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You are Henry of Skalitz, and right now you are horribly and absolutely aroused.
The problem, you see, is that damned handsome lord of yours.
Hans Capon, they call him, and he lies sprawled before you in his finest dress: adorned in golden threads and flushed in shades of scarlet that paint a prettier picture than you've ever known in your entire goddamn life.
He's drunk, the taste of schnapps heavy on his tongue, and his messy curls smell strangely of smoke, despite insisting he'd spent all day at the baths just for you for just this very reason. You don't really have time to be too mad about that though, as he hooks a leg behind your knee and pulls you closer.
Needy as ever, you suppose.
"Well sir," it's a bit rough to maintain that sexy drawl of yours, but you think you manage quite well as your devastatingly handsome knight shakes his head and hides his eyes. "I think it's about time you've learned your place!"
The object of your desires, for whom your cock points always true, whispers the name of Christ as he covers his face.
Success!
Outside, a blanket of snow falls upon the streets of Rattay, coating each and every stone in blissful cold. The foxes shed their coats of red for something more in season, and the lakes you—the lakes your lord—loves so dearly lie frozen until springs first light.
So the two of you must make your own fun and mischief, smiling stupidly by the firelight as you kiss one another wherever you can reach.
It's as you chew on your lord's pointiest ear that he finally says to you, voice cracking in what simply must be unbridled lust: "And what is my place, yokel?"
"On your knees, like those whores you love so much!" A bit harsh, but fuck it.
Pulling back in shock, he does his best to jut his chin at you, sticking his nose in the air like an autumn-born mouser on a summer afternoon. "Do you have any idea-" he starts laughing, a rumbling sound that shakes his chest until a button breaks from of his coat, which is a shame because that was a fucking expensive coat and his uncle will surely be on the warpath when he finds out.
When he's done, he clears his throat and tries again. "Do you have any idea who I am, you fucking peasant?".
Of course you do, he's fuck-
"-ing Hans Capon of Pirkstein, and I've got the fattest cock this side of the kingdom!"
Yeah, that.
He grinds up against you, and it doesn't feel that big really, but whatever shortcomings your lord may have pale in comparison to the sweet sighs he makes when you return the gesture, rolling your pricks against one another until you leak within your hose.
A hand grips you by the hair, the broad fingers clumsily tangling themselves between the strands, before jerking you back just a little too hard.
(Shit, sorry!)
Your lord sounds sheepish as he massages the back of your scalp, and you lean into his touch despite this cruel betrayal. He says to you as you do: "I'm no whore." And then, batting his frankly devilish lashes: "If you want to bed me, you ought try to woo me, si- er, dung…thrower?"
He's cute when he wants to be ravished, the sparse hair above his lip after his most recent trip to the barber only adds to his charm even if it does look a bit silly on a man of his size.
"I'm afraid I can't do that sir."
"And why's that?"
"I never learned to fucking read."
He kicks you in the shoulder, and you're pretty sure that'll leave a nasty fucking bruise which will certainly get in the way of performing your duties as his… squire? Bodyguard? Page?
Jesus fucking Christ, you've really got to write this down sometime before you make up more titles for him.
Currently though all the blood dedicated to thinking is occupied, so that will be a problem for some other poor schmuck who isn't about to wet his prick in the prettiest hole this side of Sassau.
"Alright, alright, I'll fucking woo you... brat."
He kicks you again, but it's far softer this time which is probably a good sign, so you go ahead with your latest noble quest: woo that man.
Slotting yourself between the noble's supple thighs, you press your hand against his chest, and Christ is he warm beneath your fingers.
"You're the loveliest thing I've ever laid eyes on." It's an honest mistake when you slip past the opening left in the kaftan by his long-fled button, but you'll be damned if you don't take advantage of the opportunity to scratch your fingers through the coarse hair within, feeling his beating heart skip through the skin. "You'd put any prized heifer to shame with tits like yours. I raise my battle lance in hopes of conquering these pillowy mountains."
"What the fuck is that?"
"I'm wooing you!"
Well, you suppose not every nobleman can have good taste.
Fuck it, just ravish him.
With a fox-toothed grin, you press your mouth his, sliding your tongue against his lips until they open to you, as they always do, with a noise so soft and sweet it leaves your head swimming in sticky-hearted dreams.
Hans Capon would call you an absolute fucking virgin if he knew, but he's too busy enjoying himself to give two shits about the saccharine secrets sloshing in your lovesick skull, so you can worry about all that later.
Your other hand, no doubt incredibly jealous of its twin, joins it in fingering the ever-growing hole in what was once an excellent article of clothing. You just barely managed to bite back the urge to tell Hans that's what you plan to do to his little cunny as you slide your fingers back and forth, only to lose out instead to the impulsive thought of tearing the damn thing off already.
Buttons go flying into the dark, tip-tip-tapping off of mural'd walls and lacquered floors, and you're incredibly disappointed to find this was much harder than it had been in your head. You certainly fucked the kaftan, with over half it's buttons gone to rapture, but didn't manage all of them.
Shit.
It would probably be embarrassing to do it a second time.
Hans looks at you expectedly, those big blue doe-eyes staring you down, probably caught between barely-restrained lust and the urge to call you an absolute fucking idiot. They stay trained on you, just like that, as his hands reach and unfasten the remaining buttons like a reasonable man.
Unlike a reasonable man, he immediately drags you down and shoves his tongue back into your mouth, ravenous as he rolls his hips into your stomach.
He's still so hard that his cock his jumping through his hose, so you'll count that as another win for the night.
By the time you escape, your lips are bruised like fallen-summer fruit, ripe with the bitter taste of belladonna numbing every thought.
You might also just be desperate at this point.
You plant your lips along the line of Hans' jaw and drag your teeth down the length of his neck, leaving a pretty purple love-mark just above his breast, and another just beside it, and then another, driven by your insatiable greed to claim evermore of that soft pale flesh until you've planted a violet blooming garden on every inch of fertile ground.
Amidst the fog of sex and want, a light brings you home again to him; his eyes, heavy-lidded and hazey beneath your gaze. You press a far kinder kiss above his hose, and let your fingers drift below.
There are so many things you want to ask him. You want to know the story of every scar; not just the ones won in war, but also the smaller ones, left by switch and not sword. His favorite color, yellow now he says, but you want to know what it might have been before the summer came. In the dark he whispers names you've only heard between stuttered breaths, and you would know those too just to feel that much closer to the boy he was.
You can hear his heart steady as you rest one cheek upon his thigh, and a calloused thumb brushes along the other.
Most of all, you want to know how a blacksmiths boy could ever love a noble brat.
One of life's greatest mysteries, that. Philosophy has never been your strong suit though, so you turn and press one more kiss against his palm and tug and tug and tug again until those pesky hose are gone and nothing stands between you and your favorite little member of the nobility.
Savoring the taste of salt upon your tongue is something you'd never really expected to enjoy, but the eager way you wrap your lips around him betrays your need, your want.
You still choke halfway down, but Rome was never built in a day, so you wait until the panic settles to relax your jaw and try again. You sink as far down as you can go, agonizingly slow, and Hans' thighs tremble beneath your hands as you go.
You can make it, you think, if you only try.
And eventually, you do. You must look like a fucking mess, your face all red and blotchy and wet with what you can only hope are tears of joy and your own spit, but he looks at you as if no star in the entire sky could ever compare.
You'd let him ruin you, if he wasn't hellbent on fixing you first.
"C'mere…" His voice is small, distant, desire dripping off the silence that follows as he props himself up on his elbows. "You're too far."
Joy is found in this, swelling in your chest as every drumming beat threatens to bring you to your end. It's indescribable. It's incandescent. If you'd taken the sun into your hands and squeezed and squeezed until the molten gold dripped sticky-sweet between your fingers, it's warmth could never compare to this: to wanting—and being wanted just the same.
You've always been a heavy drinker, and your draught of choice beckons you deeper as you climb over the bed. He pulls you in by the ears and kisses you again, kinder this time, and you giggle against the curve of his mouth like a drunk idiot as he spreads his legs for you.
It's a silly dance you do, trying to fish your prick out and slot it neatly against his arse without giving any of the ground you've gained. Sillier is what comes next, the both of you fumbling for the oil kept tucked beside your childhood bed, because as well as your friend might take you, he wasn't wrong: you really do have the fattest fucking cock in the kingdom.
It doesn't take long, as often as you've done this now, and you ask him so sweetly if he wants to learn how to hunt boar before you spear him, which earns a laugh that breaks into a thousand tiny moans as you press forwards.
You think you understand then the answer to your question. Not because he's warm and tight and better than any maid you've ever had in your lonely youth. No, that's all fucking amazing of course, but only a fool mistakes that for love.
It's in the way he reaches for your hand and squeezes, and the little noises he makes as you seat yourself deeper. It's in the ugly snort he lets slip when you ask him, balls resting against his arse, if he thinks you've gotten any better since the last time, and you laugh too when he tells you to ask some other boar because he's stuffed.
You fuck him how you know he likes, aiming every thrust where it strikes him hardest because every soft muscle tightens beneath you, and you know that he'll only pull you deeper, closer. He whispers the name of Christ beside your ear when you somehow bully your way further into him, and shakes with a relief only you can give as he comes undone.
Most nights you'd draw it out, you'd wring out every last drop of satisfaction from his body until he wept, but you've no mind for that tonight. Instead, the roll of your hips is slow, lazy, rocking to the steady beating of his heart as he comes down.
When you finally come, shuddering and burying your face into his shoulder, he rubs a lazy circle into your back and calls you, as he always does, his love.
You're no longer Henry when you wake within the deepest dark of winter's dawn. Your blond hair hangs limp over your eyes, within the hearth is a bed of ash, and the cold blankets your back, drawing you deeper into the comfort of Henry's warmth beneath you.
Thank God, you think for perhaps the first time in your entire life, thank God for bringing him to you.