Archive of Our Own

He'd thought he would feel better after cutting through nearly a dozen men. Or at least, less angry. Less aggrieved.

Instead, he stares at the whitewashed stone on the walls of Semine Fortress, splashed with the reds and oranges of the dipping afternoon sun, and feels… he doesn't know what. Nothing good, at least.

"Good work, Henry. Lord Semine and I are both grateful for what you've done."

Henry turns his head a quarter to Gules, who is holding up Casper's ring for examination.

"Glad to have been helpful," he replies, though there's little feeling behind his words.

"Very helpful," Gules concurs. Then he tucks the ring away, and Henry can't be bothered to ask if he could keep it himself, as he had with some of the previous trinkets from Gules's old cohorts. Oh well, it's not like it matters.

…He's having difficulty sensing that anything matters at the moment.

"Are you all right, lad?"

A question of genuine concern from a man with whom Henry had crossed swords on their first meeting takes Henry by enough surprise to draw his attention. He must be losing his nerve, if it shows so easily that he's not in his best mind.

"It's been a long day," he deflects. Gules has no idea how long.

The reformed robber baron hums thoughtfully. "Then let's not make it a longer one by sending you on your way elsewhere," and he claps a gauntleted hand onto Henry's pauldron. "I'm sure Lord Semine won't begrudge you a portion of our humble fare for your supper, and then we'll find a spot to put you for the night."

"That's very generous, but—"

"Ah-ah. I won't hear any buts about it. The level of distraction you're showing would sooner put you in a ditch or on the end of a ruffian's blade than return you safely to your own bed. You've done Lord Semine a service, so let his estate repay you. That's how this nobility business works."

In spite of himself, a small smile tugs at one corner of Henry's mouth. "You're an expert on the nobility now?"

"Always have been. I'm a noble myself, boy."

"Oh, right. I keep forgetting that."

"A likely story. I think you're just giving me a wank for a laugh."

"Who, me? Never." Henry doesn't fight it when Gules uses the hand on his shoulder to shake him in jest. In that moment of mirth shared between them, he gains some distance from the emptiness in his chest, and that simple fact encourages him to lean in toward the source. "Well, all right then, sir. If you, as a noble, are offering to put me up at the expense of a fellow noble, then I suppose I'll be obliged to let you."

"And I will be obliged to oblige you," Gules retorts. Each gives the other a small bow before Gules snorts and raps his knuckles upon Henry's cuirass with a clang. "Come on, then, lad."

"Aren't you on guard duty?"

"It's sunset; my shift here's done. We'll call my duties for the evening keeping you company, eh?"

"Don't go getting yourself in trouble with Lord Semine by shirking your work now."

Gules just laughs.

+.+.+

For the fifth time that afternoon, Hans scoffs with pointed indignation. Just who does that grubby turnip-picker think he is!? Here he'd had a pretty good thing going with his hunting — he'd even begun to see some improvement with cleaning his kills! — and then bloody fucking Henry of bloody fucking Skalitz had to turn up and ruin it all with his bloody fucking do-gooding! After he'd had the nerve to give Hans the silent treatment in the pillory and then act like they could just go on together! Hans couldn't kick him off like a mangy dog fast enough! And to show up today, like he was allowed any say in what Hans does! Really, Henry deserves to get in trouble with the local gamekeepers for being such a thorn in Hans's side.

…And yet, when Henry had asked — when he had made such frustratingly reasonable arguments — Hans had indeed handed over his equipment and agreed that he'd look for some other work. What the fuck that's supposed to be, he doesn't know. Maybe there's a local archery tournament he can win? Or a rich damsel he can woo? If nothing else, he can still catch hares, since those are safe from the label of poaching, but the amount of money those will bring him is pittance compared to that of a stag or a boar.

When the voice of caution about needing the right weapon for hunting boar sounds obnoxiously like Henry's, Hans scoffs for the sixth time.

"Fuck you, Henry," he spits with venom as he tightens the strap on his pack, since on top of everything else he's going to have to change location as well. Hans had rather liked this particular spot of the woods. Why does Henry have to keep mucking things up for him!?

"Fuck you, you… you… cunt!"

Having said it, he feels quite pleased with himself. That's right, isn't it? Henry, always yammering, always with that insufferable better-than-thou behavior! He's certainly as picky and troublesome as a wench! Why did he have to go out of his way to promise the local gamekeepers his aid with poachers? Why the fuck does he keep trying so hard to do things for the most random people? Does he think he'll get something out of it? Does he think he'll get a roll in the hay if he makes all the worries of some pretty maid go away!?

…For some odd reason, he pauses at that. He can picture it, somehow. Henry, gone strangely shy and meek, beckoned over by some meagerly-handsome lass with sun-dappled skin as she thanks him for completing some peasant-suited task. She'd whisper to him of thanking him properly and pull him along to some barn and then guide his hands under her skirts. She'd probably sit on his face and pleasure herself with his mouth. Would she let him put his cock in her then? Would she ride it, moaning on his lap while her tits bounced with each eager movement? Would Henry find his courage as a man to put his hands on her slender waist and snap up into her until she squealed with pleasure? Would she ask him to come inside her? …Would he?

The squawk of a large bird startles him, and only then does Hans realize that his face has gone quite warm.

What… what the fuck was that?

How on earth had his attempts to sort out the motivation for Henry's frustratingly altruistic behavior led to some kind of protracted fantasy about the stupid oaf getting laid? Is Hans himself just pent up!? That must be it. He hasn't had a good romp in over a fortnight, since before setting out from Rattay. Yes, that must be why his imagination had put so much energy just now into the idea of Henry getting some action. Projection, that's it! Hans must have been wishing he could be in Henry's place in that situation, having some fun with a maiden.

But no matter how much Hans tells himself all of this, the rattling of his heart in his chest won't calm down.

Because for that last second of his daydream before its interruption, it hadn't been some wench in Henry's lap. It hadn't been a wench at all.

The role into which Hans had projected himself… had not been Henry's.

And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

"I must be going mad," Hans mutters, "mad from a lack of wenching." But then he sits up straighter, because: if that's the problem, then there's a simple enough solution! Hans has saved up a fair bit from his hunting — enough that he could surely afford himself one night of pleasant company so that he can get his head on straight when he strides out there once again, to whatever may await him on his path to means.

Yes, a good romp is exactly what he needs. That will surely cure him of whatever insanity had momentarily gripped him. He'll manage everything perfectly well, on his own. He doesn't need any meddlesome blacksmith's boy showing up wherever he isn't wanted — Hans's imagination included.

"Fuck you, Henry," hissed between gritted teeth, as if repeating it will make everything better. "I'm going to get you for this, mark my fucking words, you cunt!"

And, with that, Hans starts lugging his pack in the direction of the Wagoners' Inn… and the bathhouse.

+.+.+

As soon as they had sat down with their supper at one of the far tables in the larger courtyard of the fortress, Gules had placed a tankard of beer within Henry's reach, and he hadn't refused it. Halfway through his drink, Henry had finally begun to talk, properly, about what had put him in such a state of distraction. Namely, his exasperating lord and said lord's incomprehensible caprice.

"I just," Henry laments as he stares into the dregs and foam at the bottom of his now-emptied tankard, "I don't understand how he could cast me off so easily. We fought together, laughed together… Does our friendship mean so little to him?"

Gules has barely spoken throughout Henry's tale of woe (from the ambush at Rocktower Pond onward), but that's honestly made it easier to keep talking.

"Even when I'm trying to protect him from…" and even with booze in his belly Henry has been careful not to give voice to the severity of Hans's crimes, "from the consequences of his actions, he treats me like I have a pox. I don't understand…"

Henry can feel Gules's eyes on him, assessing him. It makes sense — Gules can't have lasted long as a robber baron without learning how to read people carefully — but it puts Henry that little bit on-edge. Because he doesn't want the full reason why Hans's rejection of him hurts so much to be seen. To be known. So, when a shift in Gules's posture draws Henry's attention to him and he sees the man's mouth open with a curl at the corners, Henry braces himself for mockery. Some sardonic comment that he can take and use as a shield to hide his true feelings behind, to bury them further down. Like a grave, where they belong. So he meets Gules's gaze with a challenge, even if it paints him as an injured dog ready to bite at the first person who dares to gets close.

But the comment never comes. Gules just looks at him for what feels like a long time, and then the budding smirk falls away and he turns his mouth to his tankard instead.

Being given some kind of reprieve, like he's an object of pity, is almost worse, so Henry returns his own focus to the unexciting remnants of his beer.

The quiet that follows threatens to smother him.

Both of them had doffed their armor before getting their food from the kitchens, so when Gules places his hand on Henry's forearm, he can feel the warmth, even through his gambeson. The touch surprises him so much that he almost shakes it off… but he doesn't.

"Do you want my advice, lad?"

At a loss with himself, Henry nods.

"Don't throw your life away over some self-centered boy who's only gonna keep breaking your heart."

Henry stops. Looks up into Gules's face again. Fights to swallow panic as it squeezes his throat.

"I didn't say anything about being heartbroken," he states, though it's hardly more than a strangled whisper.

Gules holds his gaze in perfect solemnity. "You didn't have to."

Against his will, Henry's hands start shaking. The arm under Gules's, however, is somewhat restrained, and Henry could swear he feels the smallest squeeze of extra pressure, as if to calm a frightened child. As Henry wrestles with the breath in his lungs, Gules finally breaks eye-contact for long enough to pick back up his own beer with his free hand.

"Peace, lad," he murmurs. "I won't call the priests on you." A wry chuckle into his tankard. "If I did, they'd have to take us both."

Henry just stares, struck dumb, until Gules gives his forearm another squeeze that Henry can now read as reassurance.

"I…" he manages at last, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. About any of it. Part of me wants to throw this all aside — to disappear somewhere and let Sir Hans figure this mess out on his own, if that's what he wants so much. But only part. The rest reminds me that I hate running. And I refuse to repay his abandonment in kind, even if that means I'll keep getting hurt until he listens to me." Hans had at least agreed to give up the poaching, hadn't he? That means that he hasn't filled his ears with wax entirely when it comes to Henry's advice. It means there's still some chance for them to make amends. "Does that make me a fool?"

"Oh, without a doubt," dusted with amusement. "But all young men are fools."

Henry huffs bitterly. "Are you a philosopher now?"

"Just someone who's lived longer than you have." Gules finishes his drink with a sigh, and the soft thunk of the empty tankard upon the table strikes Henry as some kind of resolution. "Well, if you can't make yourself abandon this brat altogether, then here's my next-best recommendation: at least forget him about him for one night."

Then Gules's hand slides down to Henry's wrist and squeezes again, and Henry can't make himself look away from those pale eyes as his throat goes dry.

"…You mean…"

"You were already going to stay the night," Gules points out. "I'm just specifying that you should stay the night… with me."

A buzzing rattles around in Henry's skull. He hasn't been outright approached by a man since Pious (Antonius — whichever). It still flusters him more than he would have expected.

When there's no answer for long enough, Gules chuckles. "I won't take offense if you say no. It's simply an offer. You're a good lad, Henry — perhaps too good — and you deserve better than how you've been treated by this cruel boy. Plus, you've helped me half a dozen times already, and I don't much care for owing people. So, if you'll let me help you for a change…"

Gules's hand is so warm around his, and Henry has been so, so very lonely ever since Hans had abandoned him. Even if level-headed caution would tell him he shouldn't so easily trust someone who had recently been a brigand, Henry finds himself wanting this warmth to persist. To spread. To envelop him and, to Gules's point, help him forget his troubles for one night.

"…Well," he replies at last, "you did say your duties for the evening would be keeping me company, didn't you?"

Gules smiles. "That I did." His gaze drops to scan the table, then: "Well then, if you've had your fill of supper, shall we go?"

"Go?" Henry echoes. "Go where? Aren't we staying here?"

Another chuckle. "I was staying here until recently, but the other day, after you brought back Johnny's shield, Lord Semine saw fit to reward my good behavior: apparently a cottage on the edge of the village was left vacant about a month ago when the old owner passed away, and Semine said it would do me good to put down a root or two. Probably his way of encouraging me to keep this new leaf of mine turned over, but I can't say it bothers me all that much. Besides, for what I have in mind for the rest of our night, a bit of privacy goes a long way."

That's true. Henry remembers how he had clamped a hand over his mouth in the monastery library, afraid of how well sound might carry across so much stone. How Pious had muffled his own noises against the back of Henry's neck. Then he pulls himself back from lingering on those carnal memories, because, well… it seems that he'll soon be getting some new ones, doesn't it.

As if on cue, Gules stands, stretches his arms, and then musses Henry's hair as he walks past him. "Leave your horse and your dog here with your gear; they'll be looked after until you return for them in the morning. It's only a short walk to my little place."

Willing his breathing to remain even, Henry follows.

Night has fallen proper during their meal and conversation, so Gules lights a torch as he takes point. Henry finds it easy to keep his eyes fixed upon the bobbing flame — easier at least than studying Gules's back and wondering how it might look unclothed. They walk in silence at first, until the sounds of voices from the fortress behind them are swallowed by the calls of nocturnal animals. Eventually, their path approaches a lone tree, and at it Gules halts and beckons Henry with the crook of a finger. With anticipation lapping at his navel, he heeds, stopping just within arm's reach.

"I reckon we're far enough away now," says Gules. "See, I'm not quite patient enough to wait until we reach our destination before I can taste you."

Excitement jumps back and forth between Henry's throat and his stomach, and his voice doesn't quite feel like his own when he replies: "Go on, then."

Gules drops the torch in the center of the dirt path where it won't catch on anything, and then he grasps the back of Henry's neck and pulls him in.

When Pious had kissed Henry that one night in the Sasau Monastery, it had been gentle, sweet — perhaps because both of them were playing the game of two innocent novices simply curious about the forbidden. When Gules kisses him, it isn't gentle. It's demanding and scorching and bruising, and Henry's world spins from the force of it. With the one hand at Henry's neck and the other quickly gripping his waist, Gules crowds him against the trunk of the tree and then closes in further still, pressing in on Henry until bark scratches at his gambeson. Though at first Henry is unsure what to do with his own hands, the most natural thing seems to be to put them at the back of Gules's ribs, encouraging him to continue his advance. Fingers thread through the short hair at Henry's nape and tug downward, and Henry yields with a breathy moan. There's a joke that could probably be made about how fitting it is that a robber baron would be so good at plundering someone's mouth, but Henry's is too full of Gules's tongue to form any words. It feels like he isn't contributing much himself — just standing here and letting himself be kissed stupid — but there's something… nice about that. Something freeing. Maybe he can forget Hans for one night, if the night will involve more of this.

After long enough that the pleasant buzz of having the air in his lungs all but sucked out of him through the fervor of a man's lips on his own has spread throughout his body and left his knees on the verge of wobbling, Henry finally gets a moment to breathe openly once Gules lets him. Gules remains close, only leaning back far enough so that he can take in the full view of Henry's face, as if to examine his handiwork. Henry doesn't dislike the sensation that this appraisal sends through him.

Before anything else, Henry finds himself laughing — sniggering, really. Is being wicked always this thrilling? He remembers being more afraid of being caught when he was with Pious, because he couldn't afford to have his mission waylaid by days in solitary confinement or worse. But here, now? Henry soaks up the confidence that Gules radiates and it makes him feel at ease. Safe. Eager.

"I…" he says intelligently. "Wow."

Gules snorts. "You like that, do you, lad?"

He would nod if Gules weren't maintaining a tight grip fisted in his hair. "I like that quite a lot." He still can't quite get his mirth under control, humming with delight as he rolls his lips together, chasing the taste of the kiss, but more than that the texture. "It's strange — not in a bad way, mind you — but I haven't felt a beard scratching my face like that since I was a child."

A grunt of understanding. "Your pa?"

"Mhm."

…Wait wait wait — no, full stop. Anything but dragging Martin into what is happening right now! He even momentarily pushes against Gules's chest as he balks: "God, I don't want to think about that."

But Gules just chuckles, like this is all according to some master plan of his. "Then don't," and the hand from Henry's waist moves to frame his jaw, squeezing just enough to coax Henry to open his mouth again. "Think about me."

This time, Henry places his arms higher, looping them over and around Gules's shoulders. Somehow, Gules manages to get even closer to him, until Henry wonders if at this rate the tree will absorb him into itself. He moans more often than before, voicing his enjoyment as Gules kisses him so deeply and fiercely, and this only spikes when a leg negotiates itself between his own. Then Gules is flush against him, and the smallest roll of hips is enough for Henry to feel heat mixing between them.

As much as his body is so wonderfully occupied, Henry returns to his previous thought: why is there such a sense of safety here? Is it simply the circumstances? Or is it also because, where Pious had seemed as new to sodomy as Henry was, Gules speaks and acts like he's been doing this for longer than Henry has been alive? Gules carries himself with such surety — even when Henry, Semine, and Gnarly had captured him, it had been no different. The man is all but unshakeable. And for Henry, who feels so very lost right now, it's like finding shelter in a stone fortress after having exhausted himself by stumbling around in the dark. He's been lost since the sack of Skalitz, really — only able to put one foot in front of the other when some immediate task is set before him. Sir Radzig's talk of finding things to live for feels like some far off goal… something that only people who know what they're doing with their lives can answer properly. (Oh, God, Radzig. Who Henry still can't quite believe is his father by blood. …Who a younger Henry had looked up to with admiration and, at least once, a thought that he was rather handsome — ugh, he's mortified!)

Gules has been fairly quiet thus far, but here he makes a sound that's almost a growl. "You're still thinking about something else, boy," he breathes into Henry's mouth. "Not enough here to keep your attention?"

"It's not that," Henry protests. "I'm just… I dunno… puzzling something out."

"Oh? And?"

It's a curious thing. Henry knows he's in love with Hans. Terribly, madly so. And when Hans is at his best, Henry is all too happy to follow where his lord leads. But this, right now, is tapping into an ache Henry has done his best to bury since the linden tree: the search for a strong guiding hand upon which he can unfailingly rely. So even as he wills himself to push any thought of Martin or Radzig far, far, far away, Henry cannot deny that there is something… comforting about entrusting himself to the confidence and experience of an older man. … Huh.

"And," he answers at last, "I think I'm really looking forward to whatever it is you have in mind for the rest of our night."

That puts Gules back in a good mood, if the curl of his mouth is any indication. "Well, to that point, let's be on our way. It's only a little farther."

"Lead on."

Once Gules steps away to pick up the torch again, he calls back over his shoulder to Henry, "Just because I'm curious now: how old are you, boy?"

"This summer will be my twentieth," Henry replies, setting his hair and gambeson at least somewhat to rights from their mussing.

He doesn't expect Gules to crack up with sharp slices of laughter.

"What's so funny?" He might sound a little defensive about it.

Gules waves at him with his free hand in some gesture to placate him, but that does little when the bully won't stop cackling. "It's just… I'm old enough to be your pa." And then he tilts his head with a devious grin. "Does that put you off?"

He waits long enough to reply so that it will sound like he had to think about it.

"No. It doesn't." Far from it, actually, but Henry isn't quite brave enough to say that much.

+.+.+

The world always seems a little less dreary when he's seated comfortably in a hot bath with a goblet of wine in hand.

Hans's fury with Henry has quietened to a seething simmer, helped along by the pretty maidens in damp white slips giggling and twiddling their fingers at him. And why shouldn't they? Hans doesn't need to see his reflection often to know that he's handsome. And, besides that, he's come with coin, so they must be eager to keep him a happy customer. So, naturally, he giggles and twiddles back.

But as he basks in the delightful surroundings of the bathhouse, his memory pricks him with a recounting of that first time he had gone to the Rattay baths with Henry. Those big doe eyes wide with shock when Hans had invited him into his bath. The sound of his laughter ringing like a deep bell as they made merry for hours. His utter lack of hesitation to come to Hans's rescue when Arse-and-Balls had tried to drown him.

…As much as Hans is still very, very angry with Henry (he had continued cursing him almost all the way to the bathhouse, after all)… maybe, just maybe, he misses him a little, too. He misses the simplicity of their burgeoning friendship, before ambushes and buckets of shit and tavern brawls that led to the pillory had made everything so complicated. The thought of how so much has gone tits-up (and not even in the fun way!) makes him sigh heavily. Well, once he fixes everything by meeting with Lord von Bergow at the wedding, then — and only then — will he consider this period of separation sufficient enough punishment upon Henry in order to forgive him. Yes, Hans is capable of being magnanimous enough to let the matter rest, then, if only because the thought of going without Henry's company forever sounds dreadfully boring.

But, speaking of company, one of the bathmaids in particular is hovering near his tub, smiling coyly at him.

"Does sir have everything he needs?" she asks, batting her lashes.

She's pretty enough, and Hans is anxious to burn that ludicrous daydream out of his mind. Best not to overthink it.

"Sir will," he answers with a smirk, "provided that I hand you some more groschen and then you and I slip away to somewhere more private?"

She laughs merrily. "It would be my pleasure."

Hans lets his eyes wander her barely-concealed form. "And mine, too, I would hope."

With another giggle, she traipses away for a proper cloth with which to dry him. But as Hans watches her go, another distracting fresco of recollections paints itself upon the forefront of his thoughts.

The flush of wine high on Henry's stubble-dusted cheeks as he had toddled off to fetch whatever Hans wanted. The heaves of his broad chest and shoulders when he had come back with success and flopped back into the bath, out of breath but still snickering alongside Hans like the pair of them were young boys. The tickle of his coarse hair when their calves bumped under the water. The shapes of him, visible under his soaked linen undergarments as easily as those of the bathmaids under theirs.

At the time, Hans had assumed that all of these observations were simply his sizing Henry up for comparison. After all, within the previous week, Henry had beaten him in swordfighting and in hunting and had needed to save his arse from barbaric invaders and all but carry him home. Naturally, Hans had needed to gauge how much he would be required to up his own game in order to keep pace with, let alone to lead this stubborn blacksmith's boy as is befitting of a knight and his page. But now… a small knot of doubt as to his motivations has lodged itself in his chest, and that final moment of his earlier fantasy points at him with accusation. With something he doesn't dare name.

No.

Surely not.

And yet…

Hans rubs his face and sighs again. That wenching can't come quickly enough. That will set all of his humors to rights and send these ridiculous imaginings back into the abyss where they belong, surely.

…It has to.

+.+.+

"Well," Gules announces, as they approach the modest cottage, "here we are: my little place."

Henry takes in what he can of the exterior with the torchlight limiting his range of vision in the dark, the effect of which is only amplified when Gules hands him the torch so as to free his own hands for the keys.

"It has charm," Henry lands on, "maybe needs a little tender love and care, though."

Gules barks a laugh. "I'll get around to the upkeep before long. For now, it's enough to get used to having a spot all to myself again."

Upon the click of the lock, Gules steps inside, and Henry is prompt to follow. There's an unoccupied sconce for a torch beside the front door, so as he passes he slots the one in his hand there and leaves it behind.

The inside of the cottage shows about as much of the creeping indication of a lack of occupant as the outside, once Henry can make it out properly after Gules lights the small cooking fire in the corner. But despite the sparsity, there is a… warmth, perhaps. A sense that Gules enjoys having somewhere he can call his own again, after who-knows-how-long living outside of polite society. Henry can appreciate the sentiment — even his tiny room at Radovan's has been better than nothing.

"It's not much more than four walls and a bed at present," Gules admits, turning back to Henry with a hint of a smirk, "but it'll serve its purpose."

A directing glance from Gules between Henry and the door is enough to tell Henry to shut and lock it. He does, and at the clack of the bolt he swallows down a small lump of nerves. Half of what's driven him here is curiosity. He has little to no idea how this… goes. So then…

"What now?" he decides to just go ahead and ask.

"Now," as Gules closes the distance between them again, crowding Henry against the back of the door, "I'm going to take care of you." He cups Henry's jaw and plants one kiss, softer than those before, squarely upon his lips.

The small sound when they part feels quite loud in this enclosed space.

"Based on how you've reacted so far," Gules continues, "I'm guessing that you haven't done much of this sort of thing before. With a man, at least."

Henry laughs softly. "You guess rightly. The most I've done is lend the use of my thighs, once."

"And would you prefer to keep it at that: lending me the use of your thighs? Or…?"

Henry licks his lips as excitement sits like an untapped well deep in his gut. "I want to try whatever you've been thinking of."

Gules's grin peeks from under his mustache. "That's what I like to hear. Well, then… if I'm leading this merry adventure of ours, lad, I expect you to do as I say. And," a small chuckle, "I expect it done with a modicum of respect."

The man's mirth is infectious, and Henry finds himself grinning, too. "Oh? Did you like it that much when I called you 'sir' earlier?"

The smallest rake of Gules's teeth across his bottom lip draws Henry's gaze like an arrow to its target.

"Maybe," Gules murmurs, and there's a low rumble under the word.

Henry is hardly opposed to a game in good sport. And, unlike some people, he knows when it's time to set pride aside for the sake of a larger goal. So it's little hardship for him to humor the proposal. Honestly, the thought of being guided through this unknown territory sounds rather nice.

"Noted… sir."

Gules's smile spreads wider. "Good lad." The grip on Henry's jaw tightens slightly, and Gules hums with satisfaction. "You're an open book to someone who knows how to read properly, did you know that?"

He hadn't. In fact, he'd rather hoped that wasn't the case. "If you're going to talk so big about it, you'll have to demonstrate your prowess." A beat. "Sir."

"Haven't I already?"

Henry gives a noncommittal sound. "That could have been luck."

Gules shakes his head with a small laugh. "All right, I'll humor you. I can read that you have far more weight on your shoulders than any boy of twenty summers ought to. You're unmoored and uncertain, pulled in so many directions until you're like a rope ready to snap," emphasized with the appropriate sound effect from Gules's fingers.

"Well," Henry protests, "I told you most of the surface level of that, so I don't know if it counts—"

"I can read that you want to be led. You want responsibility lifted from your shoulders. You want someone to wipe away every thought and take away every decision and simply give you what you need."

Henry blinks.

Then, he gulps.

Well… maybe Gules's insight isn't just luck, then.

Henry hadn't even put together some of those pieces in his own mind. But that doesn't mean the assessment isn't true. In fact, having heard Gules declare it, Henry begins to feel an ache for it.

"Oh," he whispers, after half a minute of silence. "All right, I'll grant you that one. Sir."

Gules rubs the side of Henry's neck with his thumb as the corners of his mouth remain smugly curled. "Thankfully, you're in the right place to have all of that tended to. I've taken a shine to you, Henry, so I don't want you snapping somewhere out there, where a mistake at the wrong moment can get you killed."

The pressure of that grip increases ever-so, such that Henry can no longer easily turn his head.

"Instead, I can make sure that you snap—" and Gules points downward with his free hand "—here. Where I can help you weave the frayed ends back together afterwards."

He swallows again. "And… what might that look like?"

Gules exhales slowly as his expression takes on a calculating edge. Then, his hand moves down from Henry's jaw to his throat proper, and there he squeezes. Hard.

Henry doesn't quite realize what's happening until his next attempt to breathe fails him. Then, confusion and shock inhibit his reactions, so that he just stands there stupidly while Gules chokes him. By the time he lifts hands shaking with a growing panic and grabs Gules's wrist to try to dislodge him, he has begun to feel dizzy from a lack of air. Strength refuses to flow to his arms to wrestle Gules off of him. So, wracking his tumbling brain, all Henry can think to do is tap Gules's forearm repeatedly and with force, the way a brawler would signal surrender.

As if he had been waiting for just that, Gules releases him. Henry coughs and gasps and blinks away speckles of dancing color, before he looks at Gules with more than a little accusation. Gules, however, seems altogether pleased.

"That's what it might look like," he explains, "though a hand around your neck is hardly the only option. And you even figured out on the spot how you could tell me to ease off." A rumbling chuckle almost like the purr of a cat. "Clever boy."

Well… now that he understands the situation, Henry isn't all that irked about it. Still: "A warning might have been nice."

"You don't want warnings," Gules counters. "You want to be handled — used, even — until you can't hold yourself together anymore."

Gules leaves Henry a space to claim that this isn't so, but Henry swallows down his objections. Because he had enjoyed it when Pious had taken charge, bent him over, and done the bulk of the work for their mutual pleasure. So Henry senses the truth of Gules's words, even if they are revealing things that he himself hadn't quite known yet.

"So," Gules concludes, "I intend to push you — to wring you for all you're worth, if I have to. And after that, this," and he taps the center of Henry's forehead with the pad of his finger, "will go quiet."

That tiny point of contact feels abnormally warm on Henry's face, even after Gules lowers his hand.

Finally, Gules presses the question: "Are you willing to trust me with that?"

That heat begins to spread through him like a drop of dye in a tub of water.

"…Yes, sir. I am."

With a smile, Gules pushes him against the door and kisses him again like he had at the tree: rough and hungry. Then, when they break for air, Gules gives an order.

"Take off your clothes."

In spite of himself, Henry momentarily balks. "What, all of them?"

"All of them. I want you to fold them and put them on top of the basket there," nodding at the corner opposite from the cooking fire, where a woven basket with a lid sits. "It'll make finding your things simpler in the morning."

Well… that's easy enough, isn't it?

"Yes, sir."

Gules pats his cheek twice. "Good lad." Then he steps away and takes a leisurely seat upon the edge of the bed, making it eminently clear that he intends to watch.

With nerves raising gooseflesh on his arms, Henry laughs lightly. "I pray you're not hoping for some kind of show, sir. I'd make for a poor bathmaid."

"I don't want a bathmaid," Gules assures him. "I want you."

That response has Henry flushing more than he would have expected.

"You don't have to make a show of it, lad. Just strip, and I'll enjoy the view from here."

So he does. Even so, his awareness of Gules's eyes on him makes him fumble with buttons and drawstrings more than once. So as not to end up with a messy pile to sort out at the tail-end, he folds each article of clothing as he removes it, stacking them next to him on the rough stone floor. It's all rather straightforward, really.

But when he is at last down to his braies, he hesitates. For long enough that Gules reiterates the command.

"All of them, boy."

…He doesn't understand. This had seemed so easy moments ago — why is he now paralyzed by shame? He wants this, and yet…!

He hears movement, but can't lift his eyes from his shaking fingers where they hover at the gathered tie of his smallclothes. By his next trepidatious breath, Gules has enfolded him in his arms, and the rub of his pourpoint against Henry's back provides a comforting texture. Not nearly as much as that of Gules's beard upon his cheek, though.

"Shall I help you?" Gules asks, and it isn't unkindly.

His throat having gone dry, Henry simply nods.

Gules covers Henry's hands with his own, squeezes them, and then guides them to hang passively at Henry's sides. Then, Gules pinches the tie of Henry's braies and loosens the knot until it comes apart. But, while the gathered fabric still retains most of its shape, Gules presses his left palm to Henry's lower stomach and then slides it steadily down, underneath— out of sight, but most certainly not out of Henry's mind.

The sound he makes when Gules first touches him is breathy and pitched, and he leans back against the solid frame of Gules's body instinctively.

"There you are," and the smugness of that voice ripples through him. "Now, take these off like I told you to, and you'll get a reward."

It's the push he needs. Without much grace, Henry pulls at his braies until they drop of their own accord, then kicks them toward the stack of his clothes.

Gules hums with approval. "Good." Very slowly, he begins to caress Henry's cock, keeping his touch near the base of the shaft and the balls. At the same time, the other hand catches Henry's chin and persuades him to relax his jaw. Then, two fingers slip into his open mouth and fondle his tongue. Then three, then four. With them pressed so far back that Henry has to fight the urge to gag, he's less sucking on Gules's hand and more slobbering on it, all while unable to stop little jerks of his hips, seeking more from the attention to his rapidly-filling erection.

"Patience, lad," that steady voice soothes in his ear. "I'll give you what you want."

When Gules's left hand leaves contact with him, Henry whines, but in short order the right one takes its place, shiny with saliva as it wraps around Henry and starts to stroke him properly. Henry doesn't have enough presence of mind anymore to be embarrassed about the bit of drool sticking to his chin — all he can do is watch while Gules works him with sharp, sure movements. As the pleasure builds, Henry's knees threaten to wobble again, so he rests more of his weight upon the other man.

This must please Gules, because he murmurs, "Good boy," into Henry's cheek. Then, Gules's free arm loops around his ribs, firmly enough that Henry is confident it could hold him up if his legs do give out. Something about that certitude heightens his sensations, and when Gules rubs the head of his cock, he moans tightly.

"Not long now, I reckon," Gules eggs him. "Come on, sweet boy. Come for me."

Henry's hands scrabble to brace against Gules's thighs behind him, and from that bit of extra leverage he thrusts forward into Gules's hand. Within a dozen more strokes, Henry can feel his climax bearing down upon him, but for a few rapid heartbeats he resists it, because he doesn't want this to be over so quickly.

"Come for me," Gules repeats, with more authority this time. "Do as I say, boy. It only gets better from here. Come."

So, with little else for it, he does. He spills with enough force that it streams from him in an arc before landing on the floor. And watching Gules milk him for every drop of it takes that last linchpin of stability out from his legs, so that he is left simultaneously heavy and weightless in the other man's embrace. Bassy mutterings of praise grace his hearing throughout, and once he is finally spent, Gules kisses his cheek with surprising tenderness.

"There's a good lad. Very good."

Fuck, that beard is going to be the death of him.

With no small amount of bonelessness from him, Gules walks the two of them to the bed and sits, maneuvering Henry onto his lap. Henry drops his head back upon Gules's shoulder with a sigh, and then with a breathless laugh.

"Good God," he gapes.

Gules laughs, too. "I'll let you catch your breath for a moment. Wouldn't want you running out of spirit too quickly, after all." And he kisses Henry's temple with that same unexpected softness. "Plenty yet to get to."

As he lazes there, Henry digests what's happened. Well, for one thing, Gules's implication that Henry would enjoy having things done to him, rather than being the one doing them, bears up. Even his best wank under his own power couldn't measure up to what Gules had just drawn out of him. For another thing, even though Henry hates losing and surrendering almost as much as he hates running, he hasn't begrudged one bit of Gules's handling of him. The arm around his torso holds him so closely that it's almost constricting his lungs, and yet somehow that makes it all the better.

What peculiar things Henry is learning about himself.

"All right," he mumbles at last, "I think I'm good."

A grunt from Gules. "Right," and the arm releases him. "Put your clothes where I told you to, then come back."

As Henry moves to obey, a thought occurs to him, and he voices it. "Aren't you going to take off any of your clothes, sir?"

Gules smirks crookedly. "I'll get to that. For right now, there's a certain, hmm, ambiance that this—" gesturing between Henry and himself, and the disparate state of their clothing "—creates, and I'm enjoying it."

"What, like…" He searches for the words to express what Gules might be getting at. Drawing on recent memory, all he can think of is his helplessness while being half-naked in the pillory. Obviously, worlds apart in tone, and yet… "A difference in power?"

The smile spreads. "Clever boy."

Henry hadn't noted this before, but he does now: his chest flares with warmth when Gules praises him. Huh. Discovery number three.

When he returns from depositing the pile of his clothes on top of the basket, Gules motions for Henry to stand in front of him. For a few quiet breaths, Gules simply looks him over, and Henry has remote sympathy for a piece of meat at market. Weathered fingertips skate across his skin, until they linger at a scar.

"Where'd you get this?" Gules asks evenly. Gently, even.

It's the pock on his left thigh — the first real scar he'd ever gotten. How can those events simultaneously feel so long ago and yet haunt his dreams like it was only yesterday?

"I was fleeing on horseback from the Cumans that slaughtered my home. One of them got an arrow in me before I made it to the next town."

Gules nods, solemn. "The one like it on your back is still healing. The ambush at Rocktower Pond, I take it?"

"…Aye." But thinking of the ambush leads to thinking of all that had continued to go wrong after that. Particularly, to Hans's cruel farewell.

"Ah-ah," Gules cuts in. "Put that brat out of your mind."

Henry colors with the embarrassment of his thoughts having been so obviously read on his face.

Those fingers trace several of the less distinctive scars, too: the nicks and slices that have snuck past Henry's armor at various points these past months. Half of the time, he doesn't tend to them past the initial bandaging, so they heal in whatever motley natural fashion takes its course. Some cleanly, others not so much.

"Fucking twenty summers," Gules mutters.

There's more compassion there than Henry would have expected from a man running rampant as a robber baron mere weeks ago. And since digging around in the soft parts of himself is uncomfortable, he falls back on snark.

"I hope that's not the sound of you getting put off now."

Sure enough, the crook of Gules's smirk returns. "Not at all. It's just all the more reason to take proper care of you. To that point," and he straightens in his seat upon the bed. "On your knees, boy."

A small surge of relief wells up in Henry as he does so. Playing these games with Gules is much, much easier compared to discussing his scars (or worse, the wounds unseen that lie beneath them, unmended and bleeding still.)

Gules runs one hand through Henry's hair and gives a chunk of the longer section a single tight tug. The sharp sensation brings a bit of thrill with it, and Henry's heartbeat picks up.

"Right," Gules begins with a low hum. "You took my fingers well enough. I reckon a clever boy like you can figure out what comes after that."

His eyes drift down to where Gules's pourpoint obscures any indication of his current state of arousal.

"I have some idea," he muses, unable to fight a grin.

Gules huffs. "Eager, are we?"

Henry's gaze flicks back up to meet Gules's. "Well… maybe a little."

With a bemused sound, Gules adjusts his fistful of Henry's hair. "Well, boy, since you asked about me undressing, I'll humor you just a tad. Help me out of these clothes enough that I can have you — I'll direct you with the particulars." An extra chuckle. "You are a squire, are you not?"

Thus challenged, Henry approaches the task with as much professionalism as one can muster when one is naked on one's knees. At Gules's following instructions, he unbuttons the pourpoint, then he unties the braies and pulls at the bunched linen until he can see.

The hair on Gules's body is even darker than Henry's. Thick and curly, it draws his eye in a satisfying trail from his navel to his groin. And Henry is more than a little pleased that the man's cock is well on its way to standing proud.

"Good lad." With that, Gules shifts to put more of his weight on his feet, propped against the edge of the bed more than sitting there properly. "Now, I'm going to push and pull your pretty head to my liking. All you have to do is give yourself to me."

Henry gulps. "Won't I choke?"

Gules laughs, but not cruelly. "Not necessarily. The trick is to keep swallowing. When you feel like you'll choke or gag, make yourself swallow instead. Understand?"

That sounds simple enough in theory, but in practice may be entirely different. Still, he answers with, "Yes, sir."

"Good. There's no shame if you can't take it, but I'd quite like to see those lips of yours stretched around me."

Based on the coal of excitement sparking to life in Henry's gut, he'd like to experience that, too. "I'll do my best, sir."

The grip in his hair momentarily softens into a caress. "Such a good boy."

Gules pulls him forward, so that no mistake can be made as to what he wants Henry to do next. Henry frames the base of the ready cock between his forefinger and thumb and works up a little salivation as he guides the half-hooded tip to his mouth. Last-second trepidation prompts him to press his lips together to kiss the flushed head rather than take it in straight-away, but Gules doesn't chide him for it. Past the slight salty-bitter taste, it's just skin. Assessing it that way calms a bit of Henry's nerves, so then he opens wide and Gules tugs him closer still.

Graciously, Gules doesn't force the whole thing into him from the start: just enough to fill Henry's mouth with hot flesh. As he adjusts, Henry finds that he doesn't feel so very removed from the satisfactory sensation of having a hot meal in his mouth — aside from figuring he should avoid getting his teeth involved here. So, he begins by rubbing his tongue against the slit so that he can acclimate further to the taste of the tiny drops that bead there; then he sucks on the head until he earns a pleased hum from Gules. A moment's eye-contact is sufficient to tell the good sir that Henry is ready for more. So more Henry gets.

The first dip does in fact make him choke and splutter, but on the second attempt he exerts mind over matter and ushers the heat further in by swallowing. Even then, his awareness of Gules's cock pressing against the back of his throat is overpowering. Willing his body to fight its self-preservational instincts takes such focus that he trembles and breaks out in a cold sweat. At this rate, Henry doubts he can make it to the base.

But Gules must be watching him carefully, because that hand in his hair seems to know just when to pull him up before being held down becomes too much for him. Going a little deeper each time, holding for a little longer — maybe it's not so impossible after all. At least… Henry wants to rise to Gules's expectations.

"You're in a state down there," Gules comments, grinning. "It's all you can do not to gag, isn't it, poor boy. But you're doing well. Keep going."

Henry takes those words of praise and wraps his strength of endurance in them. He's managed to breathe well enough through his nose, but it still doesn't seem like his lungs are working at full capacity. A haziness is creeping in along the edges of his vision, leaving him slightly dizzy.

"Right," says Gules not long after. "Time for all of it."

One more inch or so might not seem like much, but when that inch pushes its way down one's throat, so snugly that a burning stretch consumes one's senses, it's plenty. Even without entering the full panic of choking, Henry's body convulses around the intrusion, and his eyes water. His hands spasm where they perch at Gules's hipbones as the sensation of being all but denied breath seizes him. He can barely even hear Gules praise the sight of him as beautiful past the drumbeat of blood in his ears. Then, just as he begins to search for Gules's arm to signal for a reprieve, the grip loosens, allowing him to pull up and off so that he can cough properly. He has a vague awareness of Gules petting his head as he sits there, hacking and gasping and shivering from head to toe, and the other hand cups his sweaty cheek, rubbing the ridge of the bone with a weathered thumb.

"Hanging in there?" Gules checks, as Henry's world slowly comes back into focus. "I'd love to fuck your mouth before we move on," accompanied by a small roll of his hips.

Consciously, Henry takes in a deep breath, holds it for several seconds, and then lets it out. This succeeds in calming him. Now that he's taken the plunge one time, the next might be easier.

"Yes, sir."

It's not much easier. Henry still has to fight his own body as soon as Gules pushes his cock past the root of his tongue, but the beginning of a rhythm draws him in, giving him something to fixate on. More than once, he whimpers when Gules thrusts into him, but his adrenaline slowly figures itself out and circles back around to excitement. There is, Henry reasons (in the part of his brain that is still bothering with reason while his throat is stuffed with cock), something blissful about power being taken from him like this. About being used for another man's pleasure and knowing that the man using him likes what he sees. So he takes every instance of mastering himself, of discipline exerted so that Gules can do with him as he likes, as a small victory.

By the time Gules lets him up again, Henry is woozy and shaking twofold. His face is damp with tears and sweat, and his own cock hangs heavy between his thighs. Gules cradles his sore jaw with a tender grasp and watches him pant for several fevered heartbeats before nodding with approval. Henry notices that Gules is a little flushed and winded himself, which is its own kind of satisfying: knowing that he'd had some effect on this unflappable man.

"Very good," Gules purrs. "I was tempted to spill down your pretty throat, but… maybe another time."

There could be another time? Henry's heart does a somersault just from thinking about that.

As he continues to recover his balance and senses, Henry watches Gules stand and go to a trunk at the foot of the bed, where he retrieves a woolen blanket and an earthenware bottle. The blanket, Gules spreads on the floor beside Henry; the bottle, he uncorks.

"Come here, boy," pointing to the space designated by the blanket.

Henry doesn't have the self-consciousness left to be embarrassed by the fact that he crawls there on all fours.

Gules meets him by crouching and catching a fresh fistful of Henry's hair to pull him into a fervid kiss. If the man tastes any of himself on Henry's tongue, he doesn't draw any attention to it. Once he draws back, Gules returns to his full height and circles Henry to stand behind him.

"God, the sight of you. You look damn near divine like this."

The compliment sends a shiver through him. Moments later, one of Gules's hands alights between his shoulder blades and presses down. Henry yields to the force until his chest and face rub against the blanket, but his legs remain propped up at the knees.

"Stay," Gules commands.

"…Am I a dog now, sir?"

A bemused snort. "Whatever helps you behave, lad."

Henry can't stop a grin of his own, even if it's mostly hidden in the blanket. "I'll behave."

"I'm glad to hear it. You'd be missing out on the main event otherwise." At which point the hand at his back flows along the center-line of Henry's body until it traces the cleft of his arse. "Aside from that: try to relax."

Easier said than done, but he hums acknowledgement and intently slows his breathing. After the hand withdraws, Henry hears the sound of the bottle's contents pouring and then of palms rubbing together. He backtracks to reason that Gules must have knelt in order to touch him a moment ago, and soon enough he feels Gules's legs nudge against the outsides of his calves. The slide of oiled fingers up his taint has Henry biting his lip, and he whines softly when they draw a perimeter around his furled entrance. Gules's other hand claims one half of his rump, pulling to the side to spread him. The pressure of those dancing fingers steadily increases, until the pad of the middle one is notched into the center of that ring of muscle, poised for entry proper.

"Relax, boy," Gules repeats.

Is he not? Oh. He doubles down on trying to will tension out of his body. That must be what Gules had been wanting, because on one of Henry's measured exhales, that finger slips inside.

It isn't as jarring as Henry had been expecting it to be. Strange, yes. Painful, not so much. With little further finagling, Henry can feel the rub of Gules's knuckles against his arse, which means the whole finger must be in. And after a few pulses, one becomes two. Here, the strangeness begins to realign toward something resembling pleasant sensations, especially when Gules spreads the two fingers on the draw-back, opening him wider.

At some point, he starts letting out the odd whimper, half-muffled by his bitten lip. The ministrations of Gules's fingers speed up, and then the curling of them scrapes across something. Something that triggers a jolt of need and just enough of taste of bliss to whet Henry's appetite for it. The cry that escapes him is louder there, and at it Gules stills… and then removes his fingers. Without even meaning to, Henry shifts backward, chasing contact.

"Don't worry, sweet boy." Gules's hands catch his hips and hold him still as the hot flesh Henry had last had in his mouth presses to his vacated hole, which might just twitch with the anticipation of latching on to a new occupant. "I won't leave either of us unsatisfied."

Past Henry's rapid heartbeats, all he can register is heat and fullness as Gules claims him. His lip having slipped free of his teeth, his mouth hangs open in a strangled moan. Both the temperature and the stretch are so much greater than before, such that he breaks into a fresh outpouring of sweat. For the first few minutes, Henry tries to scoot forward, as if to escape the overwhelming sensations, but Gules keeps him from going far. If anything, he uses these attempts to pull Henry back onto himself and drive deeper. By the time Gules has fully sheathed, Henry fears he might stop breathing. It could be his imagination, but he swears he can feel each pulse of Gules's blood through his cock where the veins are flush against him inside. And as he trembles and keens, he must tense up, because Gules lets out a hiss.

"Christ, boy, you'll squeeze a man to death before he's even started. How many times do I have to tell you to relax?"

Even when he tries to breathe out slowly, it stutters, pushing him to gasp and therein defeat the purpose. "All due respect, sir," he protests, and not without a hitch in his voice, "you try relaxing with a cock up your arse for the first time."

Gules laughs at that. "Cheeky lad. But you make a point, so let me help you."

Before Henry can ask how Gules intends to do so, the warmth of the other man's body unfolds across his back, prickling him with that curly hair and culminating in that damnably nice beard rubbing against his shoulder.

"The sooner you adjust to this, the sooner it gets even better. So, a little distraction can go a long way." And on cue, those weathered hands, still marginally slick with oil, slide over his torso, raising gooseflesh and earning a low whine. One settles at his chest, and the other at his shaft. The former does more work than the latter, fondling his tits intently with only the occasional slow stroke to his cock. Regardless, the combination does its work: Henry's head feels like feathers are being stuffed into it, making cohesive thought more difficult. Soon enough, Gules is able to move his hips more freely — a development for which he rewards Henry by beginning to thrust into him in earnest.

"There you go, boy," he murmurs in Henry's ear, kissing the sweaty skin just behind it. "Just give yourself to me like this. I'll fuck every thought out of your pretty head."

Much like he had with Henry's mouth, Gules pounds into him with little gentleness. But, by the same token, Henry thinks he prefers it this way. There isn't much leverage for him to move with Gules draped over him, but that, too, heightens the sense of surrender. But there is one point on which Henry rouses his remaining thinking power from hazy bliss, just after a press of Gules's cockhead upon his inner wall elicits the same euphoric signal from deep within him as his fingers had earlier.

"Wh–!" he therefore babbles. "What is that?"

Gules snorts. "Sodomite sorcery, didn't you know?" And, as if to prove his point, Gules snaps his hips in quick succession to stoke that fire in Henry into a growing blaze. "And since you're responding so well when I give that magical spot attention, it must be proof that you were made to take cock, boy."

Henry can't decipher how he could possibly be made for that when sodomy is said to go against the natural order, but his heart overrules his head and flutters with delight at the thought of purpose. He's moaning so much now that he's drooling onto the blanket. As Gules's breathing beside his ear becomes more ragged and his thrusts less steady, the hand which had rested near Henry's cock now travels up to his neck and gives one light pulse of a squeeze. Asking permission.

"Yes," he gasps, understanding the unspoken request. "Oh, fuck, please, yes!"

When Gules chokes him this time, Henry doesn't fight it. If he's supposed to be giving himself over to the other man's authority, then that includes his very breath. The mindless buzz that fills his head is then punctuated by a long grunt from Gules, followed immediately by hot wet painting his insides. The little air he has crawls out of him as a raspy whine. He's close to his own end, so he snakes one hand down to finish himself off, but Gules's grip leaves his throat to intercept, catching him by the wrist.

"No, lad," and at long last Gules sounds less than entirely composed. "I decide when you come."

He whines again, so Gules grabs his other wrist, too, and pins the both of them behind Henry's back, sitting himself up in the process.

"Did you hear me, boy?"

As much as Henry wants to argue about it, he also suspects that the quickest route to what he wants is to bow the knee to Gules's order. So he sulks for a moment, but then replies, "Yes, sir."

"Good." Gules rocks into him a few more times before pulling out with a sigh of satisfaction. Then, he leaves one hand at Henry's wrists while the other returns to his arse and slips three fingers back inside him. "I meant what I said: I won't leave you unsatisfied."

Henry tries to push backward to get more stimulation from those fingers, but this puts a painful enough strain on his trapped arms that he stops, and Gules's thumb soothes one of his wrists as soon as he calms.

"That's right, boy. You're not to chase after this yourself. I'm giving it to you."

And only then does he begin to fuck Henry with those fingers using a speed and force comparable to that of his cock minutes prior. Where being filled with spend has left him tender, Henry squirms, but once Gules has reached that professed magical spot again, all is forgiven. Gules hooks his fingertips there repeatedly, assailing it and driving Henry to frothing madness as the great bonfire of sensation finally catches on every nerve in his body and sets him ablaze. He yells as if struck and spasms in Gules's hands. The conflagration feels so incredible that it's only after it dims back down to a simmer that Henry realizes he hasn't spent his load.

"Wh…" he all but blubbers, "How…?" Fuck, now that he's noticed it, he's so hard that it hurts. He whimpers and can't seem to stop shaking.

"Easy, lad," and there's a soft laugh under Gules's comfort. "I told you it was magic, didn't I?"

He says something more after that, but Henry can't hear it. A ringing fills his ears, and he's glad that his face is already pressed to the floor, because otherwise he might keel over. And despite his arousal standing tall, his body begins to go some kind of numb.

What finally gets through to him is having is hair tugged backward, yanking his head up and his spine into an arc.

"Still with me, Henry?"

The use of his name becomes a point of focus for a moment's clarity.

"Y… Yeah. I'm just… I dunno, I… I feel strange."

Gules hums acknowledgement. "A good strange?"

He considers it. "Mhm."

"Then I'll send you straight off the edge into that feeling, so you can soak in it for a good while. But I need you to keep listening to me until then — understand?"

Despite his disorientation, a smile tugs at Henry's lips. "Yes, sir."

"Good," and then he sets Henry's head back upon the blanket and releases it.

It's only when Gules renegotiates Henry's arms so that his hands are planted beside his face that Henry realizes the man must have let go of them in order to grab his hair just now. Amidst all the fuss of his body begging for more, there's something grounding and tender in the way Gules cradles his hands. It makes Henry want to be held by him after this — simply held, like a weary child gathered into the safety of his father's arms.

(And there he fucking goes down that line of thought again! God help him.)

"Now," Gules's voice cuts in, "I'm trusting you to keep these here and not to touch yourself. Hear me?"

Henry nods, any fight long gone. "Yes, sir."

"Good boy." Then Gules's hands settle at his hips. "Fuck, I haven't gotten hard again this quickly in ages. That's more than one fire you've lit under me, boy. I'll be sure to repay you."

Henry hums agreement. "P… Please." The throbbing ache of his cock has returned to the forefront of his attention now. "I wanna come. Please, sir, let me?"

Gules's answer is to press the blunt head of his cock into Henry once more. Every little movement is enough to make him shudder. None of it hurts, per se, but it's still so much. He can't help but wail as Gules thrusts where he's been sensitized by all that's led to this point. And past his cries, he can hear a smug running commentary.

"Fuck, you're taking me so well. Told you that you were made for this, lad. Now that you've learned what it's like to have a cock in your cunt, you won't be able to live without it, will you? Lucky for you, I'll take care of you as much as you want, sweet boy. My good boy. You can come from this, I'm sure of it. Come on, boy. You wanna come? Do it for me, just like this."

And, after Gules slams into that magical spot a few more times, he does. The fire roars to life again, this time with such searing intensity that it shoots up his neglected cock and forces him to spill at last. And once he has, it's like he can't stop. Even after emptying his release onto the blanket below, his cock spasms, trying to push out something that isn't there. The blanket under his face is damp with sweat, drool, and now tears. As his whole body convulses, his breath hitches in his lungs and burns along with the rest of him, sparking off into sharp sobs. And, as the crest of his climax stretches on and on, ringing floods his ears again, and the world goes white.

+.+.+

It hadn't worked.

Well, that is, it had. Initially. Hans had been able to go a good hour at least, after leaving the bathhouse, with his mind filled with the sensory delights of a fair wench — and blissfully empty of anything else.

But then that hour had passed, and by the time Hans had set up at his new meager campsite, he had begun to wonder how long it might take for Henry to find him this time. To which point he had been left torn over whether or not he would want Henry to find him.

His chin rests on his palm as he stares into his small fire, just enough to produce a comfortable warmth and dryness against the backdrop of the otherwise clammy night, and there he ponders. He'd decided on his plan by which to come around to forgiving Henry eventually, after the mission is over, but… is that really what he wants to do? He tries to recall Henry's expression from their meeting this morning, but, honestly, he hadn't really looked him in the eye.

…Why does he now wish he had? It's only been a matter of days and weeks since they'd parted ways — surely that's not enough time for Hans to forget that idiot's face, or any some such. He can only remember Henry wearing a tight frown, like he was holding back from what he really wanted to say. Probably the lecture he'd refrained from spouting at Hans in the pillory, when he'd opted for silence instead. The prospect hardly fills Hans with joy.

He only closes his eyes for a moment.

"…s. Hans."

Oh, no. Had thinking of the devil summoned him?

"Sir Hans?"

He looks up, and sure enough. There stands Henry, frowning and uncharacteristically fidgety. Had he snuck up while Hans had dozed off just now?

"What do you want?" Hans snaps, perhaps more coldly than strictly necessary.

"I…" Henry bites his lip before continuing. "I can't just leave things like this."

"Oh? Well. Bully for you, because I've made my decision, and you can deal with that."

"Sir Hans, please. What would I have to do to earn your forgiveness? I'd do anything to make things right between us."

Hans guffaws and pushes up to his feet, turning his back on Henry and busying himself with some made-up search through his pack just so that he doesn't have to look at him. "So, if I told you to grovel and suck my cock, you would?"

It had been meant as a cruel joke. He doesn't expect to hear a leaf-muffled thud from right behind him, much less to whirl back around to find Henry on his knees and looking up at him with those big cow eyes welling with penitence.

"I would," he says, so quietly that Hans can barely hear it.

Hans's heart promptly breaks into a gallop.

"…Oh." Having thrown the gauntlet down, he can't exactly retract it, so… "Well, then… I guess you'll have to prove it."

Never breaking eye-contact with him, Henry slides his hands up Hans's thighs, under his tunic, over the gathered band of his braies, and—!

And then Hans startles awake when his chin slips out of his palm.

It takes him a good half a minute for him to put together that, one, he'd fallen asleep, and, two, he'd dreamed of Henry. And not just any kind of dream — no, no, no, no — he'd gone and dreamed of Henry about to give him head! The indignity!

"…Are you fucking serious?" he can't help but hiss in disbelief.

And, oh, it only gets worse when he shifts on this log he's been sitting on and realizes that his face isn't the only thing that's gotten flushed and hot from yet another ridiculous Henry-centered imagining.

"Are you fucking serious!?" he shouts at his traitorous pizzle.

This isn't fair! He's so angry at Henry — why on God's green earth would that allow him to keep having entirely inappropriate thoughts about him!? It defies all reason and sense and… and…

And Hans still slips his sword-hand down his braies. Still lets his disloyal imagination lead him back to the picture from that dream. Henry, on his knees, willing to do anything for him. With how much food that buffoon inhales on a daily basis, his mouth must be like a smith's forge that constantly needs to consume fuel. And, accordingly, it must run hotter than a bathwench's. His own hand can't compare, but he holds the idea of the sensation in his mind. How would Henry's lips wrap around him? How quickly would his long lashes grow damp with tears from trying not to choke? Would he hold Hans's gaze the whole time, or would his eyes roll back as he lost himself in the taste of Hans's cock? Would he take to it so easily that Hans would be able to fuck his throat like a cunt?

It takes mortifyingly little time for these embarrassing thoughts to undo him. And even after he releases with several spurts so strong they almost hurt, accompanied by wrung-out moans, the floating feeling of pleasure puts before him the image of Henry's face striped with his spend. He'd probably look so pathetic and docile that Hans would have to forgive him after all.

"…Fuck you, Henry," he mutters, but the tone isn't quite the same as before.

He really is losing his mind, isn't he. At least, that's better than the alternative. He has to get to the bottom of this insanity, whenever his path and Henry's next cross. There can be no giveaway of his doubts. He has to be firm, dignified and knightly, towering over his squire until the insubordinate peasant accepts that he's to blame for this whole debacle. That's the only way Hans can salvage his pride. He's already been too lax, throwing the distinctions of class aside and making a commoner his friend. (His best friend, no less… not that there's really any competition for the ranking.) Noble's bastard or not, Henry has already gotten too close. Hans has brought him too close. And, to his own chagrin, the absence of that idiot has left a bigger hole than Hans would ever have expected.

Hans glares down at his offending seed splattered on the ground, then scuffs at the dirt with his boot to cover it up. There's too much at stake for him to get wound up about Henry, in any regard. The best course of action is to keep a cool head, show up at the Semine wedding, and sort all of this mess out.

And, hopefully, Henry will make it there in one piece, too, and Hans will be able to address other matters once he's delivered the important message to Lord von Bergow.

+.+.+

When Henry finally returns to himself, he's lying on his side upon a softer surface than the blanket-covered stone floor. Even then, a haze hangs over all of his senses, and his body is sluggish as he adjusts his position. He means to roll over toward his back, but what he actually does is lean upon a warm body. Oh.

"Gules?" He sounds hoarse with even that single word.

"Back with me, are you?" Weathered knuckles find his left arm and begin to graze up and down the upper half of it. "How do you feel?"

Words to describe that prove rather difficult, so he settles on, "Strange."

"Still a good strange?"

"…I think so? It's just all a bit… much."

The mattress (because Henry's powers of observation are slowly putting together that this is indeed what is under him now) shifts as Gules sits up behind him. "Are you in pain anywhere?"

He tests a couple small movements, and the only one that makes him wince is that of his left shoulder.

"Ah," Gules notes, "I may have been a little rash in twisting that arm when you're still healing."

"I have, um…" It takes much more effort than usual to bring the right concoction's name to his mind. "Buck's blood potion. In my bag."

"Right. I'll get it. In the meantime, drink some water," and he points to the appointed skin which hangs on a peg within reach.

With a little shuffling, Henry grabs the waterskin and sips from it, for which his dry throat thanks him. "What time is it?" he rasps. "How long was I… What happened?"

That gets a laugh from Gules as he exhumes Henry's pouch from the stack of clothes. "You snapped, just like I planned. For the first few minutes, you were bawling your eyes out. But once you got through that? Tame as a lamb. As for how long? Hm, maybe a quarter of an hour — enough for me to tidy up while I waited for you to rouse."

Henry tries to recall this sequence of events, but everything is a blur, almost like what happens when he gets too drunk. "I'll take your word for it."

As he watches Gules rummage in his bag, however, an uncomfortable pinch catches somewhere near his navel, or perhaps deeper than that, and it leaves the room feeling too large. Gules, too far away.

"You," Henry finds himself saying, a tad too rapidly to come across as wholly calm, "You're not going anywhere, right?"

Gules pauses in his search and looks back at him with the solemnity one might more normally associate with oaths.

"I'm not going anywhere, Henry. I'll look after you."

That invocation moors him, even as the space around him grows cold without the other man's proximity and Henry hugs himself to suppress a shiver. He can feel the folds of a rucked blanket with his toes, but he hasn't the energy to reach for it.

"Ah, found it," Gules announces.

As he returns to the bedside with the potion, Henry's embarrassingly slowed brain finally notifies him of an important development.

"You finally took off your clothes."

Or most of them, at any rate: Gules is down to his braies now.

"Well, we did work up a fine sweat, and I for one plan to get some shut-eye before much longer. Right: lie on your front, lad. I'll put some of this on your shoulder."

Once Henry does so, Gules settles across the backs of his thighs and begins to apply the buck's blood as a salve around the area of his injury. Rather than leaving it at that, though, Gules segues into massaging his upper back as a whole. Henry sighs with relief as he can feel the knots in his muscles unable to do anything but yield, and Gules chuckles in response.

"Been a while since you had someone pampering you, I take it?"

"Yeah. Months."

"Damn good thing I'm taking care of you, then."

"Mm." After a few quiet breaths, he then adds, "Thank you. For all this."

"Agh, don't mention it. I should be thanking you for the pleasant company." Another chuckle. "Makes a man feel young again."

"You're not that old."

"Old enough to be your father, though."

"God Almighty…" And, to that point, the straw stuffing that lingers in his brain pushes a question out, one that earlier he hadn't dared voice: "Does it make me strange that I… like that?"

Gules laughs, but there's compassion behind it. "We're sodomites, boy. We're already strange. So I reckon you're no more so for a couple extra specificities."

"Well, I mean, it's not only…" After all, Hans is roughly the same age as himself, and Pious hadn't seemed much older. "That is… Agh, fuck, I can't put my thoughts together properly."

"Then you can mull it over for a while and give me the tidied version when I see you next."

That's the second time that Gules has dropped the implication that this is not a one-time arrangement. That seems important to clarify.

"Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"See you… again?"

Gules gives his shoulders a particularly firm squeeze. "I certainly wouldn't turn you away. Besides, loads more to teach you still."

Henry perks up at that. "There's more?"

The laugh Gules lets loose then is full and hearty. "Did you really think I'd be able to show you every facet of sodomy in a single evening? God's wounds, boy!"

Still snickering, he taps Henry's back with finality. "Right, reckon that's as good as it'll get for tonight. We can put some more on if it's still giving you trouble in the morning."

The swelling-combating effects of the potion are already at work, as a rudimentary roll of his shoulder informs him. "Oh, that's much better, thanks."

"My pleasure."

As Henry repositions back onto his side, Gules makes one last sweep of the room, dousing the cooking fire down to the embers and sinking the cottage into a warm dimness. Then, as he climbs into the bed once more, he grabs the blanket and pulls it up over the two of them.

Thankfully, the bed in this cottage is wide enough that they don't have to pile on top of each other in order to fit, but Henry can still feel the heat of Gules's body close behind him as they settle. Even so, that pinched feeling from earlier returns, putting him at something less than ease.

"May I make a request?" he asks quietly, angling to follow where that feeling leads.

"All politeness now, are we?" A chuckle. "Go on."

What he'd thought of before returns to his mind, with such potency that it all but chokes him up with longing for it.

"…Hold me?"

It's a little pitiable, he knows. He sounds like a small boy, ashamed of a fear of being left alone and seeking to be reassured.

Gules doesn't mock him for it. He simply wraps his arms around Henry and pulls him flush, back to chest. A sensation of safety soaks into Henry from every inch of skin on skin, and he thinks that, if Gules asked him to do anything in that moment, he would, without question. That beard against his neck is definitely a factor in this drugging effect.

"How do you grow a beard that nice?" he can't stop himself from asking.

Gules snorts. "Time. If it's any consolation, I couldn't get a full one to come in until, oh, twenty-five."

"Guess I'll have to stay alive long enough to find out for myself, then."

"I'll hold you to that, lad."

For several peaceful minutes, he thinks the needling hook of dissatisfaction has been dislodged. But then, it sneaks back in, like a persistent itch. He tries to put words to what feels lacking, praying that it won't come out sounding like ingratitude.

"Gules?"

"Hm?"

"Is it… normal, after sex, to feel kind of… empty inside?"

When there isn't an immediate response, Henry worries that he's put his foot in it.

"It can happen," Gules responds at last. "Would you like some help with that?"

"How so?"

"Well, there's only so much I can do about any emptiness here," rubbing Henry's chest, "but there's definitely something I can do about any emptiness…" to which his left hand trails down to cup Henry's arse, "here."

Despite his overall sluggishness, Henry catches on to that much quickly enough, and the tug in his gut keens for the idea. "Oh. I… yeah. Yes, please, if it's not too much to ask."

Gules hums into his neck. "I can hardly refuse such a polite and earnest boy."

He temporarily withdraws from Henry and pushes the blanket down to their thighs as he continues, "It's a good thing I kept that potion close at hand for the morning."

Henry can't stop a snort. "Are you sure you want to put something that reduces swelling on your cock?"

That makes Gules snort, too. "Oh, trust me, lad, I've used stranger things to smooth passage before."

In mere minutes, Gules is spreading him and pressing inside. Perhaps being so tired makes it easier for Henry to relax around him, or perhaps their previous fun had just left an impression of Gules's shape within him. Either way, the fullness that claims him once more scratches that damnable itch.

"Oh," he sighs contentedly, "Mother of God. Maybe you were right, before."

"About?"

"That I'm not gonna be able to live without this anymore."

Gules laughs gently. "Don't you fret about that. You can come to me as often as you like."

Hearing that is more comforting than Henry can express, beyond, "Thank you."

Gules kisses his neck in answer.

After a span of quiet (and no movement), Henry does ask, "What now?"

"There's no rush," Gules answers. "We can stay like this as long as you want." A low chuckle. "Honestly, the thought of unexaggeratedly having you the entire night sounds like heaven."

Henry hums in agreement. "For me, too."

"Then that's what we'll do."

So Gules puts the blanket to rights back up over them again and pulls Henry against him like before. The entirety of the embrace puts any prospect of planning for tomorrow out of his head, in favor of simply absorbing each sensation of contact between them. There's some bit of Scripture that says tomorrow can worry about itself, right? He'll leave tomorrow's problems, the petulant Hans Capon included, for tomorrow's Henry.

Before he can quite drift off, however, Gules presses lips to his ear and speaks softly, but with intent.

"My turn to make a request."

A small bubble of excitement rises within him. "Go on."

"I want to have you again before you set foot out of this bed in the morning." He gives one slow roll of his hips in illustration. "I'm already in position, after all."

Henry's toes curl under the blanket at the prospect, and he grins like a giddy fool.

"Deal."