Bubonicc

Trapped on strict bedrest, all Hans had time to do was think, and all he could think about was Henry—that grubby little peasant who wormed his way deep into his subconscious and took root. Henry, who had risked his life and thrown himself at the Cumans just to save him without hesitation. It was something in the way Henry’s voice softened, and those stupid, fat, and sad cow eyes blinked up at him that made his heart flutter. Worse, the blasted organ continued to pound when Henry wrapped a supportive arm around his waist and helped him limp all the way back to Rattay. The entire journey home, Henry encouraged him on, one painful step at a time.

Confusion set in when Hans hesitated to be handed over to the physicians and Hannish. He’d unconsciously gripped Henry’s shoulder a little tighter, not wanting Henry to leave. Why was that? What was this pit that had suddenly formed at the thought? He’d wanted to say something, but was pulled away by the physicians too quickly. They crowded him, fretting over him, and obscuring his vision from Henry.

By the time he was bandaged up and full of foul-tasting potions, Henry was gone, and Hans was ordered not to leave. It was all right, though. Henry would come visit later, wouldn’t he? But Henry did not, nor did he the next morning or the next night. It disappointed him, and being disappointed annoyed him even more.

Worse, he couldn’t sneak up onto the battlements and watch Henry train with Bernard. Something he had secretly been doing since their fight at the Tavern. He’d convinced himself it was to learn Henry’s fighting style so he could kick his ass for sure next time. Except Hans only watched on days that were blisteringly hot, because he knew Henry took his shirt off to train.

His attention was never on the path Henry threw his fists, or the way he arched his sword, but instead on his back. Sweat-covered and glistening in the sun, Hans would swallow hard when he could see hard-cut muscle flexing. This show had quickly become a routine for him. 

One day, Hans grew bold enough to descend from the battlements and lean against the arena’s fence. From there, he heckled the peasant. He’d been cheeky about it, knowing he was annoying Henry when he cheered for Bernard. 

“At this rate, I’m going to be the one defending you!” Hans goaded while a smirk crept up one side of his cheek. He loved to see Henry’s bushy brows furrow together and that fire spark behind his eyes. The annoyance mixed with determination. 

In the end, Henry always struck harder, faster, and with purpose. Bernard would call the match, and Henry would stop, chest heaving and sweat dripping from his brow. He’d always steal a glance at his Lord as if to say, "Did you see that?" His gaze didn’t linger, as he would turn back to Bernard, who was critiquing him. It twisted something inside Hans’ chest, as he was mesmerised by Henry’s hard stare. 

Yes, look at me.

Days later, when Hans was at the archery range practising, he could have sworn Henry was staring at him. His squire was standing a few feet to his left, pretending to listen to Bernard drone on about arrow types. 

Shirtless, Hans drew his bowstring back, causing his arm and back muscles to flex tight. He held his arrow for a few seconds longer than usual, muscles straining a little longer for Henry to see. Or at least that is what the little voice in the back of his mind was telling him. Henry could have also just been staring at his hands and bow to figure out his technique. The thought disappointed him, and he was puzzled by that. Why the hell did it matter so much to him that Henry look at him?

Now, in bed, having allowed his mind to wander, Hans shifted uncomfortably. His groin was warm with a dull pulse. His braies felt all too suddenly tight, and he grit his teeth. When he reached his hand below the covers, his fingertips grazed his half-erect cock through his braies. He squeezed slightly, his face starting to burn.

Why was this happening? Why was Henry doing this to him?

Biting his lower lip, Hans pulled the string of his braies and slid them down just enough to free his cock. It throbbed, and a thick bead of pre-cum oozed free.

“Fucking hell.” Hans exhaled harshly before taking his cock in hand, stroking slowly. His thumb grazed his swollen cock head, swiping at the fresh beads of fluid to make the glide a little easier. 

He wondered what it would be like if it were Henry’s hand. His palm must be rough, his fingers calloused. He groans and closes his eyes, Henry appearing behind his lids.

Above him, stupid fat sad cow eyes stare down at him, long lashes blinking slowly. His skin prickles when he thinks of Henry’s lips on his neck, his teeth on his skin. He wonders whether Henry has soft lips and what they would feel like against his.

Squeezing his cock hard, Hans stroked a little faster. He huffed out a whine, body shivering as he imagined Henry’s lips against his own. He’d imagined how Henry must feel if he were over him now, pressing their groins together. Would he be heavy? Hard? Gentle? It was hard to say, but all Hans could focus on was what it would feel like if his squire was grinding against him.

“C-Christ-” Hans whimpered, his cock throbbing as he set a steady pace. 

He wondered what Henry would sound like when he groaned. Was it deep and raspy? Soft and light. Both? Why the Hell did he want to know so badly?

Lower lip wobbling, Hans’ legs shifted as he felt climax twisting in his guts. His laboured breathing became shaky, and he turned his face into his pillow to muffle his groan.

He wanted Henry’s hands to run down his chest, his stomach, his everything. He wants to be pushed down, held down in a way that he has never been before. He wants to know how Henry’s hard cock would feel against his blazing skin.

“F-Fuck Hen-” Hans chokes into his pillow, climax causing him to stiffen. He whines through clenched teeth, his hand shaking as he tries to ride out the sensation as long as he can. 

He felt hot cum hit his palm, and didn’t care that it spurted out to land on his sheets. All that mattered was the image in his mind's eye of Henry squeezing him, stroking him through it all.

When the pulsing stopped and Hans’ body relaxed, he sagged into the mattress. He open mouth panted into his pillow, eyes half lidded as he tried to catch his breath. 

“What the actual fuck is happening to me?” Hans whispered as he released his softening cock. He brought his palm up to his face, observing the mess, his mess, Henry’s mess. “Ugh.”

With some effort, Hans pulled up his braies and sat up. He stood on shaking legs to get a cloth to wipe himself down. He listened to the crickets outside for a while before allowing himself to lie back down. 

He’s tired now, and sleep tugs at his eyelids.

***

A knock against his door pulled Hans from his slumber. He’d half heard the first knock, and then abruptly sat up when he heard the second.

“H-Hold on!” He looked out of his window; it was daytime. “Just a moment!” Throwing the covers off, he stumbled from his bed. Pulling on a pair of hose, Hans then pulled on a shirt and turned towards the door. As he approached, he stroked his hair, attempting to tame the bedhead down. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” He didn’t actually, but that didn’t matter as he swung the door open. “What the hell do you wa-” Hans stopped, eyes widening as he stared at Henry.

“Sir?” Henry asked after an awkward silence. “I came to see how you were recovering.” Henry tilted his head as he watched Hans snort and turn his back to him.

“Pfft, like I need checking up on?” A dopey smile smeared across Hans’ face. He cleared his throat and turned back around. “Well, I’m fine. Bored actually. We should,” Hans paused, “maybe go for a ride?” Anything to get the Hell out of this room and out with Henry.

“Are you feeling well enough fo-”

“Of course I am! What are you now, a sawbones?” Hans scoffed as he grabbed his pourpoint and shoes and put them on. “Let’s go!” Hans rushed to the door, grabbing Henry’s wrist as he passed by.