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It’s lively in the inn tonight.
A band of knights rode into town late in the afternoon, shields and armor rattling and clanging, their horses nickering tiredly and their dogs immediately finding the nearest shade to lay down and pant.
Word is there was a skirmish on the border, and the king’s knights were called to end it. And, by all appearances, it seems they did. Their armor is shiny but stained, hair flattened and sweaty under their helmets, and while they seem in very good spirits - fitting, if they just had a victory - there’s no doubt they’re a group of tired people looking for a place to rest.
Their pages scurry around, taking care of horses, carrying saddlebags and armor while the knights themselves head inside the inn to inquire after lodgings and meals.
It’s a small town, not much usually happens here. But the inn is decently sized and fairly close to some of the major traveling veins, so every so often weary bands of travelers will come by and fill all the beds. Knights, though… that’s new.
Henry watches them over the rim of his mug. Half the town is here, mostly to gawk or try and talk to the knights. But they’re knights. They usually don’t have much to say to commoners. There’s plenty of talk to be had with their pages, but only until they’re needed by their masters again. Henry isn’t getting his hopes up.
Although, these knights seem friendly. Friendly enough that most of the town’s unmarried young girls have shown up in their best, hoping to charm their way to a wealthy husband. And, from the looks of it, a couple of them might succeed. Henry is happy for them. And envious.
Not so much for the marriage prospects, but because he’s always, foolishly, dreamed of being one of them. Secretly training with his silly wooden sword behind the sheep pen, more or less bullied that one old codger in town to teach him how to read, in exchange for shoveling more manure than any man should ever have to. Because a knight is noble. A knight must be well educated and well trained. He must be honorable and brave. Henry wants so badly to be all those things.
But, alas, despite all his silly notions, he’s only ever going to be a small town lad. Probably destined to be a blacksmith like his father, expected to find a nice girl to marry and have more little future small-town lads with. There is no room for his grand dreams, he knows that. Knights are born, not made. Except… sometimes they are. In fairy tales anyway. And, Christ, how little Henry had hung on every single word of the traveling minstrels telling tales about brave knights and beautiful damsels, about farm boys saving the world and being elevated to be the king’s personal body guard or marrying princesses.
He’s not stupid. He knows it’s all just dreams. But, with the knights right there in front of him, he cannot help but yearn.
His eyes trail across their tunics, finely made, even though they’re clearly also made for fighting in. Some of them still wear parts of their armor, clearly more interested in food and ale than fiddling with their many buckles or bothering their already busy pages. A couple of them sit, pale-faced with bandages holding an arm in place or wrapped around their heads, but even they have wan smiles. The victory was clearly theirs with very little loss. All the others are in high spirits, toasting to anything and everything, eating heartily and a few of them even spinning girls around near the corner where old Johannes and Marika have brought out the lute and flute for some jaunty tunes.
It’s almost a feast.
And, if not, it will be a feast in the morning when the innkeeper tallies up his earnings from tonight.
One of the knights, a tall, blond, handsome fellow, is twirling young Lishka near the other knights, making her giggle and the other knights roar with laughter and wolf whistles. He seems an honorable man, though, and never puts his hands anywhere he shouldn’t. None of them do, they’re proper knights, obviously.
Lishka simpers and slinks around the man, and he seems only too happy to play along, kissing her hand like she’s a lady and making what may or may not be terrible jokes. But she laughs all the same, because why would she not.
Henry scowls. He wants to be there. Wants to be among them, laughing and feeling the rush of victory. Knowing he’s doing something good and brave and noble. But what reason would he have to engage with them? Ask them if their horses need new shoes, perhaps? Whether they need their swords sharpened? They probably do, but that’s page work, not something the knights themselves should be bothered with. Henry knows that much.
Lishka is just putting the finishing touches on what Henry assumes is a dance she came up with on the spot, accepting her applause from the knights with sweet smiles and curtseys, and the blond fellow offers a bow far deeper than a man of his standing should ever offer a commoner. As he straightens back up, his eyes flick up to Henry by the wall, and, for some reason, offers a wink and a crooked grin.
Annoyed, Henry assumes it’s a dig. Yes, yes, everyone with eyes can see how handsome you knights are. You can have any woman you want, no need to rub it in.
Strangely, though, that same fellow flicks his eyes back to Henry again as he sits back down, a knight next to him elbowing him and laughing as they drink. As the cups comes down those blue eyes are still on Henry. His hand sweats around the handle of his mug.
He has no idea what this could mean. What could a knight possibly want to look at him for?
Shifting on his feet, he drinks deeply of his ale, and, when he lowers his mug, the fellow is once again smiling at Lishka. Whatever that was it has clearly passed. Henry isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Lishka swishes away towards the bar, clearly on a mission for more ale, and at least three of the knights watch her backside as she goes. One of the older ones elbows a gawker, and more laughter breaks out.
The tall blond knight is not among them. He leans back, grinning at his mates, raising his mug to his lips, and then… there go his eyes again. To Henry.
Going down the list of what possible reason the knight could have to keep looking at him, Henry has to dismiss them one by one. The man can’t find Henry a threat, he’s just a peasant. He can’t consider him competition, Lishka literally doesn’t know he exists, at least not tonight, and Henry hasn’t been anywhere near the knights or the women. The idea does cross his mind that this knight might see him as someone with potential, but, even if that was the case, he’s far too old to even be a page. He should have become a page at least ten years ago if he were to have a chance in hell at advancing to knighthood that way.
His list of ideas is thinning fast, but he does have one more thought. One he isn’t sure he should even contemplate.
But some mistrels did have tales that were only told in whispers, late, after all the women and youngsters had gone home to bed. About kings and knights and forbidden love. Not that Henry is about to get any foolish notions about great love stories in a dingy inn full of sweaty men and giggling girls.
But knights are men too.
Not that Henry has much experience with the desires of men, outside of his own, but he’s not naive or stupid. A country bumpkin he might be, but he knows a bit of the world, and it’s the work of only a second or two to decide that this is one opportunity he doesn’t want to lay awake wondering about on his deathbed.
So the next time the fellow’s eyes turn his way, he offers a secret little smile of his own. The fellow blinks and looks away, but barely a second later he looks back again, eyebrows raised, and Henry mirrors him. Did you want something?
It takes far too long for their eye contact to break, and the fellow dips deep in his cup, fidgeting next to his mates, and cheers with them as Lishka returns with plenty of ale.
Perhaps Henry pushed too hard, because, the next thing he knows, the fellow is pulling Lishka along towards the music again, twirling her with a vigor that seems to make her dizzy, and all the other knights clap and drum along on tables and their thighs, keeping the rhythm pounding. But just as Henry is considering maybe just going home and putting his silly notions aside, the fellow catches his eye again over Lishka’s shoulder, and there’s such fire in them Henry abruptly has to swallow. Is this a challenge of some sort? He isn’t sure, but every time they twirl, those eyes find him again, and he almost feels like he’s the one being twirled and dipped. His stomach sure feels like it, and he puts down his last ale, having lost his taste for it.
The fellow twirls Lishka one last time, depositing her into the arms of another handsome knight, and she seems entirely satisfied with this outcome. Patting a couple of his mates on the shoulders, the blond fellow makes gestures towards the back, clearly excusing himself for the outhouse, and Henry isn’t a lecher or one prone to assume too much, but just before the man turns towards the back door, his eyes find Henry again, lingering far too long.
And, what the hell, Henry is only just of age, he has room for a few more youthful mistakes.
He waits a few breaths after the back door is closed again, but no one is giving him even a glance, so he takes the front door out, and skirts around the side of the inn with hurried steps.
A couple of other fellows are relieving themselves on the nearest fence, swaying so badly Henry doubts they even notice him as he rounds the corner towards the back.
It’s dark back here, only moonlight and a single lantern lighting the way enough that drunkards don’t tip headfirst into the pig pen on their way to the outhouse. Even so, there’s enough light to see that there’s no one here, the door to the outhouse ajar and the inside empty of everything but flies.
Henry pauses, unsure. He could have misunderstood, certainly. But then, why is the outhouse empty?
A branch snaps loudly somewhere behind the barn, and Henry cautiously follows the sound around the corner and into the shadow of the building.
The moon is about half full in a cloudless sky, there’s more than enough light to catch the glimmer of silver thread on the blond fellow’s tunic where he leans against a tree, just outside the border of the nearby woods. There’s a small field between him and Henry, and if anyone else were to look behind the barn, they’d easily be able to see him trudging down the hill towards the treeline, and despite the moonlight there’s plenty of branches and pebbles under his feet to alert anyone nearby.
Even so, the fellow doesn’t look up, eyes firmly on the dirt and arms crossed across his chest as Henry approaches, and he slows down, nervous. Maybe he was lured here for some purpose other than lust. He knows some nobles are very dishonorable and engage in horrid behaviors with enough ale in them. Sometimes even without the ale. Maybe he was summoned here to take out anger on, or some other sick inclination.
All those worries fly out of his head, however, when the fellow finally does lift his head, greeting Henry with a smile and that same fire in his eyes.
Henry’s gut swoops.
“Greetings,” he says, a little stupidly, awkward smile plastered on his lips, but the fellow seems unperturbed.
“To you as well. Might I ask you name, good sir?”
It feels like a joke. No one has ever called Henry good sir. That’s for his pa, and only when someone respects his craft or fears his wrath. Henry is just a lad, barely of age, hardly knows anything, barely owns anything, and would be lucky to be trained properly as a blacksmith and take over his father’s business one day, many years from now.
Belatedly, he realizes he should be bowing. This is a nobleman, whatever other context they’re in right now.
“Henry, my lord,” he says, offering a quick but sincere bow.
The fellow laughs, beautifully, warm and wavy, edges softened from ale and tiredness. “Just Henry, eh?”
“Uh. Yeah. Just… Henry.”
“Well, just Henry. My name is Hans. If you want my titles I can give them, but I feel like they might be unnecessary - or perhaps even detrimental - to tonight’s meeting.”
Henry only had two ales, but it still takes his brain a slow beat to puzzle out what that means.
“Oh. You think I’d be, uh. Put off?”
Hans laughs again, and, curse it all, that laugh will stay burrowed against Henry’s ribcage forever after this, he can just tell.
“Yes. But also… perhaps sometimes a nobleman doesn’t want to feel quite so noble,” he says, eyes taking a slow trip down Henry’s body and up again, and if Henry had still been enough of an idiot to not know what’s going to happen after this, he’d be wise to it now, that’s for sure.
“Alright, well. No nobles here,” Henry says, softly throwing out his hands to the empty field around them. “Just a couple of louts in a field.”
Again, that laugh.
“Poetic,” Hans says. “Can’t say I’m unhappy with the description, though perhaps we should remove the open field from the narrative. Being the local among us, might you know of somewhere a little more… private? Not too far, mind. I need to return fairly soon.”
“Right, uh. This way,” Henry says, covertly wiping his sweaty palms on his hose. Is he really about to lead a nobleman to one of the little love nests in the woods around town? Henry is only one of many youngsters frequenting these places, and he’s also probably not the only one entertaining a knight this evening. But he’s probably only one of very few men doing so, and thus picks one of the less popular places. It’s close, but also close to the road, and in daylight would be far too visible. But it’s past midnight, no one is on the road, and if anyone did see them it would be easy to claim just going for a piss. It’s the best he can do, he’s not exactly an expert in this.
But Hans follows behind, silent, and it would be worrying, if Henry couldn’t still feel those eyes on him, licking fire up and down his back.
He did wear something a little nicer, seeing as he was hoping to at least talk to a knight, but he’s certainly not dressed up for… whatever this is. Does he smell alright? He’s not sure, and he wipes his hands again.
The love nest is barely a divot in the underbrush, but there are signs for anyone who knows how to look. A little pouch tucked away at the bottom of a nearby tree with a little sip of schnapps, enough for two perhaps. A little salve for… soreness, Henry assumes. A tiny pouch of dried flower petals for smelling nice. And, up in the tree, a jug hanging from a branch, for fetching water from the nearby stream for cleaning up or whatever.
These are generational spots. Henry never asked who keep the little stashes filled, though he assumes it’s everyone. He himself left the jug full of fresh water once, and refilled the schnapps. There’s simply no privacy as a young person living at home, so, if you want to sin, you have to make your own opportunities.
And, well. Tonight sure is an opportunity.
He stops and turns around, holding out his hands.
“This, uh. Here. This is it.”
Hans looks around, a little confused at first, but then shrugs. “Right. Small town, few options.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say,” Henry jokes weakly, completely lost on how to do any of this. The closest he’s been to doing anything similar was tugging off next his buddy Matthias when they were like fourteen. There’s no way to know what a nobleman expects of him.
Hans just looks at him, the intensity in his gaze making Henry fidget and move towards the jug.
“Right, lemme just… fetch a little water. So we can... freshen up. Or whatever.”
He reaches up for the jug, but stops dead when he feels a hand sliding up under his tunic to the small of his back. His reaching lifted up his tunic a bit, and clearly Hans decided that was as good an invitation as any.
It’s warm in summer, even in the middle of the night, but Henry still shivers at the touch.
“Alright?” Hans asks quietly behind him, maybe a last chance to say no.
Henry would be lying to himself if he claimed he wasn’t nervous as hell. He has no idea what to expect. But, as nervous as he is, going through with whatever this is feels far less scary than the idea of saying a polite no thank you and wandering home to wonder what if, for the rest of his life.
“Yeah,” he croaks. “Alright.”
Hans sighs, moving closer behind him, and Henry gives up on the jug, choosing instead to rest a palm on the trunk of the tree for support as lips find the back of his neck.
This part is familiar enough, and he echoes the sigh, leaning back into the touch. He’s not courting anyone at the moment. He and Bianca went to the woods sometimes a few years ago, but neither of their parents were wild about the match for different reasons, so it slowly fell apart.
Consequently, it’s also been at least a year since he’s done anything at all with someone else, and he feels his cock fill immediately from the slightest tender touch.
So far Hans is just kissing the sun-touched skin of his nape, and sliding his palm gently back and forth right above Henry’s hose. His belt is still tied around him, so the hand can’t really go up, and his hose and braies are still tied too, so there’s no room to go downwards either.
Henry would like to claim he’s anything but a blushing damsel, but, at least for right now, he’s glad of the restrictions. He needs a moment to get used to this new state of affairs.
His cock needs no such support, tenting his braies just fine from only a few kisses, and when Hans moves to press his entire front against Henry's back, it's obvious he's not the only one tenting, and he shivers again from feeling that hardness against his ass.
Hans’ hand has snuck around to Henry's front, giving the soft pudge of his belly a little squeeze. It makes shame well up in his throat, because obviously he can never measure up to a real knight. Trained, disciplined and handsome.
But Hans makes no comment. On the contrary, he makes a happy little hum, spreading his fingers for more grip, and lets his other hand slide down for a grope of Henry's thigh through his hose. He has nothing to be ashamed about there, at least. He learned to ride just last summer, and has spent a lot of time on horseback since, running errands for Pa or whoever pays him. Anything to not be stuck at the sweltering smithy, frankly.
And, well. It felt more knightly. To ride on horseback instead of on a cart or walk behind a plow.
Although, very recent events considered, he might have to rethink his definition of knightly just a little bit.
He sighs into the night air as Hans’ hand travels slowly from thigh to hip to where he's straining, and from the sure grip alone Henry feels like he can safely assume this is not the first time Hans has done this.
Henry wonders, for just a moment, how many other peasant lads Hans has done this with, but a moment is all he has, because Christ Almighty it feels good.
Suddenly desperate to feel more of that, Henry shakily starts tugging at his laces, and blessed be all the angels, Hans is right there with him, sliding his hand inside Henry's braies the very moment there's room.
“Oh, God in Heaven,” he groans, because Hans’ hand feels nothing less than heavenly on him, stroking him slow and firm, apparently without care for how he's definitely damp from the sweat of the day.
That said, Hans isn't entirely fresh himself. Being so close, Henry can catch the scent of him sometimes. Horse, mostly. Sweat, like every other living thing during summer. But also something metallic. Maybe his armor or weapons, the oils and general use of them seeping into skin and clothes as surely as the coal and molten metal hangs in his father's clothes and beard even right after a wash.
Or, and Henry can't decide if that thought scares or thrills him, it could be blood. Hans was in battle this very morning, as far as Henry overheard, and there's a very real possibility that Hans killed someone only a few hours ago.
It's a bit much to contemplate, though, when your neglected cock is getting such dedicated, loving treatment, and Henry worries abruptly that he'll spill and embarrass himself far too early if he doesn't do something.
Going on mostly instinct he turns around in Hans’ arms and pulls him in for a hungry kiss, fingers curled in his hair, other hand winding around his waist to keep him close.
Hans freezes for just a second, stock still in Henry's arms, but then he comes alive, both hands diving straight into the back of Henry's drooping braies to grope his ass cheeks, mashing their cocks together between them with a sweet little whimper as Henry devours his lips.
This might be unfamiliar terrain for Henry in general, but the route is much the same, and he lets his lower brain take over, spinning Hans around so he’s up against the tree and Henry can really get into kissing him. He might not be any kind of legend in the hay, but he’s always been told he’s an excellent kisser. Hans seems to agree, making more of those lovely little sounds as Henry makes a mess of his mouth.
“Mother Mary,” Hans gasps when Henry briefly stops for air, and, all else aside, Henry can hold onto that one moment of feeling like an absolute stud, making this fancy knight fall apart from his kisses.
Hans, for his part, is doing plenty of work himself, hands kneading Henry’s ass like he’s literally trying to bake bread, rutting them together in frantic little hitches, and it’s hard to feel insecure when they’re both just chasing their pleasure like this.
It’s easy for Henry to forget, but Hans can’t be much older than himself, if at all. He just has so much more confidence and power that Henry can’t help but feel a little small. As it turns out, though, he’s not small in a very physical sense, once Hans finally fumbles a hand between them to undo his own laces. As if a mirror of their bodies, Hans’ cock is a little slimmer and just a smidge longer. Just as Henry is thicker and the tiniest bit shorter. As he glances down between them he’s more than happy with what he sees, and groans filthy and desperate into Hans’ mouth as both of them are gripped surely in Hans’ hand.
Since Hans seems to have things in hand down there, Henry focuses on the kissing, and Hans sounds like he’s entirely in favor of that choice, moaning into Henry’s mouth and clinging onto his hip or ass, whatever he can reach, it seems.
It is indeed a little different kissing a man, but not nearly as much as Henry would have assumed before this. Not enough to bring him out of it, anyway, not by a long shot. What Hans’ hand is doing, however, is a pretty new sensation, but one Henry is going to yearn for in the future, he knows that already.
He loves fucking women, absolutely. But this is new and exciting, and there’s something so bold and direct about just… standing close and rutting and kissing. And Hans is such an entire cornucopia of new smells and tastes that Henry barely knows what’s up or down.
Other than his cock. That one is definitely up. And it’s going to go down real fast, if Hans keeps doing that.
“Fuck,” he gasps between their lips. “I’m- I’m close,” he manages, a little ashamed of it, but Hans just ekes out a strained “uh-huh,” and does not let up in the slightest. And there’s nothing for it, Henry comes, loud and filthy, right into Hans’ fancy joined hose, and he would feel humiliated if Hans didn’t immediately return the favor.
“Oh, Hell,” Hans groans. “Oh, fucking hell.”
Henry isn’t sure if that’s good or not, but Hans is still holding them both and still nipping at his lips, so what else is Henry supposed to do but keep kissing him?
And there’s something so tender and intimate just standing there, spent cocks nestled together in Hans’ trembling hand, exchanging sighs between their lips.
As far as Henry understood, Hans would need to be back soon, so he’s prepared for this to be it. He feels a little wistful, perhaps even regretful that he didn’t make more of it when he had the chance, but it’s still definitely a memory he’ll treasure. That one time he seduced a knight behind the inn.
Fuck yeah.
But Hans doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, still hungrily licking at him, and unless Henry is entirely fooling himself, it feels like he’s already plumping up again.
Almost afraid to ask, Henry nonetheless can’t help it, and parts their lips for just a moment.
“Do, uh. Do you need to head back?”
Instead of an answer, Hans just dives back into the kissing, and, well, Henry isn’t complaining.
“Ugh,” Hans does manage, several kisses later. “I should- oh fuck it.”
Henry would ask, but he’s busy trying not to brain himself as Hans wrestles him down onto the forest floor, with no hint of knightly elegance or grace, and planting himself on top of Henry as if he was a horse to be ridden into battle, and Henry didn’t think he could even get hard again so fast.
But, Christ, the vision of Hans above him like that, the moon a halo behind his mussed hair as he tears off his tunic and undershirt, Henry would dare anyone to remain calm through that. He struggles through getting his own belt and tunic off, wincing at the realization that his undershirt has a pretty substantial hole in it. But Hans clearly doesn’t care, far too busy wriggling his hose off, and working on Henry’s at the same time somehow.
Henry has tried this with a couple of girls, and he has a general idea of how it would work with a man. But he genuinely never gave much thought to it - he’s usually already coming his brains out by the time his fantasies start wondering logistics like that - and it’s a relief that Hans seems to be experienced enough in it to take charge and not leave Henry to feel too stupid.
“Where’s the-” Hans mutters, leaning gorgeously away to reach the base of the tree with a long arm, grabbing the little bag and the salve in it. And suddenly Henry feels really dumb for never realizing what else the salve in there could be for.
“Oh, Christ,” he moans as Hans does… something to himself. Everything down there is in shadow, but Henry can imagine, and he has to stop that train of thought right there, unless he truly wants to embarrass himself.
“Yeah,” Hans sighs, seemingly in agreement, and nearly ends it all right then and there by taking hold of Henry’s cock with a slick and warm hand, spreading the salve all over.
Henry can not risk putting things to an end already, and, somewhat desperately, reaches for Hans’ cock to distract himself a little from his own. And it’s only as he takes hold of it that he realizes it’s the first time he’s touched another man’s cock, and, immediately after, that he really likes it.
Oh, Hans may well have changed him forever tonight.
“Aw, shit, you bastard,” Hans gasps, rutting into Henry’s fist a few times, hand shooting out to grip the tree for support. For a few glorious moments he just stays there, hitching his hips and trusting into Henry’s grip, but soon enough - too soon - he swats Henry’s hand away, and then just… mounts him.
Henry’s eyes roll back in his head, because praise be to all the angels in the sky, he’s never felt anything so tight and wonderful in his life. Thankfully, as much as Hans is taking charge, he’s clearly not unaffected, and plants a firm hand on Henry’s chest when he accidentally thrusts upwards in his dizzying lust.
“Don’t- wait. Wait a moment,” Hans wheezes, and he’s so tight, Henry can barely imagine how it must feel for him.
And it’s a blessing, being held still like this. It gives Henry time to breathe himself down a little, and also just enjoy the view of Hans panting above him, heaving in great big lungfuls as he settles, the tightness of him slowly lessening as his body makes room. Somehow. Henry has no idea how any of it works, but he also couldn’t care less, his cock has literally never been happier.
“There,” Hans says on a groan, after what feels like a small eternity. “There we go. Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah,” Henry answers, a little stupidly, pretty sure he’s talking entirely through his cock right now, because it feels like the damn center of his universe at the moment.
Good thing Hans still seems able to control the situation, because Henry would probably make bad choices exclusively if it were up to him. That said, it does feel like the best decision in the goddamn world when Hans raises up a little and sits back down, slow at first, but then does it again, faster, and Henry didn’t think anything could feel like this.
“Fuck!” he blurts, fingers digging into Hans’ hips, and, as if he wasn’t struggling for breath already, suddenly Hans’ lips are on his and everything is so close and tight and amazing.
He flings his arms around Hans’ back, but it’s like holding onto a flopping fish, Hans undulating and moving himself sinuously on Henry’s cock in a way that’s just uncoordinated enough to keep him from shooting off immediately. Thank Christ.
It’s graceless and awkward and wonderful, fucking with abandon on the forest floor, watching, hearing and feeling a noble knight fall completely to pieces on top of him, moaning Henry’s name into his mouth among curses.
“Why,” Hans pants at one point, and doesn’t elaborate. Henry has no brain power left to ask, can only hang on and accept what’s happening to him.
“Fucking… peasant,” he hears a little later, but considering Hans is moving frantically and still licking at him like his mouth holds the only air, Henry can’t take it as any real insult.
“Fuck!” is all Henry has to offer himself, and he can feel it building now, impossible to stop. As frantic and without rhythm as it is, it’s still the best thing he’s ever felt, and even his very recent climax cannot hold off the truly overwhelming peak he can feel coming.
Hans seems aware of it too, sitting up suddenly, changing the angle, and slamming himself down so hard Henry winces a few times. But, God, he’s gorgeous, chest heaving and cock bobbing as he rides, and Henry can’t help but slide his hands all over, trying to touch everything at once. He brushes against Hans’ cock, and he jerks, shocked, and Henry immediately goes with it, taking him in hand properly, just giving him something to shove into.
The sound Hans makes echoes through the woods, and Henry desperately hopes no one else is nearby right now. But, even if anyone hears, they won’t get there in time to interrupt anything, because just as Henry can’t possibly hold back his orgasm any longer, Hans slams down one last time and spills magnificently over Henry’s hand and chest.
Mesmerized, Henry barely notices his own climax, grunting with surprise as it hits him, and lets Hans move around him as he pulses through it. They both exhale loudly at the same time, and Hans drops down onto his chest in a heap, gasping for air right across his own spend, and making Henry’s skin prickle with gooseflesh.
“Jesus Christ,” Hans gasps after a few heaving breaths. “This wasn’t… part of the plan, you know.”
“Oh. Was there a plan?”
Hans snorts and sits up, wobbly, and Henry gasps from the sensation where they’re still joined.
“Yes. Obviously. The plan was to have a quick tug with a sweet farm boy behind the barn, and then get back inside. But then you had to go and be…” he trails off, hand waving vaguely near Henry’s chest.
“Be… what?”
“Good,” Hans says eventually. “Christ, you weren’t supposed to be so… good.”
Completely unable to hide how much that strokes his ego, Henry grins, and Hans rolls his eyes.
“God, now I’ve done it,” he says, and lifts himself off Henry with a disgusting noise, followed by a frankly unpleasant breeze across the mess down there. “Now you can go fetch water. Not that I think there’s any saving my damn hose,” Hans mutters.
If Henry hadn’t just had his brains leave him twice in a row through his cock, he might have tried to protest that Hans had a part in the mess too. But, as it is, he just wobbles to his feet and gets the jug. The stream is trickling only a few steps away, barely enough to even call a stream. But it’s enough to fill the small jug, and, once Henry returns, he digs through his abandoned belt pouch for his handkerchief. It’s definitey not clean, but it’s certainly not getting cleaner from what it’s used for now, and they clean up as best they can in a not entirely awkward silence.
“Goddammit,” Hans grits as he pulls on his damp hose. “I really shouldn’t have- the others will definitely know I was out for a fuck, now.”
“Is that… bad?” Henry asks cautiously. He’s only a country lad, after all, he can’t quite imagine what the problem would be with having a fuck after battle. It seems the right time for it, really.
Hans snorts, fiddling with his tangled laces. “No. Well. Not usually. But someone’s bound to ask what lovely girl I met by the outhouse, and I won’t have an acceptable answer to that, will I?”
“Oh. Just say her name was Bianca.”
Stopping his lace-fumbling, Hans looks up at him. “Hm?”
“Yeah, I used to uh. Come to the woods with her a while ago,” Henry says, as delicately as he can as he shrugs into his tunic. “She’s visiting her aunt about a day away, but she’s actually the daughter of the innkeeper, so. You can just say she was arriving home early and you struck up conversation by the pig pen or something.” Unable to help himself, Henry grins. “I promise, she’s very pretty, it won’t be a stain on your reputation. Sir.”
Hans stares at him for a while, the moonlight casting his face in shadows in a way that makes it hard to tell what’s he’s feeling.
“And… would she be alright with you spreading her name around like that?”
It’s only then that Henry wonders if perhaps it’s… dishonorable to sully a lady’s name or something. But Bianca is anything but a fancy lady, which was part of the reason his ma and pa were so bothered by Henry courting her. As the daughter of the innkeeper, Bianca often met new and handsome men, and, more often than she should, ended up taking them to the woods. She was certainly not a dew fresh maiden by the time Henry had her.
“Truth be told, I don’t think she’d even question it if someone asked her about a handsome nobleman she might have lain with at some point. She, uh. Gets around. And she’s not too shy about it.” He huffs. “It’s… one of the things I liked about her, actually.”
Hans looks at him a little longer, and then grins. “Ah. I see. You like people who… take charge, huh?”
“Eh, I dunno,” Henry mutters, trying and failing to secure his belt properly. “It think it’s more… confidence. Women- people- who know what they want.”
Hans is just buttoning his sleeves, but stops dead in the middle, staring at Henry as if he said something shocking.
“What?”
“You… was I your first man?”
“Uhm. Yeah? Is that… a problem?”
Again, Hans rolls his eyes like the universe is just one great inconvenience to him. “No! God, no, it’s just… you have no right to be so good if you’ve never done it before! Some of us had to fumble our way through it like idiots,” he grumbles and finishes his buttons.
“I’ve been with plenty of girls,” Henry argues. “It’s not that different.”
“Not that different, he says,” Hans mutters, making sure his tunic covers the stain on his hose before straightening up to meet his gaze. “Well. In any case. I, uh. Certainly had a good time.”
There’s something so charmingly sincere about Hans like this. He’s still a knight, a nobleman, his tunic inlaid with silver and his boots of the finest leather. But he’s still just a lad like Henry who had an amazing fuck in the woods, and it feels, for just a moment, like they’re equals. Right here and now, they’re the same, and Henry tucks that feeling away behind his breastbone. For a brief moment, he and a noble knight were the same.
“I did too. If you ever come this way again…” he clears his throat, unsure if it’s considered uncouth to be too eager. “Even if you just need a good sword or your horse shod. My father is an excellent swordsmith.”
“Oh, I’m sure your family is very good with… blades,” Hans says, and Henry only manages a single second of composure before he breaks, barking out a laugh.
“God, that was terrible. And now I’m left wondering about how my father wields his blade. Thanks for that.”
Hans snorts out a laugh himself, and, unexpectedly, reaches out to adjust Henry’s collar where it’s folded in on itself.
“I am entirely at your service, good sir.”
“I’m… I’m not, though,” Henry admits, and Hans frowns.
“Not… what?”
“A… a good sir. I’m just… some peasant.”
“Well. There’s nothing wrong with that. We are what we are.”
“Unfortunately.” Hans is still frowning at him, and Henry figures he might as well lay it all bare. He was literally naked only minutes ago. “I… well, I always dreamed of being… like you. A knight.”
Hans snorts so hard it sounds painful. “You wouldn’t want to be a knight. Trust me.”
“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I want to be respected and admired? To have wealth and freedom?”
“Freedom!” Hans cries. “Now there’s a joke!”
He turns and begins walking back to the treeline, clearly upset, and Henry follows behind, confused and worried that he might have ruined an otherwise incredibly nice evening.
“What-”
“Freedom! You’re the one who’s free! Free to skirt your responsibilities and lay in the grass in the sunshine, free to fuck whoever you want without your entire family line being at risk over it. Free to be dirty or rude or stay in bed.” Hans turns his head to look back at Henry but doesn’t stop walking. “I don’t know when the last time was I did something I wanted. It’s always training and duty and resposibility! It’s always sucking up to some higher noble or killing some poor soul who didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want any of this!” he snaps, far too loudly, and Henry stops him with a gentle touch to his arm.
“You… didn’t want… tonight?” He can understand Hans’ position, to a point. He knows that noblemen have to very careful who they bed and how. A noble bastard is probably the worst thing one can be. Caught between social classes, never fitting into either, and only ever considered a problem. He’s met a couple of them, and they have universally despised their lot. But he had hoped that Hans chose him because he liked what he saw, and not just because he couldn’t risk bedding a girl and getting her with child.
Hans stops with a groan. “No, yes, I mean. Gah.” He grinds his palms into his eyeballs for a moment, and then turns to Henry, mouth twisted in a sad slant. “I wanted tonight. I wanted you. But I wanted to take you to bed, Henry. Not have to roll around in a forest clearing. I wanted to be able to go in there and tell the others about the handsome man I bedded, and not have to lie, again. A peasant can share secrets. A nobelman can’t. Can’t risk it. There’s too much at stake.”
“Oh.” Henry still isn’t sure he understands, but he can clearly see that Hans isn’t happy as a knight. Just making the best of it, as everyone else. And while Henry doesn’t think he’ll ever truly be able to let go of his dreams, at least going forward he might feel less bitter about his lot.
“Well,” he says, guiding Hans onwards back to the inn with a soft touch to his elbow. “If it helps, you’re always welcome to come by and skirt some chores with me. I’ll lay in the grass with you anytime.”
Hans snorts. “Sure. If I’m ever free to go anywhere or do anything.”
“Well, I wasn’t lying when I said my pa is an excellent swordsmith. Renowned enough that you might get away with coming to see him to commission a truly magnificent sword, fit for a lord.”
They enter the field, keeping a careful distance between them, and Hans seems to ponder it. “You… might have a point. If I just… spin it right…” he trails off. “You… you’re serious? If I showed up here again, you’d… take off and take me with you? And… lie in the grass somewhere?”
“Sure,” Henry promises. It feels like such a small thing to want, but it seems huge to Hans, so why shouldn’t Henry offer.
Hans nods to himself, and it’s not clear in the shadows of the moon, but Henry is pretty sure he’s smiling.
“Just ask about Martin Menshi. I’m sure at least someone’s heard of him.”
“So. That would make you… Henry Menshi. And not just Henry, eh?”
Henry snorts. “Sure. Though I don’t think I’ll ever quite live up to my father’s name.”
“We have that in common as well,” Hans offers. “My father isn’t even alive, and I still feel like I’m disappointing him at every turn.” He glances at Henry, just briefly, and clasps his hands behind his back. “My father was Lord Capon of Pirkstein and Leipa. A great hero and commander. A respected nobleman. And I’m… not.”
Henry isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s heard the name Capon, but, to him, it’s just one of many noble families, nothing worth noting over any of the others. But to Hans it’s everything, and Henry can certainly understand the pressure of living up to a name.
“Well. I think you’re pretty great, Hans Capon,” Henry says, and Hans stops abruptly, right at the back corner of the barn. The last moment they’re still in shadow. He turns to Henry, his eyes glinting in the darkness, and he looks very tall and intense in that moment in a way that makes Henry want to fall to his knees. For more than one reason.
“You can’t say that,” Hans says, and continues before Henry can ask. “Not if you don’t mean it.”
“I do. I’m not in the habit of lying, my lord,” Henry says, a little annoyed, because he might be a peasant, but he’s not dishonest. But before irritation can take hold, Hans slams him up against the back wall of the barn and kisses him with easily as much desperation as when they were both hungry and lustful. But this desperation is different, and Henry instinctively wraps his arms around him, holding him, and kissing him through whatever is going on in his head.
When they finally part, breathing hard, Hans holds his gaze, intense and a little wild. “You promise? If I come, we’ll lay in a field?”
Henry might not be the brightest, but he understands that Hans is asking something greater. And it might be foolish, but he’s prepared to give it. Hans has given him something wonderful tonight, and it feels only right and proper to promise something just as wonderful in return.
“I promise. I’ll even get us some schnapps and get us real soused in the middle of the day, like true layabouts.”
The sound Hans makes isn’t quite a laugh, but it’s close enough, and he presses a final kiss to Henry’s lips before pulling away.
“I’ll have to hold you to that, Henry Menshi.”
“I might be a lowly peasant, but my word is as good as any knight’s, Lord Capon.”
“Don’t… don’t ever call me that in private. Please?”
Henry hadn’t really considered the implication that his promise would mean spending more time in private with a nobleman, but, hell, it feels like a small ask.
“Alright. You have my word, Hans Capon.”
Hans smiles and gazes into Henry’s eyes for a long moment before finally pulling away, tugging his tunic into place, and then slowly, very slowly, stepping away, rounding the corner and leaving Henry there to listen to the crunch of his boots as he goes back inside.
There might not be a future where Henry can be a knight and Hans can be free. But there might be a future where a knight and a peasant can have a moment alone and talk freely and pretend the pressures on them don’t exist.
And Henry finds he’s surprisingly alright with that.
End.