Lots of violence and explicit sexual material - discretion advised
Ellis shoved him back. Harry let himself be shoved. His breeches, still trapped around his knees, kept him from going too far back, preventing his feet from spreading too far around the tree. Still, he made it far enough, that when Ellis pulled his head back he felt Ellis' fist bump the trunk, and let himself fall so the tree could help hold him up. As he imagined it would have been had Ellis not charged, had he waited, had he not trusted the Irishman would come for him.
Ellis let himself into Harry's mouth this time, angling Harry's head back for depth. Harry swallowed all he could, put as much of his skill into taking Ellis' cock as Ellis' direction would allow. Familiar as he was with Ellis' cock, he still choked, and Ellis' only consolation was to pull out of his throat, still filling his mouth. Shoulder leaning against the tree, Ellis shut his eyes, firm grip in his hair holding Harry's head in place, and steadily thrust, at first shallowly and gently, until Harry's throat eased to welcome him.
The world cut off from them. Ellis' body was one outer edge, the tree the other, and sounds and sensation were all close cropped and heated by their bodies. All they could hear was the rasping of the bark, the gentle tapping as tiny pieces fell to the ground under their pressure. The gasping of their breaths, Ellis' short and deep and Harry's desperate, echoed like the loudest shouts. Everything, the whole of time, the air and light, moved in time with Ellis' thrusting.
He would've gone on, that one short moment drawn as long as possible, but Harry's hands squeezed the backs of thighs, signaling for breath. Ellis pulled free, sighing as if he'd spent the whole time without breathing instead of Harry. Wiping his lips, Harry soon turned his face back up, and Ellis immediately pushed his cock back in, quietly groaning at the wet warmth of it. He watched, looking down on Harry's face, cradled between his hands and trapped against the tree, as his cock slid in and out of his lips, each thrust growing deeper, Harry's eyes fixed steadily up on his own.
Someone else wanted to do this. Someone else. He pictured a pistol to Harry's head, and that wanting gaze looking up at Someone Else.
His pulling back was all the warning Harry got to take a breath and relax his throat, and thankfully he took it. Ellis's shoulders hunched, pulling them both away from the tree, and he thrust himself deep into Harry's throat, holding Harry's head firmly against his body. He stayed still; though Harry waited for the moment he'd have to hurriedly swallow, it didn't come – just Ellis' cock, held firmly in the warmth of his throat.
Harry swallowed, and Ellis groaned. Slowly – painfully slowly – he pulled himself from Harry's throat, languidly pressing against Harry's tongue, drawing the tip from his tightly closed lips. Taking a deep breath, he kept his grip on Harry's hair, and they looked at one another for a long quiet moment.
“Ye shoulda waited,” Ellis said.
Stretching down as Ellis allowed, Harry picked up a pistol – the pistol – and gave it a dismissive glance. “An' be fucked by a low-toby rakehell.”
Ellis reached down, grabbing as low as he could on Harry's shirt, and yanked it off, the unbuttoned cuff oversized enough to admit the pistol. As he'd done earlier, Ellis dragged him aside, this time by the hair. Changing his grip to Harry's arm, seizing that thin wrist, watching the skin pale and redden as the pressure of his grip changed, Ellis threw him down. A different pistol bruised his shoulder, coins and buttons clattering under him, lace and metal sliding and sticking to his skin.
Ellis fell on him like a hungry dog, at the last moment torn between touching and simply watching the revelation of pale and freckled skin. He seized Harry's sides watching shivers and blushes and the rush of blood as Harry reacted to his touch, and ran his hands down to the thin hips and up again. They heard the fabric of the breeches rip, and Harry, propped on his elbows, squirmed to try to get free of them, but Ellis stopped him, knees placed firmly on the cloth.
Groaning, Harry reached for him, but Ellis grabbed his wrist again. Bringing it away from himself – however regretfully – held it out a moment, just to feel it in his grip. He shut his eyes and kissed the soft pale skin on the inside of Harry's arm, ran its smoothness past the rough skin of his cheek. He opened them again to see Harry waiting, struggling just a little with only one arm free, his legs still trapped by the torn breeches Ellis was sitting on.
Stalemated, Harry watched Ellis' throbbing length under the battered body. His own skin, flushed with a few bruises and cuts itself, turned to goosebumps. Watching all, Ellis leaned forward, dragging Harry into position, pulling Harry's thighs over his to the sound of more ripping cloth, so he could line the head of his cock up.
The position stretched his thighs, his legs now firmly trapped by the weakening cloth, and lifted his lower back awkwardly off the ground, but still, Harry very nearly moaned with sheer expectation when Ellis leaned forward a second time.
He didn't enter. Alas – Ellis only picked up the gun, knocked loose of Harry's grip, a wicked smile his exchange for Harry's frustration.
Letting the cold metal barrel drag over Harry's skin, Ellis traced a slow line down the center of his chest. The gun left a trail of sooty muck; uncleaned, it dotted Harry's pale skin with bits of powder and small ashen streaks. Shivering, Harry twitched as the weapon trickled his skin, and finally shifted, trying futilely to dodge, when Ellis tapped the cool barrel against the shaft of Harry's cock.
He'd hardened again when Ellis had taken his throat, the painful, delicate throbs it had communicated to him taking a dim second to the filling, yet frustrating, warmth of Ellis' cock in his mouth – not to mention the level of concentration it required to breathe while letting Ellis have free run of his main means of doing so. This second erection stung with sensitivity, coming so close after the first, and the cold metal seemed freezing against it. When Harry's trapped arm twisted, Ellis held tighter, turning it further out to discourage more attempts. He set the top of the gun barrel against the underside of Harry's cock, tracing a line from root to tip. Harry groaned, struggles renewed, and sighed heavily when the chill touch left the head of his cock bobbing – and stiffer than ever.
It touched his balls, and Harry felt as if they'd been seized or shoved up against his body, the pull reaching up into his gut. Yet the whole of the touch was delicate, the barrel sliding smooth and chilled, directly down the center. The metal stopped, nosing upward, and Harry felt it touch, threatening – though never actually entering – to take the place of Ellis' cock. An unsettling mix of cold fear and burning want slid up Harry's throat and Harry twisted as if he could bring himself away, though the way Ellis held him made it impossible. Ellis set the gun to retracing its leisurely steps down, and Harry lost his patience.
“At a chop, ye papist damme boy,” Harry cursed at him, low and growling, “Ye'd think ye were th' one eriff to practicin' patience.”
“Arrah, me nug,” Ellis said, “I am prince prig t' ye, colt, an' I'll give ye yer bastings 'til ye wait when I say.”
“Bastonade as ye will, ye battered bully.” When Ellis only smiled, light touch of the gun barrel tracing infuriatingly soft against Harry's skin, Harry's free hand came down, and wrapped around the gun much as he'd wrapped it around Ellis.
“Shall I stiffen this, too?” he asked, voice dripping with impatience.
“Aye,” was all Ellis said, staring down at him, pistol in his hand.
Unsure what to do, Harry stared a moment at the dark metal. As he looked at the staring barrel, he saw, only for a second, the jeering face that had stared down it paired with a half-limp cock. If he shifted, he could see where Ellis' stood – -stood – eager, large, and for him, utterly, utterly for him.
Caressing the metal was fundamentally different than even the hardest Ellis had ever been; it didn't move or respond, but Harry could see its effect in the reddening of Ellis' cock. Grease, soot, and gun oil left traces on his hands wherever he touched, like evidence, a trail to crime, a confession to a sin. Also evidence that the cove they've taken the dag off of took only moderately good care of it.
It didn't stop Harry from moving one hand to stock, letting his fingers brush Ellis' as he cradled the bottom. His other hand gripped around the barrel, Harry dragged the gun forward.
Wetting his lips, he put the barrel in his mouth.
Ellis hissed in a breath through bared teeth, as if Harry'd taken his cock. The metal tasted awful – of grease and ash and the terrible things that went into gunpowder – but Harry closed his lips, and went about his 'stiffening'.
Unceremoniously leaving the pistol in Harry's grip, Ellis seized his thighs and drove his cock into Harry to the root, a single thrust hard enough to cause Harry's shoulder to skid against the ground. The cloth of his breeches ripped further, his legs stretched, and Harry cried out. The pistol dragged against his lips as he flung a hand out to try to dig a hold into the earth.
“Ye should've waited,” Ellis panted, as if that one thrust had taken all his strength.
Harry's response was to place the barrel of the pistol over his lips, rolling his hips what little he could over Ellis' cock. He let his tongue peek out, rounding the barrel and closed his lips over it again.
Ellis rocked back and drove himself up again, making Harry lose his close-mouthed grip, barely strangling another cry.
“Ye should've waited,” Ellis repeated, a hardness coming into his voice.
Cracking his eyes open to watch Ellis, Harry nudged the pistol, out of his mouth, then ran his tongue up the side, before taking it deep in his mouth. Shutting his eyes, Ellis turned away, as if the sight were too much, then turned back. He grabbed Harry's waist, canting his hips, and started to thrust up into him, hard and steady.
Harry twisted, but he was held tight. Still sore from when Ellis had first thrust fingers inside him, still sensitive from having already come, this felt like needles jammed in the skin, like thumping a muscle where it was already bruised, over and over again – and yet, he moaned. He moaned so that it was hardly fair to call it moaning, more a call, the meaning clear even without words. Still, he had to fight the sounds of pleasure, as, by those often unspoken and obscure rules of sexual games, if he let go the pistol totally with his mouth then Ellis would stop fucking him this unspeakably pleasurable way and fuck him some other way. That both would be a pleasure was no deterrent from the game.
The other way would not be this way, and this way was all of his world, that was all knew. This way, he felt pierced clean through – needles were nothing to the soaring leap his stomach took at each jarring thrust, bruises were like a soft caress to the hard strokes driving his desire. He was going to lose himself – in moments, in seconds –
And the pistol fell from his lips as he cried out – Ellis' fucking stopped at once. Harry could've wept at the pain of falling short, the waiting release feeling left like over-sized plug in his throbbing cock.
When it was safe – long, frustrating moments later, when Harry's body quit shaking and his skin quit buzzing – Ellis touched the slick tip of Harry's standing manhood, letting its stickiness coat his fingertip. Harry was too scared to squirm; a stir of Ellis' cock inside him might set him off – realizing all the while that as he stared at Ellis he was willing him to do precisely that.
Ellis wasn't willing to give in so soon. He slung an arm under Harry's thigh, beckoning him to sit up with his chin. Harry raised himself on his elbows, folded awkwardly but not further pierced, and Ellis leaned forward to kiss him. They kissed deeply, Ellis' free hand helping hold Harry up as he trailed kisses across his jaw and to the bottoms of his ears. He pressed forward suddenly, to kiss Harry's neck as the join of his shoulder, and tasted blood and soot and powder. Looking down, he could see what he tasted – the spray of singed skin and powder just barely stretched over the side of Harry's neck from the main wound at the back.
This time it wasn't part of the game when he sighed. “Ye should've waited.” He renewed his kisses, desperate and grateful. Breaking away, Ellis buried his face at Harry's shoulder.
“Ye coulda been hurt, mo ghrá,” he whispered, almost hoping Harry wouldn't hear. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, a chuisle mo chroí, ye coulda been hurt.”
“I am hurt,” Harry replied, moving his hands down to the ugly, blackening bruising on Ellis' stomach, before letting them travel further down to where Ellis' body filled his. Ellis' eyes followed his hand, slowly, up Harry's own body. Reaching out, Harry's hand traced Ellis' jaw, drawing his face back, then holding the back of his neck and pushing him to kiss the wound. Harry's gasp of pain brushed past Ellis ear, as did the sigh of desire that ended it. Driven by the close smell of blood and sweat, Ellis ran his tongue over the burn, feeling Harry hiss and stretch under him.
Ellis let him back down, then carefully leaned back; the cloth was so battered, he was able to finish the tear in Harry's breeches with one hand. Pulling up his legs, Harry sighed at the release of tension, then sucked in a deep breath when he felt Ellis' hands guiding his feet to lock around Ellis' waist. Ellis leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the ground over Harry's shoulders, keeping him scrunched against the ground.
He looked down, gray eyes meeting green with the brutal, wanting shine of the game to them, and said. “Ye should've waited.”
Harry trailed fingertips up his side, then sank his grip into Ellis' shoulders. “An' have a load of that bravo en't from his dag.”
Ellis let his full weight fall into pushing his cock. Trapped against the ground, Harry thought either his back or his cock might break, but before he'd time to ruminate, Ellis had pulled back and was thrusting into him again. He moved his hand around to hold Harry's lower back in place, but rather than relieving the pressure of his fucking, this just let Ellis drive harder and truer for filling Harry out. He only stopped when Harry's legs tightened over his waist, his moan asking for the mercy of release.
“Ye'll wait when I tell ye,” Ellis said, “an' ye'll come when I say.”
“Ah!” Harry cried, “Ye tory hob!” But his hips kept moving, getting what play he could from Ellis' cock without Ellis' cooperation.
“I'll have ye 'til ye say yes,” Ellis said. He raised himself up, using both hands to hold up Harry's back as he pulled a few inches of his cock out, looking down with an evaluative eye. “An' den I'll probably keep havin' ye.”
“Bene,” Harry whispered, a grin making its way over the longing on his face.
Ellis used the excuse of kissing him to drive his cock hard into Harry, holding him there until his urge to cry out made him drag his lips away – but Harry didn't say it. By the time he finally did say 'yes', Harry's shoulders were dragged raw over the ground – and regardless, Ellis kept at him until he came, shouting it, mere minutes after. He drove Harry into the ground and came nearly of the same moment, spending himself with his length buried, clutching Harry close.
There they sat for long moments, Ellis only easing his hold enough to pull himself free. Hot and bloodied and panting too much to kiss, they merely gripped one another, waiting until each could move to press lips together before Ellis rolled off Harry, who slumped flat to the ground.
Having laid like the dead as soon as he'd let Harry down, Ellis shoved himself up a few minutes later, just when Harry was beginning to doze. He rolled to his feet – slowly – and started to kick their take into a pile. He retrieved two of the pistols, and threw their discarded clothes over the pile.
Harry knocked a shirt cuff off his face and, lying in a pile of gold and lace, stared up at Ellis. Ellis, towering and naked and holding two pistols in one hand, grinned down at him. Harry hadn't any idea how he was standing. His stomach was a slowly purpling mess, his neck streaked with the blood Harry'd drawn clutching at it, and that was all beside his exertions.
The result of which was that Harry was worse, worse and better. His neck stung, his shoulders were raw – many things were raw – his muscles were sore, his lips were bloody from biting them to keep from giving Ellis the sweet words he'd so strenuously demanded and earned. In the end it was a worse beating.
But he was warm, deep within, he was warm.
Harry glanced the way of their final escape. He was too tired and battered to care even for the hard knobs of filched wealth he'd been fucked on. They hadn't made it to the hut, but then again, nobody chased them.
And nobody would. If any word of what the cross cove had said were true, he'd been spicing this stretch a while, or it had been rum pad enough for him to turn tartar. Harry and Ellis tobied together, every time, well seen by the culls they bit – when the harmans came to pull up their prigger, they'd find the tartar's quarron and figure that they who'd gone snacks had come to daggers, and the one able piked on the bene. Case closed.
He still didn't want to move.
He looked up again at Ellis – naked, pistols, bruises, blood, sweat.
Grin.
Putting down his free hand, Ellis helped Harry up – then, bending, seized Harry's knees with his other arm and swept Harry up onto his shoulders. Curse-laden laughter was soon only laughter, high, full of youth, full of success, full of forgetful gaiety as the laughter of children, playing in the street. Ellis left the take and began to wade through the bog; it wouldn't do, after all, to keep at it in the open.