hi! thanks so much for checking out my blog! please find an overview of my fics here đ
persona series
[P2] long road home - AO3 | FFN
[P2] quiet - AO3 | FFN
[P5] ground zero - tumblr | AO3
[P5] rainy days - AO3 | FFN
the great ace attorney
[DGS1] The Adventure of the Repellant Philantropist - tumblr | AO3
[DGS2] foreign waters - tumblr | AO3
[DGS2] it takes two - tumblr | AO3 | FFN
[DGS2] lest you forget - tumblr | AO3
[DGS2] tight-laced coquetry - tumblr | AO3
[DGS2] telling the bees - tumblr | AO3
[DGS2] and that which will not rust - tumblr | AO3
fire emblem
[FE9] By the Bootstraps - tumblr | AO3 | Podfic (by Lumeha)
[FE10] almost home - AO3 | FFN
[FE13] Coffee - AO3 | FFN
[FE13] Pie - AO3 | FFN
[FE13] Teatime - AO3
[FE15] empty shells - AO3 | FFN
[FE16] word of mouth - tumblr | AO3 | FFN
[FE16] nth time's the charm - tumblr | AO3 | FFN
[FE16] on ghosts - tumblr | AO3 | FFN
[FE16] may god be my witness - tumblr | AO3
kingdom come: deliverance
[KCD2] Claustrophobia - tumblr | AO3
[KCD2] shooting your shot - tumblr | AO3
[KCD2] a place to stay - tumblr | AO3
[KCD2] The German School of Swordplay - tumblr | AO3
[KCD2] Fencing Injuries and How to Treat Them - tumblr | AO3
[KCD2] The Menfolk of Kuttenberg - tumblr | AO3
[KCD2] speaking of the devil - tumblr [1] [2] | AO3 [1] [2]
misc.
[wha] pressure and the deep sea - tumblr | AO3 | FFN
[wha] when the storms come rolling through - tumblr | AO3
[samflam] waiting for the bus to come - tumblr | AO3 | FFN
[hq!!] It's sweet. - AO3 | FFN
[kagepro] Slipping Through Our Fingers - AO3 | FFN
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Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Relationships: Henry & Hans Capon
Other relevant tags: Light Angst, Claustrophobia, PTSD, Siege of Suchdol, Character Study-ish
Word count: 1,348
Language: English
Read on: AO3
âYou fought with your visor up,â he says.
Capon looks at him, uncomprehending. Then shrugs, aventail rustling. âAnd what of it? Itâs hot out, Henry, in case you hadnât noticed. I donât want to get boiled in my own steam.â
A visored helmet can feel confining.
cw: blood, canon-typical violence, ptsd, and something like a mild panic attack
The awkward flailing of the last Praguer as Capon throws him off the battlements looks almost comical; by contrast, the disgusting sound of metal and meat hitting the dense ground of the dried-out moat is anything but.
For a single moment thereafter, everything is eerily silent.
The world, suspending its breath.
But then, the roar of tens of feet hitting creaking wooden platforms shatters the quiet. Lungs fill up again with fresh air that stinks of death, and Frenzelâs men rush past on the narrow wall walk, tossing the dead and dying Praguers down into the moat while hauling their own dead and injured down into the inner baileyâs courtyard.
âFuck,â breathes Capon, ducking behind a crenel before roughly running a gauntleted hand across his face. His fingers smear blood and viscera into his skin.
Henry presses himself up to the crenel to his right, making as much space as possible for the soldiers bustling around them. He canât tear his eyes away from the browning, flaking smudges on his lordâs face. Wonders if his looks any better.
âTheyâve let up.â
âFor now,â replies Capon. His chest still rises and falls rapidly, jostling his cuirass. Everything has become more exhausting since the food reserves have begun running low.
Beside the large, thumb-shaped smudge of blood low on Caponâs right cheek, a smattering of small bloodstains almost gets lost amidst the stubble of his still neatly razored-down beard. Henry blinks.
âYou fought with your visor up,â he says.
Capon looks at him, uncomprehending. Then shrugs, aventail rustling. âAnd what of it? Itâs hot out, Henry, in case you hadnât noticed. I donât want to get boiled in my own steam.â
Something sour settles in Hernyâs empty stomach. He purses his lips as if that could hold back the urge to chew Capon out. âThey have archers, Sir,â he says, all but spitting the title, âstationed all along the walls down there. And all they have to do all day is shoot at us whenever weâre up here on the ramparts. One stray arrow, and youâd beââ
âWatch your tone,â Capon cuts him off, bristling, and stands up straighter. He likes to leverage the handâs breadth he has on Henry whenever he finds himself on the backfoot in an argument. âAnd besides,â he goes on, âyouâve some nerve, to give me shit for not putting down my visor while youâre wearing that thing.â
His blood-stained index finger trembles as he points it accusingly at Henryâs kettle hat.
Henryâs breath hitches. âWell, but thatâs different,â he says, tapping a finger against the brim. âThese donât have a visor in the first place.â
âBut I know you can afford a better helmet than that.â
The back of Henryâs neck grows clammy. He knows how unreasonable and petulant he sounds when he says, âBut I donât need a visor.â
Capon, predictably, hones in on his hypocrisy. âOh, and I do?â
Yes, because your life is more important than mine, Henry wants to say, though he knows it would only upset his lord and dearest friend more, no matter how true it might be. And even then, it would be dishonest to pretend it was the only reason.
Henry darts a few quick glances around the ramparts, finding that most of Suchdolâs garrison has either moved on from where they are standing or left for the courtyard below. Only a lone guard lingers around the very end of their part of the wall walk, far enough not to hear them.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, Henry looks back at Capon. âItâs bad if I wear a visor, Sir. IâI canât stand the feeling of having my head stuck in a tight space,â he confesses, rushed and quiet with shame. His hands tremble, sweaty inside his gauntlets. âI got a bucket stuck on my head as a lad, see, and we couldnât get it off for hours until Pa finally took an axe to it. And ever sinceââ
Even just remembering it has Henryâs breaths coming quicker. The darkness. The muffled sounds. The blood rushing in his ears. The panic. The thinning air, wet and hard to take in.
Christ, the hunger must be eating away at his nerves, too.
But then, a gentle, bloodied hand settles carefully on his shoulder. Slowly, as if dealing with a spooked animal, Capon steps in front of him. âItâs alright, Hal,â he says, all indignation gone. His eyes are terribly soft. âJust breathe. I didnât know.â
âAye, well,â Henry says, and drops his gaze to his feet. His breaths slowly steady under the grounding weight of Caponâs hand, and for a few fleeting moments, neither of them says anything else.
Eventually, Capon breaks the silence. âWere you embarrassed to tell me?â he asks, and Henry can only nod. A scoff, then. âSeriously, Hal, did you forget who youâre speaking to? Do you think I, of all people, would judge you for being scared of tight spaces? Iâve half a mind to be offended, really!â
Andâwell, it does sound rather silly when he puts it like that. âBut itâs for such a dumb reason,â he says.
Caponâs fingers clench around his shoulder in what might be a suppressed urge to give him a shake. âItâs no dumber than a tower falling on top of you,â he replies, firm. And then, very quietly, adds, âFuck, why do you think I avoid putting it down?â
Oh, Lord, but Henryâs a fool.
He settles a hand atop Caponâs and gives his friendâs fingers a squeeze. He may not even feel it through layers of leather and plate, but it doesnât matter. âIâm sorry, Hans. I should have⌠should have thought of that. Especially knowing what itâs like.â
Caponâs hand drops away from Henryâs shoulder as Henry lifts his own. âWell, I have gotten better about it.â
âAye,â Henry says and, surprisingly, feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. âBut this sort of thing seems to linger.â
âIâll say,â Capon sighs. The look he fixes Henry with is almost disbelieving. âBut really, since childhood?â
Henry shrugs. âCanât help it. When Sir Hanush awarded me that nice helmet for winning the Tourney back home, I was excited to put it on, you know? And then I almost lost my mind when the visor fell down, and I had to keep it together in front of the audience.â
Caponâs mouth twists into a wry smile. A dried-up smudge of blood on his cheek cracks under its pull. None of this is funny. âAnd itâs been kettle hats since?â
Henry knocks a fist against the brim of the helmet in question. It clunks with the sound of metal hitting metal. âTheyâre fine, arenât they?â
A brief moment of hesitation; as quickly as it had come, Caponâs smile drops. âIâd rather you wore something that kept you safer, too, you know,â he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His eyes trail along the floorboards before snapping back to Henryâs. âThatâs what got you worked up earlier, wasnât it?â
Thereâs no point in denying it, Henry supposes. âI canât always protect you. If a stray arrow took you out because it hit you right in the eye while I wasnât lookingâŚâ
Capon nods. Sighs. Says, âAye,â and Henry knows that he feels just the same.
The sour thing in Henryâs stomach shrivels, grows warmer. Theyâre both fools.
âWill you put the visor down if you can stand it?â Henry asks. Almost adds, for me?
Perhaps Capon hears the unspoken part, anyways. âYou old mother hen,â he scoffs. âIf it makes you feel better, Iâll try. Though I canât make you promise the same, can I?â
âWell, His Lordship could always switch to a kettle hat, then we wouldnât be having this discussion,â Henry suggests. The remark has Capon grinning properly again at long last; it loosens something in Henryâs chest and makes him grin in turn. âAnd at least the brim might stop a sword from immediately paring your turnip.â
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Relationships: Henry/Arne the German
Other relevant tags: Minor Injuries, Wound Care, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Kissing
Word count: 4,435
Language: English
Read on: AO3
âWell, I donât think itâs broken.â
Arne lights up. âSo it is fine.â
âI didnât say that,â Henry immediately cuts him off.
Arne gets a not-so-small slap on the wrist, and Henry sees to his injury. And other needs.
A follow-up to The German School of Swordplay!
âIt is not so bad,â Arne has the gall to insist, even as his swollen wrist turns more and more purple by the minute. Henry has half a mind to give him a matching bruise on the head.
âIt absolutely is,â he says while carefully moving each of Arneâs fingers to check their mobility. Only moving the thumb has his German guildbrother hissing, which, considering the extent of the bruising on his wrist, is probably a blessing. Though, upon closer examination, it would seem that the bruising simply spreads down to the ball of his hand. Henry sighs. âWell, I donât think itâs broken.â
Arne lights up. âSo it is fine.â
âI didnât say that,â Henry immediately cuts him off. He carefully turns Arneâs hand over, watching him flinch as his wrist is rotated. âIt looks like itâs sprained something nasty. Mightâve also bruised the bone.â
âDas heiĂtâŚ?â
Henry isnât entirely sure if Arne is asking him to translate his diagnosis or bracing for Henry to tell him how long he will be out of commission for, but he certainly doesnât know how to say any of this in German. âYou shouldnât move your wrist at all, ideally. At least until the swelling and bruising are better.â
Arneâs eyes flicker down to his wrist, a look of utmost betrayal on his face. âBut it was just a⌠a Schlag auf die Hand,â he says, sounding more distraught than Henry has ever heard him. Hell, nearly losing an eye hadnât bothered him as much as this seems to.
âIt often doesnât take a lot,â he says, and slowly lets go of Arneâs hand, careful not to jostle it needlessly.
In a way, Henry might be the one to blame for this happening in the first place. Heâd thought it could be fun to take Arne along for one of the blacksmithsâ guildâs duels, after all. And heâd also suggested Arne try his mettle against Matthias von Saaz, even though Henry himself had found the man a bit too wily since theyâd crossed blades for the first time. Arne, who was used to trained and honourable opponents, hadnât been prepared for an underhanded hit like the one that ended up wrecking his wrist.
Now, still sat in the shade of a barn in Hoprink with the duelling grounds abandoned, thereâs no helping it either way. Accidents happen, even though itâs tempting to feel guilty about it.
âI can stabilise it with some bandages for now,â Henry says, âbut youâll have to keep it still for a few days at least.â
âBut trainingââ
âIâll tell Menhard to chop off your hand for good if he catches you with a sword.â
Arneâs mouth snaps shut, brows furrowing. If looks could kill, Henry supposes that he should make a run for the priest. âUnd täte ichâs im Geheimen?â Arne asks, tilting his chin up in challenge, and though Henry doesnât understand all the words, he just knows Arne is being a brat about this.
âArne, I swear to God, Iâll put that sprain in a splint if I have to. At least then Iâd know you wonât overdo it.â
Somehow, that seems to make something click for Arne. His face falls, chin dipping back down. âIst es wirklich so schlimm?â he asks, the severity of his injury apparently only now beginning to sink in. A wonder, really, considering how nasty his swollen and discoloured wrist looks.
âAye,â Henry says, and gets to his feet. He doesnât offer Arne a hand up, too afraid that force of habit will have him reaching for him with his injured hand. The sun is slowly dipping below the city walls, and daylight suddenly feels acutely fleeting. âCome on, I can wrap and immobilise it properly at the smithy.â
âImmobilise,â Arne echoes faintly, staring down at his wrist as though it has somehow wronged him. âAnd it will be nur fĂźr ein paar Tage?â
âIf you actually keep it still, I think it should be,â Henry reassures him. âI can also give you some decoctions to help with the pain.â
Huffing through his nose like an exhausted carthorse, Arne at last gets up, his shoulders drooping lower than usual. âDanke, Heinrich,â he says, though he manages to make it sound like heâs just admitted defeat.
They make their way through the quarter a little more slowly than Henry would have expected, but Arneâs barely stifled noises of pain whenever he jostles his wrist make him slow down. The passerby are beginning to light their torches by the time they pass the Hole, and as they enter the smithyâs garden, the walls surrounding the property cast everything in pitch-black shadow.
âCome on,â Henry says, motioning for Arne to follow him as he pushes open the door to the forge.
âYou work here?â Arne asks, head swivelling around to take in the room as Henry hunts down flint to light some lamps with. âAnd you make Schwerter?â
âAye, though people tend to need nails and wardrobe hooks far more often,â he replies, finally locating what heâs looking for at the far edge of a table. Blame the darkness; at least he makes quick work of those lamps. âThey also need their rotten teeth pulled and their broken bones splinted, for that matter. Sit down, Arne.â
Surprisingly, his German friend does so without complaint, gingerly sitting down on the seat of the sharpening wheel. Perhaps, Henry realises, he is still too mesmerised by the room to remember that he is about to have his sword arm immobilised.
It might be for the best, really.
Henry retrieves two short blocks of wood from a workbench â would-be sword hilts, now finding a different purpose â and grabs a few firm bandages before coming back to Arne. He kneels down between Arneâs legs, setting his makeshift splint down on the ground beside him. âCome on, letâs have another look at that wrist.â
With a moue to put Hans Capon himself to shame, Arne extends his arm and carefully sets his hand down on his own knee. His wrist has turned an awful, deep purple by now, the dim light making the unhealthy colour stand out even further. Henry canât help but hiss in sympathy. âMaybe I should have gotten some salve, too. Christ, this looks nasty.â
âYou said it was only fĂźr ein paar Tage,â Arne reminds him, as if Henry has any authority over the severity of his injury.
âI think the worst will be over in a few days,â he assures him, picking up the first of the wooden blocks. âBut you should probably take it easy for another week or two, after.â
âThatâs not what you said.â
âI know, but it wasnât this purple earlier,â Henry says, gently lifting Arneâs hand to place the block lengthwise against his inner wrist. âHold it there for a moment.â
Arne obeys, his left hand pressing the block against his arm while Henry picks up its twin, alongside a roll of bandages. âHow will I do anything, wenn ich meine Hand doch nicht benutzen kann? If I⌠canât use my hand?â
Henry presses the other block to the outside of Arneâs wrist, the upper edge just reaching the back of his hand to immobilise it. Only once he has begun fixing the blocks in place with the first few rounds of bandages does he reply, âWell, you can take it off and have someone put it back on if you really must. If you go to the baths, Iâm sure the girls there will know exactly how to redo it.â
âAnd if IâŚâ
When he doesnât finish the sentence, Henry chances a glance upwards. Even in the low light, turned to the side to avoid Henryâs eye, he can tell that Arneâs face is bright red. He picks up the next wad of bandages to try and hide his bemused grin. âIâm sure you can piss and wipe your arse with your left.â
âDas ist nichtââ
Arneâs lips clamp shut when he looks down to see Henry grinning up at him, working the first bit of the bandage free. His eyes narrow, air puffing out of his nostrils.
Henry resumes the wrapping of Arneâs wrist, giving himself an excuse to look away. In the privacy of the smithy, he figures thereâs no harm in acknowledging the sorts of people Arne fancies, or what transpired between them that one night in the guildâs courtyard. âIâm sure thereâs many handsome young men around Kuttenberg who will gladly help you with⌠other matters.â
As Henry nears the end of the bandage, his little quasi-splint is starting to look solid enough already. Fewer layers will make it easier to take off and redo; itâs nothing if not practical. But when he looks back up at Arne, mouth already open to ask if the wrapping is comfortable, the extremely flustered expression that greets him makes the words die on his tongue.
âHeinrich,â Arne says, almost breathlessly. His eyes glisten in the low light, and Henry suddenly finds himself worried that heâs wrapped his wrist too tightly. But then Arne uses his good hand to guide the hand Henry had just been wrapping his injury with between his parted legs, andâ
âI didnât mean you had to start looking for help getting off immediately,â Henry says, but nevertheless lets his palm cup Arneâs half-hard cock through his braies.
Well, perhaps this is on him for getting on his knees between Arneâs legs in the first place.
âDu musst nicht,â Arne says, somehow, impossibly, growing more flustered still. âYouâdonât have to.â
Despite his words, his prick stiffens further in Henryâs grasp. He has to bite down on his bottom lip to stifle a laugh. âCan I trust you to keep your hand still?â
Arne looks down at his wrapped, immobilised wrist as if heâd already forgotten about why they came here in the first place. But then a flash of steely resolve crosses his face, and he moves his injured hand off his lap, letting the arm dangle beside him. âYou can.â
âGood. I wouldnât want to have to rewrap it,â Henry says, slipping his hand upwards to undo the laces of Arneâs braies. âIs it comfortable, or did I wrap it too tightly?â
âNein, itâsâitâs good.â
Henry hums, using his other hand to untie the bottommost laces of Arneâs gambeson. âAnd did you give thisâ âhe gives Arneâs cock a light squeeze for emphasisâ âany thought yet? Seems to me that youâve been a bit affected for a while.â
Much to his surprise, Arne just swallows and then says, âIch dachte⌠naja, youâre already da unten.â He lifts his left hand to indicate to where Henry is kneeling between his spread legs, before â rather deftly â using it to unbuckle his belts, one after the other. âYou couldâŚâ
âYou want my mouth?â Henry chances a guess, parting the gambeson until it reveals Arneâs stiffened, linen-clad prick. He didnât have the opportunity to look his fill last time; now, he finds himself oddly careful as he tugs the waistband of Arneâs braies loose enough to push it down, revealing his rigid cock. Itâs modest in size and already flushed almost as purple as the bruise on Arneâs wrist, with veins standing out in stark relief. Half the head peeks out from the foreskin, looking impossibly dark in the poor lighting, a single droplet glistening at the tip.
âArne?â Henry asks when he receives no reply. He glances back up and finds the other man staring down at him with wide eyes, jaw trembling. âAre you alright?â
âJa,â he grinds out. âDu siehst nurâyou just lookâŚâ
Perhaps, Henry realises, Arne isnât all that used to the handsome young men of Kuttenberg helping him get off.
He lets a smirk settle on his face and makes a show of pushing his cheek against the inside of Arneâs thigh, mouth only inches away from his cock. Some mean part of him longs to blow on it. âIf itâs too much for youââ
âNein!â
The vehemence in his voice â probably borne out of his constant need to prove himself, God bless the fool â tickles Henry something awful. He has to bury his mouth in Arneâs thigh to stifle his laughter. âFine, fine,â he says around half a mouthful of hose, âbut do you want me to suck you off?â
Arne swallows, sitting up straighter. Hesitantly, he extends his good hand to settle on top of Henryâs head. âIfâif you want to,â he says, fingers idly twisting into Henryâs hair.
âKlar,â he replies, feeling just a bit cheeky for the odd German word. He peels himself off Arneâs thigh and reaches for his now filled-out cock; the weight of it in his hand is not unfamiliar at this point, but the sight still very much is. Gently, Henry slides back the foreskin, revealing the glistening head fully. He presses a little kiss to it, watching Arne through his lashes for a reaction.
And a reaction he gets: Arneâs breath hitches, audible in the quiet of the forge, his pupils huge. Henry smirks and kisses the tip again, maintaining eye-contact all the while, before giving the slit a tiny lick. The taste of early seed is salty and bitter on his tongue, but not unpleasant; below that, he can also taste a hint of the musk of a long day in the heat that has his gut stirring.
He gives the head another, more indulgent lick, now letting the uneven surface of his tongue slowly lave over the sensitive skin. The hand in his hair tightens slightly without pulling him off, and he takes it as encouragement to go on, letting his eyes slip shut as he takes Arne properly into his mouth.
He keeps his fist wrapped gently around the base to cover what he cannot take yet, letting his lips settle against his fingers. Like this, he can taste more of the musk, of Arneâs sweat and skin; chasing it, he allows himself to smooth his tongue along the underside of Arneâs prick, lingering for a moment. Then, he tightens his lips and pulls back, his hand moving along with his mouth.
Arne chokes out another gasp, and Henry finds himself looking back up as he begins to bob his head. Thereâs a blotchy flush turning all of Arneâs face red, his eyes screwed tightly shut. His chest rises laboriously, while his lips are clamped between his teeth, stifling both his breaths and any noises begging to escape. Itâs a shame, that habit of his; Henry wouldnât mind hearing just how much this affects him.
He sucks a little harder, draws his lips tighter every time they slip over the head. His drool eases the glide of his fist around Arneâs cock, and he dares to speed up his ministrations, carefully, incrementally taking Arne further into his throat.
A whimper makes its way past Arneâs bitten lips.
And then, a sudden surge of bitter, heady seed has Henry groaning instead.
Arneâs eyes fly open and before he knows whatâs happening, the hand in Henryâs hair is frantically pulling him off. Arneâs teeth unclench just so he can choke out, âHeinrich, wenn du so weitermachst, dannââ
And though Henry doesnât exactly understand, he gets the meaning just fine. The hand he has wrapped around Arneâs prick stays there, unmoving, holding it still while it twitches in his grasp. He licks his lips. âI donât mind if you donât last, you know,â he says, voice coming out a little rough. ââS flattering.â
The cock in his hand gives a noticeable throb at his words. Arne disentangles his uninjured hand from Henryâs hair to rub it over his strawberry-red face. âIt felt⌠gut. Sehr gut,â he mumbles, palm muffling his words. Swallows. âI donât know ifâŚâ
Henry finds himself smiling; for as weird as fucking Arne proves to be, thereâs something almost cute about the German. He presses a kiss into the crease where Arneâs thigh meets his torso, earning himself a little gasp. âHave mercy on my jaw and knees,â he jokes, turning his head just a bit to give the side of Arneâs prick a little lick.
Arne keeps staring down at him, lips trembling. âYou donât think itâs⌠peinlich?â he asks. When Henryâs expression must betray his incomprehension, Arne purses his lips, thinking. A beat passes before he seems to remember the word in Czech, clarifying, âEmbarrassing.â
And, oh.
Henry canât help but smile, rubbing his cheek into Arneâs thigh. âItâs not embarrassing at all,â he says, using his hold on Arneâs cock to give it a few loose-fisted, gentle pumps. âI do mean it when I say itâs flattering. Means Iâm at least halfway decent at this.â
Arne looks down at him, cheeks flushed and expression unreadable. His lips are red from how hard heâs been biting down on them. He looks already fucked-out like this, at least from where Henry is kneeling.
Then, very slowly, Arneâs hand returns to Henryâs head. Carefully, he nudges him in the direction of his cock, and Henry is all too happy to acquiesce. Using his grasp around the base to guide Arne back into his mouth, he hums in appreciation as the salty taste of seed hits his palate again. He rolls his tongue over the head, then dips the tip below Arneâs foreskin. The hand curling back into his hair trembles, lean thighs twitching about his ears.
God, but it really is flattering, to be eliciting reactions this strong. Henry glances up through his lashes as he flicks his tongue into the slit of Arneâs cock, watching the Germanâs eyes flutter shut, the muscles of his neck straining as he clenches his jaw tight, lips clamped between his teeth. Oh, but Henry really needs to get him to make some noise before he spills, or heâll go insane.
Taking a deep breath through his nose, he opens his mouth a little wider, flattens his tongue, and swallows Arne as far down as he can.
The reaction is immediate: fingers clenching in his hair, a bitten-back groan getting trapped in Arneâs throat, and a jump of Arneâs hips that almost has Henry choking. But he doesnât, thankfully â he just settles a reprimanding palm on Arneâs hipbone, holding him in place, and breathes around the weight of the cock now resting along the entire length of his tongue. The head breaches his throat, and Henry becomes acutely aware of it every time he swallows drool and seed.
Carefully, he pulls back, feeling every silky inch slide over his tongue, trailing saltiness. The hand heâd previously used to make up for what he hadnât fit in his mouth now supports the base, his thumb occasionally dipping lower to run along the seam of Arneâs bollocks.
When only the head remains in his mouth, Henry swirls his tongue over it, rubbing it over the sensitive spot on the underside, just where it meets the shaft. He slides it a little further into his mouth again, then gives it a parting suck before diving all the way back down. A needy little noise escapes Arne as his cock slides back into Henryâs throat; he canât help but groan over that tiny whimper, and Arneâs hip gives a twitch beneath his palm. Christ, he needs to hear more.
Thereâs more need than finesse to the way he pulls back and immediately swallows Arne down again and again. Tears blur his vision when Arneâs cockhead strikes the back of his throat at a particularly awkward angle, but Henry doesnât pull off, breathing through the discomfort. All he can taste and smell is musk and salt, and all he hears is the obscene sounds of his own mouth on Arneâs prick and a litany of hitched breaths and stifled moans and groans. If he werenât so focussed, it could well drive him mad; God knows that heâs uncomfortably hard in his own braies. But his need only makes him want to get Arne off sooner, to get his composure to snap and all those held-back noises to come spilling out without restraint at last.
Bitter saltiness sits heavy on Henryâs tongue, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. Every time he takes Arneâs cock all the way, his nose brushes the fair hair curled around the base, the musk of a man on a summerâs day almost cloying. Henry moans, and above him, a gasp falls freely at last.
He glances upwards, vision blurred by tears, to see Arneâs mouth drop open, breathing so hard that his hot breath fans across Henryâs face. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, forehead glistening with sweat in the low light.
He looks positively debauched.
Henry groans once more, and the fingers tangled into his hair tighten. He can feel Arneâs cock grow impossibly harder, and he shallows the bobbing of his head, using his hand to jerk the base in tandem with his mouthâs movements in preparation for whatâs to come. Arne throws his head back, throat straining and spilling sweet gasps and moans, a delighted smile stretching across his lips, andâ
Itâs hardly a surprise when he comes at last. Henry pulls back so only the head remains between his lips, slackens his jaw and lets pump after pump of hot, bitter seed spill onto his tongue. With his hand, he works Arne through his release, coaxing every last drop from his cock until, with a satisfied sigh, Arneâs hips slump away from him.
As his prick slips from Henryâs mouth, a final, stray spurt paints a stripe down the middle of his bottom lip. Heâd lick it off, were his tongue not currently weighed down by a mouthful of come. For a moment, he considers what to do with it â whether to spit it into the leftover bandage or to just swallow it all.
His gaze flickers up to Arneâs face, startling when he finds him looking back already.
Perhaps itâs because he is so surprised by it, but either way, he swallows.
Arneâs eyebrows shoot up. Henry knows he must make for a right messy sight â mussed hair, drying tear-tracks on his cheeks, seed on his lips, a very prominent tent between his legs â but Arne still gazes down at him with so much wonderment, Henry wonders if he didnât personally hang all the stars in the sky and forget. âDu hast geschluckt,â he says, full of awe, with blown-wide pupils and a flush high and bright on his cheeks. The thumb of his good hand gently swipes at the tears beneath Henryâs eye. He exhales. âOh, HeinrichâŚâ
And in what might be the most shocking development of the day, Arne proceeds to lean down and kiss Henry right on his come-stained mouth.
Henry can do little but freeze up in surprise, but Arne doesnât seem to consider it a rejection. Instead, he keeps on chastely pressing his closed lips to Henryâs until he eventually recovers enough to respond in kind. And what an odd kiss this is; Henry certainly wouldnât be kissing a man whoâd just swallowed his progeny as sweetly as this. But Arne has always been an odd duck â perhaps this was to be expected.
A soft sigh fans over Henryâs lips, and then a hand settles back into his hair. Itâs a gentle touch, although something about it does feel somewhat odd, and before Henry can figure out what it isâ
âScheiĂe!â
The floor suddenly feels colder to kneel on than before, with how Arne jerks back hard enough to upset the grindstone. In front of his chest, he cradles his right hand, and Henry realises what just happened.
âChrist, I told you not to move it!â
Arne glares down at his hand as if it had personally wronged him. Truth be told, itâs a miracle that Henry managed to finish him off without this happening. âI thought you would want⌠etwas im Gegenzug.â
Henry sits back on his haunches, sighing. Itâs fascinating how quickly the mood has been ruined. Arneâs now soft cock looks a bit ridiculous where it dangles above the pushed-down waistband of his braies.
âIâm not letting you touch me,â he says, indicating towards Arneâs splinted wrist with his chin. âYouâll only make it worse if you move your hand without thinking.â
His friend bristles. âButââ
âArne, Iâm fine,â Henry cuts him off. Arne looks almost offended to not be returning the favour. As if to placate him, Henry settles his hands on Arneâs knees, thumbs gently brushing the inside of his leg. Softer, he adds, âI enjoyed doing this for you. And I donât need anything in return, I promise.â
That seems to do the trick, if only somewhat. Arne deflates a little, though he still looks put-out. Itâs funny to see now, with how little he had seemed to care about Henryâs pleasure during their first romp.
Slowly, Henry pushes himself off the ground. His knees creak like those of a much older man after having been stuck in the same cramped position for minutes on end.
Arne follows his every movement with all the attention of a bird of prey, though his eyes do linger on Henryâs slowly flagging erection for a moment too long. It makes him smile as he shakes out his slightly numb legs, one of his calves twinging with the threat of a cramp. âCan you fix up your clothes on your own?â he asks Arne, nodding at his still bare cock. âI can help you out with any laces.â
âEs muss gehen,â Arne huffs, frowning, and tucks himself away with his left hand before shimmying his braies back up and â miraculously â retying the waistband with only his left hand and the tips of two fingers on his right. It really is quite impressive.
âI was only asking,â Henry laughs, throwing his hands up to show his lack of ill-intent. âIf youâre fine on your own, Iâll go and grab something for the pain in the meanwhile. It should help bring down the swelling as well, but itâs mostly a painkiller.â
Arne blinks up at him, considering. His good hand hovers over the undone laces at the bottom of his gambeson. âDanke dir, Heinrich,â he says, cheeks reddening just a bit. âYou are⌠kind.â
âWhat are friends for, eh?â he asks, feeling maybe a little bashful, and licks his lip.
And, well, his face must crumple something fierce as the taste of seed unexpectedly hits his tongue again, because heâs pretty sure heâs never heard Arne laugh like that before.
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Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Relationships: Henry/Vitek
Other relevant tags: Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Coming Untouched, Crack Treated Seriously
Word count: 4,786
Language: English
Read on: AO3
âYou could⌠you know,â Henry says. With his right hand, he makes a rather unmistakable jerking motion in mid-air to illustrate what he means.
Vitek balks, then looks around in the dim light as if he afraid somebody might have seen what Henry just mimed, scandalised by the very suggestion. Through his teeth, he hisses, âI donât do that sort of thing.â
Henry tries to teach Vitek how to relax without shooting arrows or punching someone.
Zlata is a darling woman, really.
She doesnât exactly remind Henry of his Ma, in part because Ma would have set her husband straight twice over instead of fussing and worrying all day, but she mothers him all the same. Whether it is out of gratefulness for finding her husband, or just because he happens to be the same age as her own son, Zlata always makes sure to always ladle an extra spoonful of stew into Henryâs bowl, to hang some dried chamomile by his sleeping spot at the lodge, and to hand him an extra fur to put beneath his bedroll whenever he stays over.
Vitek seems mostly amused by it all and doesnât begrudge Henry his motherâs attention. Heâs a good sport all around, Henry has found, so long as his father isnât concerned. Which is, unfortunately, rather often.
âI bet your old man isnât some useless drunk,â Vitek says one evening as they sit in the little shelter by the shooting range, waiting for the sun to set and their stomachs to settle. Henry scuffs his heel against the dirt beneath his feet, stalling.
âNo,â he replies, unsure what else to say. Talking about his parents still doesnât come easy. He doesnât really know who his father is, either.
Vitek sighs, oblivious, and leans back against the wall. The bench beneath them tilts a little with it. âLucky you, then.â
Well, suppose that Henry had been lucky, once upon a time. Being reminded of the fact makes his chest feel awfully tight, though. The back of his nose stings. âMy Pa was the strict sort,â he says. âAlways warned me off messing around and staying at the alehouse too late. My Ma, too, for that matter, but⌠he wasnât the type to drink.â
The words are left to hang in the air for a moment before Vitek lets out a soft little oh, barely more than a gasp. The bench jostles as he leans forward again. âIâm sorry, I didnât thinkâis heâŚ?â
âAye,â Henry says. He watches Vitek deflate from the corner of his eye. âYou didnât know. Donât worry about it.â
Vitek swallows, eyes screwing shut as if it pains him. A slow exhale, then he straightens in his seat. âAt least you can remember them fondly,â he says, face flickering between emotions, yet refusing to settle into any one expression. âIf you hadnât come along when you did and gone looking for my father, he would have been wolf-fodder. And what would I have remembered him as, then?â
It strikes Henry rather suddenly that Vitek has been grieving a parent, too.
Death, at least, is a masterful thief â one that snatches a man whole. To lose someone to the bottle, drop by drop, swig by swig, while they still sit opposite you at the table, becoming less themselves by the dayâ
Tentatively, Henry reaches out to pat Vitekâs shoulder. âHeâs still alive,â he says, like thatâs any real comfort. âAnd, if God wills it, he might get better yet.â
âGodâs help might be his best bet, at this point,â Vitek replies, shrugging off Henryâs hand more harshly than Henry would expect, and gets to his feet. But just as quickly as he had gotten up, he immediately falls to his knees before the storage chest by the far wall. He unlocks it, fumbles with the lock and latch for a moment, before he swings it open to retrieve a simple hunting bow from it. âWant to shoot a few arrows?â he asks, still kneeling, holding out the bow like a trophy.
Henry considers it, the pale wood shining like fire in the late light. It trembles in Vitekâs hold, the skin on his knuckles stretched thin. Then, he turns to look at the shooting range and the forest beyond it â the sun has already dipped so low that he canât even make out individual trees anymore. The woods are but an indistinct black mass, looming beyond the fence.
âIsnât it too dark already?â he asks, turning back to Vitek.
For a moment, the only sound between them is the rustling of the tall grass, and the howl of a lone wolf, far away.
Then, very slowly, Vitekâs arm slackens, his iron grip on the bow loosening. A scoff. âSuppose so,â he replies, then pauses. His throat works around a swallow, and he stays kneeling in the dirt, staring at where the tip of the bow gingerly kisses the ground.
Henry bends at the waist and leans forward, almost pitching over to look him in the eye. âDo you usually do some shooting to work off your anger?â he asks, trying very hard to sound non-judgemental. Vitek blinks up at him, lips briefly stretching into something like a sneer, before he gives a curt nod and returns the bow to the chest.
âWhat else is there for me to do?â he asks, yanking latch and lock back into place with more force than necessary. âI canât just go and start punching people! The only folk around are my family and the huntsmen, anyways. Not that my old man wouldnât deserve it.â
âYou could punch me?â Henry offers. âIâve some experience with it, you know. They have a whole fight club set up down in lower Semineââ
âIâm not going to fight you,â Vitek cuts him off, wheeling around to look at him in mild horror. âHenry, imagine the earful my mother would give me.â
Henry shrugs, maybe a little put out. But no matter. âSuit yourself.â
With a heavy sigh, Vitek drags himself up to sit next to Henry. âI do get mad. And then Mother gets mad at me in turn, so I just⌠try not to say anything. Not that it always worksâ
Vitekâs unkind words for his father when Henry had walked him home, thrown sideways across Pepikâs bare back, come to mind. All that anger, forever left with nowhere worthwhile to go.
Henry chews the inside of his cheek, considering the ever shrinking, ever blurring shadows his feet cast in the dirt. âI mean, Iâm sure you can blow off steam some other way?â
âAgain, Iâm not going to hit you,â Vitek says, and Henry canât help but snort. When he looks at him, Vitek is clearly stifling a little smile of his own. âWhat are you thinking of, then?â
âWell,â Henry begins, and thenâdraws a blank. How is a bloke to blow off steam, if he canât punch something, or fight, or at least yell a bit? Well, there is one other thing that immediately comes to mind, but the Zhelejov inn with its bathhouse is a ways off, and the sun is going to set any minute now. Though Vitek could, of courseâ
âYou could⌠you know,â Henry says. With his right hand, he makes a rather unmistakable jerking motion in mid-air to illustrate what he means.
Vitek balks, then looks around in the dim light as if he afraid somebody might have seen what Henry just mimed, scandalised by the very suggestion. Through his teeth, he hisses, âI donât do that sort of thing.â
Well, at least Henry can say he tried, andâ
Huh?
âWhat?â
Vitek nods. âWould you do that with your parents sleeping two feet away?â
âWell, yes?â Henry says, suddenly on the backfoot. His own lashes feel like fans against his cheeks with how quickly he is blinking. Any lad whoâs ever had to share his sleeping quarters with his parents has had to. âBut what do you mean, you donât do that sort of thing? Donât tell me youâve seriously never tugged yourself off.â
âMother caught me at it when I was younger, and she saidâwell. Itâs not a good Christian thing to do, is it? Self-abuse, I mean,â Vitek replies.
Clearly, thereâs all kinds on people out there, but somehow, the admission still has Henry stumped. Vitek is a red-blooded young man like any other, and while it certainly explains why he can be rather high-strung sometimes, for him to never deliberately bring himself offâ
âThat canât be healthy,â Henry says, a little faintly. His mind is whirring, trying to recall that one medical treatise on humours heâd read once, and then maybe sort-of understood. âIf you donât, err⌠discharge every now and again, just imagine how that affects the balance of all the other fluids in your body. It might throw off your humours completely!â
In the low crimson light of sunset, Henry canât exactly tell if Vitek is blushing, but he still knows that he is. âI guess,â he says. âButâIâve never done it. I wouldnât even know how to go about it, and Iâm certainly not about to start fumbling around with myself next to my sleeping parents.â
Henry wants to object that that is just what most young men (and, he assumes, a fair number of girls) have to go through, but he decides to keep that thought to himself. Though he genuinely does think that never getting off isnât healthy, soâ
âI could let you borrow my sleeping spot for a bit?â he offers. âIâll keep watch, and⌠I suppose if you need someone to talk you through itââ
âWhat, youâll tell me what to do?â
Henry shrugs. âVitek, everyone does it. Monks do, even when they technically shouldnât. So if you really need instructions, I at least know what to do.â
The light around them is beginning to purple now. In a few minutes, theyâll need a torch if they donât want to break their feet on the short trek back to the gamekeeperâs cabin. Vitek purses his lips, clearly considering something, before he looks Henry dead in the eye and asks, âAnd this really works?â
âTo help you unwind? Aye,â he says. âI know a bloke who can barely go a week without getting his pizzle pulled before he gets insufferable. Though heâs got the money to pay bathwenches to do it for him.â
Wherever that bloke might currently be; Henry just hopes that he is at least safe.
Vitek hums in thought, rocking the bench by rolling his heels back and forth in the dirt. A little sigh, then a swallow. He hunches his shoulders for a moment, then drops them just as fast. âFine, then. Iâll give it a try, just to see if it works.â
âWhy wouldnât it?â Henry asks and pushes off the bench. With Vitekâs little swaying motions, it tilts threateningly for a moment, but Vitek catches himself against the wall. He glares at Henry, though it lacks any significant heat, and Henry promptly offers him a hand up in apology. âCome on, letâs get you off.â
âDonât say that,â Vitek groans and lets himself be pulled to his feet. In the dim light, they brave the short trek down the slight slope, tall grass rustling. Someone â likely Zlata, darling mother hen that she is â went to the trouble of lighting the lamp by Henryâs bedroll, so the open shed glows like a beacon in the almost-darkness, drawing them in like moths to a flame. By the edge of the property, Henry can make out some shadowy lumps curled up together. It would seem that Mutt has taken up with Vostatekâs hounds, though none of the dogs stir to look at what he and Vitek are about to get up to. And itâs a good thing, that â Henry isnât sure that Vitek mightnât faint if a dog started barking while heâs yanking his pizzle.
Henryâs bedroll is spread out on the ground inside the shed, innocent and undisturbed. Some of his belongings are strewn around haphazardly â he hadnât exactly expected company, after all â and Pebblesâs saddle and tack are thrown precariously over a too-thin beam. âYou go ahead and get comfortable,â he instructs Vitek, indicating towards his bedroll while making for his saddlebags.
âJustâjust like that?â
He turns to throw a quick glance over his shoulder. âAye, just sit down and relax. Iâll just get you some things to make it better.â
A moment passes before the gentle rustling of clothes tells Henry that Vitek is indeed getting settled. It would seem that he is slowly warming up to the idea. Or, at the very least, he is not as likely to bolt anymore.
Henry rummages through his saddlebags, rooting around for an oil-based potion â heâd rather Vitek not go through the unpleasantries of a chafed dick from his first proper wank, after all. His fingernails clink against his collection of earthenware phials until he finds a buckâs blood potion that should work just fine. And, just for good measure, Henry decides to grab a few scraps of cloth heâd meant to cut up into bandages.
Turning back to Vitek, he finds the man awkwardly sitting on his bedroll, legs tucked beneath his arse, looking as high-strung as anything. Henry has to force down a laugh. âWhat part of ârelaxâ did you not understand?â
Vitek flushes, shifting off his calves with an expression bordering on guilty. âItâs not that easy! Shit, I feel more worked-up than I did before.â
Henry can easily believe that. He falls to his knees before Vitek, placing the rags and the phial on the ground in front of him. âAll the more reason to unwind, then,â he says, then points at the potion. âItâs nicer if youâve got something to help your hand glide over your prick. This is oil-based, but tallow or grease also work. And if youâve nothing else, spitâll do you fine.â
Vitek nods, eyes fixed on the phial. âAnd the rags?â
âWell, ideally, youâll spill at the end,â Henry says. âTheyâre for mopping it up.â
âOh, Christ,â exhales Vitek. âAnd youâll be doing what?â
âIâll keep watch, if you want,â Henry offers, pushing himself off the ground. âUnless you need something else from me?â
Vitek swallows, then raises his gaze to look Henry dead in the eye. He looks mortified. His mouth keeps opening and closing, but no words come out.
Then, his hands fall to his lap and finally, he asks, âCan you talk me through the beginning?â
The request catches Henry off-guard. His previous offer had been half in jest, and he hadnât expected to actually be taken up on it. But Vitekâs hands push his tunic up, the index finger of his right hand catching the ties of his braies. Itâs a shockingly bold move, and before he can think better of it, Henry finds himself kneeling before him once more.
âAye, I suppose I did offer to, didnât I?â he says, faintly. Blood rushes in his ears, deafeningly loud. His eyes are glued to Vitekâs fingers, tugging at his laces until they come undone.
âWhat do Iâhow would I get started?â Vitek asks.
It takes tremendous effort for Henry to force himself to look up, but he somehow manages to. Vitek meets his eye, a curl of strawberry blond hair sticking unflatteringly to his forehead. Henry swallows. âWell, you have to take your cock out, for one.â
He sees Vitekâs right arm shift, watches him lift off his arse for a second to shimmy his braies down a little. The fabric of his braies rustles, but Henry cannot allow himself to look down.
âI guess that should have been obvious. And then?â
What then, indeed. He likely isnât anywhere near hard yet, and Henry isnât sure if he can help him with that. What he can, however, help him with is making it nice from the get-go. âHold out the hand you want to use,â he instructs, fumbling for his buckâs blood without looking down. It takes him a moment, the phialâs round shape proving hard to grasp without looking at what heâs doing, but once he takes a proper hold of it, he wastes no time unstopping it.
Vitek wordlessly extends his right hand as bidden, and Henry pours a few generous drops of the oily concoction into his palm. âAnd now you just sort of⌠touch yourself.â
Vitek blushes like a virgin at that â which he, all things considered, may very well be. His hand trembles a little as he lowers it once more. Henry decidedly does not follow the movement with his eyes.
Itâs hard not to.
It gets even harder not to when a little shiver shakes Vitekâs shoulders and a quiet gasp slips past his lips. âAnd how do I go about that? Whatâs the done thing? Do I close my eyes, orâŚ?â
âWhatever works best for you,â Henry says, heart in his throat. âIf you close your eyes, itâs easier to imagine a maid you fancy. Lets you focus better on the feel of it, too.â
Vitek hums and lets his eyes slip shut. A breath stutters out of him as his arm tentatively starts moving. Henry makes a point of not looking anywhere below his shoulders, afraid of how much the sight of Vitek stroking himself might affect him. He wouldnât want to scare him off, andâ
âOh,â Vitek gasps, his shoulder tensing and his arm stilling for a moment before it picks up the pace.
Henry swallows, keeping his eyes on Vitekâs fluttering eyelids, his scrunching brows and twisting lips. âFeel good?â he asks. Itâs startling how rough his own voice comes out. Vitek nods jerkily, his jaw tight. Christ. âThereâs a spot right below the head, if you touch thatââ
A breathy gasp cuts him off. Seems like Vitek found the spot just fine â or another spot that feels just as nice. His lips part, pulling into a blissful smile for a second. His hand is moving over his cock fast enough for the oil to squelch obscenely as his fist thumps against his groin. Henryâs tongue feels like cotton, his heart racing.
Sakra, he should have insisted on keeping watch.
Instead, he finds himself shuffling closer, just a bit, his knees still nowhere near close enough to come into contact with Vitekâs legs. And still, he can vaguely feel the warm puffs of Vitekâs breath, taking them onto his own tongue, down into his own lungs. He was a fool to think this wouldnât affect him â just the sounds and the flickers of pleasure on Vitekâs face have him half-hard in his braies.
He tries to adjust himself as discreetly as he can, but even just the perfunctory touch feels like entirely too much. His cock gives a twitch, and Henry has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. Vitek has no such reservations, moaning quietly under his breath. His nose crinkles adorably whenever his face scrunches up in pleasure, and the jostling of his shoulders probably means heâs begun to fuck his own fist, and, fuck, Henry needs to look, just onceâ
But then Vitekâs eyes flutter open, a little hazy, and stop him in his tracks. Henry feels the back of his neck burn as Vitek seems to regain control of himself, staring at him while his hand keeps working over his cock. Jesus Christ.
âYou alright?â Henry asks, licking his dry lips. Vitek gives a curt nod, tilting his head back to let out a little moan.
His eyes remain fixated on Henry.
Dear God.
In a more experienced man, heâd assume that this was a seduction. But Vitek surely wouldnât want that, would he? Heâs never even brought himself off, after all. Maybe heâs stuck his pizzle in a bathmaid once or twice; Hell, he might still remain as virginal as the Mother Mary herself. Surely, surely he wouldnât want Henryâs hands on him. Not even his eyes. Butâ
Sod it.
Henry looks down.
Vitekâs plump, stout cock is stripped over by his fist, the ruddy head poking out of the ring formed by his fingers. It glistens from a mixture of oil and precum, a bead of white pearling at the tip. Itâs entirely charming, sitting heavy and needy beneath Vitekâs soft belly, nestled in a dense thicket of reddish curls.
Transfixed by the sight of Vitekâs prick, Henry licks his lips and finds himself asking, âWhat do you need?â
A heavy puff of breath fans across Henryâs cheek. Vitek pitches forward, awkwardly shifting to get on his knees to shuffle closer. âCan you,â he huffs, and Henryâs eyes finally unstick from his prick long enough to look back at his bright red face, âcan you keep talking?â
Henry swallows. Looks back down briefly. Realises how much closer Vitek has come, their knees now touching. Swallows again.
âAye,â he says, lips and throat dry, âI can do that.â
Vitek exhales, as though relieved. And then, shockingly, he drops his forehead to Henryâs shoulder. His hand keeps working over his cock, his body jerking with the motion.
Jesus.
âWhatâd you want me to say?â Henry asks, suddenly finding his hands itching to touch Vitek, now that heâs close enough to. But this isnât about him, he reminds himself, even when his own cock would very much like for it to be. âWant me to invent a maid for you to imagine?â
Against his shoulder, Vitekâs head jostles in a shake. âN-no, just⌠tell me what to do. How Iâm doing.â
Henryâs gaze drops to where Vitek is still methodically stripping over his own cock, making sure to rub along that one spot below the head on every upstroke. His foreskin moves along smoothly, the oil and Vitekâs own early seed easing the motion.
âYouâre doing good,â Henry murmurs, quiet now that his mouth is almost by Vitekâs ear. âIt also feels really nice if you run your thumb over the head when youâre at the top. In a circle, or something.â
He watches on as Vitek tries just that. Feels how he gives a pleased shudder.
âFeels good, doesnât it?â Henry asks. He canât bring himself to avert his eyes from Vitekâs pleasure, but the little nod against his shoulder is all the confirmation he needs. âYou can also touch your bollocks with your other hand, if you want to.â
He sees Vitekâs free hand hesitantly come up to do just that. He has to adjust his hips to reach them better, then slowly reaches between his legs to cup his sac. The hand on his prick slows as he evaluates whether he likes touching himself there or not.
âDoesnât have to be for everyone,â Henry assures him quietly and watches with rapt attention as Vitek gives his left ball a careful, three-fingered squeeze. That has him gasping into Henryâs shoulder, and the next second, the hand on his prick resumes its work with renewed vigour. âBut I suppose you can enjoy it,â he laughs.
Thereâs something fascinating about watching Vitekâs hands work in tandem to bring himself off while his heavy breaths wet the fabric of Henryâs shirt just below his collarbone. Itâs also terribly, unfairly arousing; Henry could swear his own cock is sympathetically weeping along just as vigourously where it stays hard and contained inside his braies.
Without thinking, he brings up a palm to cup the back of Vitekâs hot neck.
âDoing so good,â he mumbles, thumb stroking through fine, sweaty hair. Vitek makes no move to shake Henryâs hand off; if anything, the contact seems to spur him on, his hand stripping over his cock so fast that Henry fears it might become painful. âNothing shameful about it, Vitek. Just look at how good youâre makinâ yourself feel.â
The way his knees press into Henryâs, trembling with his arousal as his prick keeps leaking early seed over his fingers, has Henry aching. An ill-timed gust of wind against his cock might be his undoing at this point.
This was never going to end well.
His palm greedily slides over Vitekâs heated skin. âGorgeous, lookin' so good,â he finds himself saying, more than a little mad with arousal and the smell of Vitekâs hair right there in his nose. âYouâre doing so well, Vitek, touching that pretty cock of yoursââ
Suddenly, the heat at his shoulder disappears. For a stomach-plummeting second, Henry thinks that heâs said too much, but when he tears his eyes away from Vitekâs drooling, rigid cock, what he finds instead is Vitek leaning in even closer, and, for a moment, Henry expects that he is going to kiss him.
But instead, he presses his sweaty forehead to Henryâs. His eyes flutter open to meet Henryâs gaze.
âJust a bit more,â he pants, pupils blown.
And Henry can do little but shudder and acquiesce. His hand clutches at Vitekâs neck like a lifeline as tears gather nonsensically at the corners of his eyes. âDoinâ so well, Vitek. You look so good like this,â he babbles, listening to the frantic, wet slap of Vitekâs fist against his pubic bone. âYouâre gonna feel so good when you come, I promise. So câmon, come for me.â
Vitekâs mouth drops open, his whole face scrunching up as he gasps hotly. A soft groan escapes him, and then his whole body shivers as he reaches his peak. Henry, entirely too bewitched by Vitekâs expression of pleasure and the hot breath mingling with his own, hasnât the wherewithal to look down to see it happen.
That is, until a drop of hot seed hits the tip of Henryâs own neglected erection.
Perhaps the assessment that a gust of wind would undo him wasnât all that far-fetched.
Henry curls into Vitek, reversing their earlier position as he buries his face in his shoulder to stifle the moan that tears form his throat as he suddenly finds himself shuddering through a climax of his own. His hips reflexively jerk into the air, though thereâs nothing to be found there â not even any more drops of hot seed â while he spills into his own braies without so much as a touch to his cock.
Jesus Christ, he suddenly feels fourteen again.
At least Vitek doesnât push him off; at least he is spared that particular disgrace.
They sit like that for a few moments, panting and getting their respective bearings back. Clarity feels cruel as it returns to Henry, and how much heâs embarrassed himself before Vitek. The inability to keep his eyes to himself, the babbling, coming in his pantsâ
A huff of laughter brushes over the shell of his ear. Slowly, Henry drags his burning face off Vitekâs shoulder, an apology already on his tongue before he is cut off by a decidedly sticky hand landing on his shoulder. âI wonât tell anyone anything,â Vitek says, smiling wanly, and for a moment, Henry struggles to follow before another thing dawns on him.
No one without a taste for men would have reacted, or done, or said any of the things Henry has.
He swallows, then nods. Stares off into the almost-dark, where Pebblesâs saddle sits. âThatâs good of you,â he says. Blinks. âActuallyâŚâ
âHm?â Vitek hums, busying himself with wiping himself down with the rags Henry had provided him with at the start of all this.
âVitek, I donât know if youâre all that innocent, either.â
Vitekâs ministrations jerk to a halt. Itâs really quite ridiculous, to see him freeze up with his softening cock in hand. âWerenât you the one who said that self-abuse is necessary?â
Henry resists the urge to roll his eyes. He slumps back on his haunches, ignoring the sticky situation in his braies for now. âIâm talking about wanting me to talk you through it. You could have just imagined a busty maid and been done with it, but no. You wanted me to instruct you.â
âOh, shut up,â Vitek says and gives his prick a rough final wipe before tossing the rag somewhere into the dark. His face, barely returned to its normal colour, betrays him by flushing once more. âItâsâitâs different. Not that it wasnât nice of you, butâŚâ
His mouth twists into a conflicted pout; Henry decides to take mercy. Losing oneâs virginity to oneâs own hand is enough of an ordeal for one evening, after all â better not to bring greater sins into the mix as well. âDid you at least enjoy bringing yourself off?â
Vitekâs throat bobs as he swallows. He quickly reties his braies, then twists the legs of his hose until theyâre presentable again. âAye. It does feel good,â he admits, very quietly.
âFeels like itâll be good for getting stress out of your system?â
Vitek slowly rises off the bedroll, his knees giving a little crack as he straightens up. He fixes Henry with a considering stare, redness high on his round cheeks. Standing before Henry like this, he looks like a judgemental giant.
âI might give it another shot,â he says, trying to sound blasĂŠ about it while the flush climbs all the way up to his hairline.
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Relationships: Henry/Merry Elishka
Other relevant tags: Bath Sex, Sex Work, Penis in Vagina Sex, Riding, Questionable Dirty Talk, Bisexuality
Word count: 3,014
Language: English
Read on: AO3
âIs Kuttenberg not living up to what youâd hoped for? Iâd imagine thereâs plenty of good-looking men coming through here,â he says, idly settling his hands on Elishkaâs somewhat meaty thighs.
âOh, aye, thereâs plenty of those,â she says dismissively. âBut thereâs not many that are really my type, yes? ...Well, maybe youâre less picky with men than I am.â
Henry goes for a bath and learns that he and Elishka have something in common.
written for @kcdrarepairsweek's day 5 - bath!
Elishkaâs fingers are pleasantly rough against Henryâs scalp. She is by far the most meticulous out of all the Kingfisher girls when it comes to freeing Henry from the dust and dirt and blood he collects on the road. She missed her calling as a dedicated washerwoman, really; Henry can easily picture her manhandling filthy clothes with the same businesslike firmness she handles his head with.
âYou like this, eh, Henry?â Elishka asks, and her fingers grow just a little meaner for a moment. Henry groans in pleasure. She laughs. âThatâs what I like to hear.â
Her tits, covered only by her soaked-through chemise, press against Henryâs bare shoulders. âOffering me a headrest, are you?â he jokes, and Elishka lightly slaps the side of his head.
âNay, sir,â she says. âBut if you wanted to play with them, you know that I wouldnât say no.â
And he does know â Elishka had declared that she would like to have him all the way back when he had first fetched the girls from Grund. He had recognised it for the sales pitch it was, back then, and had declined. But now, after somehow weathering the storm that had preceded the Kingfisher becoming the municipal bathhouse together with the girls, and Betty consequently thanking him with free service, there wasnât much left to sell to him.
Besides, he simply likes the girls, friendly lot that they are.
âWould you want that?â he asks Elishka, who has moved her soapy hands to glide along his shoulders, now. âI mean, weâre friends, arenât we? I wouldnât want you to let me⌠err⌠have you like that, like a chore or a service.â
And Elishka snorts â a gust of tepid air across the wet back of Henryâs neck. âHenry,â she says, teasingly chiding, digging her thumbs into the meat of his trapezius muscle, âdo you think a nice, handsome boy like you canât drive a girl a little mad? I wasnât kidding when I said I wanted you.â
âReally.â
âReally,â says Elishka, sliding her slippery hands to Henryâs chest, playfully groping at the soft, lax muscle there. âAnd if you donât want to play with my tits, Iâd be happy to play with yours instead.â
Henry flushes but does his best to act as though he doesnât. Instead, he bats at Elishkaâs hands with equal light-heartedness. âAh, come off it,â he laughs, only to receive an almost mean squeeze to his left breast. But Elishka lets off, after that; Henry is almost entirely sure that she must be smirking behind his back.
âSo, what then, Henry?â she asks, lowering her mouth to hover just above his shoulder, breath hot. âDo you want to, or not?â
Henry twists in the tub to finally face Elishka. She looks surprisingly affected by her own little seduction, red-cheeked and dark-eyed and smirking like she knows sheâll get her way. And Henry doesnât exactly know what counts as going willingly, for loose women like Elishka â but to him, it does seem as though she simply, earnestly wants him.
And itâs not as though accepting a friendly, pretty girlâs advances is much of a chore for him.
âAlright, then,â he agrees, and Elishka throws her head back to laugh in triumph.
âThere, see!â she exclaims, and jumps up from her stool to peel her soaked chemise off. It lands on the floor with a squelch, and Elishka cheerfully steps into Henryâs tub, sinking to her knees to join him in the warm water without much fanfare at all. âYou wonât believe how much Iâve been thinking about this, ever since we first met. Itâs nice to get a strapping young lad between my legs.â
As if to demonstrate her point, she lifts her bent knees to straddle Henryâs lap. âIs Kuttenberg not living up to what youâd hoped for? Iâd imagine thereâs plenty of good-looking men coming through here,â he says, idly settling his hands on Elishkaâs somewhat meaty thighs.
âOh, aye, thereâs plenty of those,â she says dismissively, taking hold of Henryâs wrists to encourage him to knead and fondle her legs. âBut thereâs not many that are really my type, yes?â
Henry hums in vague agreement, thumbs running along the prickly insides of Elishkaâs thighs where the hair begins to grow denser. He intends to eventually make it to her cunt like this, teasing and slow, but then Elishka throws her arms around his neck, sighs andâ
âWell, maybe youâre less picky with men than I am.â
Henry freezes.
His hands still. Heâs not even sure heâs still breathing.
It might as well be a confession.
And his sudden stillness doesnât go ignored, either. Elishka looks down at him from where sheâs seated in his lap, brows furrowed. Her arms remain steady around him.
âHenry,â she says, sounding almost like she is reprimanding him, âwhen you came to fetch us from Grund, I asked you if the men in Kuttenberg were bigger than elsewhere. What did you think I meant?â She doesnât even mention how tongue-tied Henry had gotten when she teased him about preferring boys; he had felt like heâd been caught, even then.
But Elishkaâs fingers just scratch gently, indulgently at his nape now. Henry forces himself to breathe again.
âAnd you just didnât care?â he asks, his voice coming out a little faint.
Elishka smiles, sweet and genuine. âBeing discreet is part of the trade. We get all sorts of tastes here, and I much prefer you liking boys over asking me to do weird things to you,â she says, sliding forward so that her tits press up against Henryâs chest. âBesides, do you think us girls donât look out for each other whenever weâre left unsatisfied by our customers?â
For a moment, the image of two buxom, naked bathwenches pressed up to each other in an intimate embrace flashes before Henryâs eyes. Oh, Jesus.
He feels his pulse jump between his legs, and Elishka clearly feels it, giggling before she reaches below the waterline to take his half-interested cock in hand. She gives it a few nice, firm pumps and kisses Henryâs cheek. âLike that idea, do you? Maybe you can sit by and watch sometime. I have a feeling you donât much mind a bit of sodomy.â
He isnât sure if heâs more mortified or aroused by her words, at this point. The hand on his prick isnât helping. âFuck.â
âZlata wonât do it, you know. Says only the fellas do it for her,â Elishka says, terribly casual, kissing down the side of Henryâs neck. Henryâs fingers dig into her thighs, holding on for dear life as she goes on, âKlaraâs different, though. Knows her way around a cunny better than any man. Makes me wonder if she even likes boys at all.â
Henry, shuddering, gives up the fight. He slips his arms around Elishkaâs waist to grab handfuls of her ample arse cheeks, a thumb dipping between them. âIâve met a few fellas who were the type,â he says. âJust couldnât bring themselves to â fuck â like girls.â
Elishka grins, her thumb pressing just below the head of Henryâs cock before she lets go of it. Were it not submerged in the water, Henry knows he would be embarrassingly wet by now. But Elishka seems to enjoy his eagerness, if anything; she kisses his cheek and rocks forward, so that the mound above her cunt presses up against Henryâs hard prick.
âWell, donât leave me hanging,â she says, leaning further into Henry until her tits squish against his chest; God, but theyâre soft. âDid you tumble some of them? I bet you did.â
And, fuck, it might be an admission of guilt, but Elishkaâs pupils are huge, and Henry feels the phantom of broad, calloused hands ghosting over his body, and the drag of a cock inside him, and thereâs a lovely cunt waiting for him to slip intoâ
âAye,â he sighs. âEven took a proper knight to bed, the once.â
Elishka lets out a little noise, breath audibly catching. Her chest heaves against Henryâs. âWhat a sight that must have been,â she says, rocking her hips a little. âTwo strapping fellas, fucking like animals in heatâŚâ
Well. For all the good their stay in Trosky has done them, the night Henry had spent in Bartoschâs bed has not soured in his memory. Heâs never been worked over so attentively, so thoroughly before or since, andâfuck. Henry digs his hands a little harder into Elishkaâs buttocks, drawing her forward in encouragement. She sighs as she lets herself slide forward and up, her folds dragging along Henryâs length. He wishes sheâd let him slip inside already.
âAnd which way was it?â
âHuh?â
Elishka gives the hair at the top of Henryâs head a little pull. âDid you bugger him? Or the other way around?â
For a long, confused moment, Henry lets go of Elishka. He fails to understand how that would be important â until he remembers how arousing the mere thought of two naked women wound together had been. Perhaps it is the same for womenfolk?
âI, uh⌠let him do it.â
âSo you know what itâs like,â Elishka sighs and rocks her hips once more, the head of Henryâs cock catching on the opening of her cunt. âWould you like to have me like that? I donât really let anyone stick it up my bum, but since weâre friends and you get what itâs like, whatâd be the harm?â
The proposal leaves Henry speechless, and the grin she throws him is positively sinful. He feels his cock twitch in the water. âChrist,â he exhales, and Elishka laughs.
âWeâd have to get out of the tub for it, though, so how about we save that for another time?â she says with a wink. Her arms lift so her hands can settle on Henryâs shoulders. She pushes herself up to her knees, water running along the curves of her waist and hips. âLetâs have you the natural way, then, eh?â
Henryâs bad shoulder twinges briefly as Elishka uses him to steady herself. Sheâs a right sight, dripping wet like that; he canât even be mad about how she keeps teasing him, taking his arousal from one place to the next. âWant me to help you out?â he asks, extending a hand palm-upwards between her legs.
âHow generous,â she says, light and cheerful, and all but thrusts her cunt up against Henryâs fingers. Elishkaâs breath hitches as he slips two of his fingers between her folds, just gently rubbing back and forth for a start. It takes a moment for her to pick up on Henryâs pace before she is rolling her hips into the movement, taking what she needs without a hint of shame.
Outside the water like this, Henry can actually feel her slit growing slicker; when Elishka spreads her knees a little further apart, he takes the invitation and pushes his fingers against her opening. âIs that alright?â he asks, craning his neck to look Elishka in the eye. She nods, then gasps as Henry breaches her, her brows drawing together. And then, because Henryâs mouth is faster than his brain, he asks, âIs this also how girls do it with each other?â
Elishka puffs out a laugh and begins to fuck herself down on Henryâs fingers. The movement has her tits bouncing in his face, which is not the worst view to be stuck with. âAye, of course,â she says, a little breathlessly. âBut itâs also nice to â hah â rub two cunnies together.â
The logistics of how to get that to work elude Henry in the moment. But, God, just the idea of two cunts pressed up against each other, producing the same obscene sounds as Elishkaâs is right nowâ
Henry groans at the thought, and Elishka giggles. âPerhaps you really ought to watch sometime,â she says, then shudders on the next downstroke as she grinds her most sensitive part into the heel of Henryâs hand. âKlara and me will make it â oh â worth your while. You should â yes, right there â see how she can work that mouth of hers.â
She throws her head back, the movements of her hips growing faster and more frantic, taking what she needs, tits still bouncing, her hands on Henryâs shoulders tightening, and then sheâs clenching down around Henryâs fingers, moaning and whimpering without restraint. Her stomach flexes, hips jerking as she rides out her pleasure for another few seconds. Itâs a lovely sight, and Henry finds himself staring at the flush that spreads down her chest in sweet pink blotches.
He gently pulls his fingers out of her as she winds down, and Elishka sighs. âThanks,â she says, presses a kiss to Henryâs forehead, and sinks back into his lap. Her slick ditch is angled towards his cock, and she grins when Henry groans. âWant me, now?â
âIf you want it,â he says, almost diplomatic if not for his cock throbbing at the thought. Perhaps Elishka doesnât even feel it, because all she does is kiss his nose and slide forward, foregoing her teasing for once. She takes him in hand with a boldness borne of experience, rises to her knees once more, and unceremoniously guides him into herself.
She parts easily for him, her walls hot and wet and soft. A few weak, lingering flutters of her climax still ripple around him; he canât help but groan as he bottoms out, Elishka smiling proudly as she straddles his lap. âGood?â she asks, as if she doesnât know that it very much is.
âAye,â Henry says, a little winded, taking hold of her arse once more. The supple flesh spills past his fingers, andâChrist, to think sheâd consider it too bigâ
Elishka lifts off his lap, her cunt dragging deliciously around Henryâs prick. The soft skin of her tits brushes against his chest. âYou know,â she says, lowly, and drops her hips back down in the same breath, âKlara also has this fake cock.â Another lift and drop. âWith leather straps and all.â
Lift, drop; Henry stares up at her, the roaring of the blood in his ears making hearing difficult. âWhat?â
She grins, the movement of her hips picking up speed. Sakra. âAye, she can tie it âround her hips, like a proper cock.â
Henryâs fingers dig harder into her arse. He doesnât feel like heâs guiding her so much as holding on for dear life. âAnd whatâs she do with it?â he pants, feeling Elishkaâs rhythm falter for a moment. Her face scrunches up briefly â perhaps in pleasant memory â before she resumes her bouncing a little more vigorously.
âLets me fuck her, just like this,â she says, and, oh, God.
Henry pitches forward to stifle his groan in Elishkaâs shoulder, and she laughs before a moan chokes her off. Suddenly, thereâs fingers in his hair, gently holding his head in place. Elishkaâs bouncing turns into little grinding motions of her hips. âOh, keep like this,â she pants, fucking herself in short strokes that barely jostle Henryâs head and he feels helpless to do anything but let it happen.
The water sloshes, Elishka is warm and slick around him, her little noises of pleasure driving him closer to the edge all by themselves, and combined with the mental image of ever-chatty Klara with Elishka in her lap just like this, their soft bellies pressing together, tits bouncing against each other, slender fingers digging into arsecheeksâ
Vaguely, Henry registers Elishkaâs hand sneaking between their stomachs. She moans, the fingers of her other hand twisting into his hair and pulling, dragging him back to look at her, all flushed and debauched, lips bitten and eyes on the verge of slipping shut, and then she says, âMaybe sheâll bend you over, too, if you ask real nicely,â and Henry is gone.
His hips rut up to meet hers desperately, looking for just a tiny bit more depth, and Elishka allows herself to be jostled, giggling and groaning, rubbing herself urgently enough for her wrist to repeatedly knock into Henryâs abdomen. With a high keen, she clenches around him, slamming her hips down as her walls flutter with her climax, and Henry spills, vision whiting out.
For a few long moments, they simply stay as they are, still joined, panting as the aftershocks of their pleasure slowly subside. The bathwater around them has grown tepid, not terribly pleasant to sit in.
With a splash, Elishka peels herself off Henry, his softening cock slipping free, her thighs trembling from strain. He reaches out to steady her, and she laughs, leaning forward to kiss his nose. âThank God for you, Henry,â she says, dismounting his lap to wash his spend out of her cunt without an ounce of shame. âMy faith in the menfolk I can find in Kuttenberg has been restored.â
Itâs clearly an exaggeration â possibly meant to stroke his ego â and Henry finds himself laughing. He feels abuzz with pleasure and terribly loose. âWell, the womenfolk donât seem lacking, at least.â
Another splash, and Elishka gets to her feet, water sluicing down her body in little rivulets; Henryâs cock gives a valiant little twitch at the sight, but still lies defeated. She remains standing before him in the tub, grinning, giving his leg a little nudge with her toe. âAye, theyâre good,â she agrees. âBut Iâd be happy if you wanted me again sometime, too. Friendly-like.â
And whatâd be the harm? âFriendly-like,â he echoes, using the edge of the tub to pull himself up. He canât feel his feet, he realises.
Elishka seems to catch on to his predicament, now moving to steady him. âWrung you out, have I?â she asks, cheerful. Then, clearly just pretending to ponder before she speaks, she adds, âMaybe I really ought to ask Klara to let you watch, if a girl canât even sit on you for a few minutes without it being too much.â
âOh, fuck,â Henry says, and this time, the twitch of his cock has it stiffening again. Elishka, with her arm around Henryâs forearm, looks down with a laugh.
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Relationships: Hans Capon/Dry Devil; (Hans Capon/Henry in CH1)
Other relevant tags: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time Bottoming
Word count: 4,918
Language: English
Read on: AO3
Other Chapters: CH1 | CH2
Straightening his back a little, he summons every bit of hauteur he can scrape together and turns to face the Devil. âYou could have just slammed the door and left, you know. It would have been theâpolite thing to do.â
Once more, all that earns him is a cackle. âAye, Capon. We both know that I am known for my politeness.â
Christ, but this might be Hell. Maybe Hans died at Maleshov or Raborsch, and now this is his retribution for lusting after another man: being endlessly tortured by the Devil while sitting there with his cock out. It sounds like a fitting punishment at least.
The Devil seizes the opportunity presented to him, and Hans has a shockingly good time.
Were he caught in any other position, Hans could probably laugh it off. Putting a hand down his braies after a long day is practically normal, and had he been caught with a girl in his lap, heâd only want to preen over his conquest. But no: here Hans is, arse in the air, two fingers buried knuckle-deep inside himself, drooling into one of Henryâs tunics.
And whoever just walked in on him is infuriatingly keeping their silence. Well, frankly, Hans wouldnât know what to say if he came across something like this, either. But the door doesnât close, and Hans still kneels on the bed, frozen like a hare before it bolts, and the longer this strange impasse goes on for, the more embarrassing it gets.
Another moment passes. And though it feels like a concession, very carefully, Hans at last pulls his fingers from his arse and settles on his haunches. His empty hole smarts a little with the movement, while his somehow still interested cock slaps his thigh, loud as a whipcrack. Jesus Christ.
Very stiffly, he chances a look over his shoulder, just as his uninvited audience decides to finally speak up.
âOh, donât stop on my account,â says the Dry Devil, leant inside the doorframe as casual as can be. The torchlight from the balcony casts his pock-marked grin in eerie shadow.
Hans feels his heart jump into his throat; breathing, he finds, becomes difficult. What kind of reaction is that? Heâs toying with him, isnât he? Hans would rather he insult or loudly condemn him, instead of just standing there, looking at him like itâs fucking hilarious.
Before he can say anything else, the Devil pushes off the doorjamb. âLooked like ye were having the time of yer life, there,â he says, hovering with one foot on either side of the threshold. âPutting on a show fer anyone who walks in.â
It almost sounds like an accusation. Incensed, Hans finally manages to croak out, âDid you need something?â
Dry Devil cackles, still clearly amused by the situation. âJust went in the wrong door!â
Of fucking course.
Hans exhales sharply, trying to calm himself down. His heart still thumps against his ribcage like an angry rabbit. At least his dick has given up the fight now, softening against his leg in a sad pool of precum. Itâs not exactly a step towards making any of this more dignified, but at least he wonât be having this conversation hard and leaking.
Straightening his back a little, he summons every bit of hauteur he can scrape together and turns to face the Devil. âYou could have just slammed the door and left, you know. It would have been theâpolite thing to do.â
Once more, all that earns him is a cackle. âAye, Capon. We both know that I am known for my politeness.â
Christ, but this might be Hell. Maybe Hans died at Maleshov or Raborsch, and now this is his retribution for lusting after another man: being endlessly tortured by the Devil while sitting there with his cock out. It sounds like a fitting punishment at least.
âSo why are you still here?â
Finally, the Devil moves away from the threshold â except that, instead of leaving, he steps further into the room. His hand settles on the doorâs handle, though he doesnât push it shut. Hans feels his stomach turn. âAs I said, it was a good show.â
Oh, naturally, the Dry Devil, with all his vices, would have a taste for a bit of sodomy as well. Or at least he isnât above pretending that he is, in order to watch Hans squirm. But thatâs just Hansâs luck, isnât it?
âI wasnât putting on a show,â he replies, âleast of all for you.â
Footsteps creak on the balcony outside, the old wood groaning under somebodyâs weight. Hans is suddenly terribly aware of the fact that he is naked save for the braies tangled around his knees. He canât make it to the door in time, and something tells him that the Devil wonât close it on his way out under these circumstances. And what would people think, then? Before he can think twice, Hans glares at the Devil and hisses, âClose the fucking door!â
Grin ever widening, the Devil obeys. The doorâs hinges rattle as he slams it shut.
Hans suddenly feels terribly trapped. He wishes Henry were here.
But at least they have privacy, now. Hans meets the Devilâs eye. âI wonât touch myself in front of you, if thatâs what you were angling for,â he says, trying to sound as resolute and authoritative as he can while essentially naked. Then, another thought strikes him. âA-and just so you know, Iâm not in the habit of doing⌠that to myself. At all.â
The Devil raises a brow. His eyes travel past Hans for a moment. âAye, only when thinking of yer pretty little squire buggering ye.â
Hansâs head swivels to look at the drool-stained tunic on his pillow. Fuck.
His face is so hot, heâs sure that even the dim candlelight in the room is enough to see how red it is. Oh God, the Devil is going to rub this in his face at every opportunity from now on. And Henryâ
Shit, he really should clear Henryâs name of this mess.
âWeâve neverâhe doesnât even know,â Hans chokes out, pulling the tunic off his pillow and just⌠holding it, after. It hides his prick from view, at least. âAnd Iâve never done this before. I donât know what devil must have compelled me to do it, honestly.â
âWell, wasnât this one here,â says the Devil, all droll, even lifting his hands to show his innocence. Hans wonders if Ĺ˝iĹžka would mind terribly if he went ahead and stabbed his fellow robber baron. Itâs probably to be expected, that heâd one day piss someone off enough to earn him a dagger in the side, right? Before he can contemplate murder any further, Dry Devil takes one creaking step towards him; with the poor lighting, his scarred, gangly form looks terrifying. âAnd ye never even did it proper before?â
âProper?â
âWith a cock up yer arse, Capon. For fuckâs sake.â
âOf course not!â Hans hisses. âIâm aââ
Well, a good Christian probably wouldnât finger himself to the thought of his closest friend shoving his prick up his arse; the protestation ends up dying on Hansâs tongue, turning sour.
The Devilâs eyes go big and round, delighted at his hesitance. He takes another step towards Hans; every stride forward makes him look more ominous, the candlelight hitting his uneven face from below. âSure ye are,â he says, teeth glinting.
Is this what prey animals feel like?
âAre you going to leave already?â Hans asks, itching to stand up to at least meet the Devil eye-to-eye. But what dignity would that afford him, to stand there naked with his braies around his knees? The Devil would just sneer at him either way.
âI could,â says the Devil. Another step forward. Hans swallows and finds that he now has to tilt his head back to maintain eye-contact. âBut if ye were looking for a proper fuck, wellâŚâ
âExcuse me?â
A final step, and the Devilâs shins touch the edge of Hansâs mattress. He looks like something from a nightmare, like this. Everything in Hans screams to crawl backwards, but giving up ground would probably be even more lethal. âAye, Capon. Ye went through all the trouble of fucking yer arse open. Shame itâd be to let it go to waste.â
Traitorously, Hansâs hole twitches. He could know what itâs like to have a cock strike that spot inside him. Just once, to see what itâs like. To see if heâd like it. He stares up at the Devil, horrified. Surely, heâs not considering this. Why in Godâs name would he?
âAnd if I tell you to leave?â
The Devil shrugs. âI leave, nae bother. Iâm not going to force myself on a brother-in-arms.â
Surely, heâs not considering this.
And then the Devil, with the widest smirk yet, adds, âI wonât mind ye moaninâ Henryâs name, during.â
Hans has absolutely gone mad. No doubt about it.
Something inside him gives. It leaves him angry and itching to prove himself. âWell, go on, then, if youâre so keen to!â Hans snaps, before his sanity can catch up to him.
The Devil chortles, triumphant.
And turns away.
Hans feels his heart drop. So the fucker was just toying with him all along! And now heâs probably going to make Hans suffer for his honesty; heâll go and tattle on him, and everyone at the Den will look at him not like heâs a fellow warrior, but some sort of wanton catamite, begging for cockâ
But when the Devil reaches the door, all he does is lock it. âWouldnât want anyone else walking in, eh?â
Hans exhales, unsure if itâs in disappointment or relief. âRight.â
Four more strides, and the Dry Devil returns, knees threatening to dip onto Hansâs bed. âIâll have ye the way ye were,â he says, casual as if ordering a beer. âGot any oil or tallow? If not, spitâll have to do.â
Hans canât help his shock at the words; the Devil sounds as though he really has experience with this, doesnât he? Blindly, Hans fumbles for his little potion phial, which has miraculously managed not to spill all over the bed after Hans forgot to stopper it. He hands it over to the Devil and shimmies out of his braies before tossing them to the floor. âAt least take your shoes off when you get on the bed,â he orders.
âOh, of course, Your Grace,â says the Devil, always fucking sneering, but still does as bidden. Then, thereâs knees on the bed and a hand at the back of Hansâs neck, nudging him towards the pillow. âWell then, down ye go.â
And Hans, twisting and shuffling awkwardly on his knees to get into position, does.
His face returns to its familiar groove in the pillow, still slightly damp where heâd been drooling into it. Without Henryâs tunic covering it, it just smells of mildew and Hansâs own sweat, though. He could put it back, but he isnât sure if the Devil would let him live it down; the linen crinkles in Hansâs grasp.
He shifts his knees underneath himself again, unsure how to settle. All he knows is that the more he spreads his legs, the more exposed he feels. Itâs embarrassing; is this how wenches feel? Because, as maddening as the thought of presenting himself like this to Henry had been in his fantasies, the reality of shoving his arsehole in the Dry Devilâs face is much less erotic.
Or so he thinks, until two calloused hands come up to knead at his buttocks. âFuck, Capon. Yer arse puts most bathwenches to shame,â says the Devil, voice turned to complete gravel. He sounds genuinely appreciative, shockingly enough. And while the groping makes Hans feel a bit like a piece of meat, the rough touches also send pleasant tingles down his spine. As the Devil works his hands further and further inwards, fingers sliding along the inside of Hansâs crack, he is surprised by how sensitive the skin there feels, getting worked over like this. And, once heâs close enough to Hansâs hole, the Devil spreads his arsecheeks as far apart as he can.
Then, a thumb unceremoniously breaches him.
âFuck!â Hans barks, because the Devil apparently decided to go in fucking dry. âWhat did you think the oil was for?â
He can practically see the grin that goes with the snickering at his back. The thumb withdraws. âApologies, milady. I thought yeâd already used some.â
The Devil gives his arse a mild slap. Hans buries his face further into the pillow. He isnât even really all that turned on by this, for Christâs sake. Maybeâmaybe he isnât made for sodomy, and his feelings for Henry are just confused, misguided friendliness. Maybeâ
Two slick fingers unceremoniously push into Hans with barely any resistance at all.
âJesus wept,â he gasps, clenching down on the intrusion on reflex. The Devilâs fingers are much like Hansâs own: long and bony, far from girthy. They donât hurt, after heâs played with himself earlier. But still, these are another manâs fingers inside him, now, andâkurva.
âEasy, Capon,â coos the Devil, patting Hansâs hip. âRelax, hm?â
The tone rankles him. âDo you think Iâm a bloody horse?â Hans bites back. The only response he gets is a sharp, short thrust of the Devilâs fingers, harsh enough to hurt a bit. Heâs sure the Devil knows it does; itâs punishment for the backtalk. Then, the fingers shift and pull out by a knuckle. Hans prepares for another slightly painful strike, but no â instead, the Devil crooks his digits slightly, and all but zeroes in on that spot.
Hans bites the pillow to stifle a moan.
Oh, God.
Before he can recover, the Devil thrusts his fingers forward again, striking the spot dead-on once more. Itâs much more intense than when Hans had done it himself â direct pressure instead of gentler, glancing touches. Thereâs an almost brutal edge to the Devilâs thrusts; Hans can only take it, his legs shaking, toes curling.
Itâs nearly too much, too soon, too hard â he doesnât know what to do with the tooth-rattling, near painful pleasure coursing through him. He feels oversensitive; his prick is only at half-mast but already drooling helplessly onto the sheets as if heâs close to coming. Hell, his nipples twinge.
âYe alright down there?â the Devil asks, sounding terribly unbothered by the torture he is inflicting. Another strike to Hansâs sweet spot; all he manages to groan out is a quick âfuckâ that has the robber baron laughing. âWant me to? Fuck ye, that is.â
Hans, first and foremost, wants a reprieve from this. His knees threaten to give out, and something that feels nearly like a climax is building somewhere between his bollocks and guts. Sakra, he doesnât want to give the Devil the satisfaction of coming from nothing but getting his arse fingered. He doesnât know if thatâs even possible. Tears sting in his eyes. âAye. I can take it,â he grits out.
That seems to please the Devil â or at least it makes him withdraw his fingers for a moment. Hans could sob with relief. His whole body is abuzz with pleasure, but it still stings in its intensity. His balls ache, he is painfully hard, and his suddenly empty hole clenches around nothing. He feels boneless and high-strung all at once.
âIâll give ye a third, first,â the Devil mutters, somewhere behind him, yet a hundred leagues away. âDonât think ye could take it just yet.â
He is probably right, because Hans would appreciate not getting torn apart by the Devilâs cock. Not that he knows how big it actually is, but turning around to look at it seems like the wrong thing to do. Hell, he doesnât know if heâs even taken it out of his braies yet, or if heâs been sitting there, fully clothed, while Hans knelt before him naked as the day he was born, writhing on his fingers.
Fuck, but the mental image alone is obscene. He desperately wishes it didnât arouse him.
Hans bites back a noise as fingers return to his arse, barely pressing against the rim. The Devilâs other hand comes around to hold onto Hansâs hipbone, steadying. âYe have tâ brace a bit for this one, lad,â he says, surprisingly kind. âTry not to cramp up.â
And Hansâdoesnât.
The initial sting of something going up his arse is not a surprise anymore. Hans takes deep breaths, his legs trembling beneath him as he miraculously stretches far enough to fit three of the Devilâs fingers. The fullness is enough to make his pelvis throb, and his vision blurs for a moment, but then the Devilâs knuckles meet his rim and stay there without moving.
âTakinâ it well, Capon,â the Devil says, a thumb drawing gentle circles into his hip. âTell me when it stops smarting and Iâll give ye my cock.â
Hans grunts out something like assent, trying very hard to relax. A dull thrum of pleasure keeps him from going completely soft, the stretch inside him forcing the the Devilâs fingers to press up against his sweet spot. Perhaps the earlier abuse had been a calculated move to leave Hans oversensitive for this part; that might be a bit too charitable for the Devil though.
He focusses on keeping his breathing steady, feeling the discomfort ebb further away with every inhale. His fingers twist into Henryâs tunic, andâit might help. Let the Dry Devil think what he wants of it; he seems to have it all pieced together, anyways. Hans shuffles the tunic up to his face and buries his nose back into it. The smell stuck to the fabric summons back his earlier fantasies. God, if it were Henry doing this to himâ
A groan spills from Hansâs throat and the Devil cackles. âAlright?â
Is it alright? Hans feels pliant in a way that heâs never felt before â like an oiled-up bathwench, perhaps, or the rind off a cut of bacon melting in the pan. âAye,â he exhales, muffled by the linen of Henryâs tunic. âGo ahead.â
âGood lad,â the Devil says, gives his hip a slap in parting, and slowly drags out his fingers. Hans tries not to wince at the loss, or the slight sting that still accompanies it. Then, thereâs shuffling behind him, and the rustling of cloth, before the Devilâs hand settles back on his hip for a moment. âDâye mind if I empty out yer oil?â
âDo you think I want you to tear me apart?â Hans shoots back; a good buckâs blood potion isnât cheap, but heâd rather spend the groschen than the next few days limping. âJustâuse as much as you need.â
âAye, emptying it out, then,â laughs the Devil. A moment passes before the obscene sound of the Devil fucking his own, slick fist follows. A raspy, drawn-out breath fans across Hansâs bare back, making his hairs stand on end; desperate, he reaches down to give his own, nigh-flaccid cock a few quick pumps.
His grasp slips when the Devilâs prick slaps onto his arse, resting hot and hard and heavy between his cheeks. Oh, God. Hansâs body is wracked by a whole-body shiver.
The Devil spreads him open again, his thumbs hooking into the insides of Hansâs arsecheeks. His cock slides down his crack until the head catches on Hansâs rim. Sakra, heâs really about to get fucked like a woman, isnât he? Will it unman him? Brand him, somehow, so that everyone will know? Willâ
âAll good, Capon?â the Devil asks. The blunt head of his cock presses against Hansâs twitching hole. Itâs a surprising show of decency from him, to ask permission once more.
Hans swallows around the sudden lump of doubt in his throat. Heâs come this far; if Henry ever returned his feelings, he would willingly prostrate himself in front of him like this.
With the first glance over his shoulder since they started, Hans twists to look the Devil in the eye. âAre you waiting for a written invitation, Sir Hyââ
The cockhead breaches him.
Hansâs head snaps back around so he can stifle a shout in his pillow. Mary, Mother of God; he canât help but groan as the Devil slides into him. His cock feels endless as he keeps going, slipping in and in and in. Every little rock of his hips fills Hans up further. Maybe he will eventually reach all the way up to his throat. But then hips do meet Hansâs arse. Coarse, sparse hair tickles the sensitive skin of his crack. The Devil rubs his sides. âDonât go bringinâ out the titles now, laddie,â he says. âYe take me well, though, I have tâ say.â
An appreciative thumb reaches down to trace the edge of Hansâs stretched-out hole. It makes Hans feelâsome way. His cock throbs. âCan you move?â
âThink ye can handle that already?â
But the Devil doesnât actually wait for a reply; he slowly draws his hips back, the drag of his cock inside Hans tingling and honest-to-God pleasant. A whimper escapes Hansâs throat as he is left empty, save for the tip still stretching his hole. The Devil cackles, takes a steady hold of Hansâs hipbones, and slides back in in one smooth, languid thrust.
âFuck,â Hans gasps.
âThatâs the idea,â replies the Devil.
Hans trembles as the Devil keeps up the slow, torturous pace for a few strokes, perfectly pleasant but not nearly enough. He knows how good it could feel, if the Devil just struck that one place inside him proper. Just the memory of it makes his nipples tighten and his half-hard cock twitch in interest. Hell, sometimes, he brushes past it anyways, but Hans decidedly refuses to beg for it like a cockdrunk whore. If he wants it harder and faster, he will take it, as is a noblemanâs right.
With that thought, he meets the Devilâs next thrust halfway, hips meeting in the middle. It earns him a choked-off groan, and then a huff of laughter. âChrist, Capon,â the Devil says, already pulling out again, âI was beinâ polite.â
The next thrust in comes harder, harsher. Hans gasps, and, fuck, thatâs better. âI thought youâChristâwerenât known for beingâhaâpolite.â
The sound of their hips slamming together belongs in the filthiest of bathhouses. âIâm not fuckinâ ye right if ye can still talk back like that,â the Devil says, clearly amused. And then he is shifting his hips, adjusting the angle, and, like an arrow striking heart-true, the head of his prick nails Hans right where he needs it.
If it werenât for his pillow, the entire Devilâs Den would hear Hansâs shout.
âThere we are,â coos the Devil, and proceeds to fuck Hans hard enough for his balls to slap against his taint.
Hans cannot control the noises spilling from his mouth. He wants to sob, to scream, to moan like a cheap bathwench. Almost every thrust strikes true before the Devil slides further, impossibly deep into Hans. His now cock hangs fat and leaking between his legs, his balls feel ready to burst, and then thereâs Henry, his smell stuck in Hansâs nose and heart.
Deliriously, he imagines his Hal running a broad hand through his sweaty hair, gentle as anything. God. God.
The next thrust forces a tear out of Hansâs eyes. He helplessly rocks along to the Devilâs harsh pace, groaning and panting. Fucking himself to completion inside a warm cunt or mouth has never felt like this. Perhaps that is why wenches let themselves be had so willingly: a blunt, all-consuming pleasure that just builds and builds and builds, strong enough to force whimpers out of grown men.
âNeed a hand?â the Devil asks, suddenly, and it takes Hans a moment to understand that he is being spoken to, and another moment to make sense of the question.
âPlease,â he gasps, and then chokes back a sob of relief as the Devil reaches below him to take hold of his drooling cock.
The Devil chuckles. âChrist, yeâre wet,â he says, but gathers the wetness to ease the slide of his hand along Hansâs prick all the same. And itâsâfuck, itâs almost too much. It barely takes a few strokes for the dull pleasure in Hans to grow an edge, sharp and sudden like a blade burrowing into skin. Everything inside him seizes up, his stomach trembling, his knees shaking, his arse clenchingâ
Hans shoves Henryâs tunic into his mouth to muffle the scream thatâs being torn out of him alongside his climax, seed spurting across the Devilâs fingers and the sheets. Oh, Christ, but heâs never come like this; it feels positively life-altering. He whimpers, teeth digging into the rough linen as the Devil continues to fuck into him, wringing wave after wave of almost painful pleasure out of Hans, still striking true, over and over. Hans thinks it might never end.
But with a curse, the Devil suddenly pulls out.
The emptiness comes as a shock. Hansâs hole flutters around nothing as his cock continues to weakly dribble his pleasure. He almost wants to ask the Devil why he stopped, but then thereâs the sound of the Devilâs hand stripping over his own prick, of hips rutting into a fist. A hitched breath, a groan, and seed spilling across Hansâs backside.
And thatâsânot what he expected.
The Devil slumps into Hans, clearly mindful of the mess heâs made of his back. His hands once more pat Hansâs hips, rubbing oil and come into his skin. Itâs probably supposed to be demeaning; Hans is still too boneless and abuzz with bliss to complain.
Later, though.
âWell, fuck,â the Devil gasps, sounding rougher than usual. One slippery hand gives Hansâs arse a light smack. âI didnae think that this is how my night would end.â
Hans opens his mouth to reply, only to realise that Henryâs tunic is still stuck to his tongue. Spitting, he pulls it from between his lips and sits up. His arse smarts. âMe neither, believe you me.â
âHope it was worth it for ye.â
Thereâs an odd edge to the Devilâs voice that gives Hans pause. He shuffles around so he can face him, but freezes at the expression that greets him. Because, if Hans didnât think the Devil categorically incapable of such an emotion, heâd say the man looks bashful.
âIt was,â he says, and finds that he means it. âWorth it, I mean.â
Because, at the end of the day, Hans has always enjoyed a good fuck. And this has been good, shockingly enough. Hanush had always reprimanded him for cavorting with women too much, and for being as lustful as a common harlot. Perhaps he was always going to end up this way; but still, even while heâs still loose from another manâs cock and kneeling in his own spend, he doesnât feel like less of a man.
And, well, if Henry ever wanted him like thisâ
The Devil clears his throat. Hans blinks away his thoughts, staring at the man before him: weathered, pockmarked, and fully dressed, save for the soft, oily cock hanging out of a gap between his unlaced braies and his jackâs parted hemline. Christ, that had been inside Hans.
Thereâs a wry, but terribly self-satisfied grin to the Devilâs lips when Hans looks back up to meet his eye. âNot often that a pretty young thing throws himself at me,â the Devil says, helping himself to the edge of Hansâs blanket to wipe his prick with. âNot that I wouldnâtâve preferred had ye been a busty maid, of course.â
âOf course,â Hans echoes, unimpressed. âBut beggars canât be choosers, I assume.â
The Devil cackles, twisting the soiled blanket between his come-stained fingers. Kurva, Hans is going to be hauling laundry down to the baths for the next three days at this point. âDonât beat yerself up over it,â the Devil says. âMen fuck each other all the time. Itâs not worth losinâ sleep over.â
As if that was his final verdict on the matter, the Devil tucks himself away at last, getting to his feet to retie his braies and adjust the straps of his hose. Once more, he looms over Hans, though he suddenly doesnât seem the least bit threatening anymore. At the back of his head, a lock sticks out of that unflattering haircut of his.
Hans, kneeling naked on the bed before him like a supplicant, covered in spend, doesnât feel all that exposed. âHave a good night, then, Sir Hynek.â
The Devil scoffs. âAgain with the fuckinâ titles. Will I have tâ beat those out of ye?â
Hans bristles. âYou are still a nobleman. Itâsâthe proper thing to do.â
âAye, the polite thing,â the Devil jeers, bending down to slip his feet back into his shoes. âLet me smack ye around the training ring tomorrow and see if ye still want titles then. Might stop yer wallowinâ, at least.â
âIâm notââ
âFeckâs sake, then stay in here or shoot straw birds with Kubyenka âtill kingdom come. Iâm not yer ma.â
It occurs to Hans that this is the Devil being nice to him. âI suppose thereâs no harm in getting some practice in.â
The Devil grins, satisfied. âIf Henryâs anythinâ to go by, yer guard captain at least knew how to whip ye lads into shape.â
âHe did,â Hans says, suddenly proud â whether itâs of Henry, or Captain Bernard, or Rattay, he isnât sure. Perhaps all of them.
âIâll still wipe the floor with ye,â declares the Devil, and turns on the heel of his freshly fastened shoe. Hans watches as he makes his way to the door â four long strides â and places one hand on the handle, the other on the key still in the lock. For a moment, he hesitates, casting a glance towards Hans. âGânight, Capon. And drop by if ye grow tired of moping.â
Fuck off, Hans thinks. But, in the spirit of politeness, what he instead says is, âGood night, Sir Hynek.â
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Relationships: Hans Capon/Henry; (Hans Capon/Dry Devil in CH2)
Other relevant tags: Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Masturbation, Scent Kink, Anal Fingering
Word count: 3,818
Language: English
Read on: AO3
Other Chapters: CH1 | CH2
It just feels like fighting a losing battle at this point. Hansâs heart and libido have already decided what they want â any counterargument, every bit of decency and all good morals will end up flying out of the window eventually anyways, no matter how long Hans ruminates over this. He can practically feel the last thin threads of his self-restraint snapping as he lays a palm over his clothed, soft cock.
A sigh escapes him.
So, Henry.
Hans gets in his feelings, discovers the prostate, and forgets to lock the door.
Henry has been gone for five-and-a-half days.
Itâs hardly any time at all, considering he is infiltrating a war camp. Sasau Monastery, heâd once told Hans, had taken him almost a month to comb through before he could be sure enough about the identity of his mark. And that was Benedictine monks, who are generally much less liable to put a sword through the guts of a saboteur in their midst than a whole campful of armed militiamen and Cumans. Itâs only natural that it would take him a while to learn everything he needs to, and then even longer to exchange information with Katherine and have her forward it.
But even just thinking about the possibility of things going wrong on Henryâs end makes Hans queasy. Of course heâd rather his squire take every possible precaution to stay safe than rush things and get caught. Ideally, though, he never would have had to leave the Devilâs Den in the first place. Ĺ˝iĹžka should have let some other overly competent fool handle things for once.
God, Hans misses him.
Itâs embarrassing, really, how heâs made to play the sitting duck and pining maiden in equal measure these days. Heâs not allowed to leave the Den for too long, lest Ĺ˝iĹžka grow antsy that someone took him for ransom yet again, and their Captain allowing him to actively follow Henry into danger is even further out of the question. And Hans understands why, is the worst part: heâs the sole heir to a noble lineage, and him risking his life just because he feels all sorts of ways for his common squire is expressly stupid. It doesnât change the fact that it instils in him a sense of impotence and frustration that not even Hanushâs endless restrictions and punishments have ever managed to.
But neither the world nor Jan Ĺ˝iĹžka seem to care all that much about Hansâs feelings. And, loath as he is to admit it, that might ultimately be for the best; he can do well without old men picking at the tangled mess of Henry-related emotions sitting heavily in his chest. As it stands, he is terribly afraid for his best and only friend. He keeps him in his prayers every day, misses him like a limb. When he looks to the side and finds nothing but empty space there, his heart breaks a little. And when he pulled himself off two nights ago, he dared to imagine Henryâs hands in place of his own and almost finished on the spot.
In short, Hans has a lot to work through. But many of his worries could be eased if Henry just came back already.
His company would also make things a lot more bearable at the Den. As it turns out, a tavernâs worth of drunk and violent outlaws is only fun for so long before it starts wearing on you, and Hans is decidedly past the point of enjoying it.
If Henry were here, Hans thinks, they could commiserate. But he isnât, so Hans must take what he can get. For example, Father Godwin makes for perfectly decent company before he gets too deep into his cups. Theyâd already made fleeting acquaintances of each other back when theyâd laid siege to Talmberg, and they hadnât spoken all that much before the old priest ruined Hansâs life a little by bartering away his hand in marriage, but beggars canât be choosers, and neither can they hold onto ressentiments. Amidst a sea of thieves, his worldliness and education make him interesting to talk to, so Hans is willing to forgive him his trespasses. And â some homesick part of Hans is willing to admit â him hailing from Uzhitz also makes him feel a little like a piece of home away from home.
The rest of the Devilâs Pack is⌠varying degrees of less pleasant than.
Ĺ˝iĹžka seems to alternate between viewing Hans as a liability and an asset: either he needs to be watched âround the clock like an unruly toddler, or he is suddenly one of the finest marksmen their dear Captain has ever seen. Whichever is more useful to him at the time, really. Hans could even appreciate his pragmatism, if it werenât constantly working against him.
And then the Devil manages to be worse, somehow. He feels like an extension of Ĺ˝iĹžka, but with none of the attempts at civility. Hans had initially hoped that his supposed uncaring ruthlessness would translate to him letting him off the leash, but no â instead, he seems to take almost sadistic pleasure in yanking on it and laughing about it all the while.
At least Kubyenka gives no shits about Hans either way. It could make him passable company in theory, but outside of shooting at straw birds and playing dice, heâs just so sad to witness. Hans has met few people who grow as sombre with drink as he does; it seems like the sickness of the soul the Rattay priest always warned people of, whenever he preached moderation.
Janosh and Adder are so far off into their own, Polish-speaking world that Hans doesnât even bother with them. Though they seem alright. Probably. Janosh will sometimes shove food into Hansâs hands, say something about him looking like shit, and leave him with that; thatâs somewhat kind, at least.
Again, probably.
The other package deal they have going on â Mikesh and Kozliek, harassers of helpful old herbwomen â also donât mingle much, though at least they have the decency to speak Czech while keeping to themselves. Hans still canât tell if they are supposed to be brothers or not, though.
And speaking of brothers, there is, of course, Samuel.
Hans had tried getting along with him, he really had. A little voice at the back of his mind that had sounded suspiciously like Henry had nagged him to, and the prospect of having someone his own age to talk to for a change hadnât sounded all that bad to him, but, well. Turns out that Samuel is a prick â one that thinks that Hans is selfish and that Henry deserves better.
Or⌠something to that effect. They had both been pretty drunk by that part of the discussion.
The main point is that Hans has been bereft of both, decent company and decent ways to while his days away. Once more, all he can do is sit around and wait â he might as well go and fetch Brabant from his mercenary-recruitment trip, too, to relive his captivity in Maleshov as closely as the Devilâs Den allows. Â
Christ, mingling with anyone has become wearying.
Which is also why, five-and-a-half days after Henry has left, Hans finds himself in bed just after nightfall like some sort of old man. The actual old men are, of course, making merry downstairs, singing and whistling and shouting as they do every night. Across the room, Henryâs bed remains empty and undisturbed.
âWhat a mess, eh, Hal?â he asks the empty air where his friend should be.
He receives no reply, naturally.
Sakra, but heâs being pathetic. How is he meant to survive weeks of this?
If it werenât so damned late in the evening, he could at least hop over to the baths. A nice, hot soak and some spiced wine might do him good. Maybe also a bathwench, though he frankly hasnât been in the mood for that in a while; that, too, he owes to his dear squire.
Thoughtlessly, Hans picks at his bedspread. If Henry were hereâ
Well, Hans wouldnât be lying in bed yet, for one. Heâd still be downstairs, sticking to Henryâs side until heâd be drunk enough to find the rest of the Devilâs Pack bearable. Maybe heâd even end up having a good time with their merry band of misfits for once. And then, eventually, heâd grow tired, and Henry would offer to retire alongside him because heâs kind like that, and theyâd hobble up the stairs arm-in-arm, nice and thoroughly sloshed.
He can almost feel the familiar warmth of Henry against his side now; his blacksmithâs boy always runs so hot, as if he carries the forge inside him. And, God, Hans would be able to smell him, too, if they were walking so close â the smell of iron and horse and musk and herbs that always lingers about the man. Maybe he could get away with pressing his nose into the side of Henryâs bare neck if he made it look like a drunk, bumbling accident.
A tremor of heat shoots through Hans at the thought.
His cock twitches in interest.
He really shouldnât do this. Or if he must, he should think up some faceless, ample-chested wench instead of imagining Henry touching him. Again.
Last time had at least been an accident â an unbidden thought mid-wank that made Hans come harder than he had in ages. But he hadnât meant to think of his closest friend, then. If he did it nowâ
Henryâs sweet, open face flits before his eyes: the strong brow, the long lashes, his lopsided grin. Itâd be a betrayal of sorts, to get off to the thought of him, but itâs not like heâd need to know, either. So long as Hans can maintain his composure around him in the future, whatâs the harm?
It just feels like fighting a losing battle at this point. Hansâs heart and libido have already decided what they want â any counterargument, every bit of decency and all good morals will end up flying out of the window eventually anyways, no matter how long Hans ruminates over this. He can practically feel the last thin threads of his self-restraint snapping as he lays a palm over his clothed, soft cock.
A sigh escapes him.
So, Henry.
Hans retraces the long-lapsed steps of his imaginary evening: the warmth of Henryâs strong, solid body seeping into Hansâs side, and the smell of him after a long day. The feeling of the bare skin at his neck, temptingly close to Hansâs face.
If he were brave, he would kiss him there, Hans thinks â trace his lips and tongue and teeth up the stubbled, muscular column of his throat, take every hitch of his breath and every jump of his pulse into his mouth. Perhaps heâd moan, and Hans would get to feel the vibrations of his deep, deep voice rattle against his teeth.
Henry would cling to him through it. His broad, burn-scar littered hands would settle in the crooks of Hansâs elbows, pulling him closer as heâd grow more desperate. And heâdâyes, heâd be well on the way to hardness, Hans decides. Heâd have been stirred since the taproom, simply from wanting this so much. And the grind of Henryâs cock against Hansâs hip would be maddening, hot and heavy, even through the layers of their braies and hose. Hans would not keep him waiting, reach a hand downward to help Henry along and feel the heft of him in his hand, stiff and aching.
Beneath his palm, Hansâs own cock slowly plumpens. He grinds the heel of his hand down with some pressure, imagining Henryâs thigh in its place. His other hand lazily traces over his bare abdomen.
The taste of Henryâs skin would surely be addictive. Salty, a little stale, a little earthy; Hans could probably die a happy man, buried in Henryâs neck with skin between his teeth. And the smell of him would be familiarâit would beâ
Hansâs fantasy grinds to a sudden halt. He knows what Henry smells like. Of course, he does. But the subtler notes elude him, suddenly. Warmth, he has himself. Skin, he can infer. A cock, he can imagine well enough. But heâs so close to the source of Henryâs actual smellâ
His eyes slide over to Henryâs side of the room once more, landing on the overfull chest by his bed.
Another line to cross. Another boundary to breach.
Hansâs cock throbs.
Before he can think better of it, he gets up. His half-hard dick chafes against the linen of his braies as he wobbles over, falling to his knees before the chest. The lid does not close fully, so it cannot lock; Hans almost slams it into the wall in this haste to pull it open. Inside, he finds a mess of armour pieces, books, phials, dried herbs, foods near spoiling, arrows, candles, and what-have-you else. Folded up somewhat neatly but then crammed against the chestâs side lies a stack of clothes.
With a shaking hand, Hans plucks the topmost garment off the stack.
Itâs a tunic â faded green, with stains beneath the arms. Hans has seen Henry wear it before, when he was done doffing his top layers. Of course heâd draw Hansâs eye in it: his blacksmithâs boy has always looked good in green.
He peels himself off the floor and returns to his own bed, sitting at the edge with the tunic clutched to his chest. He runs the rough-spun linen between his fingers, softened from wear. Hansâs arousal has flagged somewhat, but even just thinking about the fabric touching Henryâs bare skin is enough to stoke his fires again.
Heâll have the tunic laundered as an apology, he decides. Maybe get some of Henryâs other clothes washed as well, just so it is less conspicuous, and then sell it to his squire as a show of appreciation and lordly goodwill. Heâll manage to come up with something believable before Henry comes back, heâs sure.
He presses the tunic to his face and takes a deep breath.
Sweat, and horse. The stale, minty scent of old perfume. A hint of something metallic. An undernote of grasses and herbs.
There it is:
Henry.
Christ, but it really smells just like him. Hans buries his nose further into the fabric, until it grows warm and damp from this own breath. It makes it much easier to imagine Henry underneath it, especially when Hans presses his nose below the armhole, where the smell of sweat is densest. What would it be like, he wonders, to shove his face right into Henryâs armpit? To lap the musk and sweat out of his hair, like some sort of beast?
He takes another deep whiff of the scents mingling in the linen and finally lets his free hand travel downwards again. His cock is well on the way to full hardness, and Hans does not hesitate to untie his braies and unceremoniously shove them down his thighs. This was never going to be his proudest moment; it may very well become his most desperate, though.
He makes a hasty grab for the phial below his bed, letting the tunic drop away from his face to uncork it and haphazardly coat his fingers with the oily potion. Then, Hans slips back on the bed, tugging at Henryâs shirt one-handed until itâs spread out over the pillow, and buries his face back into it.
Henry would smell exactly like this â warm and work-worn, already sweaty but growing even sweatier with arousal. Hans can practically feel how hot and sticky the air between them would become, crowded together with too many layers of clothes in the way. He tastes a facsimile of it on his tongue like this, panting into his pillow.
He takes his cock into his slicked-up grasp at last, pulling back the foreskin and giving it a few pumps. Henry would have him aching for it just by being close to him, warm and solid and lovely, and Hans wouldnât be able to keep his hands off him for too long, because Henry would be hard, leaking, and desperate. They would fumble each other out of their hose and braies and press their cocks together; maybe they could thrust against each other in a mockery of a proper fuck, cradled in their palms.
Hans fucks into his hand a little more vigorously, imaging the sweet slide of Henryâs prick against his own. God, theyâd run so hot for each other â Hans would bury his face in Henryâs shoulder, and the smell and taste beneath his mouth would be the same as that of the tunic on his pillow. Mindlessly, Hans bites down on the fabric, stifling a groan.
If he couldâfuck, heâd kiss Henry. Itâd be so different from what Hans is used to: his stubble would be scruffy against Hansâs chin, and his lips would be much thinner than a womanâs, but it would be Henry he is kissing, so he would naturally drive him madder than any wench. Whatever would he taste like? After an evening of boozing, would his mouth be sour with Treadlightâs shitty beer? Or would he taste like something else entirely?
Hans brings his free hand up to his mouth, shoving two fingers in. He presses down on his tongue, drooling around his own digits like a whore angling for some extra groschen. He can imagine anything of Henryâs in their place â his fingers, his tongue, Hell, his cock. Hans canât stop himself from moaning at the idea, the hand on his prick stripping over it as quickly as he can stand it, just on the edge of too fast.
He takes another deep whiff of the scent clinging to Henryâs tunic. A wet spot is forming where spittle dribbles past his lips, but Hans canât be arsed to care. Henryâs crotch ought to smell denser than this, muskier. Hans would gladly bury his face there, rake through the dark hair with his tongue and teeth until itâs as wet as the fabric beneath his cheek.
His imagination fails him when trying to conjure the feeling of a cock in his mouth, but for Henry, Hans would try. Heâd swallow him down, even if heâd end up choking on it like an inexperienced bathmaid. Henry would doubtlessly be kind with him; he wouldnât push for more than what Hans can reasonably give him.
The scenario heâd initially started with has all but slipped from his mind by now, but it doesnât matter. Any thought of Henry suffices to drive him wild â if he asked, Hans would let him do anything to him and would do anything to Henry in turn. Heâdâshit, heâd let Henry mount him like a bitch in heat, should he want that. Hans has taken girls that way before, with his cock shoved up their arse to preserve their honour. So if Henry asked, Hans wouldâ
He pries his sopping fingers from his mouth, spit messily running down his hand. For the briefest of moments, he stops everything â the hand on his weeping cock stills, his eyes slide open to stare at his fingers. He knows how it works. It might even feel good. The wenches had seemed to enjoy it, even.
He has most likely gone mad.
Hans rolls fully onto his front, his knees propped under him, the head of his prick kissing the bedsheets. His face remains pressed into the pillow â into Henryâs tunic â as he moves his spit-slicked hand behind himself. Exposed as if heâs a cat begging to be bred, he slides his fingers down the cleft of his arse until his fingertips catch on the pucker of his hole. If this were Henry, heâd let him, he reminds himself â and then presses the first few inches of his middle finger inside.
The sting is immediate, and Hans tenses up. His arse clenches around the intrusion and his eyes grow teary. Fuck, and Henryâs fingers are thicker than Hansâs; heâd probably break Hans if he ever had him like this. He breathes deeply, holding very still, until the worst of the pain fades. To distract himself, Hansâs oily hand returns to his cock. Heâs flagged a little with the discomfort, but firms up again very quickly. Henry would offer him the same kindness, Hans thinks â stroke his cock while Hans tightens around his finger, whispering sweet nothings to him in the same tone of voice he uses when comforting Pebbles.
Maybe heâd pat Hansâs flank, too, as though he really were a spooked horse; Hans would prefer it if he kissed at his ear and shoulder throughout, though. Imagining Henryâs hot mouth trailing kisses from ear to nape has Hans moaning quietly into the pillow, and he pushes his finger to slip in deeper. The sting has eased, and it feels much more bearable with the low rumble of Henryâs voice whispering in his mind: how well he is taking it, how good he is being, how tight he will be once Henry fucks him.
He begins thrusting his finger in time with the strokes around his cock, each thrust smoother than the last, until the smarting gives way to a mild, tingling pleasure. Suddenly, itâs not enough anymore; Hansâs imagination urges him on. His other spit-slicked finger slides in with a bit more resistance than the first, bringing with it the stretch and sting of before. Itâs not so bad, though. He now knows that it will feel better in a bit.
Henry would be much bigger than two of Hansâs slender fingers, surely. Maybe the girth of his cock would split Hans right in two â but God, what he wouldnât give to feel it. Heâd be hard as steel inside him, unrelenting and unbearably hot. Hans would be unable to do anything but drool into the pillow as Henry took him from behind, just like this, loose and wanton.
âHal,â he gasps, eyes screwed shut, hips fucking forward into his fist, then backwards onto his fingers. Entirely by accident, he strikes something inside himself that has his whole body seizing up for a moment. A groan tears itself free from his throat, unbidden.
What the fuck?
Itâsâstrange. Hans finds himself suddenly greedy for it. His fingersâ thrusts grow shallower, seeking that one specific spot just so he can feel it again. When he does manage to brush it once more, the shock of pleasure has him biting back another groan. Itâs unlike anything heâs ever felt before; is this why people take it up the arse? He carefully rubs over the spot again, and he swears can feel it all the way in his fucking teeth.
His cock dribbles early seed across his hand as Hans continues to fuck himself on his fingers, eyes watering and toes curling. He stifles his noises by pressing his face into the pillow, surrounded by the smell of Henry, and God, if Henry were fucking him and it felt like thisâ
Suddenly, heâs entirely too close to his climax. Another glancing touch to that spot inside him has him tensing, and he gives his cock a little twist, and fuck, fuck, fuckâ
The doorhandle behind him rattles, and a sudden gust of cold air hits his bare arse.
Hansâs hands still. The blood freezes in his veins.
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Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Relationships: Henry/Arne the German
Other relevant tags: Misunderstandings, Hand Jobs, Frottage, Gratuitous German
Word count: 2,753
Language: English
Read on: AO3
âEs täte mir sicherlich gut, to get more practice.â
âAs a fellow member of the swordfighting guild, Iâd be happy to help you out,â Henry says, shakes the dice, and throws. âAnd if you need more practice beside that, they do say that the best way to learn a language is in the bedroom.â
Something gets lost in translation somewhere, but Henry is nothing if not adaptable.
Note: translations in the comments for this post!
Long past dusk, with nobody else around the courtyard of the guildhall, the bust-throw that costs Arne a score of almost two thousand points strikes the dice board as loud as lightning; it might as well be some kind of divine punishment.
âSo ein ScheiĂdreck!â he yells, and Henry half expects him to punch the table, too, for good measure. But Arne is, apparently, more restrained than that these days â he only drags a heavy hand across his face and mutters something about beschissenes GlĂźck and nie wieder dieses scheiĂ Spiel spielen.
Henry thinks he gets the gist of what he is saying. Itâs not hard to infer from context, granted, but his time in Kuttenberg has also given him a somewhat serviceable understanding of German; enough, at least, to understand the merchants around town. âIf you want to practice your Czech, my offer from before still stands,â Henry says lightly, gathering his dice into the cup. âI could teach you some new swear words.â
Arne does not look particularly amused by the suggestion. âJoke all you want, Heinrich,â he says, âbut unless your next throw is besser, perhaps you need to learn German SchimpfwĂśrter instead.â
âAye, maybe I ought to,â Henry readily agrees and gives the dice cup a good shake. âBut I also do mean it, about the practice. I think youâve already gotten better.â
The cupâs rim hits the board with a hollow thump, the dice inside clattering on the wood. When Henry lifts it, only a single, blessed five pips saves him from embarrassment. Across from him, Arne chews on his bottom lip.
âI want to stay here in Kuttenberg mit Meister Menhard. For now, at least,â he says, watching attentively as Henry drops his non-scoring dice back into the cup. âEs täte mir sicherlich gut, to get more practice.â
âAs a fellow member of the swordfighting guild, Iâd be happy to help you out,â Henry says, shakes the dice, and throws. âAnd if you need more practice beside that, they do say that the best way to learn a language is in the bedroom.â He means to add something about finding a comely Czech lass, but the dogshit throw that greets him as he lifts the cup off the board distracts him. Itâs not a bust, thankfully, butâ
âOh. Heinrich, thatâsâŚâ
Henryâs eyes snap up from the board. Arne has gone red all the way up to the rim of his hat, gaping at Henry like some sort of boiled German fish. Thereâs something unplaceable in his eyes. Or rather, if Henry didnât know any better, he could almost recognise a look like that asâ
Well. That would explain why an unattached young man like Arne would willingly dedicate all his free time to a contact-heavy gentlemanâs sport like swordfighting. And it would certainly also explain why he would follow his master into a foreign country, despite barely speaking the language; loyalty over a debt like Arneâs can only go so far, but personal attachment...
Perhaps the realisation reads too clearly on Henryâs face, the accidentality of his proposition too obvious. Arneâs gaze sharpens, from heated surprise into something openly challenging â daring Henry to judge him for his tastes, or to rescind his unwitting offer.
But itâs not as though Henry is much better in the way of unnatural inclinations than Arne; suddenly, all he feels is something hot crawling its way up his throat, his skin tight with it. He swallows around it, any possible excuses for the misunderstanding dying right there on his tongue.
Why shouldnât he let this accident work in his favour? Forfeiting a challenge brings nothing but shame in these circles, and he knows Arne does not yield.
Henry gathers his dice back into the cup, setting his lone scoring die down to join its predecessor on the sidelines. He takes a deep breath, gives the cup a shake, and meets Arneâs eye dead-on. âMy offer still stands.â
The dice go clattering across the board. Arne punches the table.
âDann komm her!â he barks, and Henry springs to his feet.
Nonsensically, as if spurred to directionless action by Arneâs words, he rounds the table and grabs the Germanâs forearm. The contact fizzles in his fingers. âWhere, then?â
Arne huffs, looking around. Evening has already settled over the city, and they are all alone in the little wooden lean-to beside the sparring rink. Theyâre surrounded by stone walls on all sides but one, and the gate into the guild hallâs courtyard should be locked by now. Nobody outside the guild has any business here, especially after dark, and their fellow members are most likely already turning in for the night in the beds and haystacks on the upper floors.
They share a look and must realise the same thing: right here might be the best theyâll get.
âCan you keep quiet?â Henry asks, tightening his grip.
Arne blinks at him. Understanding dawns slowly on his face, and when it does, his eyes dart around once more. âIf you want to do it here, then we should, ah⌠kill the⌠the Kerzen.â
âKill what?â Henry asks. Arne clicks his tongue and tears his arm free to lick his forefinger and thumb to snuff out the candles beside the dice board. âOh,â Henry says in comprehension. âThoseâre candles.â
All that earns him is a very flat and unimpressed look. Arne gets to his feet, and Henry is shocked by how cold he feels once the other man draws away from him to extinguish the lanterns and torches around them, one flame at a time.
In the almost-darkness, Arne circles back to stand in front of Henry, between the dice board and the wall. He is only slightly shorter but always seems to draw himself up to his full height, proud and stalwart.
âWhat now?â he asks, chin jutted out almost defiantly â or rather, like he is issuing yet another challenge.
Once again, it makes Henry itch to meet it.
âWhatever you want,â he replies, but still dares to take a step towards the man. Like any good swordsman, Arne reflexively steps back, as though he assumes a more defensive stance after evading an opening strike. Another set of steps, then â and before Arne can evade any other way, his back hits the wall.
He exhales, shaky with restraint, but not yet conceding in spite of having lost all ground. Henry aches to put his hands on him, just to know beyond doubt that this strange, heated madness is indeed what Arne wants. But no â the call for this particular duel is Arneâs to make.
Finally, after breathing each otherâs air for a few moments, Arne closes his eyes and sighs. âI want you to touch me.â
âAye, that was the plan,â Henry says, quiet into the warm air between their bodies. âBut is there anything in particular you had in mind?â
âI donât have all the words,â Arne says. Then, shockingly, wondrously, he bridges the distance between them at last, clasping Henryâs forearm in a reversal of his earlier hold. âFass mich hier an.â
And Henry finds his hand directed firmly south.
âAh,â he exhales, his fingers skimming Arneâs gambeson before his palm is cupped around the bulge in the other manâs braies. Arneâs cock is still soft, but Henry is hardly offended by the fact. Gently, he massages it through the linen. âIs that all you want?â
Itâs not that heâd mind if it was â Henry knows how much better someone elseâs hand can feel, even if heâd maybe hoped for something a little more reciprocal. Or at least the feel of some skin against his. But Arne doesnât seem unhappy with their current arrangement. He leans his weight further into the wall, hips pumping lazily into Henryâs hand, hardening further with each thrust. His eyes drift shut, and his breaths come out in soft, fluttery huffs that Henry aches to taste on his tongue.
âArne,â he says, his voice coming out thin and embarrassingly desperate. âIs this what you want? Just my hand, above your clothes?â
The question must take a moment to register. Slowly, Arneâs eyes drift open, his hips stilling. The heft of his filled-out cock rests temptingly heavy in Henryâs palm.
âIf someone comes and sees...â
Of course, theyâre somewhat exposed here. But if anyone found them, in the dark, stood as close to each other as they are, Henry doubts that a single layer of linen â one that barely hides the straining prick pitching a tent in it, at that â is going to hide what they are doing. So, he takes a step forward, crowding Arne into the wall without taking his hand off his cock. âHold onto my shirt as if weâre about to fight,â he instructs, and Arneâs hands hesitantly come to rest close to his collar. Slowly, as if afraid of something, his fingers clench around the fabric of Henryâs gambeson. âGood.â
âGlaubst duâwill this fool anyone?â Arne asks. Curiously, though, his hips already resume their little undulations, his cock sliding back and forth in Henryâs grasp; itâs as if his body has already made up its mind where his head hesitates. Henry tightens his hold, a little bolder with the increased proximity.
âLetâs hope we wonât have to,â he says, watching Arneâs lashes flutter closed once more. Lord, but heâs affected. If he doesnât get his hands or mouth on skin anytime soonâ
âHeinrich,â Arne gasps, and stills his hips. âThe fabric, itâs not⌠just, nimm meinen Schwanz in die Hand. Bitte. I donât care, justââ
Henry chances a guess as to what that means, spurred on by his own wishful thinking. Arne chokes out a small whine when Henry tugs the laces of his braies just loose enough to fit his hand inside. The fists curled into his gambeson tighten as Henry takes proper hold of Arneâs cock, the skin of it silken and so, so hot, now that thereâs no linen in the way anymore.
âAlright?â Henry asks, just to be sure. Arne nods, short and jerky, and thrusts into the tunnel of Henryâs fingers.
Henry swipes his thumb across the head, taking what little wetness hasnât been wasted on Arneâs braies to ease the glide of the prick in his hold. On the downstroke, he pulls the foreskin back properly, and when Arne slides himself forward into his grasp with a tiny, aborted moan, Henryâs resolve cracks at last.
He buries his face into the side of Arneâs neck, taking in the smell of stale sweat and musk and steel. No supposed fight would necessitate a move like this, but Henry doesnât really care; instead, he noses up Arneâs jugular with its heavy, fluttery pulse, tongue darting out to catch a taste of the salt and dirt clinging to the Germanâs skin. Something mad inside him itches to sink his teeth in, too, but he holds back, settling for groaning into Arneâs ear.
And if Arne minds, he doesnât show it. His cock throbs as he fucks into Henryâs fist, steadily spilling precome that eases the way. The slick sound of skin meeting skin is muffled between them, quiet enough in the empty courtyard not to draw attention, yet no less obscene for it. All the while, Arne keeps his lips clinched between his teeth, huffing heavy breaths out his nose like an ox, stifling all noise.
Christ. Christ.
âArne,â Henry exhales, lips skimming skin, hips jerking into empty air, âArne, can Iââ
âWas⌠what do you want?â
A lot of things, really, but few of them inconspicuous enough to work. Henry has to blink away a thousand images and phantom sensations that flit through his mind, settling for the realistic. âCan I take both our cocks in hand? Against each other?â
Arne shudders, though perhaps it is only the result of Henryâs words, spoken directly against his spit-slicked neck. He stills, head tilting awkwardly into Henryâs. âWhat do you mean?â
I donât have all the words, heâd said.
Henry straightens a little, though he doesnât loosen his hold on Arneâs prick. âCrossing swords, so to speak,â he clarifies. âErr. Schwerter⌠KreuzungâŚ?â
That seems to translate well enough; Arneâs breath hitches, and he nods against the side of Henryâs head. âIf you can do it⌠diskret.â
âNo more or less discreet than this already is,â Henry mutters, using his free hand to fiddle the laces of his own hose and braies apart. He takes care that nothing slips off his hips as he gets his prick out â that much, he can do to keep it diskret. With the other hand, still holding onto Arne, he shimmies his braies down further, until the length of his cock is exposed to the evening air where Henryâs fingers donât warm it.
âAlright?â
Arne nods, exhaling loudly, almost a sigh. Henry adjusts his stance, straightens until he stands nose-to-nose with Arne, and juts his hips forward.
The first, inelegant bump of their cocks has Henryâs knees going weak. Good Lord, but heâs worked up; if it werenât for Arneâs fists clenching in his shirt, clinging to him with urgency, heâd be more afraid of embarrassing himself by coming too quickly.
He loosens his grip around Arneâs prick to take them both in hand properly, hooking his thumb around himself while encasing Arne with his fingers. God knows they are both wet enough not to need any spit to ease the way for this â when Henry gives a first proper thrust, the slickness heâd spread along Arneâs prick before makes it glide almost as well as any cunt.
âAllmächtiger,â Arne gasps, before his teeth clamp down on his lips once more. His hips roll up to match Henryâs movements, choked off little noises spilling from him despite his best efforts to keep quiet. Henry returns to mouth at his neck, his throat â feels every hitched breath, aborted moan and thundering heartbeat under his lips and tongue. He stifles his own groans against the stubbly skin beneath Arneâs chin, teeth scraping but never digging in.
And still, the threat of teeth must entice him. Arne ruts into him with renewed fervour, his cockhead weeping wetness along Henryâs shaft whenever their strokes fall out of pace. Christ, if Henry could comfortably fit both his hands around them with how theyâre standing, he would, just so he could rub their tips together, too, slippery with precome andâ
Arne practically hauls Henry into him, biting down on the padding of his gambeson as his hips surge forward twice, thrice, before his cock throbs and he spills against Henry, across his hand, and likely onto both their clothes as well. He rides his peak out with a muffled groan, his seed slippery between Henryâs fingers and his prick still gives some final spurts, and, oh, but Henry knew he wasnât going to last.
He swallows whatever noise wants to make its way out of his mouth, letting go of Arneâs prick to catch at least his own release in his palm. He strokes himself through it as well as he can, his hand sliding easily across his cock with Arneâs come, his whole body tingling with pleasure.
They stand in silence for a bit, after. Henry feels Arne raise his head off his shoulder, the fabric relaxing where his teeth donât clamp down on it anymore. Their breaths begin to even out again, and Henry takes a step back. Arneâs fingers unfurl from his gambeson one by one.
âWas that good?â he asks, careful not to touch anything with his seed-covered hand as he tucks himself back into his braies.
Arne, still somewhat dazed, nods. âJa, das war⌠it was good. Danke, Heinrich.â
Henry finds himself smiling. âAh, no need to thank me. It was good for me, too. Not what I expected, but good.â
Slowly, Arne begins to tuck himself away. His fingers twist around his laces, instead of retying them properly, as if heâs caught up in thought. Henry idly wonders if itâs already appropriate to step away and wash his hand in the trough by the sparring rink.
âHeinrich,â Arne says before he can act on the thought.
âYes?â
âYou said that this was a good way to learn Tschechisch.â
Henry isnât sure he follows. âI guess?â
Arne huffs and looks at him like heâs personally offended him. Or maybe just like heâs stupid.
âTja,â he says with an odd sort of gravitas. âI think you need dir eine bessere Methode ausdenken. I did not learn a single word.â
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Relationships: Henry/Svatya Thrush
Other relevant tags: Drinking & Talking, Drunk Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Dry Humping, Coming in Pants
Word count: 3,680
Language: English
Read on: AO3
âWhereâre you staying, anyways?â Svatya asks, swaying in his seat. âYouâre not ridinâ anywhere anymore like that, right?â
âNah,â Henry says, and hiccups, and points in probably the direction of the barn. âBettyâs lettinâ me have the hay over⌠there.â
âNo way! You canâyou can sleep with me. At mine, I mean. Fuck.â
Henry chokes on a giggle. âBut I paid for the hay!â
Henry has a shit day, but some company goes a long way.
CW: drinking, drunk sex, mildly dubious consent on account of the drinking, explicit sexual content; spoilers for some early KCD2-quests (Bird of Prey, Wedding Crashers)
Henry has had his fair share of shit days recently.
The day their party was ambushed by the pond remains the worst by far â in the past few weeks since they arrived in Trosky, at least â and heâll gladly take a million mundanely shit days over going through something similar again, but it would be nice for the shit days to stop happening at all. Given his current situation, that seems unrealistic, but a man can dream.
Itâs not all shit though. Some days have been good, even. Penniless and alone he might be, but being able to help people with their mundane and not-so-mundane troubles is something to keep him going. He doesnât need the gratitude, he just wants to feel useful.
But after spending all day slogging through the slippery underbrush of the Apollonia forests in the middle of a thunderstorm, looking for the regionâs most elusive poacher only to discover said poacherâs hideout and his wayward lordâs whereabouts all in one go, Henry is just a little sick of doing other peopleâs work. Caponâs tools weigh a thousand pounds in his pouch, and the lies he will have to feed the Nebakov gamekeeper weigh even heavier on his mind. And yet, somehow, impossibly, the fear that Capon will struggle to keep himself safe and fed without resorting to capital crime weighs on him heaviest of all.
At least the rain has stopped now.
The road to Troskowitz is still more mud than traversable dirt, though. Henry takes mercy on poor Pebbles, leading her by the reins rather than riding her through the sludge because he doesnât want her losing a shoe on top of everything else. The thunder earlier had spooked his poor girl badly; Henry has no intention of making her any more uncomfortable.
His boots and hose are a lost cause already, caked in half-dried mud up to the knees, so the splashes his and Pebblesâs feet produce are mere droplets in an ocean. Perhaps, if they make it back to the village before sundown, Henry might manage to scrub the worst of it out at the little pond by the butcherâs.
The butcher who bought the meat Capon had gladly supplied him with like an idiotâ
Pebbles snorts softly, as though to comfort Henry, and he sighs. âYouâre right, girl,â he tells her, patting the side of her neck, âno use getting mad about him. His Lordship knows better than us, doesnât he?â
She doesnât grace him with a reply, but Henry takes her silence as agreement.
By the time they pass the graveyard, Mutt rejoins them. He doesnât look much worse for wear, but he does seem a bit apologetic about having run off on a whim. Henry canât fault him; heâd been in a right mood after leaving Caponâs little camp, and Mutt had simply been smart enough to avoid his ill temper.
Now, though, he looks up at Henry with his big, sad eyes, and Henry is helpless to do anything but give his boy a good scratch behind the ear with his free hand. He mumbles some nonsense praise Muttâs way and gets his knee whacked with a tail in thanks.
The sun hasnât even started to dip yet when they make it back to Troskowitz. Henry ties Pebbles to a tree by the pond and instructs Mutt to keep her company. He digs around Pebblesâs saddle bags for some leftover soap, then unties his filthy hose before he goes to kneel by the water. He dips one of the legs in to give his boots a quick wipe-down. Because, while he does have a set of spare chausses somewhere, he only has the one pair of shoes to his name at the moment. And, incidentally, very little intention of spending the evening in them when theyâre squelching wet.
A good portion of the mud crumbles off the hose-legs before he can even soak them. He does the best he can with the bit of soap he has left to get the more persistent filth out, and then all he can do is wring them out and awkwardly drape the wet cloth over his shoulders.
Heâll have to ask Betty to let him sleep in the hay for the night; perhaps heâll even manage to hang his hose up, somewhere.
Dusk is only beginning to fall as he ties Pebbles up at the trough. He pats her side and bids her goodnight, then makes for the alehouse with Mutt at his heels. Exhaustion and the weight of an exceptionally shit day begin to catch up with him as he haggles for the privilege to sleep next to the hay wagon, and by the time he clumsily ties his wet hose to one of the wagonâs beams, he is about ready to collapse into the hay.
His stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble emphatically.
Mutt doesnât seem nearly as concerned about dinner, though. He already sniffs the hay on the ground, walking in tight circles until he finds the ideal position to settle down in. Perhaps heâs not hungry because heâd already found something to eat in the forest earlier; ever since his stint with the wolves, heâs become more self-sufficient that way.
Henry kneels beside him and gives him a gentle pat on the head. âStay here, boy, yeah? Iâll be back in a bit.â
Mutt huffs but seems content otherwise. His eyes slip shut, so Henry lets him be.
âDinner?â one of the serving girls asks as approaches the alehouse proper, a pitcher propped up on her hip. She gives him a once-over. âAnd a drink?â
âPlease,â Henry says, and shoves enough groschen for a bowl of stew and some beer into her free hand.
Heâll hopefully think to tip her â later, when he doesnât feel quite as dead on his feet anymore.
As the maid disappears back into the tavern to fetch his order, Henry begins to scour the well-occupied tables for somewhere to sit. The townsfolk seem to have, by and large, forgiven him for the brawl that had marked the beginning of everything going to even worse shit than it already had. He doesnât dread having to sit with the locals, but he doesnât exactly expect an enthusiastic invitation from anyone, either. Ideally, heâll manage to stay far enough from the dice player to not be tempted into a game, so his best option for a table might beâ
âHey, Henry!â
Svatya.
So much for not receiving an enthusiastic invite. Bailiff Thrushâs son is sitting alone at one of the little tables toward the back where Henry had yet to see him. Heâs cheerfully waving him over with one hand; Henry finds that thereâs little reason why he shouldnât go to him. As he passes by the other tables, he feels heads turn to look after him, eyes burning at the back of his head. Why, after all, would the bailiffâs son voluntarily sit with a man whoâd first spoken to him with his fists?
âEveninâ, Svatya,â Henry greets, claiming the vacant chair.
âYou look like shit,â Svatya says, grinning, and briefly raises his tankard. âDid you order something to drink yet?â
âAye, should be coming with the food in a bit.â
âGood, good!â Svatya says, nodding. âLet me buy you another, once youâre done with the first one, then.â
âWhy so generous?â
âItâs been a slow evening, so itâs good you came round,â Svatya says and leans back in his seat, considering Henry. âBesides, you really do look like shit. Thought you might need it.â
Henry finds himself smiling, though it feels a little hollow. âWhat can I say? Itâs been a shit day all around. I think Iâve earnt looking the part.â
âSomething to do with that ponce friend of yours?â
Bitterly, he thinks of Capon once more â of the waterlogged glares and the frustrating lack of sense. âI donât want to talk about him.â
âI wouldnât want to, either, in your shoes,â Svatya snorts and takes a deep draught of his ale. Henry feels how regretfully dry his own throat is; the ale maid is still nowhere in sight. âIâd say: good riddance. Plus, itâs probably a capital crime of some kind, claiming to be the lord of Whatever-and-Whatnot when youâre just some vagabond. You shouldnât stick around that.â
âAh, but he is,â Henry finds himself saying, because defending Capon still comes reflexively, no matter if the man is currently deserving of it or not.
âHeâs what?â
âThe actual Lord of Pirkstein. And we were sent here on a diplomatic mission as envoys of the Lords of Leipa, before it all went tits up.â
Svatya stares at him for a moment. Then, very slowly and nervously, he begins to laugh. âRight,â he says. When Henry doesnât join him in his laughter, calling the joke for what it is, his face falls. âWait, youâre serious? I punched an actual nobleman?â
Henry shrugs one shoulder. âItâs not like he doesnât deserve it.â
Svatya pales. âStillââ
âAh, donât worry about it. He probably doesnât even remember your name. If he canât point at you and go âthere, thatâs the cunt who made me punch him!â, then Iâd wager youâre safe.â
With pursed lips, Svatya stares at his tankard for a moment. Then, he promptly upends it.
âYou know what? Youâre right,â he says, slamming the empty tankard down. âHe probably did deserve some of it. I know you didnât, in hindsight, but⌠maybe thatâll teach you to keep better company, eh?â
Henry is suddenly struck by the odd thought that Svatya is actually rather similar to Capon. Perhaps itâs because both of them have grown up privileged and self-important in their own ways. Or perhaps itâs simply that Henry finds the same aspects of their company enjoyable: boyish and petty and easy, when things are good between them.
He doubts Svatya would appreciate the comparison very much, though.
A bowl of stew slides onto the table in front of him.
âWe had a spill in the kitchen,â the ale maid says by way of an apology, setting a tankard of ale down next to the stew. She pats her hands clean on her apron. âCan I get you anything else? Svatopluk?â
Svatya hands her his empty tankard. âAnother round for both of us.â
âOn your tab?â
âPut all of Henryâs drinks tonight on there.â
âYou really donât have to,â Henry tries to argue, because thereâs a difference between buying one round or three, but Svatya just waves him off.
âItâs your payment for keeping me company.â
âSo, two more beers,â the ale maid confirms. Svatya just nods and shoos her off, and in this, Henry thinks, heâs not at all like Capon, who would have called the poor woman some terrible endearment twice over by now. My sweet poppy cake, perhaps. My fluttersome little bushtit.
Henry shudders and takes two big gulps of his ale to dislodge the thought. They hit his empty stomach like an alcoholic tidal wave; itâs exactly what he needs.
âI see youâre trying to catch up in time for the second round,â Svatya laughs, and Henry finds himself joining in.
âAye,â he says, raising his tankard in a one-sided toast. âI was told my company was required.â
A lull falls between them for a while after that. Henry makes quick work of his stew, and the initial buzz of beer on an empty stomach quickly fades around meat, lentils, barley and vegetables.
By the time their second round arrives, Henryâs tankard is indeed empty, and Svatya takes the liberty to order the third immediately after. They toast, then â properly, with the froth at the top of their drinks threatening to spill over.
âWant to drink to something?â Henry asks.
âWhatâs there to drink to?â
âThe wedding, for one. Your sisterâs getting married, isnât she?â
âWeâd be drinking to the wedding getting called off, if anything,â Svatya grouses, taking a slow sip of his ale. âSemine is only marrying her for the money. Nothing screams desperation like a nobleman marrying a common bailiffâs daughter.â Svatya frowns. âWeâre being made a laughingstock, but neither my father nor Agnes seem to realise it.â
And thatâsâa jarring sentiment. Henry blinks. Everyone in the region is looking forward to the wedding, but here the brother of the bride sits, wishing it wouldnât happen at all. âLord Semine is a decent sort, from what Iâve seen,â he says, though it comes out a little weak. Svatya glares at him over the rim of his tankard.
âHave you met his son, though?â he asks. âThat Olda â something about him isnât right, I tell you.â
âIn what way?â Henry presses â the reflex of an occasional spy.
Svatya purses his lips, stares at his ale as he swivels it around. âHeâs just⌠dodgy. Often isnât there when arrangements are being made, doesnât tell his old man where he disappears off to, spends less and less time on courting Agnes. You get the picture.â
Henry considers this. âCouldnât he just be getting cold feet?â
âIf only God would be so merciful! No, heâs apparently still fine with going through with the wedding.â
âAnd Agnes? What does she make of her betrothed beingââ
âSheâs still taken with him!â Svatyaâs tankard hits the table with significant force; blessedly, with only dregs left in it, nothing spills. âAnd I get it, Henry, I really do â heâs handsome alright, and Agnes likes the idea of marrying into nobility, but⌠fuck.â
Well. Henry doesnât have any siblings, no matter which father he looks to, but he imagines that it must be difficult to entrust a sister into the care of another man. Awkwardly, he stretches his arm across the table to pat Svatyaâs shoulder in commiseration.
âItâll be fine,â he says. âIf nothing else, sheâll have horses.â
At that, Svatya huffs something like a laugh. Henry suspects there is very little humour in it, though. âTo horses, then,â he says, and raises his nearly empty tankard. Henry toasts him and throws back what ale he has left.
When the next round arrives, their conversation very deliberately does not stray towards weddings or lordlings â Svatya speaks of Vitek, gamekeeper Vostatekâs son, and Henry tells him about his misadventures with the gamekeeper in turn. At some point, they take a piss break each. Over the fourth round, they talk about swords with wildly different levels of expertise, and then girls, and the weather, and horses; in-between, they grease their throats with some schnapps, and when the fifth round of ale arrives, the ale maid informs them that itâs the last for the night.
âWhereâre you staying, anyways?â Svatya asks, swaying in his seat. âYouâre not ridinâ anywhere anymore like that, right?â
âNah,â Henry says, and hiccups, and points in probably the direction of the barn. âBettyâs lettinâ me have the hay over⌠there.â
âNo way! You canâyou can sleep with me. At mine, I mean. Fuck.â
Henry chokes on a giggle. âBut I paid for the hay!â
âAnd youâre gettinâ free hay at mine!â Svatya yells and flings his arm in the general direction of the bailiffâs office. Henry laughs, because it sounds a bit like he is trying to feed him like a horse.
âSo, Henry, wanna stay over?â
Suppose that, at the end of the day, hay is hay is hay.
âAye, sure. Let me have the free hay.â
Svatya whoops. âCome on, then,â he says, springs to his feet, and promptly sways back into his seat. He giggles, high and trilling. âWell, fuck me. Next tryâs gonna be the one.â
It takes him a bit, but in all fairness, Svatya manages to get up and stay on his feet on his next attempt. He extends his unsteady hand to Henry, who, of course, takes it and almost sends them both sprawling on their arses. But then they somehow, miraculously, manage to steady each other in time, propped up against one another like a pair of slanted trees.
AndâGod, upright, the alcohol goes right to Henryâs head.
âGonna take you home,â Svatya mumbles, breath hot and wet against the side of Henryâs neck. Their arms tangle awkwardly around their backs, hands slipping off shoulders, tucking into armpits, finding clumsy purchase wherever they can. âWe just gotta get⌠to the street.â
And they do manage to, waddling and swaying, arm in arm. Henry thinks that, if he let go of Svatya, heâd probably fall right over. The mental image makes him laugh, and they manage to leave the tavern, and then Henry blinks, and theyâre suddenly in the dark courtyard outside the bailiffâs office.
âHay, Svatya, the hay,â Henry says, arm slipping, suddenly urgent, and Svatya tries to shush him while giggling at the same time.
âIâll get you to the hay, but be quiet,â he chides. They steer each other into the pitch-dark shade of a shed, Svatya leading, Henry following. There is, notably, no space to sleep in, let alone any hay.
Henry leans against the wooden wall for support, turning to Svatya in their quasi-hold. âI donât think this isââ
Whatever he had meant to say is cut off by Svatyaâs mouth on his, insistent and clumsy. Itâs not all that shocking, or perhaps Henry is just too drunk to be appalled by it; as it is, Svatya still tastes sweet and hoppy, and his tongue in Henryâs mouth feels warm and nice, and thatâs really all that matters.
No weddings. No lordlings.
Svatya pulls back to breathe after a few moments, resting his forehead against the side of Henryâs face. His skin is a little clammy, but thatâs not entirely unpleasant. Henry suddenly realises that he canât clearly remember the last time someone just held him.
He runs an idle hand up and down Svatyaâs spine in a loose sort of embrace and feels the other manâs entire body jerk against him in response. âDâyou want to keep goinâ with this?â
The only reply he receives comes in the form of Svatya kissing him once more. Henry lets himself be crowded against the wall, takes Svatyaâs unsteady weight while trying to stay on his feet. Itâs all heat and noses poking into cheeks, and Henry canât help but giggle into their kisses, wrapping his arms around his friend â but, oh, certainly they are friends now, arenât they?
âSvatyaâSvatya, heyââ Henry gasps out, and only once he pulls him off by the scruff does he stop. âSvatya, are we friends?â
Svatya snorts. âYeah?â is all he says, and then heâs right back to kissing Henry.
And isnât that great news? Appeased, Henry grabs a handful of Svatyaâs arse, squeezing it. It earns him a low moan and a leg slotted between both of his, and thatâs nice, too. Idly, he grinds into Svatyaâs thigh, his cock not particularly interested yet, but hopefully not so beer-soaked that he wonât be able to firm up for whatever his friend might have in mind.
Svatya, for his part, doesnât seem to struggle with it at all, if the hardness grinding into Henryâs hipbone is anything to go by. His eagerness is almost flattering, and Henry kisses him a bit more fervently for it.
They shift a little, but itâs enough to upset their tenuous, drunk balance. Their teeth knock together as Henry slips down the wall, only kept from falling to the ground by the thigh Svatya keeps pressed between his. The impact is not so forceful as to hurt, but the pressure against Henryâs sack has him groaning nonetheless.
âFuck,â he pants, and this angle really works for him as he ruts into Svatyaâs leg. He blindly clings to whatever his fingers can wrap around â the short-cropped hair at the back of Svatyaâs head as his mouth descends on his again, the rumpled fabric of Svatyaâs gambeson, his hipâ
And then Svatya all but hauls him back to his feet, keeping him steady against the wall. Henry acutely misses his thigh between his, but a moment later, he finds his knee nudged aside and, oh. Thatâs Svatyaâs cock against his.
It only now strikes him that heâs hard, too.
Henry shivers; the only thing keeping their cockheads from touching are the two thin linen-layers of their braies. Svatya ruts against him once, inquisitive, and Henry chokes out a strange noise. âThatâs good,â he whispers, and then proceeds to pull Svatya into a kiss to hopefully stave off any more odd sounds that might want to burst out of him.
They grind together without much of a rhythm at first, panting into each otherâs mouths and occasionally sucking on a tongue. Itâs nice, and Svatya whimpers a little into their kisses, but it doesnât really feel like itâs quite enough, either. Itâs only when Henry grabs his friendâs arse again that an idea strikes him.
âOh, Christ,â Svatya hisses as Henry uses his hold on him to roll their hips into each other with purpose. Itâs slower this way, but their cocks slot beside each other nicely on the upstroke, and with how much Svatyaâs cock is leaking already, the wetness of the fabric feels sinful whenever their tips meet.
In a bizarre way, it almost feels like theyâre fucking proper. The very thought makes Henryâs head spin, and he digs his fingers into the meat of Svatyaâs arse a little harder, thrusting forward a little more urgently. In response, Svatya whines, and the sound goes right to Henryâs cock.
âWhat do you want?â he pants into Svatyaâs open mouth, lightheaded and desperately hard. âPleaseââ
âI justâŚâ Svatya says and suddenly pitches forward. His head thunks against the wall, and a shudder shakes his entire body. His hips stutter against Henryâs, thrusting desperately into the damp heat between them, and then Henry feels the wetness of Svatyaâs come seep through the already ruined fabric of his braies.
Itâs that particular sensation that undoes him, and he finds his own rhythm faltering. He aimlessly humps himself to completion against Svatyaâs thigh, rather than his softening cock, and through the buzz of alcohol, his orgasm leaves him unsure if he can still feel his toes.
They remain pressed together for a while, afterwards, the come in their linens slowly growing tacky. Henry eventually sighs and starts nudging at Svatya to get him to move.
âThe hay, Svatya,â he says.
Svatya lifts his head, though Henry canât see much of him in the dark. âSuppose we took a wrong turn while looking for it, eh?â
âAye. Found the ravishment shed instead.â
âHenry,â Svatya says, tone suddenly scarily grave and almost sober, âyou canât tell anyone about this.â
Somehow, the very idea that he would seems absurd. âObviously,â he says â with a snort, for good measure. âIâd be no better off than you.â
Svatya lets out a long breath, then slumps into Henry once more. âRight. Good. My father would strangle me.â He goes oddly still in his relief, his weight pinning Henry to the wall.
Then, after a minute or so, he begins to snore.
Henry balks.
âSvatya!â he hisses, hands awkwardly trying to pat him back awake. âSvatya, I swear to God! The hay!â
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Relationships: Rolf & Shinon
Other relevant tags: Character Study
Word count: 2195
Language: English
Read on: AO3
Shinon sighs and pushes to his feet. He doesnât offer Rolf a hand to pull him up, but goes to pick up his discarded bow instead. Weighing it in his hand, he considers Rolf. âI wasnât born a master archer either, you know."
Rolf really just wants to make himself useful.
Written for @strayarrowfezine!
A podfic by @lumeha is available here!
Thereâs little finesse to the way Boydâs axe chops into the training dummy.
Itâs all brute force with him because he has the benefit of being big and strong, and even his cheap iron axe is a heavy weapon when compared to an arrow. Splinters of wood go flying, looking a bit like a spray of blood in the fading red sunlight.
Rolf watches his brother brutalise the dummy from his perch above the training grounds. Thereâs a sheen of sweat on Boydâs face, and a big, satisfied smile on his lips. He wipes his forehead and swings his axe like it weighs nothing, then goes back to tearing into the wood again. Idly, Rolf takes a bite out of the sweet roll that Oscar had slipped him after dinner.
He isnât jealous, per seâbut his brothers are so much older than him, and stronger, and able to carry their weight around their mercenary troupe in a way that Rolf simply isnât. If anything, he is only allowed to stay because of how well the two of them pull their weight. Even Mist, who sees equally as little combat as Rolf, manages to do more for everyone than him, what with all the laundry and mending and healing she does.
If it werenât for Shinonâs surreptitiously teaching him archery, Rolf would not have anything to show for himself at all.
Boyd takes another swing at the dummy, right at where a personâs waist would be, and the wood finally gives. The top half goes flying, while the bottom part remains stuck on the rod it is affixed to. The wooden pseudo-torso clatters to the ground, and Boyd whoops in elation. Rolf shoves the remaining half of his roll into his mouth and jumps to his feet, praying that he might get away before his brother can notice him.
Maybe some late practice is what Rolf needs as well.
Dusk has fallen by the time Rolf returns outside, bow and quiver tucked discreetly into his side. The sound of Boydâs irregular chopping has died down by now, replaced by the last bangs of pots and pans being stowed away in the kitchen and the cacophony of noises coming from inside the forest.
Rolf follows the song of crickets and owls and frogs into the trees, tall and pitch-black in the fading light. His feet know the way to the shooting range â the one hidden away, where Shinon takes him to practice â even as night begins to fall. The small clearing with the makeshift targets is wrapped in faint purple light and tall shadows.
Itâs likely going to be too dark to see anything soon, so Rolf sets down his bow and fastens his quiver to his back. The targets fixed to the trees are still visible enough, even in the low light.
His bow feels heavy in his hand when he picks it back up, which is ridiculous. Rolf knows it to be lighter than the average iron bows everyone else uses, made with care by Shinon to account for Rolfâs lack of strength and â well, isnât that a frustrating thought?
He pulls an arrow from his quiver and nocks it, fingers trembling. His eyes are terribly dry, and the roll from before sits heavy in his stomach. Before him, lined up ever so neatly, the targets, with all their little puncture marks from being struck by arrows so often, appear to be swaying in the shifting shadows. Rolf exhales shakily and draws back his bowstring, zeroing in on one target and taking aim.
The string snaps back into place as he lets go, and his arrow promptly burrows itself in the ground.
For a few seconds, Rolf just stands and stares at the arrow as it sticks out of the dirt. His chosen target is at least another two feet away from where it had struck the ground, like it had simply dropped out of the air before it could make it all the way to the target, and the whole thing feels a bit like a joke. Perhaps, on a better day, Rolf could have taken comfort in the fact that his aim had been pretty much perfect. But today isnât a good day, and his stupid custom toy bow weighs nothing, and his weak little arms donât even have enough strength in them to pull the bowstring back with the force needed to strike a target.
Rolf walks over to his arrow and yanks it out of the ground, because the head is barely damaged, and he might as well try again. His eyes sting, but he readies the arrow once more and makes sure to draw the string back as far as he can.
This time, the arrow strikes a tree trunk instead.
The thump of it rings like thunder in Rolfâs ears. Just beside the tree, the target he had been aiming for remains unpunctured.
If this were a skirmish, someone would be dead twice over by now. That is what bothers â no, terrifies â Rolf most. That, if the other mercenaries would allow him to come along on their missions, they would expect him to pull his weight, and he would fail them. That they would need to protect him and receive nothing in return. That Rolf would be nothing but dead weight to them. That someone might needlessly die for him because he wasnât good enough.
The next arrow feels steadier in his hands than the one before. Rolf adjusts his stance and turns to a different target this time, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He readies his shot, his arms quivering with tension, and he tries, and misses again.
And again.
And again.
Andâ
The moss muffles the clattering as his bow hits the ground with all the force Rolf can put behind throwing it. His breathing comes ragged, and it takes all his willpower not to stomp his foot like a stupid, useless child.
Maybe this really is all he can bring to the table. Maybe he is bound to remain nothing but a petulant, unskilled liability best kept off the battlefield; an additional mouth to feed that canât earn its keep.
He stares at his bow as it lies between blades of grass and rocks and dustâhis bow, that Shinon had made specifically for him, for him to train and get better with. Shinon, who had gone out of his way to take him on as an apprentice. Shinon, who keeps training him, who must still see something in him, no matter his incompetence.
Shinon, whose bow and faith Rolf had just tossed in the dirt.
With a sigh, he picks it up, then goes to pluck his arrows from where they are lodged in everything but in his practice targets. The wind combs through the trees around him, and Rolf shudders.
And then, he heads home.
-
His evenings are spent much the same after that.
Itâs the time of the year when the days are getting shorter again, and sitting out dinner is a small price to pay for an extra hour of daylight. Besides, Oscar holds back some food for Rolf to eat once he comes back, anyways; never mind that he always serves it with a concerned look and questions about Rolfâs wellbeing.
Mist, too, worries, and it feels entirely too patronising in a way that his brotherâs concern doesnât. She always gets under Rolfâs skin, so he takes to avoiding her altogether. Itâs easy, seeing as Rolf is already sitting out meals.
And for all the trouble, his extra practice has yet to bear fruit.
Rolf is hopeful that the soreness in his arms and shoulder is a sign that he is finally building up some muscle. His aim has only gotten worse, but it might be temporary. After all, he can barely hold his bow without his arms shaking from the exhaustion and soreness. Earlier that day, Shinon had noticed as much during their regular training session and promptly called Rolf out on it.
Itâs easy for Shinon to judge Rolf, of course. Shinon doesnât have to worry about carrying his weight around their mercenary band. Unlikely as it seems given his natural talents, if Shinon ever started out in the same place as Rolf, it must have been so long ago that he canât accurately remember how awful being well and truly useless feels.
His frustration makes Rolf yank back the arrow he had been readying with more force than necessary, and his shoulder gives out.
He drops his bow and arrow at once and promptly crumples to the floor.
Thatâs also how Shinon finds him some minutes later: kneeling in the dirt while clutching his injured shoulder, trying desperately not to cry.
âSo this is where youâve been running off to,â Shinon says, speech just this side of slurred. Rolf only sniffles in reply, refusing to look at him. Shinon sighs and steps closer. âI told you so, you know. That youâve been overdoing things, and that youâd end up like this.â
That makes Rolf look up. âSo what?â he says through his teeth.
Shinon raises his eyebrows, then frowns. âWhy do I even take the time out of my day to teach you anything if you donât bother to listen to me?â
âYou donât get it!â
âI do.â
Rolf glares at him. Shinon glares right back.
âYouâve been making an ass of yourself for a while now, Rolf. Your brothers are constantly whining about you running off instead of eating dinner. And what for? To stand around in the dark and struggle to hit a single target because youâve been overtaxing your body?â Shinon drops to his knees. His hands come to settle on Rolfâs shoulders with measured gentleness. âAnd worst of all, you donât listen to me when I tell you to lay it off to prevent something like this happening. Now let me see your shoulder.â
Reluctantly and wordlessly, Rolf does as he is told.
âWould you have kept going the second it stopped hurting?â Shinon asks as he smooths his hand over the smarting muscle. Rolf tries his hardest not to flinch.
âI⌠donât know.â
Shinon lets out a noise of frustration. His touch becomes rougher for a second before he catches himself. âYou pulled a muscle there. Pretty badly,â he says. His hands come to settle on top of Rolfâs shoulders again, and he levels Rolf with a glare. âIf you keep going with an injury like this, who knows if your shoulder will ever be the same again. Do you understand that, Rolf?â
Numbly, Rolf nods and keeps his head down. He canât stand to look Shinon in the eye anymore. âI justâMaster Shinon, I just donât want to disappoint you! You canât be happy with me as a pupil, can you?â
âNot if youâre going to behave like this.â
âI mean it! I havenât been making any progress at all! I rarely manage to hit any of my practice targets, and if I ever got into an actual fight, I would only be a burden to everyone else!â
A hush follows in the wake of Rolfâs outburst. Shinonâs face scrunches up in something akin to disgust.
âWell, good thing youâre not joining any fights then,â he says after a beat. âYou are simply not ready for it.â
âAnd thatâs exactly the point, isnât it? Iâm not carrying my weight!â
âWho said that you had to? Because thatâs bull. Youâre perfectly capable for a boy your age who has been practicing archery for as long as you have,â Shinon says, his face still stuck in a strange expression of distaste. âIf you were a lost cause, I wouldnât bother.â
Rolf canât help the tear that escapes his eye at last. In the advancing darkness, Shinon doesnât seem to notice.
âBut,â Shinon goes on, âif you permanently injure yourself by practicing until your shoulders give out and your hands bleed, you will become a lost cause. And I donât want that for you. Do you understand?â
Rolf swipes at his face with his good hand and sniffles. âYes, Master Shinon. I just⌠I wish I could get better faster.â
Shinon sighs and pushes to his feet. He doesnât offer Rolf a hand to pull him up, but goes to pick up his discarded bow instead. Weighing it in his hand, he considers Rolf. âI wasnât born a master archer either, you know. But⌠well, I think Iâve trained you well enough to trust you to have my back, once I deem you battle-ready.â
Rolfâs heart jumps in his chest. âReally?â he gasps and moves to stand up, only to wince when his shoulder smarts at the movement.
Shinon smirks. âIf you take the time to heal, first.â
âI promise,â he says, and crosses his heart with his uninjured hand. Another tear slips out, and he quickly wipes it away. âAnd⌠thank you.â
Shinon shrugs and fumbles for something with his free hand. A second later, he pulls out a hipflask and uncorks in one practiced movement. âGo see if they left any food for you,â is all he says.
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Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Relationships: Ryunosuke Naruhodo & Susato Mikotoba
Other relevant tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Ending
Word count: 972
Language: English
Read on: AO3
Susatoâs hands tremble as she cups them around Ryuunosukeâs ear to whisper, âNaruhodou-san. I donât think we could have missed those bloodstains before.â
McGilded is evidently guilty, but this time, he doesn't die before as much comes to light.
Written for @aabadendingzine!
CW: mentions of blood and attempted arson.
Something is clearly amiss after the smoke has cleared.
Susatoâs hands tremble as she cups them around Ryuunosukeâs ear to whisper, âNaruhodou-san. I donât think we could have missed those bloodstains before.â
Ryuunosukeâs stomach churns. It takes great effort not to look away.
The open door of the omnibus affords them a perfect view of the carriageâs floor, splattered with red.
âSusato-san,â he says, voice quivering. He grasps blindly for her thin wrist as the courtroom begins to spin before his eyes. âSusato-san, do you think Mr McGildedâ?â
-
Lord Chief Justice Stronghart idly twists the crown of his pocket watch. His wide shoulders block out the light filtering in through the dial-plate window at his back, casting him in shadow.
Ryuunosukeâs hair stands on end as Stronghartâs icy gaze sweeps over him.
âFetch a ânot guiltyâ-verdict in court tomorrow,â he says dispassionately, âand we can see about you taking your friendâs place.â
-
Susatoâs lips press into a grim line.
She takes a step back from the omnibus carriage, pulling her hand free to steady Ryuunosuke where he sways with one leg up on the foothold. âThe bloodstainsâ presence supports the theory that the victim was dropped through the skylight, butâŚâ
Ryuunosuke nods and releases a shuddering breath.
Through the window of the omnibus, he meets Crown Prosecutor Barok van Zieksâs keen, judgemental gaze.
-
McGilded only comes up to Ryuunosukeâs chin, yet he seems larger than life all the same.
He is as charismatic as he is magnanimous, all oracy and disarming smiles and philanthropic projects. His gestures are sweeping, his laughter booming, and Ryuunosuke, willing to trust in his client as much as Kazuma had once trusted him, wholeheartedly believes McGilded when he reassures him that this whole trial is nothing but a misunderstanding.
-
Ryuunosukeâs uniform jacket feels stifling as he resumes his place behind the defenceâs bench. Susato stands wordlessly by his side, and the sword resting at Ryuunosukeâs hip suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
There is no misunderstanding; McGilded may very well be guilty.
-
âBut what if you canât be sure of your clientâs innocence?â asks Ryuunosuke.
Kazuma regards him coolly over the edge of his English textbook. âThen itâs a question of faith,â he replies, âor of knowing when to cut your losses.â
-
In the end, no matter how much they go back and forth to no avail, an aggrieved Prosecutor van Zieks must concede that their evidence is too muddled and contradictory to deliver a verdict on.
âCounsel,â the judge prompts Ryuunosuke, finally, âyour closing statement?â
Next to Ryuunosuke, Susato inhales sharply. âYou can still pleadâcorrectly,â she says, all steel and resolve. Her hand clenches into a fist. âI believe itâs what Kazuma-sama would have done.â
-
âDo you really think I can pull it off, Susato-san? If I donât, then weâll be sent home and Kazumaâs dreamââ
âNaruhodou-san.â
Ryuunosukeâs mouth snaps shut. Susato smiles at him, her shoulder digging into his biceps in the hackney cart to the Old Bailey. âLetâs simply pursue the truth to the best of our ability. Nothing more.â
-
And the truth isâ
âI believe my client to be guilty, Your Lordship,â Ryuunosuke concludes.
In the witness stand, McGilded snarls.
Ryuunosuke wonders if that expression was the last thing Mr Mason saw before McGilded drove a knife into his gut.
-
âAnd if it truly comes down to it, Naruhodou-san, I trust you to make the right call.â Susato smooths her hands over her hakama. âRegardless of what it means for us.â
-
In the defendantâs antechamber, escaping judgement yet, McGildedâs cheery demeanour returns. He smiles with too many teeth now; a predator caught out for his crimes, yet ever reluctant to admit to them.
âYe gave me a right scare!â he laughs and presses a guinea into Ryuunosukeâs palm with force. The coinâs edge bites into his skin. âDonât joke around like that tomorrow.â
And then, he makes for the courtroom again.
-
There is no blood on the floor.
There is no bloodstain on the lip of the skylight.
-
Except that the doors remain barred to McGilded.
âThere must be a mistake,â he tries, pleasant smile twitching, âwe had an arrangement, ye see, Sirâ"
âWhatever arrangements you had have become irrelevant,â says Crown Prosecutor van Zieks, looming in the doorway like an omen. âThey found an incendiary agent installed inside the omnibus.â
-
âFetch a ânot guiltyâ-verdict in court tomorrowââ
âIt has since been removed,â says Van Zieks coolly. âPray, understand that we cannot let anyone close to the evidence again under these circumstances.â
-
Miss Gina Lestrade flinches when McGilded clasps her shoulder good-naturedly, stood by her side in the witness stand.
The fabric of her sleeve crinkles beneath his fingers.
-
The dinner at their hotel that night looks delectable. Itâs a shame Ryuunosuke can barely bring himself to eat a bite. Across the table from him, Susato isnât faring much better.
âYou did the right thing today,â she says, pushing a carrot around her plate.
-
âEven the guilty will seek legal counsel,â says Kazuma, leaning back in his chair in the reading hall. âThat doesnât mean itâs my job to get them off.â
-
ââin addition to tampering with evidence, the court hereby finds the accused, Mr Magnus McGilded, guilty of the murder of Mr âThrice-firedâ Mason, as well as perjury, obstruction of justiceââ
-
âFetch a ânot guiltyâ-verdictââ
-
Lord Stronghart barely acknowledges them, now.
âIâd made my conditions clear,â he says dully. âYou did not manage to do as I asked, therefore, I cannot allow you to fill in for your late friend. Neither will you be allowed to practice law in our proud country. And thatâs final.â
Susato inhales sharply. âBut Mr McGilded was guiltyââ
Stronghartâs steely gaze finally snaps up, boring into Ryuunosuke.
âUnderstand, then, that you werenât meant to take Mr Asougiâs place.â
i got to write a depressing little dgs1-3 piece for @aabadendingzine , which you can preorder right now!
if you like ace attorney and enjoy feeling like you've been scraped raw, i definitely recommend you check it out đ everyone's pieces are amazing, and you'll definitely get your share of gut-wrenching shock and sadness out of it!