Dagan opened his mouth wide, sucking at Hen’s skin. The edges of his teeth pressed into the meaty part of Hen’s shoulder, precisely between the joint and the neck.
“Harder,” Hen whispered, clutching at Dagan’s ass again.
Dagan clamped down slowly, little by little, at first causing a slight wince of pain that hit Hendrik’s blood like lightning. Then the pain turned into a hot flash, more like an explosion, and Hen had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from moaning.
Dagan let up, then kissed at his chosen spot, licked at it, soothing with his mouth. Between kisses, he whispered, “You taste so good, Hen. I could just eat you up.”
“You first.” Hen hefted Dagan, who automatically wrapped his legs around his middle again. Carefully, Hen shifted them forward, settling Dagan’s back against the blankets in a gentle feat of strength that gave him a surge of pride and pleasure. A moon ago, he couldn’t have done that. He almost felt like himself again.
But better.
Dagan squirmed beneath him, parting his thighs and tangling his hands in Hen’s hair. He pulled him down, caught his mouth with a sharp, biting kiss that turned soft, lips sliding against lips, tongues exploring, slick and hot. When it broke off, both of them gasping, Hen said, “You’re mine.”
Dagan hummed and arched beneath him, tugging at his hair. “I’m yours.”
“I’ll work so hard for it, Dagan.” Hen kissed at his neck, licked downward into the dip of his collar bone, down further, over his chest. “I promise; I’ll work for it.” He swirled his tongue around Dagan’s dark, hard nipple, then closed his lips around it.
“Fuck, mmm, I love your mouth.” Dagan continued to writhe, his prick starting to leak between them.
Hendrik had never been one for words during sex, before. If anything, he usually ended up cockstruck and couldn’t even speak. But the way Dagan responded to him when he talked like this stirred him up in a way that was both unfamiliar and addictive. He struggled to retain and order his thoughts, just to get more of it: another moan, another sigh, another confession. He sucked hard, toyed with his tongue for a moment, making Dagan bite back another groan and tug at his hair.
Then he continued his way down, tracing with his free hand until he reached the three parallel marks on Dagan’s right thigh. He brushed his fingers over them, readjusting so Dagan had to let go of his hair, then lowered to kiss at them. His hand brushed Dagan’s insistent prick, eliciting more delicious squirming and repressed groans, then closed around it.
Dagan bucked into it.
“Love the taste of you.” Hen kissed at his dickhead, then tongued the skin around it. The salty taste of precum flooded his senses and made his head spin. “So fucking good.”
“Mmm, yeah,” Dagan’s whisper-soft voice had risen an octave or so, that tinge of sweet desperation in it.
Hendrik resituated again so he was propped up on one arm, between Dagan’s legs, and could use the other hand freely. He took Dagan into his mouth, sucking at his foreskin and head first, holding him in place. When he glanced up, Dagan was watching him, lips parted, panting. His thighs fell further apart.
Hen slipped his fingers into his mouth alongside Dagan’s cock, wetting them without stopping his licking and sucking. Then he went down, lips meeting the base of Dagan’s prick, as he pressed his fingertips into Dagan’s asshole. Dagan shuddered, raising a hand to cover his mouth.
Slowly and deliberately at first, then faster and harder when he tasted more salt, Hendrik sucked and finger-fucked Dagan until he shuddered again. This time it was harder, full-body, and Dagan thrust into the back of his throat with it. Hot cum filled his mouth, and Hendrik swallowed, slowing his movements without stopping. Dagan pulsed inside against his fingertips, shuddering with another shot of cum into Hen’s throat.
When Dagan began to still, Hen pulled out his fingers and wrapped them around the base of his prick. He slid upward, but lingered to suck at the naked dickhead, licking every last drop of cum from the slit, toying with his foreskin with his lips, and just generally worshiping at the altar of Dagan’s cock for long, lingering moments. Instead of going softer, Dagan hardened again in his hand, head darkening, skin stretching.
Eventually, he gave a little whimper, a sound trapped somewhere between ecstasy and agony. “Fuck me, Hen. I’m gonna fucking come again, and I want you in me.”
Though he didn’t want to leave that delicious, straining prick, the idea of fucking Dagan’s tight ass won out. Hen lifted himself and reached for his pack, just over Dagan’s head. Dagan twisted upward and helped, tearing at the latch so Hen could retrieve the vial of oil they’d wrapped in layers of clothing for safekeeping.
After nearly spilling the precious contents, Hen sat up to open it properly. Dagan sat up too, holding out his hand, and Hen poured a little oil into it, then corked it and set it aside carefully. Before he’d finished with that, Dagan had his hand around Hen’s prick, slicking it with firm, smooth strokes. He whispered, all raspy, “Don’t hold back, darling. Fuck me hard enough that I’ll feel it week from now.”
Hen growled and crawled over him again. Dagan’s knees went up, and Hen hooked the insides of his elbows beneath them, then pushed, folding Dagan almost in half. Dagan’s legs stretched easily, until his knees were nearly parallel with his ears and his ass was parted. When Hen reached down for his own prick, Dagan’s leg stayed in place, his stomach tightening with the effort.
Stone and fire, he could barely hold himself back; he wanted to slam into Dagan hard and fast, but one of the drawbacks of having a larger-than-average prick was that it could be, well, a lot. Dagan might be in the mood for a little pain in his pleasure today, but actual injuries should be avoided. He pushed his well-slicked head into Dagan, who bit down on the meaty part of his hand, between his thumb and forefinger, to keep from yelling again. As smoothly as he could, Hen kept going, until he was nearly balls deep in Dagan’s tight ass. Dagan whimpered again, then removed his hand to whisper, “That’s it, sweetheart. Show me I’m yours.”
Fucccckkkk. Hendrik wished he could think of something to say, something smart and poetic that would show him even better than a good solid dicking. But all he had was, “All fucking mine.” And then he lost himself in Dagan completely, both of them huffing and biting back moans of the purest and most perfect pleasure Hen had ever known.
*
Once again, Hendrik flushed with relief when no one looked at him twice when he emerged from their little cave-room in the morning. The only person who even glanced up was Kajja, her face twisted up and slightly pink, as if annoyed. For a moment he wondered if they’d kept her awake, but then she looked back to the book in her hands, and he realized something in its pages had her fretting. He made his way over to her and sat down cross-legged, close but not too close. In case she felt like biting.
She sighed dramatically but didn’t bite. “What if I’m wrong?”
“About?” Clearly, he’d walked into the middle of an argument she was having with herself.
“My notes. My ideas. About what the stupid murder god is and how to find it and what it all means.”
“Well, Marsalis and Thad and everyone else helped, right?” Hendrik immediately understood her concerns, though he didn’t want to feed them. He was stalling, trying to figure out the best way to bolster confidence without being too obvious.
It was hard, having a sister so much smarter than him. Always interesting, but also hard to know how to talk to her. He was grateful for the opportunity, though, so he meant to do his best.
She nodded. “But I’m carrying our notes. Our distilled notes. To me, it forms a pattern, more than a suggestion. When I’m lost in thought, it all makes sense. But when I think about going back into those mine tunnels, seeing those people penned in underground digging their lives away for High City fucks…for whatever that thing is? I’m afraid I’ll balk.”
Well, that was beyond Hendrik for sure. So, he said the only thing he could, in the moment. “Tell me. I know I’m not a thinker or anything, but just lay it all out. Maybe it’ll help you just to hear it out loud, all at once—or maybe I’ll have a different perspective?” If he had one at all.
“You’d do that? I mean, you weren’t really excited about it when we were researching, so I didn’t know if you’d want to hear it all.” A small, hopeful smile grew on her small, heart-shaped face.
“I just don’t read that well,” Hendrik said with a shrug. “Wasn’t going to be anything but a hindrance.”
Kajja’s eyebrows went up. “Really? I thought all the guards learned to read at the Academy?”
“I can write my name and sound things out,” he said with a snort. “I get mixed up sometimes, like I have to stare at words for a long time. The masters always said it didn't matter, so long as I knew my Prayer and my name.”
“I didn’t know that.” The look on her face was dangerously close to pitying.
Hen looked away, not even sure why that embarrassed him. “I don’t mind. If I want a story I’d rather someone tell it to me, and if I want history there’s always someone to ask.”
