’s waiting for Žižka to finish talking through his plans with Katherine, Hynek and Godwin. Hans is nowhere to be seen; probably, knowing his lord, off chasing whichever bit of skirt stands still long enough for him to try to look down her bodice. Henry’s belly rumbles, loud enough for Janosh to shoot him a commiserating glance as he stretches his arms above his head with a groan.
‘I want eat something,’ he complains, and Henry nods dolefully. His own stomach is gnawing at itself. There had been a heel of black bread at breakfast, but nothing since then, and the sun is now high, the heat and blinding light making him feel dizzy and lightheaded.
Adder responds in Polish, something about a drink, and Janosh folds his arms. ‘Both is possible, no?’
The more Henry spends time around them both, the more he’s able to grasp of Adder’s guttural, rolling tongue. However, it’s like Godwin’s Latin – coming far easier to him when he’s drunk, and unfortunately for both Henry and his stomach, he’s stone cold sober. What he wouldn’t give for a tankard of Treadlight’s beer, so thick he can practically chew it. Adder is snorting, shifting his weight against the wall; Henry remains surprised and impressed that, for such a large man, Adder moves like a lynx, all flowing muscles and soft, padded footsteps. A dangerous creature indeed, to be large and deadly and silent with it. Janosh laughs at whatever it is Adder has said.
‘Right… smelling like woman, all soap and flowers!’
‘And cunts,’ Adder smirks. Henry knows that one. He feels a blush rising on his cheeks, catching Adder’s eye. Worried the Pole will be able to see his thoughts on his face – Hans has always told him he’s an open book – Henry looks away again quickly. It doesn’t stop the tapestry of images being woven in his mind’s eye, however; Adder lounging, catlike, against the wooden rim of the bathtub, his broad, scarred chest on full display, as a girl with brown curls and wide, doelike blue eyes soaps up his groin with delicate fingers. Henry swallows, trying to push the picture away; instead, the fabric warps, shifts, and it’s Henry himself caressing Adder’s prick as it rises, flushed, hot and heavy as a smith’s hammer in his fist as Adder’s hand knots in his hair and pushes him down, down into the water, as Henry opens his mouth –
‘You always smell like cunt,’ Janosh snorts to Adder. ‘No change there.’
‘You prick,’ Adder retorts, and Henry shakes himself free of whatever demon had gripped him for that single, mad moment. It’s Adder, for fuck’s sake. If there’s a single man in Bohemia more devoted to apparently fucking his way through the entire female population – and Henry’s not entirely sure the Pole would draw the line at humans, though he’d never say so to Adder’s face – Henry has yet to meet him. There is a time and a place he will permit himself such fantasies, and in the town square of Kuttenberg is not it. Save it for when he’s alone of an evening, curled up on his straw pallet on the cellar floor of Ruthard Manor. There, he can think about Adder’s long, fine legs in his tight hose, and the way they hug the curve of his arse as he cocks his hip, to his heart’s content. At least if he’s thinking about Adder, he’s not thinking about –
‘How is it that women throw themselves at you?’ Henry asks, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as strangled as it feels. He’s too hot under his armour, in a way that has nothing to do with the sun’s rays beating down on him and everything to do with the redness of his cheeks, that unbecoming, unmanly blush that makes him look like a milkmaid about to be tumbled by one of the farmhands in a haystack. Janosh has wandered off, most likely in search of some small morsel to eat, and it’s the two of them alone in this quiet corner of Kuttenberg. Henry tries not to feel like a small animal caught in the piercing gaze of a predator as Adder’s head rolls once more in his direction, the mirror of that night against the tavern wall.
Henry blinks at him as guilelessly as he can manage. Adder grins, lascivious, and shrugs.
Whatever he says, Henry doesn’t understand; not drunk enough, perhaps, for the words to permeate his thick skull. What he does grasp, however, is the gesture accompanying them; as shockingly crude as anything he does manage to comprehend out of Adder’s mouth. The Pole makes a V with his fingers, pressing them to his lips, and thrusts his tongue between. Henry makes a choking sound in his throat as he stares at that tongue, pink and wet, leaving slick, shining trails of saliva along the Pole’s blunt fingers. He imagines Adder’s tongue – God help him – against his prick, flickering against the head as Bartosch had done, Adder’s thin lips closed around the length of him as Henry’s cock slid down his throat. Then, like a cataclysm, another thought, filthier still; those hands holding Henry’s legs apart as his tongue probed along the cleft of him, Adder’s face buried between his thighs as he opened Henry up on his fingers and his tongue –
‘Come my room tonight,’ Adder says, his gaze heated and intense on Henry’s stricken face. ‘Pokażę ci.’
Henry shouldn’t be surprised that Adder of all people managed to get himself drunk, even with no coin and no Czech, in the middle of a town as vibrant and, yes, chaotic as Kuttenberg. What he is surprised by is Adder bringing the bottle – half-drunk as it is – down to Henry’s room on the bottom floor, once all of their comrades are asleep, and kicking Henry himself awake with one foot to pass it to him.
‘Pij,’ he insists, shoving it under Henry’s nose; the fumes off it make his sinuses sting, until he can practically taste it already in the back of his throat. He can tell from one waft that it’ll burn worse than even Bartosch’s brandy on the way down. Still, the drink he had had with Bartosch had likely helped with feeling relaxed enough to – well, to do what they’d done together. One swig of Adder’s eye-watering spirit can only do him good in that regard, particularly if he’s to let the Pole come near him with the appendage currently straining the front of his braies. Adder thrusts the bottle at him again. ‘Trzeźwość sprawia, że nawet dobre ruchanko staje się nudne.’
Henry doesn’t understand the words, but he understands the command. He tips his head back, opening his mouth, and Adder pours the liquid down his throat. It’s clear and cool as water, but Christ, it burns like Greek fire. Henry chokes, coughing and banging at his chest with one fist, trying to force it down instead of spraying over Adder’s boots; the Pole laughs, that rasping, raucous roar he has, and slaps Henry on the back. He drops down to sit next to Henry on the mattress, loose and elegant as only the truly drunk can be, and takes several deep gulps himself, knocking it back as though it’s nothing more than water. Henry watches, torn between alarm and arousal.
Desire wins out upon watching the bobbing of Adder’s throat, the smooth motions of his Adam’s apple sliding beneath the skin as he swallows. A faint blush colours his pale face, a sweet bloom of pink across his nose and cheeks from the drink as he drains the last of the bottle before turning back to Henry. A man so drunk has no right to look as sharp-eyed and intent on Henry’s face as he does; Henry is once again prey, frozen, in the gaze of a viper as Adder leans in and presses his mouth to Henry’s.
Bartosch had been gentle, coaxing; a teacher, full of patience and praise. Adder is fierce and brutal against him, demanding Henry’s submission, giving no quarter. The kiss is a battle, one Henry is losing willingly; Adder fists one hand in his hair and grips his hip with the other, pressing him back and down against the mattress with his full weight. Henry is under siege, his body yielding to the sheer force of a larger, heavier opponent, and he moans – loud, too loud – into Adder’s mouth as the Pole’s hand shifts from his hip to squeeze and stroke his stiff prick through his braies. Adder’s answering groan, full of pleasure and pride, makes his cock twitch against the Pole’s broad palm.
‘Dobry chłopak,’ Adder mutters into his ear, leaning over him as he yanks once more on Henry’s hair. He’s so fucking rough, and Henry whimpers; it’s obscene, the way being treated like a whore, like a toy, like nothing more than a piece of meat for Adder to sate his lusts on, stokes the fire in his belly even higher and makes his heart thunder in his chest. Adder bites his way along Henry’s jaw, mouth hot and wet where he sucks on the tender skin, teeth sharp. Henry mewls like a kitten, squirming underneath him, and Adder smirks against his cheek as he thrusts a hand beneath the waistband of Henry’s braies, panting into his ear. ‘Dobry chłopak, podoba ci się to.’
Henry should be concerned by the bruises Adder’s lips and teeth are no doubt leaving on the stubbled skin of his throat. He should be protesting, pushing the other man away, insisting that if they do this at all it must be without any evidence being left behind. It’s sordid, debauched, depraved, even, but he can’t bring himself to care in the slightest. Instead he whimpers and arches, eager for more, and Adder’s rough palm wraps around his cock to tug it out of its linen modesty and into the overheated, overcharged air between their bodies. He strokes Henry as if he’s handling the grip of a sword, squeezing just this side of too tight, the friction a little too much; it makes his head spin and his spine tingle as he fights the warring urges to press up for more and shy away in exquisite agony at the same time.
Adder groans, pulling away and settling on his knees astride Henry’s hips. Staring down at him, he unties his own braies with slow, practiced fingers, nary a stumble over the tangled knot at the waistband. Henry’s mouth is dry as Adder reaches inside, his hand curling around his prick to draw it out; watching Henry’s face, taking in his wide eyes and nervous tongue flicking out to moisten his lips as Adder pumps himself slowly. The lightheadedness threatens to return as Adder reaches up with his free hand to trace Henry’s bottom lip with the blunt tip of his thumb, the ragged nail sharp and catching on the chapped skin as he pulls it down, just enough to part Henry’s lips slightly.
‘Otwórz usta.’
Henry allows his mouth to fall open, his heart beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs. Adder trails his hand down, from his mouth to his chin, cupping his jaw; gripping him firmly, fingers digging in to hold his jaws open. He lets out a ragged, stuttering breath as Adder shuffles forwards on his knees until the blunt head of his cock rests on Henry’s full lower lip. Henry looks up at him from the flat of his back, the Pole’s prick heavy and hot against his chin; holds Adder’s gaze as he slowly ventures his tongue out to lick away a bead of fluid from the slit, making Adder hiss like his namesake.
‘Kurwa, właśnie tak–!’ Bitten out through gritted teeth. Adder rubs the head of his prick against Henry’s lip, squeezing gently with the other hand to encourage his mouth wider. Henry moans, recalling the way Bartosch’s tongue had played over the sensitive frenulum, and tilts his head forward to take the head of Adder’s cock into his mouth. The other man curses again, tipping his head back as his eyes flutter shut; his expression suddenly sweetly boyish, as though he’s doing this for the first time and can’t believe how good it feels. Henry suspects he looked much the same to Bartosch in the bathhouse, all those weeks ago at Trosky.
The angle is awkward, his spine and muscles stiff and complaining with the effort. Adder lets go of his jaw to fist his hand in Henry’s hair, pulling sharply at the same time as rocking his hips. Henry lets out a startled noise as Adder’s cock slides deeper and then deeper still into his mouth, until the head bumps against the back of his throat and he panics, coughing, his eyes watering. Pulling away, Adder growls, rolling his eyes expressively.
He shifts off of Henry for a moment, allowing him to catch his breath again. Adder pulls Henry up to kneel, his back against the wall; steps forward, his cock once more level with Henry’s nose. He reaches out to curl a hand around Henry’s throat, and Henry’s pulse kicks even higher, his eyes wide and panicked. It’s only the expression on Adder’s face – gentler now, willing him to understand, frustrated with himself for the language barrier making this more difficult – that keeps Henry on his knees as Adder searches for the right words. Part of Henry wishes Janosh were here, to translate for them both; the rest of him can’t bear the thought of anyone other than Adder seeing him in this way. At least Henry knows from the stiff, leaking prick in front of him that Adder is the same way as himself. Perverse. Filthy. Damned.
Adder’s fingers are gentle, caressing, on Henry’s throat; when the words come to him at last, with a brightening behind those hazel eyes – and Henry wouldn’t admit, even under torture, to just quite how unbearably charming he finds that – they are in broken, thickly-accented Czech. ‘You need – swallow. Musisz to połknąć. Rozumiesz?’
Adder bends down to pick up the bottle from the floor, holding it up so Henry can see. Tilting his own head back, exposing the long column of his throat to Henry’s confused gaze, he seals his lips around the stem of the bottle and slowly slides it further and further into his mouth. Henry watches, awestruck, as Adder lets out a small, stifled noise – a choked-back gag – as the bottle disappears further, the muscles of his throat working around it as he swallows around it. Henry sees the moment the bottle neck pushes into his throat, Adder’s face reddening as he takes a deep breath through his nose, before removing the bottle with a slight cough. His eyes trace Henry’s face for enlightenment, checking whether he has understood.
Dry-mouthed, Henry nods. ‘Rozumím.’ Adder’s face splits into a grin; he pats Henry’s cheek, palm rough against the flushed skin, and gestures for him to continue.
Henry leans forward once more, hesitant, looking up at Adder and resting his hands on the Pole’s broad hips as he takes him into his mouth again. Adder’s hand comes to rest at the back of Henry’s head, exerting gentle but insistent pressure. Henry takes a deep breath through his nose as he does as he’s bid, sucking softly as he allows Adder’s prick to push deeper into his mouth, feeling the ridge of the leaking head slide over his tongue. This time, when the head brushes the back of his throat, he swallows and takes another quick breath against the rising panic, gratified to find that instead of gagging and coughing again, he is able to press further. The head of Adder’s cock slips sweetly past the ring of muscle as he swallows once more, and the noise the Pole makes – a soft, wounded noise, an expelling of air from his lungs, as his fist instinctively tightens in Henry’s hair – tugs at him below the belt, making his own cock twitch, a growing wet spot staining the front of his braies.
‘Kurwa, twoje usta–’ Adder grunts, his hips twitching against Henry’s palms, clearly fighting the urge to rut into his mouth like a whore’s cunt. ‘Lepiej niż kurwa dziewczyna.’
Henry’s not sure whether Adder is comparing him to a girl – and if so, favourably or not – or if he’s wishing Henry were a girl. Henry can understand, maybe, a little, if that were the case; he’d certainly have less to feel guilty about, taking a man’s prick into his mouth, if he’d been born a woman. But he doesn’t envy Katherine, or Theresa, or Bianca, or any other woman he’s known her anatomy, nor her life; constraints such as those he could never even have imagined bind them and clip their wings, so that even such little freedom as taking their pleasure with whatever man takes their fancy is a thing of shame. Not to mention, had he been born with tits and a cunt, he’d probably have long since been tumbled by – possibly bearing a bastard of his own –
He cuts that thought off, before he can veer into dangerous territory once more. Swallows again around the thick prick in his throat, just to hear Adder hiss and curse once more before withdrawing to play his tongue over the bundle of nerves beneath the head. One summer in Skalitz Bianca taught him to tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue, and he tries to replicate those sinuous, teasing movements against the head of Adder’s prick, smiling when the Pole gasps and bucks his hips, eagerly seeking more. Henry looks up at him through the fringe of his eyelashes, fingers flexing on Adder’s hips, kneading the firm flesh hard enough to leave bruises behind. Call it turnaround being fair play, for the marks he will inevitably see in his reflection in the water trough when he goes to shave tomorrow morning.
Adder throws his head back as Henry suckles gently, teasing the head of his prick with his tongue. He tugs at Henry’s hair as he pants, harsh breaths that make him sound like the bellows of Henry’s father’s forge as he ruts into Henry’s mouth, grunts of pleasure punctuated by Polish curses falling from his lips. Henry basks in it, in the pride of a job well done; spit and precome dripping down his chin from the corners of his mouth, his lips shining wetly in the candlelight. Adder’s groans, echoing in his ears, harsher and more guttural than Bartosch’s almost musical sighs, though no less intoxicating for it. He understands, now, why Bartosch loves doing this so much. There’s something powerful in it, and powerless at the same time; bringing a man to his knees, and being brought to one’s own. Holding a man’s pride and joy in his mouth, sucking him until he shudders and spills. A bolt of lust shoots through his belly at the thought, his groin throbbing, and he moans, suddenly desperate to taste Adder, to bring him to his peak and swallow it all like manna from heaven.
Adder’s hand slams against the wall to hold himself up and he moans, hoarse and strained, as Henry sucks harder, tugging the Pole’s hips forward to drag him closer still. Henry takes a deep breath – Adder answering with a sharp, excited inhale of his own, trembling with the knowledge of what is coming – and swallows around him, pushing forwards until the coarse, wiry curls at the root of Adder’s prick are tickling his nose and Adder is throwing his head back and shouting as he spills down Henry’s throat. He can feel it pulse against his tongue, taste it – salt, musk, metal, the same and yet different to Bartosch’s in the Trosky baths – and he pulls away, groaning huskily as Adder’s prick slips free, wet and spent, with another feeble spurt over his lips.
His throat aches, feeling raw. Well-fucked. He settles back on his heels, panting, as Adder struggles not to let his trembling legs collapse to the floor. Henry looks up, blinking guilelessly at him, and licks his lips.
‘Szybko się uczysz,’ Adder growls breathlessly. ‘Teraz moja kolej, draniu.’
Henry hadn’t expected this lesson. He hadn’t expected to be shoved down to sprawl on the floor, his legs dangling over Adder’s shoulders as the other man buries his face between Henry’s thighs, thumbs spreading his cheeks and dragging the flat of his tongue slowly over Henry’s hole.
It’s wrong, disgusting, filthy; Henry should be appalled, should be struggling and shoving Adder’s head, his greedy mouth, his deviant fucking tongue, away with a cry of outrage. Instead, the only cries spilling from his lips are desperate, whorish; his fists clenched in Adder’s blond hair, holding him close as he traces Henry’s rim with the tip of his tongue, muffled grunts and sighs of pleasure vibrating against hot skin. Henry flings an arm over his eyes, sobbing, hips arching for more as Adder hauls him back onto his tongue. Henry howls as Adder points his tongue, pressing it inside, spit dripping down the crease of his arse.
The noises Adder makes, lapping at him wetly, ravenous – Henry can’t bear it. His cock aches, purple and weeping against his belly, leaving a smear of sticky, slick precome in the trail of dark hair from his navel to his cock. Henry’s blush is spreading from his hairline to his chest, heaving and sweaty as he claws at the rushes on the floor, anything to anchor him to this earth as Adder’s mouth threatens to send him into orbit. He’s sucking gently, kissing Henry’s hole the same way he would a woman’s lips; flicking his tongue, pointed, over his rim, pressing inside just enough to make him shudder and cry out.
Henry gropes wildly for his cock, wrapping his fist around it with a wrenching sob. Tears prick at his eyes and he moans, writhing, tortured and wanton, where he is held fast against Adder’s mouth by the Pole’s strong arm. Adder’s tongue licks into him again and Henry twists his wrist over the head of his cock, thighs shaking either side of Adder’s head. His moans sharpen into shrieks, all thoughts of the rest of the Pack sleeping in the rooms above and around them flying from his head in the face of this white-hot, knife-edge pleasure. It’s so good it aches, deep in his core, every muscle tense and screaming as he yanks at the other man’s hair and rides his mouth; desperate, as though he’s fleeing the Devil himself on horseback, grinding and rocking onto that clever, wicked tongue.
Adder is also moaning, filthy and reverent, as he shoves his face between Henry’s thighs, thumbs holding him open to that questing mouth, the hot skin wet and dripping with spit. Adder is devouring him alive, debauched, perfect; Henry sobs, biting his lip, fist clenched where his arm is thrown across his face. Christ, what a picture he must make, spread out like a feast before a starving man. The noises – weak, whimpering, unmanly; a sodomite’s noises, a woman’s noises, high-pitched and thready with need. The slurp of Adder’s tongue dragging over his hole, licking his arse like a woman’s cunt. Henry will go to Hell for this, for sure; there is no longer any doubt in his mind. There hasn’t been for some time, now.
He is clawing his way up to the crest, that tantalising peak dancing just slightly out of his reach, until Adder groans again, mouth slick and dripping against him; gripping Henry’s arse to lift him into the air, spreading him out like a banquet. His tongue slides into him, fucking him, as deep as he can get; Adder’s face buried between Henry’s cheeks as he digs his fingers into Henry’s arse. He’ll be black and blue in the morning, incriminating clusters of bruises all over his hips and arse. Christ. But it’s the edge of pain – Adder’s ragged nails cutting crescent moons into his tender flesh; the fierce blunt ache of his fingers holding him tight – that pushes Henry over the edge, falling into the sweetest of oblivions with a piercing cry wrenched out of the depths of his very soul.
Darkness encroaches around the edges of his vision, his limbs twitching and hips spasming as he rides it out, toes curling against Adder’s ribs. He can’t breathe, can’t think, the whole world awash with searing, mind-numbing pleasure; barely registering the warm pulses of come over his chest and belly, like a spray of pearls on rosy velvet. And then, so sweetly it hurts, Adder groans, gentling him through it; soft, soothing licks over his hole, kisses pressed to shaking thighs. His flanks, stroked like a groom soothing a horse frightened by a sudden lightning strike. This has come like a bolt from the blue, piercing him like a sword, changing him forever. He will not – he cannot – go back.
Henry is grateful for the arm covering his face, so that Adder won’t see him weep.