Yadda Yadda Yadda

Just the other night while the pack was getting sauced, Henry had ducked outside to take a piss, and Hans had followed eager to tuck his chin onto his shoulder and giggle while he shook himself dry.

"Can't wait to have that inside of me when the others go to bed." The words were so wine soaked they practically dripped into Henry's ear, but they still had him choking like a fool.

Hans drew shapes and swirls into the meat of Henry's shoulder as he drank up the reaction."You'll come find me later won't you, my steadfast and loyal companion? I'd hate to let you go to bed unsated."

Henry squeaked out an "aye" as he stuffed himself back into his hose, cock already swelling with the promise of being surrounded by something sweeter than night air. Satisfied, Hans left him with a wink and an appreciative slap to his ass and crookedly sauntered off into the circle of torchlight.

This time, he told himself. This time the stars would align, and all the weeks of Hans wagging his scabbard in front of Henry's sword would reach its crescendo. But of course, when he'd pushed the door to their room open he found his beloved not spread out and awaiting him on the covers but clutching a bottle of schanpps, insensate on the buckskin rug.

He's a fool for expecting anything more.

It’s been like this since they started their little trysts. When Henry’s the one to dangle the idea of finding a quiet corner for his lord to bend him over, Capon has no qualms about brushing away any cups or letters that threaten his attention. It’s only when they’re catching their breath and Henry lets the idea of showing him how it feels float over their bed that all the troubles bubble up through the sex soaked air. Convenient that…

The sloppy rhythm of footsteps somewhere behind him draws Henry's eye up the flat of his blade only to be hounded by Hans' smile, warbling in the stormy metal.

He smells so keenly of lavender and chamomile that it tickles his nose, but the image of the bathmaids soothing away his hangover while Henry’s been stewing all morning curdles the perfume.

"Never seen someone look so cross while polishing his sword." He hums, resting his elbows on his squire’s bunched shoulders.

Henry doesn't dignify him with a response. He just takes his foot off the pedal and lets the whetstone squeal to a stop while he tucks the sword back into its scabbard.

"Oh, I see…just cross that lil Henry didn't get polished." He leans in close and lets his breath curl over the shell of his ear. The bastard could give the bathmaids lessons, barely a handful of words out of him and he’s already got the shame and heat roiling in Henry's gut.

He grits his teeth and throws him off his shoulder. "I'm not falling for this again."

"For what?" He blinks those sweet blue eyes ever so innocently, but all Henry can think of when he looks at that fine face is how much he wants to snap off that ridiculous, pointed nose between his knuckles.

"Oh, come now Henry," He wafts a hand through the haze of annoyance beginning to boil around his squire. "You know I wanted to…the day just caught up to me and I…well I just drifted off."

"I don't think you did."

"What?"

"You heard me." Too much hurt leaks into his voice for his own liking. "You're satisfied with me getting on my back for you, but the idea of doing the same for me is just a joke, isn't it?"

The lordling groans and slumps back against the fence. "For God's sake we can do without the melodramatics, Hal…"

"Fuck you."

He rolls his eyes. "That's what I keep offering."

Wheeling around, Henry seizes him by the front of his chemise and throws him against the arena fence. Hans' eyes flick down to the fist balled above his heart, halflidded and bored, and he has the gall to smirk up at him.

"Temper, temper." He clicks his tongue. "Maybe I was wrong to offer myself to you."

What's come over him? It's as if all the months between them have dissolved and they're back to insulting each other in that tavern on the Rattay green. Henry feels a tick of pressure just above his temple, and his face twists up like a rag with the strain of trying not to look upset. For a moment, it seems some ounce of conscience holds sway over Hans again, his eyes follow Henry’s grip easing on his front and that puffed up grin flickers. His jaw works, and Henry foolishly thinks he's stitching together some apology but then he opens his mouth.

"Best for both of us if I'm the one breaking you in." His smile’s overcurled at the edges, so intentionally cruel. "Too much churlish peasant blood filling your cock. Why don't we leave it slapping against your belly while I fuck you, aye?"

There's a misfire behind Henry's eyes. He doesn't order his fist to clench or to box the lordling square in the cheek, but it does so anyway.

"The hell's wrong with you?" He shouts, shaking the ache from his knuckles as Hans doubles over.

Hans spits and drags his wrist across his lips. His slackmouthed pant tugs into a mad smile when the skin comes away red. Despite the rage in his own belly, Henry hopes a split lip will knock some sense back into him, but that hope dies when Hans takes a swing of his own.

Henry catches him by the wrist before he can find his ear, but Hans' other hand knots into his shoulder and pushes against the hold with his full weight. Henry has passed enough time and earned enough coin from brawling in tavern barns to judge a grappler. Han is shite at this. He’s pitching his weight so far forward, it's like he's begging to get thrown onto his back, and Henry's more than happy to oblige.

He shifts his footing, other arm snaking beneath Han's middle and locking around his head. With a grunt, he throws them both onto the ground. Hans lands first, back connecting with the muddy yard with a wet shlop, but Henry follows, pressing his palm against the prick's face so his cheek's smothered in churned earth.

"Yield, you bastard." He barks into his ear.

"Oh don't stop now. You want to prove yourself the man, do you?" He smirks, twisting against Henry's hold. His boots rake through the training ground as he flails, uncaring of the muddy flecks he’s kicking onto his crisp green hose.

"Come on then!" He screams with his full throat, and Henry almost lets him go for fear of some yokel running up and finding him straddling a lord in the dirt. Hans uses that flicker of propriety against him, hooking a gartered calf around the small of Henry's back and flipping them.

"Surrender now and I'll let you spit on my cock before I make you sit on it," he purrs, scrubbing his bloody mouth into Henry's cheek.

Henry licks the smear of copper from his lip and shifts his hold lower. They’ve both gone mad.

The longer the bout drags on the more the veneer of this being anything like their fights on the green cracks. Henry's no stripling, but Hans twists and bucks against his strength like no opponent he's ever faced. No opponent's ever been so shameless. Hans nudges his hips so he can hump against any limb Henry tries to restrain him with.

Henry tries biting into his cheek to quash the traitorous heat, but it's futile. He's been half cocked all morning, and Hans hardly has to press his thigh against the bulge in his hose to get him to salute him in full.

He digs a hand into Hans’ braies, fingers sinking into the meat of his ass hard enough to bruise. Instead of recoiling from the nails pressing into his flesh, Hans lets out a groan quickly smothered by the bicep thrown over his mouth. Henry shifts his hand in search of a better grip, but a slick trickle brushes at the edge of his notice. He dips his finger into the cleft almost disbelieving. That's fucking oil.

"Whore." The words sizzles between Henry's teeth. It's as much a compliment as it is an indisputable accusation. The body in his hold doesn't stop writhing, but Henry doesn't miss the way his legs spread, practically begging.

He sinks his finger in properly and almost chokes when the soft pucker swallows him with hardly any resistance at all. The warm walls of his ass have already been worked into velvety cooperation and slicked down with buck's blood.

"This is how you wanted it to go?" He scoffs, shaking the head still locked firm in the crook of his elbow. "All the times I tried to wine and dine you weren't appealing to his lordship?"

"I wanted to make it nice for you." Henry hisses against his muddied cheek, hooking his finger meanly as he drags it out of his pucker. "Coax you open like a maiden and let you set the pace. Should've known that wasn’t pleasing to his lordshhip."

Henry fishes his own cock out from soiled linen and wastes no time pulling down Hans' braies in kind. He'd thought his lord would want to give up his cherry on petal strewn silks, but in the end, he takes his squire to the hilt on a grubby patch of Earth in plain view of God.

A shudder runs through them both, and Henry tries to wrest back control of his senses so he doesn't buck into the core of him immediately. But Hans has no interest in courtesy. He plants his palms in the mud and clumsily pushes back against the cock splitting him open, breath stuttering in his throat as he tries to fuck himself.

"Aye, you're no maiden, Capon." Henry's groans, drunk on the friction, and any tethers he might've still had to propriety snap.

His thrusts are mean and ragged, but there's no protest from his lord. He seems more than pleased to be caged beneath Henry's bulk. Arms buckling into the muck,and face following close behind, leaving his ass up in surrender.

Presenting to his squire like a bitch in heat.

Henry pulls back unwilling to come so soon, and hand on his hip so he can get a proper view of his cock pistoning in and out of his lover's slick hole. It's not a thing he'd ever dreamed he'd see under daylight and certainly not with their comrades within earshot.

“Look at you," he murmurs. The mockery draped over the words is paper thin, and he sounds more awed than a priest giving Mass as he traces a thumb over the swell of his ass. So close to the quivering ring where they're joined.

Hans huffs at the sentimentality dulling his pace, and he straightens onto his knees with a huff. For a few heartbeats, Henry thinks the spell's broken, and he's going to pull off and walk away. Instead, he leans back till he's flush to Henry's chest, and winds their arms together. Henry wrinkles his brow and tries to give a few shallow, unimpressive thrusts at this angle before Hans curls forward arms held back for him to use as reins.

"Don't get soft on me now, Hal." He snarls, clenching down on Henry's cock.

"Fuckkkk…" The vicious treatment squeezes a curse from his lips. Henry’s hips stutter, but Hans sends a sharp look over his shoulder and he snaps forward in earnest. It feels like he's burrowing so deep that he'll knock against Capon's heart if he's not careful. But careful is the last thing either of them want him to be.

The pleasure's gnawing at any thought that tries to poke through the slick heat covering his mind. Hans' chemise has gone glassy with sweat and Henry can see the muscles twitch with every punched out gasp. They’re both so close, and Henry’s certainly not going to give Capon the satisfaction of outlasting him.

Snaking a hand into the front of Hans' braies, he gives his straining cock a few sloppy pumps until warm spend dribbles gratefully over his knuckles. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, he's unworthy of such a blessing, but he'll have his fill anyway. He can feel the knot in the cradle of his hips grow deliciously taught, balls drawing tight as the pleasure sings down the backs of his thighs and up his spine.

Everything goes molten, stars pop like hammer strikes along the edges of his vision as he spills inside him. Hans' fingers tighten as he drinks everything Henry pours into him. Christ, he wishes he could see his face, but he knows from the shiver racing up the carved knobs of his spine that he looks glorious. With a final quivering thrust, Henry crumples over the broad back below him and turns to pepper kisses over his jaw.

"You alright?" The question feels a little silly with his lover grinning back at him, but everything feels foolish when his cock's going soft inside him.

"Never better." Any other time, Henry would call him a liar. Blood’s crusting around his mouth and his hair’s a nest of clay and leaf litter. Even so, he can’t argue with the lazy smile cracking the mud on his cheeks.

"Do you want to explain yourself…or should we leave it at that?" Henry mutters, grimacing as he wipes his seed-stained palm off on his muddied thigh.

"I really did intend to every time I asked." Hans slowly wriggles free and peels himself from the divot he’s left in the earth, rolling his arms out behind him in a stretch. "I just turned out to be a coward each time."

His eyes are unwilling to meet Henry’s for very long until they slide off Henry's face entirely ending up somewhere in the dirt. "Well I thought, a few bottles would help things along last night. Dull the edge and all, but we know how that worked out…"

Henry watches him nervously loop the tie of his hose around one finger and marvels at how completely fondness has rushed in to fill the space in his chest where anger was burning less than an hour before.

"I wish you would've told me you were uneasy." He says, bumping their shoulders together.

"And have you treat me like I was made of egg shells for the whole bloody affair? I'd rather take the cloth than get fucked like that."

"You did as much for me." Henry shrugs, a hint of a blush kissing his cheek at the memory of that sweet night in the Kingfisher.

"You're different."

Henry doesn't think so, but he won’t scorn the gift he’s been given even if the wrapping’s a bit odd.

“Next time…if you want a next time that is-’”

“Oh you can be sure of that.” Hans cuts him off sharply.

Henry smiles, a bit of pride puffing out his chest as he picks up the thread again. “Next time, I’d quite like to be involved in the whole of it. I’m glad you got yourself, you know…sorted beforehand, but I was looking forward to that bit too, y’know.”

For the first time during this sordid morning, a blush creeps its way to Capon’s cheeks, and his words stumble on the way to his tongue. “I-I um I appreciate that…truly, but the credit doesn’t belong to me in full.”

Henry blinks at him, dumbly, until the long buried scent of lavender helps his mind sketch a much more intriguing possibility for how Hans spent his morning. “Not your usual time at the baths then…?”

“I sought advice from experts in the field,” Hans scratches at a patch of mud flaking on his jaw, and the skin underneath is so searingly red it’s a wonder the clay isn’t baked to bisque. “Earning some extra groschen without having to touch more than my hair certainly intrigued them, and they were quite generous with the details of how to go about the procedure…”

“Well…I think we could both use their services after all this and they’ve more than earned a tip from me.” Henry grins and pulls them both to their feet. Hans takes a few halting steps on his own before deciding Henry acting as a crutch is well within his duties as a squire.

“We’re quite lucky no yokels came sniffing around for you to forge them horseshoes while you were busy acting like a rutting stag.” Hans chuckles.

“And whose fault is that?” Henry plants a wet kiss on his cheek. “I’m sure most men would write it off as two lads wrestling without a second thought.”

Hans’ agreeing hum snarls into a choked gasp as his eyes settle on something off in the distance. Henry follows his eyes, and to his mortification his gaze is met with three delighted, pretty faces in the trees. He has no way of knowing how long their little audience was watching their match from that side of the river, but when they try to offer the matron of the baths payment it’s waved away with a giggle and a very proud nod to his lord.