As the train chugged away from the station, the door to the compartment opened, and Henrik looked up at him, the stranger. He was tall, with fierce angles to his features, to his cheeks and the cut of his eyes and savage mouth, and he was dressed in what looked to be a very expensive suit made of cream-coloured fabric, his shirt and shoes a shiny black.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing across from Henrik, and Henrik nods his head.

The stranger moves forward with one loping stride, easing himself down into the other bench. His legs are so long that his knees very nearly touch against Henrik’s, until he crosses them and angles them to one side.

“Are you going all the way to Oslo?” he asked in warm, easy tones.

“Yes,” Henrik said, setting his book on his knee, his finger momentarily holding his page. “You as well, sir?”

“All the way to Oslo, and then some,” the stranger says. He’s looking at Henrik, looking at him with hungry, nearly yellow eyes, his gaze roving over Henrik as though to make a meal of him – over his face, the waves of his hair that he took out of their ribbon, his throat, down his travelling suit, his trousers, his shoes. “You’re not from Norway, are you? Your accent reveals you.”

“Yes,” Henrik says, feeling heat rise on the back of his neck. “I’m, uh, actually—”

“You’re Dutch,” the stranger interrupts him. “A Hollander. Further north than Amsterdam, but not so far as Schagen…. Alkmaar?”

“That’s some trick,” Henrik says, softly laughing despite himself. “You get all that from my accent?”

“You still have the old railway sticker on your suitcase,” the stranger says, gesturing up to his case on the shelf, and Henrik stares up at it, then laughs, rubbing at his blushing cheeks.

“God, you got me,” he says, and laughs a little more, setting his marker into his book now and laying his book aside. The stranger is still looking at him with that greedy look in his eyes, and Henrik glances to the corridor to see if anyone is passing them by, but not just yet. “You don’t have a city accent yourself. Are you from around here, Vestland?”

“No,” says the stranger. “I’m from the wild forests, further north. The mountains.”

“Oh,” Henrik says. “What, you’re a logger?”

“No,” the stranger says. “I’ve never cut down a tree in my life, though I’ve climbed very many, and rested beneath many more. Have you ever cut down a tree?”

“No,” says Henrik. “No, I’m a shipwright, myself, or, I’m training to be one, anyway. I was in Bergen studying. How about you, what has you making the journey all the way to Oslo?”

“Hunger,” the stranger says. “Want.”

Henrik blinks, not knowing exactly what to make of that – the way the stranger says it, says each word, has the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on their ends, leaves his skin hot under his suit. He opens his mouth to reply, but the door slides open and the conductor comes in, checks their tickets before politely taking his leave.

As soon as he goes out into the corridor, the stranger stands to his feet, pulls down the shades on the compartment door, although not the one on the window.

“You want to take a little sleep?” Henrik asks, his hand fluttering toward the window shade. “I can—” He falters.

The stranger’s eyes are even yellower now, and his severe features appear even more severe, his teeth seeming longer, his nose more of a snout. His ears have elongated, growing sharper pointed tips, and his hair, which before had been a shaggy tail of grey and brown, is even longer now, more of a mane.

“Not sleep,” he rasps – near growls, and Henrik’s mouth is dry.

“What’s your name, sir?” Henrik asks, although he falters as the stranger gets to his feet, and he’s so unspeakably tall, is made of such sharp angles, and his hands are very strong as he grabs Henrik by the upper arms and pulls him up.

“My name will do you no good, boy,” the stranger tells him, even as he shoves Henrik up against the compartment window, bent double. His fingers, so long-nailed as to be almost like claws, make quick work of the buttons on his braces, and Henrik’s trousers are already a little too big for him – they drop immediately, and Henrik can’t believe what’s happening, that this is happening.

His cock is hard between his legs, and he can’t conceive of it as the stranger shoves him up hard against the glass, pushing up his shirt tails, and there’s no warning at all before the stranger’s cock is cleaving not between Henrik’s thighs but straight into his arse, and he howls, muffling the sound as best he can against the inside of his sleeve. It’s an obscene risk, this, the green forestry around them passing by as they make their way toward the next patch of coastland.

It hurts.

It’s a sublime, wretchedly hot pain, a burn about the rim of his arse as the stranger’s prick drives roughly into him, his sharp nails digging in against Henrik’s hips and the meat of his thighs, and his sharp, sharp teeth drag and nip and make little bites against the back of his neck, and Henrik feels dizzy with want and arousal.

“Hunger, I told you,” the loping wolf of a man growls into his ear, and his tongue is hot where it drags over the side of Henrik’s neck, under the lobe of his ear. “Want – lust, by any other name.”

He grips Henrik around the middle and shoves his cock as deeply into Henrik’s arse as he can cram himself, and fuck, but Henrik can feel every inch of it, feels the drag and growing wetness of his prick, feel the way being slicked with each thrust inside him. It goes from feeling savage with a bite of pleasure to feeling all-too-pleasurable with only a bite of savagery, and Henrik can scarcely draw breath as the stranger’s hips jackrabbit against him, taking all they want from him.

Henrik’s knees are weak but it doesn’t matter. When they buckle, the stranger keeps him upright, limp between his flattening against the cool glass of the window and the trees passing them by outside and the pierce of the stranger’s cock inside him, taking from him all he wants, using him as he pleases.

“Ungh,” Henrik whimpers, and then his back arches suddenly as the stranger licks the back of his neck, tastes the sweat off his skin, and Henrik’s finish comes over him in a sudden burst, and he’s made a mess of the compartment wall and the carpet beneath them, and the stranger keeps fucking him even though it’s too much, now.

His spent cock is twitching desperately, achingly, and he clumsily grabs and presses against the glass, tries to take in his breaths, tries to think, tries to moan, “Too much, too much—” but he is powerless against the stranger’s hunger, his lust, against the gluttony of it and his desire to fuck his fill.

When he finally does spend with a howl he doesn’t muffle, a victorious noise that fills the compartment they’re in together, steam clouding the inside of the glass and Henrik’s fingers slippery against the surface of it, Henrik’s weak knees are allowed to collapse beneath him, and the stranger pulls back and lets him fall in a puddle on the floor.

His head is spinning, and his legs feel like jellied eels beneath him, and he’s ridiculously tired, his head leaned against the compartment wall.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, and blearily turns his head to look to the stranger, who is sitting in Henrik’s seat, looking perfectly put together. Henrik’s book is in his lap, and he looks near serene, reading from it.

“You have twenty minutes to recover,” the stranger says, “before I fuck you again. We’ll get to Oslo by nightfall, hm? I may well have fucked you full of pups by then.”

Henrik feels the stranger’s come leaking out of his arse, fucked and abused and open, and he wants it, craves it, needs it – fears it.

“Pups?” he echoes.

“Nineteen minutes,” says the stranger, and slides Henrik’s waterskin toward him with his foot, and Henrik lifts it to his mouth and drinks from it until it’s halfway empty.

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