Archive of Our Own

Henry listened to king Sigismund and Markvrat’s plan unfold before him. His mind raced, grasping at any possible way out—he had to leave, had to reach Raborsch and warn the others. Sir Radzig, Godwin, Lord Hanush… and Hans. Hans, who had just reclaimed his freedom, unaware that he was once again in danger.

Then there was Samuel and Lichtenstein—they needed to know about the planned attack on the Jewish quarter. Sigismund had given the council two weeks to carry out his orders, and Henry prayed they would squabble and shake in their boots long enough for him to reach his allies first. But with von Aulitz breathing down their necks and Erik gathering his forces he did not have much hope.

“Soon we will drink to the conquest of another fortress! More wine for the king, boy, so we can drink to our victory,” Markvrat barked from where he perched on one of the council tables.

Henry felt sweat bead at his temples, jolting him from his thoughts. Shit . He needed to get out of here—but first, he needed to avoid getting caught.

He walked to the king’s table and refilled the heavy chalice. His hands betrayed him, trembling, and a few drops splashed onto the table.

“Apologies, Sire,” he rasped, his voice strangled in his tight throat, moving swiftly to wipe the spill with a cloth. Von Aulitz snorted in disdain behind him, but the king only frowned at his captain before turning back to Henry with a kind, almost benevolent smile.

“Have no fear, boy. And pay no heed to Markvart… he has much bark, and his teeth are sharp, but he won’t harm you,” the king said—as much a statement as a command. But Henry felt the chill run down his spine as the unspoken words coiled around him like a noose  "But only whilst I’m here."

“Thank you, Sire,” he said after a heartbeat, his gaze fixed on Sigismund’s shoulder—following protocol, but also too cowed to meet the king’s piercing stare. He felt it, though, sliding over him like a tip of a blade drawn slowly across flesh, assessing, ready to pierce his skin.

“Now, will you drink with us? So that you may tell your children and grandchildren of this day,” the king asked, his voice warm. Henry hesitated, caught between the need to keep his cover and the revulsion that gripped him at a thought of drinking to the demise of his friends and allies.

“To… to victory, Sire,” he choked out, moving stiffly to fill another glass, no more than a fingers’ measure of wine for himself. 

“To today’s! And those of the future.” The king raised his goblet.

Henry drank. The finest vintage of Kuttenberg slid smoothly down his throat—sweet, velvety… yet to him, it tasted like the foulest vinegar.

Von Aulitz set his goblet down and stood from his perch, his armour scraping against the fine wooden table.

“I shall take my leave, Sire. There is much to do.”

Henry’s pulse quickened. He would be dismissed soon. Then he could ride—ride as fast as Pebbles could carry him to Raborsch. He forced himself to remain still, to stifle the restless energy clawing at his limbs, pressing himself back into the chamber’s corner.

“Godspeed, my friend. I have every confidence you will see our plans through,” the king said to his captain, settling back into his throne with an ornate high back as von Aulitz disappeared through the main doors.

But the king himself made no move to leave. Instead, he sighed, tilting his head back, exposing his throat to daylight pouring through the tall windows of the council chamber, eyes slipping shut in momentary reprieve.

“Leave us.”

The order rang out after a few heartbeats. Henry all but jumped at the chance to escape, scurrying toward the door along with the guards and the serving maid.

“Not you, boy.” Henry felt as if a block of ice had been dropped into his stomach. “You are yet to complete your service.”

The king’s voice cut through the air behind him, freezing Henry mid-step. Sweat prickled at his skin. He forced himself to stay still, to nod, to obey and play his part.

The guards hesitated, their gazes flickering between Henry and their sovereign, weighing whether the boy could be trusted alone with the monarch. Henry prayed—desperately—that they would insist on their duty, that they would stay.

But the king lifted a hand and waved them off with a lazy flick of his fingers.

The nearest guard cleared his throat, dropped his gaze, and swiftly made his leave. One by one, the others followed, their footfalls fading. The heavy door shut behind them, sealing Henry inside, alone with the king of Hungary, the usurper of Bohemia’s throne. 

“Sire?” he asked cautiously, keeping his eyes low, flicking briefly to Sigismund before dropping to the floor again.

The king watched him lazily, half-lidded eyes glinting with something he could not understand, but made the hair on his neck raise. Henry tried—and failed—to keep from fidgeting. His fingers twitched at his sides, his shoulders rigid with the effort of standing still. He moved back toward the side table with the food and wine instead. The king’s gaze followed him. Henry lifted a hand, gesturing to the pitchers.

“Which wine would you prefer, my Lord?”

Sigismund let out a hum of amusement. “We find that we’ve had enough wine, boy,” he said at last, then leaned back slightly in his chair, lips curling at the corners. “And have a thirst for something else entirely.” Henry’s pulse quickened.

“Sire?” His voice barely came out unsure what was expected of him. The king raised a single, powerful brow.

“You have been briefed on the extent of the services the royal waiter is to provide, correct?” The king’s voice was deceptively casual.

Henry swallowed hard, his throat clicking. His mind scrambled, turning over everything Franta had told him, every instruction from the Majordomo. Pour wine. Don’t disturb the work. Be invisible.

But how the hell was he supposed to be invisible with the king’s gaze fixed on him, pinning him like an insect held by the wings?

He nodded—hesitant, uncertain—but hoping it was the best way to keep his disguise. What else was there? Look willing and ready. 

Sigismund’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile forming—indulgent. Like he could see straight through the lie. Like he knew exactly how lost Henry was.

Oh, he was so done for.

“Excellent. Strip, then, boy, and serve me.”

His hands rose to his belt out of reflex, his body obeying the order before his mind even caught up and the meaning sank in. The words rang inside his skull, repeating, distorting—wait. Henry’s brain stalled. What?

Protocol be damned, he snapped his gaze upward, locking eyes with the king. Searching, desperate, trying to read his expression—was this a jest? A test? Or had Sigismund truly just…?

A flicker of delight sparked in the king’s eye as he took in Henry’s hesitation. His smile widened, teasing—with a hungry edge. Henry quaked in his boots, like he has before the most bloody of battles.

“Now, now. Don’t be shy.” Sigismund’s voice was silken, coaxing. “It’s a great honour to serve your king in such a way. Though,” he chuckled, low and amused, “perhaps not something you’ll boast about to your children.” His laughter was deep, rumbling and self-satisfied.

“But we are kind,” he mused, tapping a finger against the goblet’s rim. “We will guide you. Come forth, sweet boy—and if you do well, we shall reward you greatly.”

Henry considered his options, his back rigid with tension. Though, what options were there, truly? He could run—but the guards wouldn’t be far, and even if he reached the door, he doubted he’d make it down the stairs alive. Not when he was alone with Sigismund. They would shoot first and ask questions later.

He could say no, but the man was a king, usurper or not, and one did not deny a king, no matter their status.

Henry had just seen, first-hand, what happened to those who failed to do his bidding—friend or foe, noble or commoner, it made no difference. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to steady his breathing, unclenching his jaw as he tried to uncoil the tight fear and stubbornness lodged in his spine. Slowly, he lowered his head into a bow, his hands returning to his belt in a fluid motion before he took a few steps toward where Sigismund sat behind the table.

“All is well, boy,” the king chided with a laugh. “Acting like a spooked colt. As if it’s your first time.” The man regarded him with an amused, lingering gaze, and Henry felt heat rush up his neck, burning at his ears and throat. The words struck closer to the truth than he wished.

“We are not fools enough to believe that,” Sigismund continued, watching him closely, “but you do play the part of a blushing maiden admirably.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” he stuttered out as he fought off an urge to grit his teeth, focusing on his clothes instead. His fingers worked purposely, undoing his belt, slipping off his outer tunic, then his gloves. His movements were smooth and practiced—as if he were undressing his lord and not himself. As if he were not preparing to give himself to this wretched man whose eyes burned into him, warming his skin like an open flame.

But Sigismund was not an ordinary man by any means. He exuded confidence, the absolute certainty of his own power, his own god-given right to command. Every breath, every word, was weighted with authority, and Henry would yield to it. Of that, he had no doubt.

He swallowed hard as his fingers moved to the last of his buttons. He could do this. How bad could it be, truly? He could suck royal cock for Bohemia. If it got him out of this room in one piece. If it gave them a chance to get an upper hand in this war. Henry would suck cock and he would have done much worse. 

The faster he finished this, the faster he could get out, find his friends, and warn them before it was too late. He hardened his resolve, forcing himself to focus, swallowing down the bile of anger rising in his throat.

But as the king’s gaze drifted over his exposed torso—lingering, possessive, catching on the hard lines of muscle and the coarse smattering of hair—a different fear took hold of him, colder, sharper than before.

His body did not look like that of a well-off city boy, the kind who might have landed in such a position—soft-skinned, fair, untouched. Sigismund’s eyes moved over him with interest as he disrobed, taking in the broad neck and shoulders, the thick waist, marked where his skin split, stretching with the growth spur, the dark hair scattered across his chest, the signs of a body that had grown fast and hard.

“Unusual choice,” the king murmured, as if plucking the thought straight from Henry’s mind.

His hands stalled at the edge of his hose, hovering as if to shield himself, as if keeping them out of sight would somehow help—bare now, rough with cracked knuckles and burns, unmistakable signs of labor.

“They usually send me soft, lithe things,” Sigismund continued, his tone edged with faint distaste, “barely distinguishable from boys. Ones that can’t lift more than a carafe of wine. And they usually don’t have the brains to do much else either.”

Henry’s heart hammered against his ribs as he stood frozen, waiting for the verdict. Had the monarch figured it out? That he didn’t fit. That it was all a ruse. He shifted his stance subtly, every muscle primed to run if needed.

But then Sigismund smiled.

Not suspicious. Pleased. His gaze was hungry, raking over him with new appreciation.

“You seem a lot more…capable. It’s not a bad thing, lad,” the king mused, voice thick with approval. “We can appreciate a man’s body too. A warrior’s body.”

Henry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you, Sire,” he muttered, eyes cast downward, the flush creeping further down his chest.

“Did you serve in the army, sweet boy?” the king asked, his tone almost casual. Henry prayed it was a natural conclusion from his assessment and not a question meant to unravel his disguise.

“Yes, my Lord,” he lied, the words slipping easily from his lips. “I was wounded during the siege of Kuttenberg.” He reached toward his side, fingers grazing the spot where an arrow had pierced his shoulder weeks ago, praying the lie would take.

By some miracle, it did.

The king hummed in approval. “And now you have found yourself here. Ready to serve your king once more.” Sigismund leaned back slightly, studying him.

“And tell us,” the king continued, voice expectant, “in your time in the army, have you been with a man before? A real man? Has his sword parted you, buried itself deep in your heat, dove?”

Henry realized then, fully, what he was in for—and a quick service between the monarch’s knees was not it. He had had his dalliances with men before, stolen touches and indulgences, but never like this. Never taken.

Heat rushed over him, a flush creeping down his chest as he fought to master himself, to swallow the embarrassment, as he shook his head unable to speak.

There was amusement in the king’s eyes, but also something else—keen interest, delight at the discovery. Had they truly sent him an unbreached filly? And yet, a man built broad and strong, sturdy as an ox, ripe with the weight of his own power.

Truly, remarkable. A fine fruit of Bohemia, and tonight, the king would feast. Sigismund smiled hungrily at that and patted his lap, then gestured to the space next to his royal seat.

“Let us see to you then, dove.”

Henry obeyed and dropped his trousers. 

He moved closer and firm hands guided him and turned him to face away from Sigismund, to straddle the king’s lap, bracing his arms against the table, his body taut with tension. He could not look at his enemy but instead the door loomed ahead, an unguarded threshold, an illusion of escape. He thought of anyone walking through it and seeing him like this—naked, exposed, his back arched and his arse bared before the king.

The thought sent a fresh surge of heat up his throat, not arousal but the sick burn of shame. He swallowed hard, blinking against the sting at the corners of his eyes. He tipped his head back, forcing himself to breathe, his gaze landing on the ceiling, on the wooden cross of Jesus Christ hanging above him. The Lord bore his suffering nailed to the wood—what was this in comparison?

He would endure. He had survived worse. He had survived torture, fire and sword. What was the gentle touch of a man he loathed, if it meant survival? 

Bile rose in his throat.

A warm hand settled on his flank, large and broad, heat seeping into his skin. Henry flinched.

The king made a soft, soothing sound, the kind meant to calm a spooked horse, a skittish beast. Fingers traced the old wound at his side, where the arrow had pierced him back in Trotsky. His Kuttenberg lie. The scar was healing, but the flesh remained tender, raw beneath the touch. 

The hand drifted lower, down his spine, fingers idly tracing the ridges of bone, leaving a wake of gooseflesh in their path. Henry took shallow, measured breaths, forcing himself to remain still, to still his fluttering heart, to pretend. To play the part. But he was not made for this.

The fingers dipped lower, sliding between the cleft of his buttocks, parting him with ease. Behind him, Sigismund tutted, disapproving.

“And here too—fresh and unprepared,” the king murmured, but there was a certain revelry to his voice as he pressed his thumb against the dry ring of Henry’s hole, just shy of breaching it. Henry stilled, teetering on the edge, every muscle in his body locking in place.

“We will have to remedy that,” Sigismund continued, his voice smooth, unhurried. “After all, we did promise no harm would come to you. Take the oil.” He waved a hand toward one of the tin flasks left on the table from the earlier feast. Henry reached for it with trembling fingers. Maybe if he just focused on following the orders, he could get through this, get out of here undiscovered—and alive.

“Pour some onto your hand and coat your fingers. The more thorough you are with this, the better it will be for you.” The king’s voice held something close to a promise, patient and knowing. 

Henry obeyed, tipping the oil into his palm, feeling the slickness coat his fingers. The scent of it was rich and heavy, seeping into his skin. Before he could move further, a strong hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding it behind his back. Henry’s body bowed instinctively, his spine arching to accommodate the shift. The pressure on his wrist disappeared as Sigismund let go, only for two hands to grasp his buttocks, spreading them apart.

The cool air of the chamber ghosted over his exposed hole. He bit down on nothing, throat working to keep himself still.

“Well done,” Sigismund praised, his voice low, pleased. “And now, sweet boy, work those fingers inside you. Start with one, and go slowly.”

Henry let his slick fingers trail over himself, parting his own flesh, working the oil into his entrance before finally pushing forward, just enough to breach. The motion was familiar—something he had done before, in the privacy of the baths, or hidden beneath the shroud of night. But it had never been like this. Never with someone watching.

He had never felt so exposed, so thoroughly laid bare, and yet, with horror, he realized it wasn’t just shame curling in his stomach. Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he made a small, choked noise as his fingertip slipped past the initial resistance. A shiver ran through him, and a spark of arousal shot through him straight into his own cock, thickening between his legs—a betrayal of his body. His breath hitched, and he ducked his head, pressing his forehead to the table as he pushed the finger in deeper.

He heard a pleased hum from the king.

Henry wanted to imagine it was someone else. That he was in the baths with a nameless man, someone faceless, someone who meant nothing. Not Sigismund. Not his enemy. Not the conqueror.

But it was him—the usurper, the butcher, the man who had burned his home to the ground—and still, Henry felt his body react, betraying him in ways he could not control.

Sigismund’s presence loomed behind him, patient, yet commanding all the same.

Henry pushed deeper, working himself open with slow, measured thrusts, trying to ignore the heat crawling up his spine, the burn of humiliation sinking into his skin. He tried to stay quiet, tried to suppress the instinctive gasps and shudders, but Sigismund was watching, always watching.

One finger became two. He winced at the stretch, at the way his body resisted before yielding, instinct and discipline warring inside him. His breathing turned shallow, shoulders trembling. It wasn’t pain, not really. It was the awareness of what he was preparing for, of what came next.

A warm hand brushed over his lower back, soothing, encouraging. Henry hated it, hated the care in the touch, the illusion of tenderness where there should be cruelty. Instead, the moment stretched, intimate and sweet.

“Enough.”

The command came softly, and Henry obeyed, hands stilling immediately but for the quiver of his own hole twitching around his digits. 

Behind him, metal clattered against wood as Sigismund reached for his rings, slipping them off one by one, each motion slow, deliberate. Henry wished he kept them on. If the king would only hurt him, he could hate this fully.

Then came the touch. A firm grip on his wrist, guiding his hand away, replacing it with broader, stronger fingers. Sigismund pressed against his entrance, stretched now, but the king’s touch was heavier, rougher. The difference was startling.

Sigismund pushed inside with ease, as if his body had already surrendered, already yielded. Henry shuddered, muscles tensing involuntarily as the intrusion filled him deeper than his own fingers could.

“There we are,” the king murmured, working him open with steady, practiced motions. “See how well your body takes us?”

Sigismund hummed in satisfaction, shifting behind him, the warmth of his breath feathering over Henry’s skin. The scrape of his beard grazed his lower back, the ghost of lips teasing the arch of his spine as the king rose, the bulk of him towering over Henry. Henry gritted his teeth, but his body betrayed him again, now reacting to every brush of touch.

Without thinking, without meaning to, his hips pushed back. A quiet, broken sound caught in his throat as his body sought more.

The king felt it, noticed it—and smiled. Henry felt it forming against his shoulder. He felt the sharp nip of teeth that followed, as the man’s hands held him open.

“Are you ready to take the royal cock, dove?” Sigismund murmured, pressing deeper, slow and relentless.

The words sent a shudder through Henry. His muscles clenched around the fingers inside him, a strangled moan slipping from his lips before he could stop it. Sigismund chuckled, indulgent and Henry trembled beneath him—in fear, in anticipation of knowing what came next and what it might do to him.

“Answer us, sweet boy.” The king’s voice ghosted over his ear and rumbled low, the sound vibrating through him where his back pressed against the king’s chest.

The fingers inside him twisted, thick knuckles teasing the rim before pushing deeper, thumb resting just over the edge. Henry’s mouth dropped open, a silent plea escaping as the fullness overwhelmed him.

“Ask for it.”

The thick pads of the king’s fingers—calloused from years of wielding a sword—dragged over that spot inside him, the one that made the edges of his vision blur. His breath hitched, body tensing against the wave of sensation. 

“Please…” The word came out small, choked, spat out through gritted teeth, his mouth dry and his tongue thick in his throat. “Please… Sire. I’d have your cock.” A tear slipped down his cheek, as he fought with himself, forcing himself to accept what he needed to do. His head dropped forward, surrendering to it, to him. His entire body folding into submission, as if begging for forgiveness.  “If it pleases you, my Lord.”

The king hummed, satisfied, his delight curling at the edges of his voice.

“Ah, but you ask so sweetly, my dove. How could we deny you?” He withdrew his fingers slowly, purposefully, leaving Henry feeling empty.

“Now, turn around. We would like to see that pretty face of yours as you take us.”

Henry felt dizzy, breathless.

So far, small mercy, he had been able to turn away, to hide his face, to pretend. But now—to face him, to look at him, to know him and the touch that had marked him—his stomach twisted. More tears threatened to spill.

He couldn’t do this. Fuck. Bloody Mary and Jesus. He had to do this. 

He forced himself to take a breath, then another, unlocking his shoulders, commanding his limbs to obey. His knees felt weak, unsteady, like wool soaked in water as he turned to face his enemy. The movement felt slow, stiff, his body resisting even as he made it comply.

Sigismund sat before him, watching with quiet patience and composure. He was cleaning his fingers with a cloth now, slow and methodical, ridding himself of the oil. Henry’s cock bobbed between them, a shameful weight, proof of his body’s betrayal.

“Ah.” The king exhaled in understanding. He reached out, fingers brushing over Henry’s cheek, his touch warm and undeniably gentle. Henry forced himself to stay still, to not recoil, to lean into the touch like an eager lover would. He didn’t know what his own face looked like in that moment. He sincerely hoped he would never find out.

The king studied him closely, his gaze soft yet searching, lingering on the wetness of Henry’s cheeks, the tremor in his form, the way his body yielded to him.

“My dear,” Sigismund murmured, voice low, warm, so terribly kind. “It’s quite a lot to take, is it not?” Henry said nothing, nodding.

The king’s hand fell away, but his voice remained gentle, soothing. “Drink some wine, dove. You’ve done well.”

Henry obeyed. His fingers closed around the nearest chalice—the king’s cup. He lifted it to his lips, the stem cool against his fingertips, the wine thick and warm on his tongue. It was difficult to swallow past the tightness in his throat, but he forced it down, grateful for the way it wet his mouth, gave him something—anything—other than the burning shame and arousal in his gut to focus on.

He took another breath then set the cup down, knowing that the king’s patience was not infinite.

“Now, attend to us,” Sigismund said, gesturing toward the laces of his hose, which bulged where his arousal strained against the fabric.

Henry dropped his gaze, focusing on the task—on the movement, not on what was coming. One breath at a time. His fingers hesitated, just for a moment, before finding their rhythm. The fastenings were unfamiliar, but he made quick, deft work of them, not thinking of another lord he undressed often, his hands steady despite the tight knot in his stomach.

He parted the fabric, revealing the king’s cock—thick and heavy, roughly the same size as his own, yet it felt impossibly larger. Even with the preparation, knowing his body would need to take it, it looked like a weapon. It would be the sword to breach him.

“Don’t rush,” Sigismund commanded, guiding him like a good teacher would. “There’s no honour in haste.”

Reaching for the oil, he poured a measure into his palm and wrapped his fingers around Sigismund's length, slicking it carefully, thoroughly, so as not to stain the king's clothing. 

“Good,” the king murmured, watching him. “Use your palm—yes, like that. You've got a fine hand for it.” His eyelids dropped as he savoured the feeling of Henry’s calloused fingers on his length.

Sigismund instructed him, his voice calm, directing his touch. How to prepare him. How to take him. How he would straddle him, seat himself, and serve his king with his own body—his sheath. Henry’s cheeks and ears burned as moved to follow the commands.

And when the moment was right, the king beckoned him forward, fingers crooking in invitation and Henry shook, reminded of how they curved inside him, arousal licking at his insides again.

“Now come. Straddle us. Let us feel that heat you’ve been hiding.”

Henry obeyed.

Henry’s knee met the seat of the grand wooden chair as he climbed atop Sigismund, hands finding purchase on his knees, careful not to touch the monarch. The king leaned back, his hands resting lazily on the adorned armrests shaped like heads of ferocious animals Henry has never seen before, watching. Waiting.

He positioned himself above the king’s cock, the head slick. As he began to lower himself he felt the stretch as his hole opened up to take Sigismund’s length, the burn of it despite the oil.  His thighs trembled with effort as he hovered, the head breaching him, inch by slow inch. 

He bit his lip, holding in the sound, but a hand shot up—firm fingers catching his jaw, pad pressing against his lips, prying them from where his teeth had sunk in.

“No,” Sigismund commanded, voice firm but still patient, “You will not hide from us. Let it out. Let us hear you.”

Henry choked on a gasp and sank lower.

He didn’t know where to look. He couldn’t bear to look at the king—he couldn’t. And yet, he was held there, pinned beneath the weight of those eyes, his own wide open. Sigismund’s eyes were clear and piercing. Green, flecked with gold. Like sunlight filtering through the crowns of trees in the forests of Bohemia. 

Small sounds escaped him—half-formed mewls and breathless gasps. Sounds stolen, taken from him like everything else as he slowly lowered himself, inch by inch, onto the length inside him. His hips rose and fell in shallow motions, testing the depth, adjusting, easing further each time. He saw the king’s face—stoic and composed, the same face that had spoken to him gently, had praised him—and watched as it twisted in pleasure. But his eyes didn’t waver.

Henry rocked his hips slowly, his rim catching the head, teasing it, clenching around it as he eased lower, then lifted just enough to torment them both before sinking down again.

It was hypnotic. And the king looked just as spellbound.

The moment stretched. Henry’s breath came short and shallow as he finally sank down fully, taking the king’s cock to the hilt. He stilled. His body quivered, sides twitching as he adjusted around the thick weight buried inside him.

He was full. Overwhelmed. And it felt—

—good.

A deep, shuddering breath passed through him.

“Oh, sweetling,” the king murmured, voice low and hoarse. “You take us like you were made for it.”

Henry could feel the tremble beneath him—Sigismund’s legs taut with restraint, holding back, keeping his hips from rising, from fucking up into him. But he didn’t.

The king wanted him to move.

To serve.

To fuck himself on the cock of his enemy and make it look like devotion.

He hated it—and hated how much pleasure it brought him—as he began to raise his hips and fuck himself on Sigismund’s shaft. His legs trembled from the effort, from the awkward angle where they were wedged between the king’s legs and the frame of the chair.

He reached out, instinctively, to catch himself on the armrest or the king’s shoulder—but stalled, his hand hovering mid-air. He shouldn’t touch.

A warm hand, as large as his own, wrapped around his wrist and guided it forward—pressing his palm to the king’s chest, over the heavy embroidery and rich fabric of his tunic. Sigismund drew him closer, allowing him to lean in and support himself.

His cock bounced between them, hard and flushed, the tip glistening with fluid.

He sank down again onto the heat inside him. The new angle shifted everything—the king’s cock dragged along the inner walls of his sheath, and a broken moan fell from Henry’s lips before he could swallow it. The king’s eyes shone as his hands moved to Henry’s waist, drawing him closer still.

This close, face to face, Henry bowed his head, watching Sigismund as he rode him—hot breath and soft moans spilling from his mouth, caught in the snare of those green and gold eyes.

The king smelled of perfume—sharp and heady. It made Henry’s mouth water. He wanted to bite. He picked up the pace, thighs burning, and dreamed of sinking his teeth into the king’s throat—of ripping it open.

Sigismund’s hands slid down to his thighs, feeling the flex and strain of muscle beneath skin, then lower still—gripping his buttocks, pulling him in.

“To watch your pleasure is a gift, my precious thing,” the king breathed and began to move. Shallow thrusts of his hips met Henry’s descent, each one dragging more of those unwilling, unguarded sounds from Henry’s mouth, his breath ghosting against Henry’s throat.

He felt the glide of the king’s nose against his chest, nuzzling through the hair there, up to the collarbone—where teeth scraped lightly over bone just as Sigismund’s hips rose to meet the fall of Henry’s with a sharp snap. The sudden thrust drove into him, forcing a gasp from his lips.

Lips followed next—gliding reverently over his chest, his neck, like a lover might.

“Touch yourself, sweet boy.” The command was low, velvet-wrapped.

Henry obeyed. His hand closed around his neglected cock, and pleasure surged through him—hot and overwhelming. His insides clenched around Sigismund’s cock, and both of them gasped.

“Would you like to come?” the king asked, lifting his hips. Henry’s weight rose with him, the ease of it dizzying. It turned Henry’s insides to liquid heat. “A gift requires a gift in return.”

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember who he was, what he was doing here. All he could feel was the cock inside him, the heat of it, the pressure and fullness and motion.

“Yeah—please,” the plea slipped out, unguarded, a soft keen. His eyes rolled back as the king rolled his hips again, and Henry tightened his grip on his own cock, movements of his wrist speeding up. “Yes.”

“Let’s not forget manners,” Sigismund said—biting, but amused.

Through the haze, Henry remembered. He struggled to correct himself, breath catching. Fuck. He was always abysmal with titles and authority.

“Sire,” he breathed out—a whimper more than a word. “Please, Sire.”

“Ask for it, boy. Ask your king for a gift,” Sigismund growled, his hips stalling as he seated Henry fully on his cock. He didn’t move—just held him there, deep and unmoving, fingers tight around Henry’s waist, locking him in place.

His other hand slid down, joining Henry’s around his cock—stalling the motion, holding him at the base, where his balls had drawn up tight against the shaft.

The king bit at his collarbone, then at the tender skin of his neck, marking him, leaving behind a trail of stinging kisses and moustache burn. He kept him still. 

Henry shook around him. He was unravelling—coming apart at the seams. He thought he might come just like this—from the heat, the stretch, the sheer presence of the king’s cock buried deep inside him.

Things were slipping. Sliding out of reach. His principles. His discipline.

There was only this. He wanted it.

“Please, my Lord,” he breathed, voice rough, barely holding together.

“My King.”

Sigismund let out a growl of pleasure at the words, and then Henry was lifted—hauled upward as the king released his cock and slid both hands under his thighs, raising him effortlessly, still buried to the hilt inside him.

Henry clung to him as the monarch rose from the throne, taking a step forward, bearing his weight as if it were nothing.

He felt the edge of the table press against his backside just before there was a loud crash—the sharp bang of metal, the clatter of plates and carafes scattering across the stone floor as Sigismund swept aside the remnants of his dinner in a single, brutal motion.

The noise rang in Henry’s ears. His body tensed, clenching around the king in sudden fear.

What if someone came to check?

“We are going to be very generous,” Sigismund said, voice thick with passion, utterly unconcerned. After all—a king could fuck where and when he pleased.

He seated Henry further onto the table’s pulpit, pressing a firm hand against his chest, guiding him back until he lay half-reclined on his elbows. His legs drew in toward his chest, cradled around the king’s waist, then fell apart—defeated, open, wanting.

Sigismund took one of his legs and lifted it to rest his ankle over his shoulder. Henry felt the shift immediately—the deeper press, the renewed stretch—as the king sank into him again.

This angle was different. He could feel everything. The full force and ferocity of the king’s strength as he began to drive into him with powerful, relentless thrusts.

Henry gasped, breathless. All he could do was hold on as keening whimpers spilled from his lips.

“Sire… Sire…,” he chanted, the word leaving him over and over, raw and shaking.

A hand closed around his cock once more and he buckled, back arching from the table, as the king drove his cock into him, each thrust hammering into the spot inside him that made his vision blur. His climax built again—tight and rising—drawing him closer with every brutal stroke.

“Come for us, sweet dove,” the king growled into the dip of his throat. 

Henry looked up, bearing his neck to the monarch—past the vaulted ceiling, toward the heavens, to the cross on the wall—a prayer for forgiveness forming silently on his lips. And he obeyed.

He felt like he was falling—his body going taut, eyes rolling back, words spilling from his mouth without shape or meaning. He clenched around the king’s cock like a vice, fire rolling through his veins as his release overtook him.

His cock pulsed in his hand—in the king’s hand—and streaks of come splattered across Sigismund’s fingers as he was worked through it, drawn deeper into the shuddering waves of pleasure.

The king roared above him, triumphant and unrestrained, and Henry felt the heat of seed spill inside him as Sigismund thrust forward, hard and fast, chasing his own peak.

Each movement was sharp, unrelenting, hips pounding into him as the man growled through his release, chasing the last drops of his pleasure. Henry could feel the weight of him above—the press of his breath against his chest, the heat of his sweat, the chill of the crown on his sternum as the king bowed his head and rested against him.

Henry lay splayed on the table—legs open, chest rising and falling, undone, conquered.

Defeated.

His thoughts drifted through the lingering fog of pleasure, mind half-lost, blinking slowly as sensation returned in flickers.

He felt the burn first—the stretch, raw and insistent, where his rim still gripped the king’s cock. The oil had long worn off, unnoticed in the frenzy, and now the slickness between them was the king’s hot seed. It stung. His mind was empty. He let it stay that way. He closed his eyes and breathed.

A puff of hot breath and the scrape of teeth and beard along his sternum brought him back—just slightly—as the king stirred. After a few heartbeats, Sigismund shifted to rise, and Henry felt the softening length slip from his body.

It left him open. Empty. Gaping.

The sudden absence made him shiver. He could feel the warmth of the royal seed begin to drip out of him. A small, involuntary sound escaped his throat—half-whimper, half-protest. He hated it. Hated that he didn’t know whether it was disgust or loss that twisted in his chest.

He opened his eyes. The world still swam, vision blurred, but the king came into focus—watching him, one hand resting on his flank, petting gently like one would with a tamed beast they were fond of.

“Hush, my dove,” Sigismund murmured, a low, satisfied rumble. “You’ve done well.”

His gaze was warm. Fond. And something stirred inside Henry at the praise—something unwelcome. Heat flushed his neck again, crawling up into his cheeks. And with it came the flood of shame.

“Thank you, Sire,” he muttered, timid, unsure, forcing himself up onto his elbows. His eyes dropped to the side. He couldn’t look at the king—not again. He was afraid of what he saw in his gaze.

Not the usual hunger. Not just satisfaction.

But something warmer. Greedier. Like the king had found something rare, something precious. Something he’d tasted—and would desire again.

And that terrified Henry more than anything else that day.

He moved to stand, legs trembling, knees weak as his feet met the ground. His gaze flicked over the room—the scattered dishes, spilled wine, the remnants of food. His clothes lay crumpled nearby, forgotten.

He jolted—remembering who he was supposed to be. What role he was meant to play. It warred with the rising urge to flee, to drown in the shame swelling behind his eyes, ready to break loose and swallow him whole.

“I will clean up, Sire,” he said, voice low and used, cracking at the end.

“That you will.” Sigismund’s eyes never left him. “You can start with me.”

The king had settled back onto the throne, cock still hanging loose from his trousers, streaked with oil and the remnants of his release.

Henry moved wordlessly, still naked, still aching, and took the cloth. He sank to his knees beside the throne—cold stone biting into his skin.  Like a supplicant at an altar.

He cleaned his king’s cock with slow, careful strokes, his cheeks and eyes burning. He tried not to think. Not about what happened. Not about the heat still pulsing between his legs. Not about how much of it he enjoyed. Especially not that.

He tucked the king’s shaft away, laced his trousers, straightened his clothes. He focused on the motions, desperate for distance, for detachment. He startled when a hand landed in the crook of his neck—warm, possessive. His hands stilled.

“My sweet, precious thing,” the king murmured, voice like honey. Fingers traced over his vertebrae, threaded gently through the short hair at the base of his skull. Henry shuddered, eyes falling closed. He prayed it looked like pleasure. And not the disgust swelling inside him, bitter and rising.

He focused on the cold bite of the stone beneath his knees. And the burn between his legs where he still ached. Still wet.

“Sire?” he asked, voice small, as the king remained silent, petting him gently.

“Exquisite,” Sigismund said at last, a low hum of satisfaction in his chest. “We are quite taken with you, my dove.” Henry felt his guts twist.

“Such an unusual thing you are. So selfless, so giving,” the king continued, fingers brushing through his hair. “And you do plead so prettily. You look divine, speared on our cock.”

Blood roared in Henry’s ears. His throat tightened.

“We would have you again,” Sigismund said, voice smooth. “If you are willing.”

A question, a command.

The king’s hand shifted, moving from the back of his neck to his jaw, tilting his head upward. Henry was forced to meet those piercing green eyes again. He froze. His own eyes wide, blown open in fear—and disbelief.

His mouth parted, but no sound emerged.

The pad of Sigismund’s thumb brushed his lower lip—red and bitten by his own teeth—and pressed down, parting it further. A gentle, possessive pressure. A suggestion.

Henry’s mouth opened more under the touch, and the king smiled. Satisfied. Certain.

“We did say we would reward you, sweet boy,” the king murmured.

He paused, gaze sweeping over Henry with renewed hunger.

“We could place you back in the army, once your wound has fully healed. Perhaps as our... bodyguard. A companion.” His eyes gleamed. “You certainly have the build for it.”

The words weren’t just an offer—they were a claim.

Henry could feel the king’s seed, now cold and tacky, smeared between his thighs. The memory of being fucked into, hard and slow, flickered in his mind with an unwelcome shiver of pleasure. But then—a thought.

Twisted. Dangerous. Tempting.

This could be a chance. A way back in. A way to spy on Sigismund, to gather information, to help the resistance. To serve Bohemia.

He nodded.

“Yes, Sire,” he said, swallowing. “We are not worthy. It’s an honour.”

“That it is, my lad. But you’ll do well,” the king replied, the words final. A command. And so it would be. “Tell us your name, dove.”

“H-Henry” He stuttered, without thought. Immediately berating himself. Fuck. He should have lied.  “My Lord.” the title tumbled out of his mouth to follow.

Satisfied, Sigismund stood.

“Finish up here, and take your rest, my dove. Get your affairs in order. Report to the majordomo—he’ll arrange your assignment over the next few days.”

He smoothed a hand over his now-immaculate tunic, composed once more, every trace of heat hidden behind poise. Henry remained kneeling. Naked.

“We will look forward to seeing you again soon, Henry,” the king said, casting him one last lingering glance before turning to leave. The doors closed behind him with a heavy finality.

“Yes, Sire,” Henry whispered to the empty room.

He couldn’t do it. He had to do it.