"Black" Bartosch of Drahonitz ['Kingdom Come Deliverance II' Indie RP Blog] !! DON'T REBLOG MY RP POSTS IF YOU'RE NOT PART OF THEM !! - muse & mun 21+, open to NSFT - AU, crossover, & OC friendly
This is an independent roleplay (RP) blog for 'Black' Bartosch , a canon character in the video game Kingdom Come Deliverance II.
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I am not the most well-versed in KCD 1 & 2, or in the actual period of Bohemian history, but I will be making use of wiki pages & other searches.
My rendition of Bartosch is my own, bolstered by my own headcanons. Any resemblance to other peopleโs headcanons is coincidental.
[ Sideblog:
Voyta - of KCD2's DLC Brushes With Death - @mistrvojtech ]
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He craved every touch, every kiss, every breath over skin - not only for the bare fact of them but for who they came from. Bites and scratches and bruises were equally welcome, of course, yet it was these gentler expressions of pleasure and desire which always made Bartosch yearn for more. And to know Henry offered them, without grudge for leaving him to wake alone after their night in Trosky, without trepidation or reluctance... Bartosch had never felt so wanted.
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.
"Yes," Bartosch breathed, rolling his hips for a bit of friction against the other's cock and the hand encircling them. "Yes; I know you can. Please have me, Henry. Take me, I'll sing to the rafters just for you and I won't leave come morning." Not this time. Not ever again. "Let me be your darling."
The hand Henry still held turned in the squire's grasp, only enough to interlace their fingers.
He wasn't sure how much of this was a child born strictly out of starvation. No, he wasn't certain of how much of it were real. As it were, it wasn't wise to lay stock in these fumblings, in these nights with other men who'd lap at crumbs like a banquet. Abd of course, he hadn't much experience with warriors, with kissing other men till they trembled like a maiden, but there it was: they were not fair maidens, and they were not for wanting โ and, no, there was nothing to be done for the void that'd follow.
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 โ 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?
"Then I'll have you." Final. Certain. Henry swallowed. He wasn't sure how their faces would wear them come the morrow, when the fragile fingers of morning light spilled through the shutters, through the thin slabs of their room's wooden privacy, but, truly, he wagered that it would come differently then when he'd stirred at Trosky. He grabbed at his forgotten vial, the oil again coating his fingers like some sort of burst of the springtime. A bold tension. But also want. When the lust had cleared with their bodies sated, what then? Bartosch's hips twitched before his thoughts collapsed.
"Just... Talk to me, alright?" All that muscle, his nakedness, the delicious curve of his cock curving for his bellyโ "Not exactly wanting you to sing to the rafters either way, but if I'm to be dragged to town square for it, I'd rather it would be for the good sort of singing."
Henry tried for levity. This was supposed to be good now and after. He warmed the oil with the thick of his fingers before reaching back down, his broad shoulders prying Bartosch's thighs to render him shudderingly vulnerable. It made his moth-wing nerves flutter. The brand of his gaze affixed itself on his lover's wobbly focus, the hard lump gyrating at Bartosch's swallow, and he slid his thumb against the seam of him, knowing if nothing else at least of this.
"Is that the sort of thing you normally offer to the men you humor? That you'd be their darling?"
Or had they never bothered to ask? The bed creaked, noisy as though desperate to squeal their secrets. A traitor.
His first finger breached, and Henry skated a palm on Bartosch's belly. Breathe. The heat made him itch.
Bartosch had told himself before, countless times, that he was contented with what intimacy of both body and heart he could find. When there was no other choice, when what he most yearned for was deemed profane and fit only for lightless nights and morning fears or regrets, what else could he do? One draught from the deep-yawning well of his affection seemed enough for anyone.
Anyone except Henry. The startling joy of those broad hands delving for a second taste threw Bartosch's unclaimed heart hard against his ribs.
Breath snagging with a faint sound at the certainty of Henry's declaration, Bartosch wanted already to wrap himself tight around the other, breathe in the man's scent, and not let go til hours past sunrise. Instead, for now, he only let his spread hands roam slow and adoring over every well-muscled inch he could reach of his favorite squire. He felt the shift and flex beneath his touch as Henry fetched the oil, and couldn't help a brief lick of his lips.
The scent of marigolds would always remind him of tonight.
Bartosch's smile returned - then broadened at the tease about being dragged to the square for making him too vocal. Despite the real chance of it, and how learned reflex would likely ensure he wasn't too loud, he laughed nonetheless.
"I will," he promised, sincere past the humor winding around those two words. "The rafters don't need to hear me anyway; only you."
He slowed his wandering hands to a pause, while his legs spread further to welcome Henry between them. The slide of Henry's thumb left Bartosch's nerves abuzz with anticipation. Though he hadn't expected the questions that followed, his short musing over them stumbled at the steady push of Henry's finger inside him.
Bartosch took a deeper breath past parted lips, dark lashes fluttering and flushed length twitching again, then let out a soft pleased sigh as a momentary flicker of tension unraveled and he melted against the bed.
He hadn't taken anything inside but his own fingers in some time, and even those not recently. Stripping down that far wasn't safe to try when sleeping alone outdoors, even less so when in hiding after faking one's death. Even so, his body and mind remembered enough of the method to let the other's finger breach him down to the base knuckle with ease.
"Not normally," came Bartosch's belated answer afterward, half-lidded gaze meeting Henry's. "To be honest... I think you're the first." A lighter, almost flustered chuckle this time. "Didn't think I had any firsts left to give by now, but it's all yours, Henry."
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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.
I'll start with this art, because it resurrected me at the time.
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.
I'm so behind on uploads, but I'm more than halfway done with the deck now! It's coming together faster than I thought. Stay tuned for info on getting a full deck.
It's actually very cute that if you met him before talk to Hans, Henry will said : "I will drink for you both of us!" , but if it's after Hans and he forbid you to get drunk too much, Henry will said : "We're on same boat, my master also forbid me to drink."
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How Bartosch would vehemently agree, that Henry was made for this facet of humanity - this connection, this knowing without judgement, this tenderness born from trust. It was true whether a stitch was shed or not, whether blood was heated or tempered, whether bare skin ever touched. Henry seemed to be formed around the whole of the idea, its pure essence the largest piece of his soul.
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 โ 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.
Though mentally prepared for the humid warmth of Henry's mouth around his length, the actual feel of it still drew out a pleased sigh. His very next inhale caught fast in his throat, as he bit his lower lip at the other man's low moan humming around him.
Every suck, every drag and slide, every eager breath pushed him deeper into arousal, had him stiffening against Henry's tongue. Bartosch tried not to squirm too much beyond a scrape of his heel against the bedclothes, just like he tried to keep his expressions of pleasure to only gasps and sighs and soft throaty sounds. He already wanted so much, so badly, it left him dizzied like half a bottle of brandy.
When Henry's mouth finally yet unexpectedly retreated, Bartosch pulled in a deeper lungful of air. It was his exhale, this time, which snagged and stuttered as a spit-slicked hand continued working him over.
He met the other's eyes at first, adoring how they'd darkened, then glanced down at those enticing strokes. "The twist is good. A little, mh, a little slower... start just a bit looser at the base, then, then tighter up toward the crown."
Bartosch's hold wrapped further around Henry, one hand at the small of the latter's back while his opposite buried fingers in soft brown hair anew. The pull of Henry's stare coaxed his own up once more, lids half-lowered and lips gently parted.
'I thought of it too'. A relief and a thrill.
Especially once Henry expounded.
God grant him the patience and fortitude to not finish too soon! Every idea his favorite squire offered was sweeter than honey from the comb, splashed in lurid colors across his mind's eye. He would beg, if that's what it'd take, if it was what they both wanted; any pride which might prevent him was rent asunder by sheer desire.
Take me, have me, mark me, wring me out. Let me forget everything that isn't you.
Bartosch's arousal twitched in Henry's hold.
And let me dream I'll wake up to your smile.
Some of Henry's words stuck deeper in Bartosch's mind. 'Tended to you'. 'Like you deserve'. He had to briefly swallow back the aching truths, and ignore the stumble in his pulse.
Instead, he managed a subtle smile and an angle of his head to just barely brush his lips against Henry's. "Not yet. But there's still time." His own hand trailed from the other man's back to follow the vee of one hip in a long, slow tease, fingertips skimming down one thigh instead. "So how would you have me proper? How would you make me beg?"
Bartosch's smile widened a little, even as he restrained another quiet moan.
"You can show instead of tell, if you like. Hm, maybe both; your voice is too handsome to stifle."
When Henry got into these states, it felt like everything else in the world stopped existing. Yet, to his credit, he would argue, single-minded as he ever was, he had perhaps been molded since his birth to labor and do. Really, he just happened to like this duty most of all, this labor where he'd toil for the pleasure of another. Aye, he was a warrior, their Henry, with his host of gnarling war-wounds and his scent of the forge, but that he'd boil when this man laid writhing? The room bobbled. But God save him, wasn't Henry of Skalitz romantic first.
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.
"You'd have me beg for it?" Henry's eyes widened. He kept his hand circled around the base of Bartosch's arousal, his lips -- swollen already, rubbed into a delirious shade of red, the ghost of that vein in Bartosch's length yet fluttering flush across them -- hovering just a whisper and a tease from the great of his heat. It ignited something dangerous in his marrow, Bartosch's husky, tried voice gone pleasure-slack. No, it didn't strike him that this man wanted something so...rote and indifferent, to lay battered come the morning when the sun found the hills. Perhaps he craved more a labor of wanting, less a duty of the practical and more magnanimous. Henry bit at his lip, changed utterly as he leant forward, nosing and mouthing again for that headiness of flavor. He could do that. He had helped wanderers, the loathed, and kissed girls for their pleasure. When Bartosch's touch found his hip, Henry climbed back up and took that hand. He smelled the oil, the punch of marigold, and knew keenly how that body still ached.
"...I could do it if you'd like," he murmured, mad. Yes. I can work you differently, he'd tell him! In ways you'd only dreamt of. How few men humored you. He kissed that wrist. Like this -- unbelievably, deliciously, and! He gasped. He rolled his hips once, weak, hard already from putting his mouth on a man -- Henry's arousal pushed guilty and sure at Bartosch's thigh. "So, can I have you, Bartosch? May I have you like a man might want a woman? Can I have you beneath me feeling like something to be doted on? Something to be cared for? Like you're my darling?" He felt his tongue go cottony. He chased the tease of Bartosch's lips, a glutton, too, for kisses, for the nonsense swapping of thready gasps, and looked already blissed out his mind. He was wild. The bed creaked louder beneath their stacked-upon weight, heavy together, coiled, and it struck Henry's ears like anticipation. "Would you sing for me as sweetly as one? Can I take you like how you'd dreamt I would take you that night?" He was lost. Licking his lips, he rucked down his braies until his cock sprang free. Then, gaze unflinching, hand wrapping tight around them both--
Be gentle. "Please. Should I asked you to stay? Can I make it up to you? That's how I'd do it. I can make feel you good."
He craved every touch, every kiss, every breath over skin - not only for the bare fact of them but for who they came from. Bites and scratches and bruises were equally welcome, of course, yet it was these gentler expressions of pleasure and desire which always made Bartosch yearn for more. And to know Henry offered them, without grudge for leaving him to wake alone after their night in Trosky, without trepidation or reluctance... Bartosch had never felt so wanted.
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.
"Yes," Bartosch breathed, rolling his hips for a bit of friction against the other's cock and the hand encircling them. "Yes; I know you can. Please have me, Henry. Take me, I'll sing to the rafters just for you and I won't leave come morning." Not this time. Not ever again. "Let me be your darling."
The hand Henry still held turned in the squire's grasp, only enough to interlace their fingers.
Well now! To think Henry could still fluster like that bright-eyed young man he'd first spoken with on Trosky's training grounds. Bartosch didn't have to see the full rose of Henry's blush in the stove's light to notice other tells of a galloping heart. He wanted to kiss those palms til their tremors stopped, to cradle that handsome face and feel for sure how flushed the man might be.
Bartosch did neither. Their conversations so far hadn't touched upon matters of the heart; better not to overstep than to risk finding out what their too-short time together might or might not mean to Henry.
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."
Now, Bartosch did pause, to watch Henry properly and strive not to presume the latter's answer.
โdo you even love me, Henry?โ Margaret asked one morning, when Henry was-just like now- making them breakfast. He doesnโt remember what he said but he remembers her tears, her angry voice wavering โyouโre scared. Scared to lose someone. You donโt want to open up to me because you like another one, donโt you, Hal? Oh you do! You still think about them!โ
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 Henryโs forehead, she smiled sadly โjust..donโt let them go once you see them again. Keep them..โ her lips wobbling but refuses Henryโs touch when he moves to hug her โbe honest with them..please. do this for me, Halโ
โI..โ he stops in his track, the bowl in one hand and the spoon he used to stir in other one. โyou..you..I thought..I..โ 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 knightโs hands in his.
โI thought youโve moved on. Thought you donโt want to be with me anymore. I just..โ he looks down at their intertwined hands, a small smile blooming on his lips โI didnโt want to move fast but I guess with a history like ours, moving fast doesnโt have a meaning. We..once were together. we wanted each other, didnโt we, my love?โ slowly, he raises his head, their eyes meeting and Henry holds the gaze, wanting to say everything he couldnโt say in words by just his look.
โthere..wasnโt even one single night I wouldnโt 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..โ by this, his eyes jump to Bartoschโs 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.
โyouโre still the same person to me. Same man I met years ago and fell in love with and that, my dear knight, never changes.โ The smile widens into a grin, happiness threatening to burst his skin. ย
Bartosch expected the pause, and even Henry's verbal fumbling wasn't a great surprise. Perhaps he should've been less direct, especially as he hadn't drunk enough to blame the ale for his boldness. But something about the quiet, firelit atmosphere, as if they were the only ones awake in the whole world, had pushed the question right from his heart to his mouth.
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.
"Thank you, Henry," Bartosch whispered, a tad tremulous but eased by sincerity. "God... Henry, my dearest love. I thought I'd never see you again. It was enough to know you were alive, that we'd both escaped Trosky. I only let myself want more in dreams of you; all these years, I always dreamed of you."
He retreated from the press of their brows, just barely enough for eyes to meet without crossing.
"Anything you give me, I'll treasure. And whatever you want of me is yours. Only yours."
While Bartosch did hope he was alone in his deprivation, he could also guess he was not. And what a neglect that was, with Henry so easy to adore and so deserving besides! Not to mention, the man's readiness to pour such adoration in return.
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.
"At all..." he echoed with a smirk, and glanced down himself to meet summer-blue eyes again. "Of course I did, Henry." His thumb now smoothed a small arc back and forth over the other man's scalp. "Countless times, in this and so many other ways, I thought of you. And wanted you. So whatever you wish to try, however fast or slow, I'm here."
Henry thought he'd ought to feel ashamed. To be so eager, after all, spoke to at least a whispering level of desperation. It would make one's heart seem endearingly compromised, the body of it as though a seedling too swelling to stay in the earth. Instead, it would flutter to the hungering in his swallow and to that reddening in his face that in a shade of jam. God, to lay too vulnerable and bare and far too earnest -- yet, all the same...
Henry's lashes fluttered. Alas, he, he would whine, was made for this.
And don't be so crass, understand him? He didn't mean -- Heavens above! He didn't mean for the mouthing at a man till he shook and spilled. Really, he'd meant more for the encouraging of feeling and for the surrendering of ego to such dizzying company. In such times, his pride was left to wither as an afterthought, his intentions made all too singular on his bedmate's pleasure. Happily would he kneel for them, his eyes shimmering, his throat clicking, and his arousal sat heavy and too-long untouched. Yes. What mattered was that connection in the end, the weight of it and the real of it till he'd feel it come morn.
Fuck. The here and present. The hot and human, right? His mouth watered. Eyes darkening, as his lover spread his thighs, he bite a mark at the right's swell.
A noise dragged out his throat. So many ways, Bartosch had said. Perhaps -- buried within him, Henry dizzied, or Hal bent and taken. With a punch, he could see it with such a clarity in the silence, the bold of it so vivid in its boast as to taste its color. He'd spy the reddening of their bodies and the blushing at their lips where they'd nibbled and kissed, and it struck him: emboldened, he took Bartosch in his mouth, need roaring in his veins as he tongued at his root. Then moaned. And quickly, he realized that this man had still much shape to fill out.
Oh, goodness. Too greedy, he sucked at him, that smell of travel and sun pushed in that skin.
It was intoxicating, Henry thought. Invigorating, really. Here he laid, body simmering, hair at his nose, and his arousal wicked faster than he had thought himself previously capable. For life of him, too, god dammit, it wasn't even for a woman or her softness, for the slick glide of her wet at the flat of his tongue, but for a man hewn hellishly in fight and war...! He pulled off him. Saliva pooling, Henry spat it in his palm, eyeing Bartosch as he grabbed him firmly and quirked his wrist.
Wanting. "Then...like this?" he asked stupidly. Or like this? Show me. This hard, or this soft, or this twisting like so? Enraptured, Henry's eyes had lost every sliver of their color, the blue in them tapering to a ring of the meagerest blues. Oh, fuck. The way he felt him both familiar and different-- Hovering over him, Henry's mouth was but a mad inch away from kissing him stupid. "I thought of it, too," he murmured. His hand squelched. "Thought about me having you proper. Like you deserve. Until I just about had you begging for it." Like a girl without a shame to heard her, right? His mouth grew slack. "And having you on your back just before you do. Then taking you. And when I draw it out of you, I thought of doing it again."
He felt half-crazed. "Has anyone tended to you like that?"
How Bartosch would vehemently agree, that Henry was made for this facet of humanity - this connection, this knowing without judgement, this tenderness born from trust. It was true whether a stitch was shed or not, whether blood was heated or tempered, whether bare skin ever touched. Henry seemed to be formed around the whole of the idea, its pure essence the largest piece of his soul.
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 โ 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.
Though mentally prepared for the humid warmth of Henry's mouth around his length, the actual feel of it still drew out a pleased sigh. His very next inhale caught fast in his throat, as he bit his lower lip at the other man's low moan humming around him.
Every suck, every drag and slide, every eager breath pushed him deeper into arousal, had him stiffening against Henry's tongue. Bartosch tried not to squirm too much beyond a scrape of his heel against the bedclothes, just like he tried to keep his expressions of pleasure to only gasps and sighs and soft throaty sounds. He already wanted so much, so badly, it left him dizzied like half a bottle of brandy.
When Henry's mouth finally yet unexpectedly retreated, Bartosch pulled in a deeper lungful of air. It was his exhale, this time, which snagged and stuttered as a spit-slicked hand continued working him over.
He met the other's eyes at first, adoring how they'd darkened, then glanced down at those enticing strokes. "The twist is good. A little, mh, a little slower... start just a bit looser at the base, then, then tighter up toward the crown."
Bartosch's hold wrapped further around Henry, one hand at the small of the latter's back while his opposite buried fingers in soft brown hair anew. The pull of Henry's stare coaxed his own up once more, lids half-lowered and lips gently parted.
'I thought of it too'. A relief and a thrill.
Especially once Henry expounded.
God grant him the patience and fortitude to not finish too soon! Every idea his favorite squire offered was sweeter than honey from the comb, splashed in lurid colors across his mind's eye. He would beg, if that's what it'd take, if it was what they both wanted; any pride which might prevent him was rent asunder by sheer desire.
Take me, have me, mark me, wring me out. Let me forget everything that isn't you.
Bartosch's arousal twitched in Henry's hold.
And let me dream I'll wake up to your smile.
Some of Henry's words stuck deeper in Bartosch's mind. 'Tended to you'. 'Like you deserve'. He had to briefly swallow back the aching truths, and ignore the stumble in his pulse.
Instead, he managed a subtle smile and an angle of his head to just barely brush his lips against Henry's. "Not yet. But there's still time." His own hand trailed from the other man's back to follow the vee of one hip in a long, slow tease, fingertips skimming down one thigh instead. "So how would you have me proper? How would you make me beg?"
Bartosch's smile widened a little, even as he restrained another quiet moan.
"You can show instead of tell, if you like. Hm, maybe both; your voice is too handsome to stifle."
โ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐...I will repay. In due time their foot will slip. Their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them. I lift my handย to heaven and solemnly swear: As surely as I live forever, when I sharpen my flashing sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeanceย on my adversaries and repay those who hate me. I will make my arrows drunk with blood, while my sword devours flesh: the blood of the slain and the captives,ย the heads of the enemy leaders.โ | Deuteronomy 32
An independent Henry of Skalitz from Warhorseโsย Kingdom Come: Deliveranceย series. Readย rulesย andย aboutย before interacting.ย / promo template.
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