swordplay & the occasional brandy

time for xmas

shout out for the crone tower bois

A little shiver down through his stomach ended with a brief lift of his hips, as Henry's lips teased then met ruddied, sensitive heat. What felt like too soon, the other was trailing skims and breaths back up his front; Bartosch let his touch be pulled from Henry's hip, watched it be lifted up near that captivating face. Eager to hear what his favorite squire was offering, he listened.

And found himself stunned by Henry's expounding, by the earnest passion in every word, even by the soft kiss to his wrist and the drag of the man's clothed length against his thigh.

Every question, every description, coaxed away layers of his guard he hadn't expected to shed. To be doted on, adored, granted tenderness just the way he was, to be looked at like someone worth keeping, to be Henry's darling... If this was truly a sin, he would make a home in Hell's flames.

Bartosch felt his eyes sting as he closed them to meet Henry's kiss, half of it breathing against or into each other's mouths. That creak of the bed only made him wonder how noisy it might get later. Yet Henry wanted to hear his pleasure regardless, seemed nigh desperate for it even; something else that mirrored his dreams.

Wet lashes pried open to meet the other man's gaze, just in time for Bartosch to tip his head forward while his free hand gripped at Henry's rear to keep the latter close. His moan still stumbled and wavered, from the long-practiced habit of control, but he did his best not to hide it. A pair of fresh tears escaped down his cheeks, biting his lip to stop its tremble as he pressed his forehead to Henry's.

But... Henry dragged his thumb along that calf. Right. Bartosch laid before him didn't seem like that stuck. No. He didn't behave like a beastling of the shallow, like a creature made content off the meagerest of scraps. Not so. He moaned like a man rendered desperate, who believed doomed to live forever on the sloppiest of crumbs. A corpse-thing. Like he was born to be a story shared only at confessionals — but a happenstance. But a sin slipped from mouths of one-night lovers.

No. Bartosch had never been taken. He yet held his heart in the tomb of his chest. How could a man be had with his soul still about him? Unwanted? But have mercy, so frantically given and desperately offered?

Anyone except Henry. The startling joy of those broad hands delving for a second taste threw Bartosch's unclaimed heart hard against his ribs.

Nearly every book on the Hussite Wars uses his chronicle as a key source. To Warhorse Studio and us, he's the chronicler, knight, and handsome hero - Black Bartosch or Bartholomaeus of Drahonice.

Got another kcd tarot card for you all. Black Bartosch as the Knight of Pentacles because he's practical, stable, and loyal. And I just think he looks damn good on that horse.

At least I know one person here

(or: all the times henry died because i forgot to switch the outfit)

Though of course, there was no harm nor lack of appeal in those fluttering lashes, the skim of lips on Bartosch's inner thigh, or — oh, that perfect red bruise bitten onto saddle-worn skin. Simply imagining how it'd rub against his clothes, even when he walked... his own lashes fluttered with the temptation to fall shut.

He swallowed. Bartosch gasping thrilled him with the very same fire as a maid might spring.

A battle. A battlefield, wasn't it?

No. Henry's eyes are dark. He thought -- Yes, yes. He thought maybe tonight he'd no taste for war at all.

A little shiver down through his stomach ended with a brief lift of his hips, as Henry's lips teased then met ruddied, sensitive heat. What felt like too soon, the other was trailing skims and breaths back up his front; Bartosch let his touch be pulled from Henry's hip, watched it be lifted up near that captivating face. Eager to hear what his favorite squire was offering, he listened.

And found himself stunned by Henry's expounding, by the earnest passion in every word, even by the soft kiss to his wrist and the drag of the man's clothed length against his thigh.

Every question, every description, coaxed away layers of his guard he hadn't expected to shed. To be doted on, adored, granted tenderness just the way he was, to be looked at like someone worth keeping, to be Henry's darling... If this was truly a sin, he would make a home in Hell's flames.

Bartosch felt his eyes sting as he closed them to meet Henry's kiss, half of it breathing against or into each other's mouths. That creak of the bed only made him wonder how noisy it might get later. Yet Henry wanted to hear his pleasure regardless, seemed nigh desperate for it even; something else that mirrored his dreams.

Wet lashes pried open to meet the other man's gaze, just in time for Bartosch to tip his head forward while his free hand gripped at Henry's rear to keep the latter close. His moan still stumbled and wavered, from the long-practiced habit of control, but he did his best not to hide it. A pair of fresh tears escaped down his cheeks, biting his lip to stop its tremble as he pressed his forehead to Henry's.

Instead, he nodded in return, smile still lingering, and crossed to the table laden with herbs and wild vegetables. It took only a moment to find the knife. While Bartosch hadn't exactly grown up working in kitchens, he'd had enough experience by now fending for himself to manage chopping without incident. He'd learned, at least, to cut stew ingredients into irregular pieces so they could cook better.

Bartosch's blade slowed almost to a pause when he noticed how careful Henry seemed in not brushing against him. Was that due to an absence of desire, or an abundance of it? Just when he'd assured himself about not overstepping, here this dear blacksmith was making Bartosch reconsider whether to bring up personal matters after all.

He could do this. The worst that could happen, he'd experienced his share of times before - even if it would sting sharper coming from Henry. But he could do this. He'd convinced an entire castle and even von Bergow of his death, and outlived the bastard to boot. "This might not be the best topic around blades and fire, but consider me... curious." A glance up toward the other man, then back down to finish cutting a slim bundle of coriander. "How do you see me, Henry? After all these years. ...I promise, though I treasure any touch from you, I'd never ask for anything you aren't willing to give me."

‘do you even love me, Henry?’ Margaret asked one morning, when Henry was-just like now- making them breakfast. He doesn’t remember what he said but he remembers her tears, her angry voice wavering ‘you’re scared. Scared to lose someone. You don’t want to open up to me because you like another one, don’t you, Hal? Oh you do! You still think about them!’

He begs her to stay, to give her another chance but she packs up that noon, leaves when sun sets in horizon with a kiss of goodbye pressed on Henry’s forehead, she smiled sadly ‘just..don’t let them go once you see them again. Keep them..’ her lips wobbling but refuses Henry’s touch when he moves to hug her ‘be honest with them..please. do this for me, Hal’

“I..” he stops in his track, the bowl in one hand and the spoon he used to stir in other one. “you..you..I thought..I..” he opens his mouth then closes it, blinking twice before setting the utensil and the bowl aside..only to reach out to hold the black knight’s hands in his.

“I thought you’ve moved on. Thought you don’t want to be with me anymore. I just..” he looks down at their intertwined hands, a small smile blooming on his lips “I didn’t want to move fast but I guess with a history like ours, moving fast doesn’t have a meaning. We..once were together. we wanted each other, didn’t we, my love?” slowly, he raises his head, their eyes meeting and Henry holds the gaze, wanting to say everything he couldn’t say in words by just his look.

“there..wasn’t even one single night I wouldn’t think of your touch, your warmth, your skin feeling against mine, the way I used to hold you when we were in private.. how much I desire your kisses..” by this, his eyes jump to Bartosch’s lips, wetting his own as if already feeling those pressed onto his own. Chapped, thin yet warm, burning hot and tasting like sweetest ale on his tongue.

Still, he wasn't so confident as to not inwardly brace himself once Henry's falters petered out, in particular when the bowl and spoon were set aside. Had Bartosch ruined this? How would he be let down gently, with admissions of now having a wife or with declarations of him being a curiosity long since sated all those years ago? Every possibility was drowned out by the warmth of Henry's hands in his.

Moved on? Him? From Henry? Bartosch shook his head, but otherwise didn't interrupt. 'My love'. Doubt and resignation were mercilessly crushed under the radiant flood of memories, of the best things about his stay in Trosky and how nigh all of them had to do with Henry. Despite all attempts back then to remind himself it couldn't last, Bartosch had still indulged, still let himself dream in their private moments together. Yet here, now, every word he'd yearned for came from grinning, honey-sweet lips.

Bartosch only realized the reason for the growing ache behind his eyes when his vision wavered and a warm drop slipped down his cheek, lost among his full-grown beard. Knowing how and why he'd been so moved spilled a second tear down his other cheek. He managed a short breathy laugh - sheepish, relieved, overjoyed - before leaning closer, for now just to rest their foreheads together alongside a gentle squeeze of their clasped hands.

Every drag of nails and skin down his front pulled his back into a low, encouraging arch. Desire rippled warmth through his blood, even as Bartosch wondered what wheels turned behind those captivating eyes. His regard for what was becoming of a man, or of a woman, already bore little clarity or weight. Craving Henry, a sincerity of passion, to be seen as himself rather than a warm willing body with a handsome face... that desire superseded any care for the expected bounds and behaviors of his gender.

What mattered was this moment, this night, the way Henry's gaze trailed up to meet his as a fetching blush spread over his favorite squire's cheeks. Whatever wheels were turning before, it was a humbling thrill to see now he - and perhaps thoughts of their night together in Trosky - was what spun them. How tempting, to ask after those details and hear what Henry considered worth remembering, perhaps worth wanting to repeat or improve upon.

Bartosch raised his hips to help ease off his braies. He made no attempt to hide himself after, even tipping his legs open wider to give Henry a better view. His length wasn't yet properly roused, but still sat heated with interest near the vee of one hip. More heated still was Henry's face, in such an endearing mix of arousal and limited experience that Bartosch wanted to pepper every rosy inch with kisses. For now, he only brushed the backs of curled fingers over the other man's cheek, thumb lingering longer to trace the ruddied round.

Bartosch's breath subtly trembled in anticipation of those parted lips. Whether they met his shaft or veered elsewhere, they were more than welcome. 'I want to try'? By God, he would let Henry try almost anything. His next exhale was unmistakable in its sated, ravenous, softly vocal shudder. His pulse throbbed in that vein, strong enough for a single twitch against Henry's mouth. One hand resting on the back of the man's neck, and his other threading into soft brown hair, Bartosch couldn't help the faint ghost of a chuckle after Henry's question.

Henry's lashes fluttered. Alas, he, he would whine, was made for this.

Though of course, there was no harm nor lack of appeal in those fluttering lashes, the skim of lips on Bartosch's inner thigh, or — oh, that perfect red bruise bitten onto saddle-worn skin. Simply imagining how it'd rub against his clothes, even when he walked... his own lashes fluttered with the temptation to fall shut.

@vaquerev requested more Henry & Bartosch (which turned into Henry x Bartosch, couldn’t help myself), loved the idea of the two of them bonding~