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With one hand on his sword and the other curled at his side, Henry looks around the room. The fine banqueting hall is full of chatter, nobles discussing - well, whatever it is they talk about when a war isn't on. Tonight, for once, he doesn’t have to care.
He's acting in official capacity this evening: not as a false noble, but as Lord Capon’s bodyguard. Which means that while Hans gets to strut about the hall in his obscenely tight pourpoint, Henry has been dressed head to toe in the finest armour Capon can afford.
Which means, of course, that it is very fine.
Hans knows the difference between armour where the expense comes from aesthetics and that which is actually useful, at least. The armour is surprisingly light, well made and moveable. But there's still a stiff layer of metal between Henry and the rest of the world: between him and Hans’s flesh.
Hans himself is in his element this evening. He swans about like he owns the room, chatting up nobles and charming serving girls. Once, it would have made Henry jealous, watching Hans pour his attention upon other people. But now that bite is gone: Hans is his, just as much as he belongs to Hans.
He knows full well that Hans is aware of this, too. It's a fight with no true sting. He may be whispering into the ear of a blushing kitchen girl, but he's looking at Henry, waiting for a response.
Even Hans’s smiles are filthy. After the initial shock of consummation - something that left them both softly reeling - Hans is back to being his true, typical, randy self. And now uninterested in a string of bath wenches and merchant's daughters and eager ladies, the full unconstrained force of Hans’s passion is pointed squarely at Henry. Henry has never been in a joust, but he suspects the the feeling he gets in his chest when Hans stares at him across the hall is akin to the feeling of being struck with a lance.
It's addictive. Henry isn't some pure untouched virgin, but it's never been like this.
He watches as Hans detaches himself from a group of lords and saunters over. Henry lets himself drink in the sight of him, his hair falling in his face, that God-cursed waist. Hans is looking at him with equal hunger. Henry swallows heavily under his mail.
“Everything alright, my Lord?”
It feels a little odd using such formalities, but no one here knows them. They don't know about Lord Capon and his odd relationship with his page-turned-guard. They have to play a part, tonight.
Hans grins. His teeth flash. “Quite alright, Henry,” he replies. “Nothing to report. If anything it's quite dull.”
That it is. “No invaders today then?”
“Doesn't look like it.” Hans licks his lips and steps closer, lowering his voice. “At least, not yet. I am fully expecting an invasion…” he draws the word out, “upon my person later tonight.”
Hans reaches out - Christ, it's such a tiny movement that no one else would even notice, yet it makes Henry sweat - and rests a fingertip gently against Henry's breastplate.
“So you best be prepared.”
Henry cannot manage a true response before Hans sweeps away, immediately dragged into another conversation.
So it's going to be one of those evenings. Hans's tongue is skilled in more ways than one, but his favourite use for that particular muscle is using it to drip sweet words into Henry's ear.
Although sweet may be the wrong way to describe it. Hans speaks utter filth, and he does so constantly. It doesn't matter if they're in Hans’s chambers or on the road or in a tavern or attending a fucking feast, Hans will be there, a string of sumptuous promises tripping from his lips.
His promises are often absurd, often overblown; bawdy and keen and salacious. He is not, perhaps, the best wordsmith in Bohemia. But something about his words makes Henry trip over himself.
He takes a breath, trying to regain his composure. The chances that he'll be needed as a bodyguard are slim, but the part of his brain that is always alert is clamouring at him. Hans and his syrupy promises are of no use to either of them if they're dead.
Still, he can allow himself a little indulgence. That pourpoint really is indecent, and the new hose - which Hans claims are extremely fashionable - are so tight that the bastard may as well not be wearing any at all.
Henry shuffles on the spot, finally ripping his gaze away. It's going to be a long night.
“Henry!” Henry’s head snaps around at Hans's demanding tone. “Over here, would you?”
It seems that Hans’s requirements are for a more personal bodyguard. Henry makes his way over. Hans's smile is devilish.
It's going to be a very long night.
Henry places himself by Hans's side. Hans could be planning all manner of things: he could have detected a genuine threat, and wants Henry close. He could be showing off how important and wealthy he is to require a personal guard. Most likely, he's bored, and desperate for someone else to talk to.
The man Hans is talking to looks Henry up and down. His nose wrinkles, but he's clearly spotted the expensive armour.
“So this is the one you've been telling me about, Lord Capon? Your bodyguard?”
Showing off, then, Henry thinks.
“Indeed it is,” Hans boasts. “My God, you should see him fight. He can do things with his sword that would have a man on his knees, begging for release. He's a relentless swordsman.”
He catches Henry's eye. Hans gaze flicks down: eyes, sword, the spot where Hans damn well knows Henry's cock is half-hard behind layers of metal and cloth.
“Is such protection required at a simple banquet?”
Hans turns back to his new friend.
“You are clearly uneducated in the banquets I have attended in the past,” Hans grins. “He is absolutely required. Him and his sword.” He glances again at said sword. “I hope you brought some oil for that thing. Would hate for you to go in unprepared.”
“Absolutely,” Henry responds. “Nice and slick, sir.”
The other man doesn't seem to realise what's going on.
“Well done on finding yourself such a capable man,” he says, ignoring Henry entirely. “If only we could all be so well-guarded.”
“I count myself extremely lucky,” Hans says, preening a little. “Come, let's find more wine.”
As he leads the nobleman away, he shoots a look over his shoulder back towards Henry. He smiles, then in a slow, languid movement licks his lips.
Henry grips the hilt of his sword a little harder and follows him.
It's a short while after that Hans is sauntering towards the tables, where their hosts have laid out a fine spread. He looks at the morsels on offer, then, with deliberate slowness, takes an overripe plumb between thumb and forefinger and pops it into his mouth. Juice drips slowly down his lip. His wine-darkened tongue darts out to chase it.
Not once does he break eye contact.
“Now that looks like something I want in my mouth…”
Henry stills as Hans leans past, reaching for a plate just behind him. Hans steps closer, bending down in such a way that when he speaks, only Henry can hear him.
“Although I can think of one thing I’d prefer to have my lips around,” he says. “But the filling isn't nearly as sweet.”
He rights himself, a kolach in his hand. No one else is around: no one close enough to eavesdrop, at least.
“How long do you think it would take them to notice,” he drawls, “if I dragged you behind that curtain—” he gestures with his head, but Henry can't break his gaze— “And got on my knees for you? Do you think they’d hear you moan?”
Hans grins. God, those teeth, that forked tongue behind them. Henry can hardly breathe. It takes all his self control not to tug Hans into a kiss right there and then; to Hell itself with their unsuspecting audience. But he tightens his shoulders, sets his feet, focuses. Still, it feels like there’s a fucking fire in his belly.
Before he can mount any suitable reply, Hans leans back. He hasn’t moved that far away, yet it feels like miles.
“Bit hard with all this on, though.” Hans flicks a nail against Henry's armour with a ping. “And they'll definitely notice if you take all that off. Some poor bastard will trip over it.”
“I suppose you'll have to wait,” Henry mutters, finally regaining the ability to speak.
“Not so fast,” Hans laughs. “I bought this for you for a reason. It's got plenty of movement in the knees, I made sure of that. Your cock might be covered, but your mouth—” he looks at Henry’s mouth like it's a sugar-coated tart, ready to bite— “is perfectly serviceable.”
Fuck. Henry wishes he were as quick as Hans in this game; Hans can tease and tempt like there’s no tomorrow, but Henry’s attempts to riposte often get smothered by the fog of lust that Hans inevitably leaves his mind swimming in. Before he can respond with much more than a mumble, Hans gives him an enormous smile and heads away from the food.
“Come on, bodyguard,” he calls over his shoulder. “And grab something to eat, will you? I don’t want you complaining about how hungry you are later.”
Henry does as he’s told.
It continues like this all night. Hans is always cockier when he’s bored, and this evening - stuck with people whose most interesting stories are about escaped pigs or fucking taxes - he is extremely bored. He gets even bolder, waiting until whoever he’s speaking to has only just turned away before leaning down and muttering something to Henry, voice low and dark:
I wonder how this wine would taste licked off of your neck?
I hope you can remember how to do that thing with your fingers.
I wonder if you’ll still call me ‘My Lord’ when I’ve got my hand wrapped around your cock.
It’s terribly risky, Henry knows - any one of the guests could hear Hans and call him out. But then again, who would argue with him? Who would risk the ire of the Lord of Pirkstein over what could easily have been a misheard command? And who would risk the ire of his bodyguard?
That, he suspects, is why Hans does it. It’s the risk. He loves playing the part, getting away with something, being something other than the men around him. He loves riling Henry, too: loves heating his cheeks and boiling his blood and getting his prick stiff without even touching him.
He’s lucky that Henry loves it just as much.
The evening is, at last, coming to a close. Drunken nobles are stumbling to their rooms and horses, the hall thinning out. Hans is preparing to make the final rounds: a memorable goodbye is more important than a generous greeting, after all. He’s chatting to an elderly widow, who is keen to take him to talk to someone before he leaves, when he pauses before she can drag him away.
“One moment, my good lady. I just have something to tell my bodyguard: one can never be too careful, after all.”
She’s heard of Hans’s previous adventures. She gives him a knowing smile. “Of course, Sir.”
Hans quickly darts forwards, angling his head down towards Henry’s ear like a man bestowing a deeply important and thus, utterly secret, command.
“When we return to my room, I'm going to ride you harder than you ride your fucking horse.”
And then he lets the widow lead him away without a look back. Henry feels as if he is cooking beneath the armour. He needs to get it off before he bursts into flame. But all he can do is stand there like a fucking statue, waiting for his lord to finish his business. Every hair on his body is on end, every nerve ending alert, his palms sweaty and his mouth dry. He’s thankful, yet again, that the length and thickness of the gambeson beneath his armour conceals how obviously aroused he is.
Finally, finally, Hans does one final, maddening round of the room and comes to join Henry’s side again. He gives him a look of contrite innocence. Henry isn’t sure if he’d rather slap it off or kiss it off.
“Shall we?”
Henry doesn’t need telling twice. He’s close behind Hans all the way through the courtyard and up the staircase and into the guest chambers that Hans has been given for his stay. He wonders if Hans can feel the heat coming off of him, radiating out of his skin and off of the armour like it’s been warmed by the sun instead of the burning in his belly.
“So!” Hans claps his hands and turns around as soon as Henry has locked the door behind him. “Dice?”
Henry makes a low noise in his throat. Hans laughs.
“You’re so easy, love.”
He makes his way over, slowly, languidly; like a cat stretching in the sun. He runs a gentle hand down Henry’s jaw. It’s not nearly enough. Henry grabs him before he can resume his teasing, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him into a desperate, breathless kiss. Hans hums, allowing Henry to manhandle him, held against the sturdy metal of his armour.
The fucking armour.
“Can—” Henry breaks the kiss. “Can you help me get this stuff off?”
Hans grins. “Of course.”
He steps back. He does— nothing.
“Hans?”
Hans has that sly look back again. “Just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“How good it makes you look. Do you think you could fuck in it? Asking philosophically, of course.”
Right now, Henry doesn’t feel like he can even breathe in the armour. “I don’t know,” he says, simply.
“Maybe we should test it out.”
“Hans.”
Hans is back on him, back into the push and pull of this little dance. He kisses Henry again - softly, this time, dragging a hand around to the nape of his neck and tangling in his hair. He smooths his other hand down Henry’s armoured chest, grasping at the gambeson beneath. Henry can’t help but laugh; he won’t have much luck against the armour, no matter the strength of his desire.
“You won’t be able to—”
Hans is on his knees. The floorboards thud beneath him. Henry’s legs are dressed in hose and plate, but that doesn’t stop Hans. He reaches beneath the fabric of the gambeson, tracing his fingers beneath the edges of the armour, cupping Henry’s balls and his straining cock; or what he can cup, as trussed up as Henry is.
Henry’s breath comes out in a gasp - Hans - but Hans does not stop. He coaxes Henry even harder, apparently pleased with himself.
“You know,” he says, “I think you could fuck me like this…”
“Hans—”
“What was that?”
“Lord fucking Hans, help me out of this god damned armour so I can fuck you.”
“Oh alright.”
He stands again, swift and sure. He looks downright delighted with himself. And, Henry can tell, now they’re face to face, just as flushed and eager as Henry feels. He doesn’t draw it out, this time, but reaches up and quickly sets to work on all the straps and buckles keeping the armour in place. As it loosens around him, Henry sags, finally free, finally able to breathe. Hans even gets back to his knees to remove the leg plate, tossing it aside with a lack of care that does not match how much he’s been bragging about the expense of it all.
Now dressed only in his hose and the light undershirt that he’d worn beneath the gambeson, he tugs Hans to his feet and pulls him to his chest. Henry can feel him at last; feel the soft warmth of his body, the lithe brush of his hands. He buries his face in Hans’s neck, nipping and nibbling and coating it in little kisses. He grabs his waist, the fine fabric sliding beneath his hot palms. It’s too much to bear after an evening trapped in that maddening armour with Hans’s words pouring into his ear.
They’re both stripped in moments, the too-tight hose bundled on the floor beside Henry’s armour. They tumble onto the bed in a flurry of touches and heated kisses.
Hans slings a leg over Henry’s thighs. He perches atop him like a lord, his cock jutting, his strong arms flexing.
“Now be a good, well-trained guard,” he drawls, “and get that sword of yours ready for me.”
Henry grabs his hips, fingers digging into his flesh. “As you say, my Lord.”