Chapter Text
The meat had been too dry – overcooked, Hans reasons as he paces his room. The wine hadn’t been terrible but he would have needed a lot more, and that would have been unreasonable. Even he knows that getting blind drunk on the eve of battle is unwise. The crackle of the fire still grates on his nerves.
The company had been abysmal. Who could possibly expect him to spend a full evening in the same room as Chamberlain fucking Ulrich?
No, it had been the right call. Only he cannot for the life of him calm down, let alone find an ounce of sleepiness within him. Something jitters under his skin, crawling and keeping him moving.
Perhaps a breath of fresh air would do. Maybe that’s the core of the issue: after spending months living in the wild, his body can’t possibly be expected to cope with being trapped between four walls again.
He nods to himself and leaves the room. The corridors are quiet, the feast likely still going on. Finding one’s way around in Trosky castle is a headache but Hans has memorised the path that takes him to the walkways, where he hopes he will find solitude, if not better company.
Henry…
No, Henry had been busy. Fraternising, a nasty voice hisses in his mind. Henry is good at that, making friends. It’s necessary, even in times of war. But Hans cannot stand the sight of any fucking person in this castle, except the one.
Footsteps echo against stone walls, somewhere in the winding stairs below him. Out of habit – reflexes honed by years of sneaking out and back into Pirkstein at night – he flattens himself in a nearby doorway and listens. The strangers are plural: soft words exchanged in a hush reach Hans. And they are no guards, their movements more rustling of fabric than the metallic clicks of armour.
Why keep the conversation down, though? It isn’t late enough that everybody should be asleep – besides, the thick walls ought to protect everyone’s slumber. He can only deduce that those two are not supposed to be leaving the party together.
The voices creep closer, and light from a torch flickers up the stairs.
Frantically, Hans tries the handle of the door at his back, sighing with relief when it gives and he tucks himself inside, leaving the door ajar.
His heart stutters when two silhouettes pass him by, followed by the low hum of torch fire and muted laughter. Because he recognises both of them.
He presses his back to the wall of the unknown room he is in, heat rushing to his face and fingers. His body preparing for a fight, or something else.
He knew Von Bergow’s bodyguard had seemed a little too interested in Hans’ own. But he hadn’t thought Henry foolish enough to let himself be coddled by the soft-spoken knight.
God, let them only be headed for a drink.
He waits a minute for his emotion to recede. It doesn’t. His mind floods with images, each less welcome than the last.
Surely he is being foolish too. Henry wouldn’t…
Otherwise…
Henry beds girls. Quite a few of them, if the rumours are to be believed. Hal refused to answer the questions about the miller’s girl, a few weeks ago, but he’d blushed. And Hans just knows there have been others.
Just a drink, yes. They could have had it at the feast itself, or in the courtyard outside.
No.
The certainty grows in his throat, as uncomfortable as swallowing sand. He should feel shame – for the reason he is so sure, is that Bartosch had stared at his squire the way Hans does, too, when Henry isn’t looking. He had thought the man oblivious, thick, or uninterested. Henry had never bothered telling Hans to stop anyway.
Why Bartosch, then?
The why might not matter in the short term.
Hans just knows he cannot let Henry sleep with the enemy unsupervised.
He slips out of the room as quickly as he had on the way in, shutting the door ever so quietly. The two men had walked past him, headed in the same direction as Hans’ chambers. He takes off after them. If his reason returns before it’s too late, he might make a different turn, and return to his bedroom to spend a torturous, sleepless night there.
Fate has other plans for him.
He hadn’t paid attention who the other rooms in the corridor belonged to, but there is only one, under whose door light filters through, whispers clinging to the wood.
A new wave of anger floods him. Screw Henry. He’d have done that right under his nose, a few paces from Hans’ sleeping form, without an ounce of shame to kick some good sense back into him?
Oh, Hans can talk about good sense.
He presses his ear to the door.
He had hoped. It had been a vain, feeble thing, a last prayer that Henry would have followed the other knight to hear about past exploits, or learn about the great swordmasters of Prague.
His heart sinks a little further. The sounds coming from inside are unmistakeable.
Soft moans, lips smacking together. Leather hissing out of buckles, boots hitting the floor. Hans closes his eyes, shaking. His fists balled up, he squeezes his arms at his side, body begging for some kind of release he cannot find.
Barefoot steps move away from the door and he pictures it clear as day. Henry, laid out on another man’s bed. Strange hands caressing down his chest, feeling the muscle Henry has been putting on for Hans. Henry’s head, thrown back in pleasure.
No.
He will not let his man be stolen right from under his nose.
Not without a fight.
He turns the doorknob. The door opens.
His eyes follow the trail of Henry’s boots, his beautiful embroidered coat abandoned further on the floor. And the man himself, left in only hose and braies, knelt between the legs of Bartosch who sits smug and happy on the edge of his bed. He has one hand rested in Henry’s hair as Hans’ squire bobs his head dutifully.
“Lord Capon,” Sir Bartosch says, his tone level although there is some strain in there – Hans thinks he might have to be offended on Hal’s behalf if there wasn’t – “would you mind closing the door, please?”
Henry falls onto his arse, reeling before Hans can even answer.
It could be endearing, the way he wipes his mouth with the back of one hand before speaking, if it hadn’t been for… well.
“Hans! What are you, why are you, I…” Henry babbles, turning an impossible shade of red.
Hans takes a step forward and turns to face the door. Breathing deeply to steady his own hands, he pushes the thing closed as quietly as he can, before bolting it.
“That was very foolish of you two,” he says, still speaking towards the heavy panel of wood, working hard to steady his voice. “What if it had been anyone else but me?”
When he turns, Bartosch hasn’t even had the decency to move. The infuriating bastard still sits on the edge of the bed, cock half hard and shiny from… Oh God, from Henry’s mouth on him. Forcing himself to look up, Hans meets the other knight’s eyes, and finds far too much smugness in there. He wonders, briefly, how much of all of this is intentional. Could it be Bartosch had known Hans was following all along?
Now isn’t the time for such questions.
“How very generous of you to worry, Sir Hans,” Bartosch smirks. “A simple omission on my part. Lucky for us, it was only you.”
Hans isn’t sure he likes that tone. But he has little time to consider how it makes him feel, his attention drawn back to Henry who opens his mouth:
“Sir Hans–”
He lifts a palm up to interrupt his squire, who diligently falls silent once again. Henry’s obedience rankles. Who is this man who meekly kneels to suck another man’s cock?
He has half a mind to grab Hal by the… well, not his collar, and he certainly isn’t contemplating grabbing him by the hair, let’s say somehow get him to stand again and lure him into a fight. Push until Henry bites back and they are back to feeling as much as equals as they’ll ever be.
Henry’s ears are a darker red than Bergow’s crest. Hans wonders how they’d feel under his fingertips. In his mouth, if on his tongue the burgundy flesh would hiss.
While Hans wasn’t looking, Bartosch has reclined to his elbows, head cocked with far too much poise. As if Hans’ presence doesn’t bother him much more than that of a fly on the wall.
“What shall we do, then?” he asks, eyes moving between Lord and squire.
Hans’ mouth turns brutally dry.
Obviously he’s come to fetch Henry, drag him back to his room and give him a proper beating for forgetting himself so grievously.
Except… the question opens an array of other options in his mind.
Henry’s gaze remains trained on him and Hans’ vainness could be one of his worst sins, for how it sways his decision.
“I will stand guard,” he announces.
Blue eyes widen in shock. The other knight only smirks a little wider. A chess player too satisfied with his opponent’s last move.
“Outside?” he asks.
Hans holds back a snarl. Tomorrow, he thinks. On their way out, he’ll find a way to kick Bartosch in the stones, perhaps after the battle when he doesn’t have use for the man anymore.
For now, he takes a measured step back and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Go on,” he tells Henry, lifting his chin.
Seeing Hal mirror his gesture back is its own kind of victory. The knowledge that they don’t need words to understand each other. That Hans can read Henry’s eyes and see the moment he picks up on the challenge.
“Don’t let my presence disturb you,” he adds, a shiver going from his neck down to his cock.
Henry’s attention lingers on him for another blink. Then, with a purposeful lick of his lower lip, he turns around and pushes back between Bartosch’s legs. The knight sighs, an offending head resting on the back of Hal’s head to accompany his movements.
Hans swallows. And shifts on the spot, unsure how to manage the rock hard prick pushing against his codpiece.
“I believe the bolted door will hold, Lord Capon,” Bartosh says, before stifling a groan that makes Hans’ blood boil. “And I don’t bite,” the other knight adds. “Why don’t you come sit with me?”
Hans might kill him. In the meantime, the offer to approach is a hard one to resist. His steps echo too loud, covering the sounds Hal’s wet mouth is making. Hans stops by Henry’s right knee, mouth open despite his best efforts to retain his composure.
Bartosch gives him the most punchable smirk and pats the bed next to him.
Hans, to his absolute horror, obeys the silent order.
Oh, God…
The sight is even worse from this angle. Or better, Hans can’t fucking make up his mind.
Henry’s lips are pink, stretched and wet as they glide up and down Bartosch’s cock. Worst, possibly, is the heavy-lidded look of rapture on Henry’s face, brows slightly lifted and jaw lax.
Hans must have lost his mind. Because on his next exhale, he asks:
“Is he… good?”
He thinks he hears a frustrated sound get trapped in Henry’s throat, and ignores it for the other knight’s answer. Watches Bartosch slide a hand back into Henry’s hair, the longer locks on top where his squire has let it grow over the past weeks.
“Your man is a very thorough student,” Bartosch declares.
Henry’s eyes open but when he shoots a glance up, it’s in Hans’ eyes he looks. Hans’ mouth lets a mortifying sound escape and when Henry closes his eyes again, his lips stretch in a smirk around his mouthful.
Perhaps Hans should punch him too.
Oh, he’s in too far already. He should have turned back at the door, hell, he should never have left his room, never have left Pirkstein. Then perhaps he wouldn’t be painfully hard watching a man he so desperately wants sucking off another.
He gasps when something brushes against his hand and manages to tear his eyes away from the show long enough to find Bartosch’s fingers resting over it. He has half a mind to shake them off, and run to the other side of the room.
Only half.
The other lets him, because in every twitch of Bartosch’s hand on him, he thinks he feels a little of what Henry is doing to him. On a particularly loud slurping suck from Henry, Bartosch throws his head back and squeezes Hans’ hand harder.
Good Lord, is he dreaming?
No, his dreams are never this good while being this excruciating at the same time.
Henry begins to moan too, and Hans thinks he might faint. The mere brush of his own braies on the swollen head of his prick is painful, so he clenches his legs and pretends he can’t hear himself pant louder than the man being pleasured at his side.
When Henry brings up a hand to roll Bartosch’s taut stones gently, the knight lets go of Hans’ fingers to grab his thigh instead, biting his lip.
“Yes, Henry… good lad…”
Fury burns just as hot as arousal in Hans’ cheeks and he jerks, shoving his knee into Bartosch’s. The chain of motion pushes Henry slightly off balance and the bastard has the gall to glare up at Hans.
Who kicks him in the shin for good measure. He nearly chokes when Henry grabs Hans’ foot in response and slams it back onto the floor, never removing his hand. His other is back to holding the base of Bartosch’s hardness now while Henry bobs his head faster.
“Ah,” Bartosch moans again. “Sir Hans… will you allow me to finish in his mouth?”
Hans almost blurts out that Henry is his own man, and can fuck however he wants.
It isn't what his heart tells him, though.
Henry’s searching eyes, back on him, disagree too.
“No.”
With a pained sigh, Bartosch drags Henry away by the hair and replaces his hand to finish himself off. Hans, torn, glances back between Henry’s dazed look and wet, used mouth, and the sight of another man coming all over himself. Brought almost to completion by a kneeling Henry.
Something brushes Hans’ calf and he looks down with a start, to find Henry has slipped his fingers under the top of his boot.
Is this…
Hans was only supposed to watch. Make sure Henry was safe and didn’t get himself stabbed by a stranger in the middle of the night.
To his right, Bartosch heaves great sighs, catching his breath. The dark hair on his belly shines with seed now, the sight oddly offending. Bartosch casually wipes his hand on the sheets before petting Henry’s forehead with the same sullied fingers.
“I think it’s your turn, Henry,” he grins down.
Hal has the nerve to blush again.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Bartosch adds as he stands and walks to the console where two silver cups lay abandoned. The knight’s throat bobs around the drink, but another tug on Hans’ foot brings his attention back down.
It shouldn’t puzzle him so much to find his squire tugging his boots off. The context might just be perturbing him a little.
“Forgot how to use your words, Hal?” he tries to tease, only his voice comes out as an awful croak.
Henry stands, nearly shoving his tented, stained braies in Hans’ face as he grumbles:
“No shoes on the bed.”
Hans follows up, his naked toes brushing Henry’s for a second until Hal takes a step back. There is that look of defiance back in his eyes, the same one that had been there on the day they met, what feels like an age ago. The one Hans can’t seem to resist.
They are frozen in this silent duel when Bartosch reappears at their side, holding out a cup of dark amber liquid to each of them. Henry takes his without a word and downs it in one big swallow, followed by a grimace.
Hans refuses to back down and does the same.
Bartosch chuckles when he takes the cups back. “If I’d known this is how people from Rattay treat fine brandy, I might have offered you schnapps instead,” he grins, and disappears back out of Hans’ view.
What now?
Henry answers for both of them.
With sure hands, he grabs the collar of Hans’ pourpoint and pops the topmost button out. Then pauses, eyes expectant on Hans.
If his heart beats any harder, he might die.
So before he meets his Maker, Hans swallows, the taste of booze still potent on his tongue, and brings his own hands to the laces holding up Henry’s braies. Henry cocks his head in understanding. His fingers work down, one button after the other, while Hans tugs on the laces as slowly as he can to hide how his fingers shake.
Henry’s touch is rough when he slides both hands under the pourpoint which now hangs open, and pushes it back until it catches on Hans’ shoulders. Magnanimous, Hans allows himself to be disrobed first. He lets Hal push the golden fabric down his arms, shivering when it falls to the floor behind him.
It is too late to back out, so he quickly pushes Henry’s braies and hose off his hips, keeping his gaze resolutely away when they slide down his legs and Henry is left bare.
Henry breathes as hard as him, mouth agape, teeth shining in the darkness. It would take one step forward to bring them together, a simple dip of the head to kiss.
Except Bartosch hasn’t kissed Henry either, at least not since Hans has walked in.
Maybe this is one of those nights, where no mouths meet at all.
He is still dragging a hooded gaze all over the hills and plains of Henry’s sweet face when the man’s eyes widen and suddenly Hans only has the back of his squire’s head to look at. That is, before Henry stumbles backwards and Hans has to catch him with both arms around his waist.
For a moment, he wonders if the brandy was spiked and it went to Hal’s head first. Until he looks over Henry’s shoulder and finds Bartosch kneeling at his feet, one hand on Henry’s hip and the other around…
Oh.
Hans gasps at his first look of Henry’s cock, right before it’s engulfed in an eager mouth and he feels Henry’s stuttered intake of breath right under his palm.
Christ in Heaven.
“Hah…” Henry pants, jaw dropping and looking down.
In a fit of madness, Hans envies Bartosch’s confidence. Then remembers it must be borne of plenty of experiences, and he’s had no personal interest in whoring himself with other men. If only he’d have found his courage first, though…
Then it could be him licking up the length of Henry’s prick, circling the flushed tip with his tongue. He could be playing with the damp, musky patch of hair at the base, could be choking to bring his nose to rest against it.
Henry makes another strangled sound and his head rolls back, the motion pressing his cheek against Hans’ temple.
Hans hopes he can be forgiven for brushing his lips against stubbled skin.
Bartosch makes the same awful slurping sounds Hal had made a while ago, except he never takes a break and soon Henry is driving his hips back and forth, pressing himself against Hans –
Damnation. There is no way the man isn’t aware of how hard Hans is behind him.
For him.
Hans drags his mouth down Henry’s neck, barely daring to push it into a kiss, although he opens wider and lets his tongue out for a taste. He groans, licking salt and soap off Henry’s skin, polishing it until it shines bright red. Shit, when did Henry sneak out for a bath?
The next time he opens his eyes, he meets a dark pair, smugly looking up at him. And the Trosky guard dog opens his own mouth to show the head of Henry’s cock resting plump on that tongue.
Hans grits his teeth.
There isn’t much he can do for now, short of kicking the enemy in the balls and he’s worried about the teeth resting too close to Henry’s pride and joy.
He trails fingertips across Hal’s chest instead, tugs on the stray hairs there, then finds a nipple and tweaks it.
Henry exhales sharply, but there is no telling if it’s from Hans’ touch, or the man swallowing around his cock down there.
So Hans squeezes harder, and harder, until he knows for sure the pained, keening sound Hal lets out is for him.
A hand flies up to rest over his own – Hans fears Henry means for it to stop. But Henry’s thick fingers merely curl around his and keep him there. Hans takes the encouragement and flicks his thumb, beginning to work his squire’s chest with much more force than he would a woman’s.
He hates the hand Bartosch drags up the inside of Henry’s thigh, how Henry leans into the touch, hips bucking forward.
With a quick tug of one arm, Hans pulls him back into him and grinds his hips into Henry’s arse.
Bartosch pulls off, a small victory.
Still, Hans cannot look away from the gorgeous curve of Henry’s cock, how eagerly it bounces up so the tip can kiss his belly. Bartosch stretches his jaw and slowly, gracefully gets off the floor. He makes no attempt to hide the renewed ardour between his own legs when he nods behind Hans and Henry.
“Get on the bed, please. There is more I would show you.”
This could be a chance to leave. Before it goes further still, before Hans loses what is left of his mind. The problem is Henry seems to have already lost all of his wit: he blindly follows the order, laying himself in the middle of Bartosch’s bed in a glorious offering. Hans thinks he might die on the spot, and then…
Henry holds out his hand.
“Come on,” he says, chin tipped up at Hans and pleading.
Right.
He supposes he’d rather go to Hell for having sinned properly, than merely watched others have their fun.
In one quick motion, he tugs his undershirt off, and takes Hal’s fingers to be led onto the bed. Henry makes Hans kneel by his shoulder, and all the while their fingers stay carefully linked.
If they were alone, Hans thinks he might bring Henry’s hand up to his mouth and kiss every knuckle, put a prayer on every cut Henry got to save Hans’ blasted life.
But they have company.
He is sadly reminded when the mattress dips under an added weight, and the bedframe creaks in protest. Hal’s fingers crush Hans’ in a powerful grip, and his mouth opens on a gasp. Hans reluctantly looks down his friend’s body to find strong shoulders – not his own – keeping his thighs apart, a mouth – not Hans’ – pressing kisses all over his groin while Bartosch pours some concoction over his fingers.
“Do you still want to?” he asks Henry in between drags of moustache and tongue over Hal’s balls.
“Hn… yes…”
Oh good. So they have discussed this all beforehand when Hans wasn’t here. He digs his thumbnail into Henry’s skin without meaning to, and is met with no reaction while Bartosch’s hand disappears under Henry’s arse.
Fuck, is he…?
Fascinated despite himself, he bites his lip and holds his breath, watching as eagerly as Hal for the precise moment Bartosch breaches him. He feels it in the little shake of Hal’s fingers, hears it in the doubled exhale.
“It will feel overwhelming at first,” Bartosch gently explains, soothing a palm over Henry’s stomach, avoiding his cock still. “If you do it right, it should only feel good after a short while. But do tell me…” he pauses to lick the crease of Henry’s thigh, “if you need a break, or to stop.”
Henry nods with force. And, whether he’s aware of it or not, brings his and Hans’ joined hands to rest under his mouth.
Hans gasps. It is not exactly a kiss, but it’s the closest thing he has.
“Ah!” Henry’s head falls back, his eyebrows drawn in an expression that isn’t quite pleasure, nor quite pain. Hans still brings his other hand up to soothe the wrinkles on his friend’s forehead, feels Hal’s panted exhales on the tender skin inside his wrist.
“Please…” Henry moans.
Hans clenches his jaw shut, until Hal begs again. This time, Henry opens his eyes and looks right up at him.
“Hans… please…”
What? What do you need, what do you want, what can I give you that he isn’t already?
His answer comes in the form of fingers tugging at the laces of his braies. Henry’s face moves from one expression to the other in rapid succession, a grimace, a slack jaw, then a pinched brow but through it all there is pleading in his eyes.
Unsaid words caught on his lips, Hans pulls on the laces, loosening the knot. He gets pushed away, Henry’s fingers quickly taking his place to drag the fabric down.
Hans hisses when it catches on his prick, pulling it down before it can spring back up, his own avidness impossible to hide. He thinks he might have some reprieve, an occasion to back out, but already one of Hal’s hands lands hot, heavy and intent on his hip, bringing him forward.
Henry’s head flies off the pillow, his eyelids drooping. His lips part.
“Hal, are you sure – oh.”
Heavens and Hell.
Hans’ chest empties of all air, his body tipping forwards so he can cup the back of Henry’s head with one hand, the other landing by Hal’s shoulder to twist in the sheets for balance.
It’s…
It feels better than anything he’s ever had. And he can’t believe it happens with an audience there, the third man smugly glancing up at him in between careful thrusts of his fingers inside Henry whose hips rhythmically roll off the mattress.
Hans looks away. He can’t take it.
His whole attention back on Henry, he feels a great tear in his heart, an impossible sadness overcoming him. He curls over Henry’s head, shielding him like he wishes he could have done many times in battle, and reserves his pleasured, pained sounds for Henry’s ears only.
Henry does no such effort to quieten himself, the occasional moan reverberating around Hans’ cock, vibrations dragging up and down the length of it. Hans shifts his hold from Henry’s skull down to his neck, worried the man will get a crick from straining up so much, and tries to support him.
At the first hint of that touch, Henry relaxes his weight down, now almost back onto the pillow properly, though he drags Hans down by the hips too.
Christ, does he want him to…
Some stupid impulse has him looking to his left, searching Bartosch’s eyes for guidance. He has to rein in a roar when he finds the dark-haired knight back to sucking off Henry, that stupid, floppy fringe of his hiding almost everything.
He moves so his knees bracket Henry’s head properly and he can face the foot of the bed, and swats Bartosch on the side of the head.
The man pulls off with a grin, and without the decency to act the slightest bit hurt by Hans’ gesture. He even cocks his head, and straightens up. It’s almost like he means for Hans to notice just how well he’s fingering his squire, how Henry’s cock lays flushed and heavy on his own belly…
Hans gasps and his hips stutter on a hard suck from Henry, who has freed up both hands to guide him down by the arse now.
“Show me how,” he groans, straining to keep face in front of Bartosch.
“What, exactly?”
The mere idea of using his mouth on Henry has his head spinning, so he pushes it away as soon as it springs through his mind.
“My fingers.”
Bartosch hums, and slowly withdraws his own from Henry before beckoning Hans with the same two. The gall. Hans will strangle him. As soon as he knows how to do exactly what the man had been doing to make Henry whimper like that.
He shifts his balance, unknowingly pushing himself further into Henry’s mouth. He feels Henry gag, and quickly lifts himself back up so he’s back to being gently licked and sucked all over.
Fuck.
He braces one hand on the bed and carefully avoids Henry’s rock hard cock with the other. He doesn’t have to fumble for long, Henry’s hips eagerly lifting to let him in. Gasping, Hans pushes against infernal heat, two fingertips meeting a slight resistance before he’s suddenly inside. He despises Bartosch’s guiding touch, brushing against the back of his hand until his fingers are properly in Henry, and the other knight smiles up at him.
“Curl them.”
Hans frowns, but follows the advice. If he can get Hal to writhe as he had been on the other man’s fingers just a moment ago…
Bartosch gently pulls his hand back out and stops him at a specific point, right when Henry lurches under him and near-shouts around Hans’ prick.
“There,” the fucker grins, patting Hans’ wrist. “Follow his cues for the rest.”
Henry turns messy, loud between Hans’ legs, his mouth too open to suck properly once Hans finds a rhythm with his fingers. It doesn’t matter: the only thing he cares about right now is the reedy sounds leaving Henry’s throat when he rubs his fingers inside, too hard once, making Henry wince and shy away, then more gently until he gets a light moan every time.
His own head grows heavy, arousal clouding his mind as he gradually realises that this is it, he’s fucking Henry, he’s sleeping with his squire, Henry now grabbing Hans’ cock to essentially jerk it into his mouth, fuck…
It would be perfect if there wasn’t now another man half-shoving his way under Hans’ arm to swallow Hal’s prick again.
“What–” Hans cuts himself off.
Now is not the time to show weakness. He redoubles his efforts with his fingers, makes sure he has the right strength and tempo while Bartosch takes Henry in his fucking throat. Christ. Hans would be impressed if he wasn’t so angry.
Henry starts shaking.
He barely sucks Hans anymore now, his mouth open on a constant noise as his feet rise off the bed, toes curled, thighs tense.
There is a mouth on the inside of Hans’ thigh, whispering nonsense, kissing and licking, Henry going frenzied back where Hans can’t see. Henry moans twice, each time louder and higher than the last.
It’s happening.
Hans steadies his legs like he would at full gallop and rises off his left hand to push Bartosch back and off Henry just in time.
Henry’s cock twitches and spurts, white seed flying up to land on his belly, a few drops on his chest.
“Hans, Hans,” he whines throughout.
It’s too much. Hans gives one last push of his fingers inside before withdrawing, only to get swallowed in turn, the sudden rush of pleasure at his groin making him stumble and fall with his face against Henry’s thigh. He grabs both of them to steady himself, hopes he leaves marks there too, and looks up only to find Bartosch smirking and tugging himself off to the sight of Hans’ own climax.
He closes his eyes, keeping that part to himself even as he feels Hal swallow his seed and he trembles through his pleasure.
Everything falls quiet.
Good God.
Hans isn’t sure there are enough Hail Marys one can say to come back from this. He finds it hard to care in his current position.
Very slowly, he rises, his skin parting from Hal’s with difficulty where they’ve sweated against each other. Worse still is the feeling of his softening prick sliding out of Hal’s mouth and hitting his chin in a wet slap.
He doesn’t look at Bartosch again. Doesn’t want to know if he came too. He’d feel robbed by it, somehow.
He hears him though, moving about the room again, casually padding around and picking things up off the floor like Hans’ world hasn’t just been inconceivably shattered.
Hans falls on his arse in a corner of the bed, heaving. Staring at Henry, whose eyes are lidded, hidden.
Henry’s chest is a mess of red streaks, Hans’ nails, his teeth over the shoulder.
Good.
He hopes all of those are his, and not Bartosch’s.
“Well, gentlemen,” the latter speaks up from the other side of the room.
Bartosch has already slipped an undershirt back on, and is sipping more of that special wine of his. “I wouldn’t want to be a bad host and kick you out unceremoniously, but.. It is getting late, and I assume you both would like to get some sleep before our attack tomorrow.”
He walks closer again, and nonchalantly hands Hans his pourpoint back. Hans snatches it with more force than necessary. His own hose and braies have only been pushed down his legs, and he is covered in a few brief movements.
Henry, however, stands on unsteady legs, almost falling as soon as he gets off the bed. Hans catches him, and grumbles while he gives Henry his clothes one by one, dressing his squire – after he’s just fucked him. He shouldn’t blush at the sight of Henry’s now limp cock, not when he came in his mouth just minutes ago.
His shoulders cover in goose bumps. They really need to get out of here.
Henry hobbles around like a great bumblebee, getting stuck with his head in the collar of his shirt like a child.
“You big oaf,” Hans scoffs, and helps him through. Henry emerges with hair sticking out, red cheeks and an empty gaze.
Hans curls a hand around his squire’s arm and leads him to the door.
What does he say to the man who triggered all this? He looks over his shoulder, finding Bartosch leaning against the table and still drinking, far too much unsaid in his dark gaze.
There are no words that could encompass the painful mess in Hans’ chest and head.
So he nods his goodbyes, opens the door, and pushes Henry into the corridor. His squire stumbles away in the sudden darkness, leaning onto the wall like he’s drunk a barrel of wine.
“Where are you going?” Hans calls after him.
Henry replies without looking back. “To sleep?”
Something hot flushes over Hans once again. The thought of Henry lying alone in that pitiful shed, like he had on so many nights in Pirsktein when Hans hadn’t been brave enough to offer him more.
“No. Not there.”
Henry finally moves, side eyeing Hans with a clear question.
Where, then?
Hans takes him by the hand and pulls him towards his bedroom. His heart thunders throughout, leaving him nearly deaf with the volume of his pulse when he pushes the door open and reluctantly lets go of Henry to lock it behind them.
Henry stands there, too pliant, while Hans pushes the covers down to the foot of the bed and shrugs his pourpoint off again.
He waits, half-bare, for Henry to take one step. Say one word.
But his friend is seemingly entirely fucked out, blinking dumbly until Hans reaches a hand out again.
“Come on.”
He disrobes them both, carefully this time, now it’s just the two of them. He doesn’t have to wonder how he looks when he slides his palms up Hal’s back to take his shirt off, or worry about how much desperation he shows when he guides Henry to lie down.
He left their braies on, doesn’t know how to do otherwise. For a moment, they lie still, two parallel lines of men who bridged a gap by accident, and don’t know how to do it again with intent.
Hans is tired of being a coward.
He takes Henry’s head in his hands and guides him down to rest his forehead under Hans’ chin. Emotion threatens to overwhelm him again when Hal, upon understanding his intentions, curls into a ball and snuggles further against him, so when Hans brings the covers back up over the both of them, they fit perfectly together.
Hans pushes his mouth into musk-heavy hair and grunts.
“That was the first and the last time I share you, Henry of Skalitz. You’re mine.”
Henry’s hum is sweet, sleepy, and within seconds he is snoring into Hans’ chest.
Hans chuckles, and squeezes Henry harder.
Tomorrow, once it’s all over, they will talk.