Iain inclines his head in acceptance.
There’s more alcohol at Christmas Supper, even though most of the manor hasn’t sobered up since dinner.
The meal is cold leftovers and stories round the fire of King Arthur and his knights, spun until jugs are empty and eyes are unfocused. Harry and Iain stagger upstairs and pass out in their fine new clothes.
The estate sleeps in the following day, the embers cold in the kitchen hearth and not a care to be had in the whole manor. The day dawns unseasonably warm, and the drip drip drip of melting snow out the window rouses Harry somewhere around mid-morning. He can smell wet dirt in the air, and wonders if the snowdrops will already be poking their sharp little noses through the soil.
He pisses in the chamber pot and splashes cold water on his face from the washbasin and goes in search of something to eat.
He pads quietly around Iain’s pallet, towards the door. Iain is still asleep, on his back, head pillowed on an arm, shirt rucked up around his thighs. He’s kicked his cloak off in the night.
Harry pauses and picks up the cloak to throw it back over Iain. But then he looks down at his friend. At his body. It’s very much not the body of the thin little wolf-boy that had come from Scotland in a cage. Harry wonders how underfed Iain had been, for how long. Because this wasn’t just farm labour that put on all that muscle. His body was clearly meant to have this sort of build, but it had been held back, starved to the point of underdevelopment, until Iain came to Dartington, and blossomed into the man lying in front of him.
His eyes skim lower. Iain is hard, his cock peeking out from under the hem of his shirt, the head thick and purple and glistening. He shifts in his sleep, his free hand moving down to rest on his stiff cock, fingers smearing the liquid pearling at its tip as his hand moves down to circle the base of it. Another pearl bubbles up almost immediately.
Harry feels his throat go completely dry, and he’s seized with the almost visceral need to know what those pearls would taste like on his tongue. His own cock twitches, thickening.
He figures it’s only fair to kneel for Iain, too.
Harry lowers his lips down on the silky-hard head of Iain’s cock. He touches the tip of his tongue to Iain’s slit. It tastes salty, a little bitter, and thick, and Harry hums a quiet moan of delight. He pulls off and licks his lips, then sinks down lower until he has the entire head in his mouth. His lips are tender, and running them back and forth over the ridge of Iain’s cockhead is more erotic, more pleasurable, than he ever imagined possible.
He reaches down and pulls his own cock out of his braies, stroking himself slowly.
Then he gently moves Iain’s hand away, replaces it with his own, and sees how much of Iain’s cock he can take in his mouth.
He gets halfway down, sucking Iain gently, running his tongue along the man’s thick shaft. Harry can feel more warm, salt-bitter liquid at the back of his throat. He never thought doing this would turn him on so much; he’d assumed it was all for the person getting sucked, but he’s wound up so tight he’d go over the edge with the slightest touch.
Then Iain writhes under him, making sleepy little moans of pleasure, and Harry wants him to do that again. He forces himself to take more of Iain’s stupidly thick cock in his mouth, until it’s hitting the back of his throat, and he speeds up his pace, pulling almost all the way off until his lips brush over the ridge of Iain’s head, and back down again until he’s gagging, and saliva is flowing out of his mouth. He’s so hard himself, his hips are twitching, desperate for more than his hand is giving him.
Iain cries out in his sleep, jerking his hips up, shoving his entire cock into Harry’s mouth, choking him. But Harry feels some sort of perverse victory in getting his lips all the way down to the dark hairs at the root of Iain’s shaft. He puts a hand on Iain’s hips to still them and bobs his head up, running his tongue up and around the sides of Iain’s dick, and then sinking all the way down until he’s choking once more.
He feels a hand grab the back of his head, pushing him down still impossibly further, then a sleepy grunt. Then a muttered ‘Holy Christ’, and Iain shifts beneath him, rising up on his elbows.
Harry sucks up and down Iain’s cock again then glances up at him. He knows he must look a wreck, lips and eyes red, saliva all over his mouth and dripping down his chin, but he doesn’t care. Iain is staring down at him in stunned amazement as Harry kisses the head of his cock, licking it and playing over it with his lips as if it were Iain’s mouth. Then Harry growls and takes Iain’s cock down his throat again. Iain shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, hissing. His hips start pushing up against Harry’s hand.
Harry pushes his pace still faster, harder, and from the volume of precome in his mouth and the completely wrecked expression on Iain’s face, he knows Iain is close. He’s moaning himself now, hand between his own legs, fisting himself, unbelievably turned on by the act of worshipping Iain’s cock with his mouth.
Iain tries to say something, puts his hand on Harry’s head to push him back, but Harry growls and bats his hand away and sucks as hard as he can and he can feel Iain’s orgasm moving up his cock, the hot come being pumped into his mouth, down his throat, down his chin. And when Iain’s done, when he can
