Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Devil’s Den roared with life as dusk descended, the old timbers groaning under the weight of the motley throng within, grimy farmhands and rogues with knives in their boots, packed in shoulder to shoulder. The air hung heavy with the sour tang of stale ale and the musk of the unwashed, the acrid woodsmoke curling from the hearth painting the whole scene hazy. Laughter, raucous and unrestrained, erupted from the table at the taverns heart, where the Devil himself held sway.

Hynek slammed his tankard down on the scarred wood, the foamy contents sloshing over the rim and soaking into the filthy grain. His rasping laugh rose above the din, grating like a rusted hinge over the chaos of the crowded room. “Henry, don’t keep us waiting lad!” he barked, throughly enjoying himself, his black bead eyes glinting with mischief as he fixed them on the younger man. “What happened next, eh?”

Henry swallowed hard, his throat tight, his gaze darting nervously to Zizka at the far end of the table. In the dim candlelight his face was only half formed, carved into sharp lines and deep hollows, his good eye fixed on the depths of his tankard as if it held secret only he could divine. If he heard Hynek’s taunting, which was undoubtable, he gave no sign, his expression unreadable, features unyielding.

Henry’s fingers tightened around his own dented cup, the metal cool against his calloused palms, “Well… erm, then he challenged me to a duel,” he mumbled, voice cracking dry as kindling in his throat. His eyes dropped to his ale, suddenly fascinated by the way the scum clung to the sides, anything to avoid the eyes on him.

Hynek roared his approval, doubling over with laughter so violent he sent his tankard flying off the table, clattering to the floor. “A duel!” he wheezed, barely able to breathe. “You had him surrounded, that whelp quivering between his legs, not a blade to his name, and you challenged him to a duel!” He collapsed sideways off his stool, rolling in the filth, cackling like a man possessed.

The table erupted, the men’s laughter shaking the rafters. Kubyenka, his grin wide and easy, slapped Zizka’s broad back, and declared him, “a true fuckin’ gentleman, our Zizka!” swaying drunkenly on his stool. The others raised their cups in mock salute to Zizka’s honour.

Henry dared not look up, his cheeks burning with the weight of their ridicule. Beneath the table his fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles, still raw from the fight, straining to white.

He knew well enough it was only Zizka’s sense of decency that had spared him, the mercy the others were now so openly mocking. With ten crossbows trained on him and only a bastard’s claim to a title as his shield, Zizka’s pity was the sole reason Henry still drew breath.

Hynek hauled himself back onto his stool, grinning like a wolf, nodding thanks as Kubyenka slid a fresh tankard his way. “And then,” he growled, taking a deep drink and jabbing a gnarled finger at Henry, “this greenhorn, this bastard’s bairn, gave you a proper thrashing, Zizka!” His sneer widened, all sharp teeth and mean delight. “God’s bones, the balls on you, boy.”

Zizka’s head snapped up at that, his good eye narrowing to a blades edge, cutting through the tavern’s smog. “What?” His voice was a rough command, laced with barely restrained contempt. “You’d have gutted him, Hynek? Some boy? Sworn to his lord and doomed to bleed out at his feet?” His words were sharp, but even as he said them his shoulders sagged, and he shook his head, clearly thinking better of arguing the point with the drunkards.

Hyneks grin didn't falter, he’d have slit Henry throat in a heartbeat, and Henry, like countless before him, would have been crow food by sundown. Zizka rose abruptly, jostling the table. He drained his ale with a grimace, slammed the tankard down and stalked from the room. His broad frame parted the revellers like a ship through waves, leaving Hynek grinning unperturbed in his wake and Henry watching his retreating back, a knot tightening in his gut.

Kubyenka leaned closer, his breath ale sour but his voice almost kind. “Don’t fret, lad,” he said, clapping Henry’s shoulder, “His pride is the only thing you’ve really bruised.”

”Aye,” Hynek nodded wiping foam from his mouth with the back of his hand, “maybe he’ll think twice before playing the chivalrous fool next time” he grinned, laughing like they weren't casually discussing Henry’s death.

The conversation barrelled on, tales of Zizka’s misplaced honor and past misadventures fuelling their drunken mirth. Across the room, someone launched into a bawdy drinking song, Kubyenka joined in enthusiastic and off-key, Hynek clambered onto the table, dancing like a marionette with half cut strings, his flailing arms earning raucous applause.

Henry seized the distraction, slipping from the table and weaving through the press of bodies, heart hammering. Zizka terrified him, that much was true, the man was a honed blade, commanding fear and fealty alike. Yet there was something else there too, a flicker in Zizka’s eyes when he’d looked at Henry, the blades other side, tempered not for slaughter but for protection, defending one’s own.

The thought made Henry’s stomach twist in ways he couldn’t name, drew him in despite the deadly edge. He ducked into the pantry, grabbing supplies and stole a moments peace before steadying his nerves and forging on.

The narrow wooden walkway above the tavern was a quiet haven, bathed in cool moonlight that spilled across the empty courtyard below. Somewhere a horse nickered softly, shifting in its sleep, a barn owl’s solemn call echoed from the shadowed copse beyond, lonesome in the dark.

Warm candlelight poured from the tavern’s windows, the cacophony of voices inside muffled but distinguishable. Hynek had taken up the drinking song, joined by the alehouse maid’s laughter and the rhythmic stomping of boots as the crowd cheered their tabletop dance. The revelry was a world away, leaving Henry alone in the quiet night.

Only two doors opened on to the short walkway. His own, at the far end, still lay shrouded in darkness. Beneath the closer door, Zizka’s room, faint candlelight leeched out, weaving golden fingers of warmth across the weathered planks.

Henry knocked softly, heart thudding, hoping for no response, but when none came, he knocked again, harder, then a third time, each rap louder than the last. Maybe he’s asleep, Henry thought, a fleeting hope he could slip free of his burden.

No such luck. “Fuck off!!” Zizka’s voice roared, harsh and hoarse, a command to be followed without question.

Henry held his nerve, clearing his throat to hide the tremor. “It’s, er… it’s me,” he called, steeling himself, expecting a second dismissal, his hands tightening around the cool metal bowl in his arms, filled with the supplies he’d scavenged.

Instead, heavy footsteps stomped across the floorboards within and the rough hewn door swung inward with a groan of protest.

Zizka loomed against the candlelight, shirtless, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his one good eye glowering. Henry braced himself, half-expecting a fist to the face for his trouble.

“And what the fuck do you want?” Zizka snapped.

Henry blinked, his mouth opened and closed uselessly, words failing him as his eyes betrayed him, tracing the fire gilt planes of Zizka’s chest, the taut lines of his stomach, the thick muscle of his thighs.

He forced his gaze up, clutching the supplies like a drowning man clings to driftwood. “Katherine… she made me swear to tend to your eye tonight… Captain” he managed at last, his voice steadier than his hands. He met Zizka’s stare, determined to at least attempt to keep his promise.

Zizkas dark eye raked him up and down, a long, heavy silence stretching taut between them. Then, unexpectedly, with a muttered of course she fucking did, he stepped back yielding, gesturing Henry into the small room with a jerk of his head.

The chamber was sparse , a cot, a rough hewn side table, and a heavy set trunk in the corner were all it held, but the candle’s glow made it feel almost cozy.

Zizka shut the door behind him, sliding the bolt home with a dull thud. Henry suppressed a gulp, trying not to dwell on how advisable it was to be locked in a room with a man he’d recently maimed, a man whose mercy had spared him but whose temper he couldn’t vouch for.

He set his supplies on the table under the sputtering candle, the clink of vials and bowls a familiar comfort. The chamomile’s soothing scent filled the air as he shook it from the little purse, the nettle rich and earthy as he roughly chopped then ground it to a smooth paste, his hands steadying with the familiar rhythm of the task.

Behind him, Zizka stalked the small space before finally settling on the cot with a soft creak. Henry felt the weight of that piercing stare on the back of his scalp, like a predator sizing up prey, but he kept his focus determinedly on his task, unfurling the clean linen, cutting it into workable strips with unnecessary care.

“Right,” he began with a croak, carrying the bowl of warm water to the bedside. “I’ll… uh, remove the bandage first, clean the area.”

Zizka’s dark eye never left his face, unblinking, offering neither submission nor resistance. After a pulse, Henry took the silence as permission enough and leaned in, fingers working the knot loose. Zizka’s breath grazed his cheek, hot, close, quickening Henrys pulse. Mercifully the knot gave without protest despite his fumbling fingers and he stepped back with relief, unwinding the bandage with care, schooling his features for what lay beneath.

The wound was a crust of dark blood, grotesque in the candlelight’s shadows, but free of infections telltale red. The eye itself was irritated but intact, both now fixed on Henry, reflecting back the flickering flame in their black depths.

“Well?” Zizka growled, impatient.

Henry startled, catching his heel on the cot’s edge as he stepped back, pitching sideways with a yelp. “That bad, eh?” Zizka chuckled, a dark, amused edge to his voice, a smirk curling his lips.

Henry mumbled an apology scrambling to recover himself, “not so bad,” he nodded, aiming for confidence though his healing experience stretched mostly to patching himself up after forge burns and tavern scuffles. From the diagrams he’d seen though, it could be much worse, he suppressed a shudder.

With unsteady hands he took some clean bandage and wet it, “I’ll clean it with a decoction first, mostly water, but the nettle will help keep out the rot.” He recited the knowledge from some long forgotten text like a prayer, the familiar recantation soothing his nerves.

Cleaning the crusted blood was slow, methodical work, and Henry sank into it, hands steadying. Zizka was a statue beneath his hand, his breathing slow and even, eyes closed against the damp cloth.

The stitches beneath were neat and precise, the wound already knitting with fresh pink flesh. Henry nodded satisfied it was healing well at least. He discarded the soiled rag and fetched fresh, uncorking the bottle of pilfered spirits, the sharp fumes stinging his nose. “Strong alcohol sterilises, keeps infection out,” he said, almost certain he was speaking to himself now, as he soaked a fresh cloth.

Zizka remained silent, his face softened in the candlelight, the furrows in his brow easing, his strong jaw unclenched, he looked younger somehow, less troubled. His broad chest and thick arms bore the signs of a life hard fought, but also the taut muscles of a man with plenty of strength left in him. Not the polished strength of knights and nobles maybe, but the raw, feral power of a man used to pinning death down and wrenching from its grasp a few more years of turmoil.

Henrys let his gaze linger, unbidden other thoughts crept in, thoughts that licked hotter than the candles flame. Those thick arms wrapping around him in the dark, pinning him down with animal strength, those calloused hands trailing lower than was holy, a hot mouth chasing shadows over skin. Too much, too fast, not enough, all at once.

Heat flooded Henry’s face and he turned quickly, shame blooming sharp and aching in his chest. It’s a sin, he reminded himself fiercely, shaking his head to banish the images, pretty sure he was breaking some ancient healers oath. Just the ale, the hour, the debt I owe him he lied, anything but admit the truth, even to himself.

Distracted and fumbling Henry pressed the spirit-soaked cloth to the wound and Zizka tensed, sucking in a sharp hissing breath and recoiling against the sting. Henrys soft instinctive hush slipped out before he could stop it, habit from calming flighty colts in the summer, he regretted it instantly. Zizka’s dark eyes snapped open at the tenderness, pinning him with a gaze that burnt.

Heat flooded Henrys face, he yanked his hand back, stumbling in his haste into the table, flailing for balance but finding only air.

Zizkas hand caught his hip, grip firm but startlingly gentle, intimate, steadying him, pulling him closer in one fluid motion. The touch seared through Henry’s thin hose like a brand, he was suddenly so close he could feel the heat of the man’s skin, smell the oil he used in his hair.

“Sorry,” Henry muttered, voice gruff with embarrassment. “I’m not usually so clumsy.”

He was hyper-aware of Zizka’s body only inches from his own, his unflinching gaze, the strength in his hand that could crush or cradle, the touch that lingered. The sense of a trap closing in.

Henry disentangled himself awkwardly, hurrying back to the table, the ghost of Zizka’s thumb lingering on his hip. He sucked in a breath, forcing himself to focus on his work, on the vials in front of him, letting his fingers dance over them dispelling his nervous energy. “Finally,” he muttered, fumbling with the pestle and mortar, dropping it once, trying again “Chamomile and honey poultice, for healing.”

”Do you always chatter to yourself when you’re patching someone up?” Zizka’s voice rumbled, close enough to make Henry jump, as if the man were stood right behind him, that ghost of a hand splayed on his hip again.

Henry turned flinching, finding Zizka still on the cot, relaxed and unflustered, a faint smirk curling his lips, those dark eyes watching, hungry.

Henry almost dropped his mortar again “Well… sometimes,” he admitted, grimacing. “It err… it helps me with remembering.” His voice came out tentative and uncertain, faltering under that dissecting gaze.

“Rosemary for remembrance” Zizka nodded sagely, his voice gruff but warm, his smirk softening.

Henry nodded, “Aye so they say,” he managed a small smile, feeling bold “Though… forgetting to spare whelps like me might serve you better than book-learned herbs.”

Zizka huffed a laugh, accepting the needling in good humour “Aye,” he nodded, “Though I gave Hynek the same chance I gave you once… bastard laughs fast but forgets faster, pay him no mind.”

Henry nodded, his nerves a little soothed. He ground the chamomile and honey into a smooth paste with a little ash. “This’ll help with healing,” he said, gesturing with a small flourish, leaning into their delicate truce.

He smoothed the grainy paste over the wound, careful around the stitches lest he knock them free. “I’d like to bathe the eye, if you can bear it. Looks clean enough, just a precaution.”

Zizka nodded, seemingly docile, and Henry set to preparing a saline solution, warm but not too hot, testing it against the thin skin of his wrist. “A physician as well as a knight then,” Zizka rumbled his voice low, teasing. “Good thing I didn’t run you through.”

Henry almost laughed shaking his head, gently tilting the man’s head back, a finger hooked beneath his chin, holding a cloth to catch the runoff. “I’m no knight” he murmured, concentrating now.

“Not a knight?” Zizkas voice was hushed, his face close, head angled back, Henry hovering over him, saline poised. “Try not to blink,” Henry instructed, his own voice softening, intimate, “You’ll want to, but keep your eyes on me and it’ll work better.”

To his credit Zizka blinked once, then determinedly fixed his gaze on Henry’s, unwavering as the solution poured forth, sweeping through his eye and tracing a path across his cheekbones, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone where it escaped the cloth. Henry patted the excess dry tenderly, his touch lingering despite himself.

“Not a knight…? Zizka breathed, almost a whisper. “You mean you saved young Capons life like that and he hasn’t had you on your knees in thanks?”

Henry’s blush was fever-hot and bone-deep, the whispered accusation white hot against skin. For a breathless moment he would have sworn he was actually ablaze, when he looked at Zizka that fire was reflected back.

Those eyes saw too much. He knows.

Henry stumbled back heart lurching, desperate to flee the damning truth laid bare. But he wasn’t quick enough, Zizka’s hands were on him again, holding him firm, pulling him in with a predators efficiency.

“You blush like a maid, Henry of Skalitz,” he growled, so close the low rumble of his words vibrated through Henry’s chest. “Your hands linger, and your eyes wander.”

Henry was already shaking his head in denial, struggling to be free. The trap was sprung and he was the deer, heart racing, eyes wild facing down the wolf, “I don’t know what you mean” he spat reaching for defiance, his fingers clenching crescents into his palms.

His eyes darted to the table, his paring knife was there, glinting in the candlelight. If he were to be eaten whole he’d not go down without a fight, if he could just get to it.

With all his strength Henry pitched himself sideways, launching at the table. Reaching, grasping for salvation, feeling the cold steel for a moment against his clammy palm-

But Zizka was there already, fast for a man so large, efficient movements honed in battle. The knife clattered away and Henry was airborne, up and over, the rough hewn ceiling whirling before his eyes before he was thrown bodily against the cot with a thud.

The flicker of the candle cast their jagged shadows across the rough-hewn walls, their ragged breaths filling the room as they struggled hard. Finally, inevitably, Zizkas weight bore down on him, pinning him, wrists above his head, knees clamping Henry’s legs to the thin mattress.

His teeth glinted as he growled, low and guttural, “none of that, lad.” His voice was a blade, but his next words softened, just a fraction, a velvet edge to the cold steel.

His eyes locked onto Henry’s, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Chapter Text

Henry’s heart hammered against his chest, rabbit fast, but if the truth was a noose and confession a death knell, denial was his only shield, flimsy as it was.

“You’re bastard wrong!” he ground out, voice defiant, though his body betrayed him, quivering beneath the iron grip.

Zizka’s eyes narrowed, a predators scrutiny, as though he could sense Henry’s trembling soul. He shifted, redistributing his weight, securing his grip. The silence dragged on, heavy and suffocating, the creak of the bedframe the only sound as Zizka studied him.

“You’re fucking the lordling,” he said at last, each word deliberate, certain, a stone dropped into deep water.

For a fleeting moment something like relief washed over Henry, he sagged with the partial abatement. Not a full lie at least, but the truth cut perilously close, shame coiled sour in his gut.

“I’m… I’m not,” he stammered, the words tripping over themselves. “I mean… I wasn’t. I haven’t.” He stopped struggling, his body going slack beneath Zizka’s hold, “That would be sin,” he added weakly, for good measure, just in case.

Zizkas gaze didn’t waver, but his brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his weathered face. He let out a short, disbelieving snort. “You’re serious?” he scoffed, almost amused. “You’re telling me you and that pretty lordling haven’t…?” One hand tightened briefly on Henry’s wrists before easing just enough to keep him in place.

Heat flooded Henry’s face, a tide of hot shame threatening to drown him. He turned his head away, unable to meet Zizka’s piercing stare. “No- I- well, it’s none of your damn business who I bed,” he snapped finally, yanking futilely against the unyielding hold, his voice cracking with desperation.

Zizka’s lips twitched, a shadow of a smirk playing at the corners, his thumb brushed the inside of Henry’s wrist, testing, a deliberate, maddening touch that made him squirm.

“The way you two carry on, I’d have sworn you’d been bed fellows for months.” his tone was low, teasing, cutting sharper than any lash. It was somehow worse; better to be flogged for the sin, than be mocked for being to weak to sin fully. Henry couldn’t bare the shame of it, he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, hot and humiliating - Christs wounds be may never recover.

Ignorant of his distress, or perhaps relishing the game, Zizka pressed on. “But you’re always near him, or talking of him, or burning for him with those eyes of yours.” His voice dipped, goading, “Tell me, lad, does he know you ache for him?”.

"I do not ache” Henry protested, his voice rising, cracking, struggling again. But even as he spoke, his mind betrayed him, flashing to the ten times that day alone he’d brought up Hans’ rescue, each mention a desperate bid to keep the name on his lips.

He swore to himself he’d never speak of it again, but the vow felt hollow, broken by dawn no doubt.

Zizka raised an eyebrow, as if he could see straight past the feeble lie. Henry slumped, despair clawing at his chest, his body trembling with exhaustion and humiliation, helpless and laid bare.

A single traitorous tear he couldn’t blink away escaped, searing down his cheek in a final, wretched surrender.

Zizka exhaled slowly, his face softening, a flicker of regret in his eyes “Easy now lad, easy” he relented, voice dropping to a soothing rumble, “No need for that. I’m not going to hurt you,”.

His smirk had vanished, replaced instead by something tender, almost pitying, his head tilted, studying him. “I’m letting you go, lad.” He said gently, voice firm but kind, his grip easing, “Do we understand each other? You’re not going to skewer me with that blade of yours?”

Henry huffed, noncommittal, his pride too bruised to give a straight answer. Zizka released him anyway, sitting back on his heels, wary, as if half expecting him to lunge for the knife glinting on the floor.

Henry shuffled back with haste, propping himself against the headboard, rubbing miserably at his damp face, staring down at his hands, unable to meet Zizka’s gaze.

The silence was thick, oppressive, broken only by the faint drip of wax from the candle. Finally, Henry mumbled, barely audible, “Are you going to report me then?” His fingers found a stray piece of straw poking through the thin sheet, and he worried at it, his hands trembling with the remnants of adrenaline and fear.

Zizka snorted, reaching for the bottle on the table beside the bed, grimacing as he took a long pull. “For what? An impure thought?” The amber liquid sloshed against the glass, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Christ’s wounds, Henry, the Devil’s Den would be sparsely populated if ever base notion got a man sent to the gallows.”

He held out the bottle, and Henry took it, their fingers brushing with a spark that made Henry flinch.

He swallowed hard, coughing as the liquor burnt down his throat, the aftertaste was bitter and herbal, still it helped a little, his fingers tingling as blood surged back into them, “But… But this… this is a proper sin,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes dropped to the straw in his hands, now shredded into tiny pieces under his blunt thumbnail. The words were a confession, each one a weight pressing down on his chest. “Men like me… they’re forsaken by heaven’s grace.”

Zizka’s response was a dismissive scoff. He snatched the bottle back, taking another swig. “Horse shit,” he said bluntly. “Who told you that? The same old man who says paying tithes absolves your sins?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Church at Grund with the bottle, the contents spilling over “They want you scared, Henry. Scared men fill their coffers. They want you on your knees in church, penitent and pleading, so they can sell you salvation for a handful of coin.”

Henry risked a sidelong glance, his breath catching at the intensity in Zizka’s expression. The man looked away, staring at the flickering candle and took another pull from the bottle.

“But… but you must think it’s sin?” Henry ventured, his voice cautious.

Zizka’s shoulders lifted in a slow, weary shrug, and he passed the bottle back without meeting Henry’s eyes. “I’ve seen worse things in this world than a man bedding another man, lad” he said quietly. “I’ve seen hell, Henry, and it’s not a warm bed of soft words.” His fingers spread on the bedsheet, the gesture almost tender, and he sighed, long and heavy. “If the worst thing you do on any given day is reach for someone you shouldn’t… Care for someone you shouldn’t… then I think your soul’s safe enough.”

The words hung in the air, and Henry’s heart stuttered. He stared at Zizka, searching his face, finding no judgment or condemnation, but instead something raw and unguarded.

“You’ve thought on this before?” Henry murmured, his voice soft, testing fragile ground, curious despite his fear.

Zizka’s jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched again, and Henry had just started to think he wouldn’t respond at all when finally he nodded, slow and reluctant. “Men turn to each other before battle,” he said, his voice low, almost confessional. “No one talks about it, but it happens; cramped tents, cold nights, scared boys. Some find release then go back to their pretty wives. Others… Others find more” He trailed off, a bitter laugh escaping him as he glanced at Henry, his eyes glinting with something like pain. “Those men don’t go home”.

Henry’s throat tightened, his pulse quickening, his next question slipping out, quiet and trembling. “What do those men do?”

Zizka’s gaze swept the small, dingy room, his expression defeated. “They take up league with the devil,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. A weak smile tugged at his lips, his shoulders dropping as if the words released held weight. “Well lad… are you going to report me?”

A small, incredulous laugh escaped him. He met Zizka’s eyes, holding his gaze. “What… for an impure thought?” he said, the words light, a delicate bridge between them.

Zizka’s laugh was a sharp bark, his smile spreading slow and wicked across his face. “I’ve done much more than think about it, lad,” he said, his voice low and rich, the words a caress that sent Henry’s mind reeling, heat pooling in his core.

Oh.

The candlelight flickered low, their eyes met, darting away again, then back, drawn like winged insects to a funeral pyre.

The air seemed to shimmer, charged like the breathless hush before a lightning strike, prickling across Henry’s skin until every hair stood on end.

The memory of Zizka large hands pinning him down, rough and achingly tender, made him breathless, how he’d struggled, how he’d begged, how he’d surrendered. It ached like a wound, lingered like a fever.

Henrys mouth was suddenly dry and he watched intoxicated as Zizka’s dark eyes followed the slow progress of his tongue as he wet his lips, burning with a hungry edge. A question unspoken.

Slowly, deliberately, Henry slid his foot along the bedsheet, the toe of his worn shoe brushing against the coarse fabric at Zizka’s thigh. If Zizkas gaze was a question, this was an invitation, a dare, a plea.

Zizka’s splayed hand on the sheet twitched, hesitating. For a long, agonising moment, it hovered, suspended like a held breath, before his fingers closed gently around the delicate bones of Henry’s ankle.

Henrys breath caught, the world narrowing to where Zizka’s calloused thumb pressed against his pulse. The light touch on exposed skin was a spark in a tinderbox, the room poised between divinity and ruin.

Neither moved, neither spoke, the silence stretching taut. Then Zizkas fingers tightened, his eyes burning with intent, his free hand sliding up Henry’s calf, a slow, tantalising trail that made Henry shudder with need.

With a sudden surge, Zizka pulled him down the bed in one fluid motion, pinning him beneath his weight, their bodies aligning once more with a heat that scorched through cloth.

“You’re playing with fire, lad” Zizka growled, voice rough with raw hunger, his hand tangled in Henry’s hair, tilting his head back to expose his throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin below Henry’s ear, sending shivers racing down his spine.

A low groan escaped Henry’s lips, his hips arching desperately, responding to the rough treatment, fingers curling into the sheet below him.

“Zizka- Please- ” he whimpered, voice breathy with desire.

Zizka’s answering growl rumbled like distant thunder, his eyes flashing with lighting, wild, almost feral. His free hand slipped beneath Henry’s shirt, calloused palm splaying across bare skin, tracing the curve of his ribs with a possessiveness that made Henry gasp.

The air hung heavy with the scent of herbs and sweat, the cot creaking under the weight of their desire. Zizka pressed down above him, breath ragged, eyes devouring him. “The things I could do to you” he rasped, half threat half promise, voice rough with barely contained need.

yes, yes, yes Henry breathed pressing upwards, craving each savage vow, aching for each searing touch.

His eyes found Zizkas in the flickering half light, his lips parting softly. Zizkas hungry gaze dropped to his mouth, heat flaring, only to falter, dimming to uncertainty, doubt shadowing his eyes.

Henry cupped his jaw with reckless, trembling, courage, his fingers scraping coarse stubble, pulling him closer until their ragged breaths mingled, then closer still, a whisper apart. Zizkas dark eyes darted to his lips again, pupils blown wide, faltering on the cusp of claiming what was already his, his pulse hammering with anxious restraint.

”Easy,“ Henry murmured “Let me-“

A sharp crash shattered the moment. Zizka tensed, head snapping toward the door, his body a drawn bowstring. “What was that?” he hissed, voice low and alert, though his hand lingered on Henrys hip, reluctant to let go.

“What?” Henry blinked, dazed, his mind sluggish with desire.

But Zizka was already moving, his weight lifting, legs swinging off the bed.

Shouts and clattering rose below, the unmistakable racket of a table overturning.

“Shit,” Zizka muttered, yanking on his shirt.

Henry scrambled after him, his legs unsteady as he stumbled to his feet, adrenaline spiking through the haze of what had almost happened.

Zizka flung open the door, a jagged piece of wood sailed out of the night, past Henry’s head, narrowly missing him as it splintered against the wall.

Below moonlight mingled with scattered torchlight, picking out a gathering mob, their silhouettes jagged and half formed. Their brandished weapons makeshift but deadly, chair legs, broken bottles, a rusted pitchfork.

At the centre of the fray, Hynek and the Devil stood back to back with oblivion, grinning like madmen in the dark.

“Come on, then, yer bastards!” Hynek roared, swinging a table leg with wild abandon. The wood connected with a wet crack against a man’s skull and he crumpled to the ground.

The mob, enraged, surged forward, shadows leaping in the half light.

Zizka hissed a curse under his breath, seizing his mace, his hand grazing Henry’s arm, a fleeting touch, soft with promise. “Stay close,” he urged, both command and plea, “We’re not done, you and I.”

Then he was moving, with a bellowed TO THE TASK! he vaulted the railing, landing squarely on an unlucky thug below who collapsed under his weight with a wheezing grunt.

Henry followed after him, hitting the ground with a roll that saved him from the business end of the Devil’s table leg as it came at him in a swinging arc.

“Henry!” Hynek shouted, his grin wide and maniacal. “Glad you could join us, lad!”

He swung again, this time connecting with a man’s kneecaps with a sickening crunch. The thug howled, collapsing in a heap. “Just a spot o’ bother with the locals!” the Devil cackled, dancing back into the melee and out of sight, swinging erratically.

Henry snatched a mace from Mr NoKnees, its weight heavy and reassuring. He scanned the chaos, ten, maybe twelve men? Not the worst odds he’d seen, mostly farm boys and brawlers, mad as a bag of cats but likely unskilled.

What the fuck have those two done now? he thought, scanning the chaos bewildered. He spotted Kubyenka sprawled on the ground, flailing under a burly brute swinging a shattered bottle and a splintered broomstick, his wild kicks missing their mark.

With a shout Henry hauled himself forward, but Zizka was already there, a blur of honed efficiency in the firelight, tackling the man shoulder first, disarming him with a twist of his wrist that looked permanent and pummelling him with his own weapon, each blow precise and brutal.

Together they hauled Kubyenka to his unsteady feet, the torchlight catching the sheen of sweat on Zizka’s brow, the straining muscle in his arms.

“Henry!” Kubyenka cheered, as if he’d stumbled across him in some sunny meadow rather than a wild brawl. He clapped Henry on the back, hard enough to make him stumble, and then ambled back into the fray, dodging a wayward cabbage with careless grace.

Henry had no time to worry about him further, the next thug was upon him and he was back in the fray, Zizka fell into sync at his back, close enough that their shoulders grazed, a rhythm forming between them. They worked methodically, Zizka’s blocks and parries forming a steady counterpoint to his own. The deft movements of his body, his low grunts and curses, grounding him in the chaos.

Somewhere in the torchlight the memory of their earlier passion pulsed, vivid and unclaimed.

Henry risked a sidelong glance, their eyes meeting for a moment in the flickering light, a spark of heat flaring in his chest, a dumb smile spread across his lips - but the moment’s distraction was a fatal misstep.

A hulking figure loomed out of the shadows, bludgeon first, catching Henry squarely in the sternum. Pain exploded through him, blurring his vision, the world tilted dangerously, he bent double with a wheezing gasp, falling to his knees.

The brute raised the thick weapon, its silhouette blotting out the moon. Henry froze, braced, hands raised in pitiful defence, but Zizka was above him, protective and fierce, surging forward with a bellow, tackling the brute with bone-crushing force, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

Above the din a manic cackle pierced the night “Run, you cunts, run!” Hynek’s voice was wild and triumphant as the remnants of the mob scattered, scrambling for the forest’s edge, yelping as his table leg found its mark one final time as he pursued them into the dark.

A stray pitcher sailed through the air, bursting against a tree, and Hynek let out a grating laugh. “And take yer piss-poor aim with ye!”

The fight dissolved as quickly as it had erupted, leaving the three of them panting in the wake of the chaos, their breath fogging the cool night air.

Zizka bent double, hands on his knees, his broad chest heaving with sharp huffs. “and what the fuck was that all about?” he growled, shooting a glare at Kubyenka.

He reached for Henry, their forearms locking in a firm grip, pulling him to his feet. The rough brush of Zizkas skin was startling, his fingers lingered, his thumb brushing Henry’s wrist, a tender pulse of intent that sent heat racing up his arm. Something flickered across his face; are you okay? are we? Not just from the brawl, but from before, from what still smouldered between them, a breath away from fire.

Henry nodded, a ghost of his former blush warming his cheeks and Zizka released him, his hand landing on his shoulder instead, firm and fleeting, the touch carrying a weight of understanding.

Zizka turned to Kubyenka, “Well?” he demanded, arms crossed. “Care to explain why we’re brawling like drunks at a harvest fair?” His tone was sharp, but a faint smirk already tugged at his lips.

Kubyenka shrugged, dusting dirt from his trousers with a sheepish grin. “Ahh just some locals who don’t take kindly to us, Zizka,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You know how it is.”

The Devil reemerged from the shadows, eyes flashing in the torchlight, still bright with the thrill of the fight. “Reckon those whoresons ain’t gone far,” he growled, his voice a harsh scrape loud enough to carry into the trees, a warning. “Stay vigilant, lads.”

Zizka nodded, his gaze sweeping the darkened tree line, his face serious. All was quiet, too quiet by far, the usual murmur of the twilight undergrowth conspicuous in its absence.

“We’ll sleep in pairs tonight” he growled, his tone leaving no room for argument, “Locked rooms, bar the door if you have to, stay alert.”

Zizkas eyes flicked to Henry, a conspiratorial glint despite the tension, perhaps because of it. “Kubyenka, there’s a spare bed in Henry’s room. You take that” he organised decisively, addressing the group “Hynek, drag a mat through to my room. There’s room enough on the floor.”

Oh. Henry blinked, stunned, chest suddenly hollow.

The rejection cut like a blade, sharp and unexpected. But of course, Zizka’s duty to his band’s safety came before his fleeting desires, a bitter truth that churned the sour ale in Henry’s gut. He was a fool for thinking Zizka had actually wanted him anyway - what had he to offer? His gaze dropped to the damp trodden dirt, cheeks burning with humiliation at his own naivety, even as the weakest part of his soul writhed with guilty relief, safe from the forbidden unknown, at least for now.

”Fuck that!” Hynek bellowed, his voice yanking Henrys from his spiralling thoughts “Zizka you snore like a damned bear” he protested, voice thick with ale “And my old bones can’t sleep on no cursed floor.”

Hynek lurched forward determined, boots scuffing the ground as he swayed towards him “Henry lad!” He grinned grappling him into a rough headlock Henry was too distracted to dodge. The coarse wool of his cloak scratched Henry’s neck, reeking of sweat and sour ale, his pockmarked face looming large in the firelight “You’re young and spry, swap with me, eh?”

Henry fumbled, catching the flicker of surppressed amusement at the corner of Zizkas mouth before his face became a mask of stern authority again. The swap was deft, orchestrated with the finesse of a cutpurse.

He knew that would happen.

Realisation bloomed warm in his chest, a glowing ember against the nights chill. The thought that Zizka hungered to have him alone again sent a nervous thrill shivering down his spine, even as Hynek’s grip tightened, blunt nails digging painfully into his shoulder through his thin tunic “Aye, fine,” Henry mock scowled, throwing an elbow into Hyneks ribs for good measure, barely keeping the grin from his face.

“That’s a good lad!” Hynek barker, ruffling Henry’s hair with with a bony hand and releasing his from his grasp.

Zizka nodded, apparently satisfied. “To bed you two… you attract trouble like flies to a dung heap” he sighed his voice despairing.

Hynek’s grin widened, his arm slinging around Kubyenka’s shoulders, taking his weight as they staggered toward the steps to the tavern’s upper rooms. The weathered wood groaned under their weight, their slurred mutterings and conspiratorial chuckles fading into the hum of the night.

Zizka turned to Henry, his dark eyes scouring his face in the flickering glow of the tavern’s torches, searching. His lips parted, a breath drawn to speak, but he faltered, the words snuffed out like a spark. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, “You go up,” He said instead, his voice rough with warmth despite aiming for clipped and practical, “I just need a word with the innkeep about this mess.”

Henry nodded, cheeks flushing, excitement and fear warring in his chest. On unsteady legs he climbed the tavern stairs, his grip on the splintered wood white knuckled. He was going willingly, right back into the wolfs den, wondering just how far he would be straying from the flock tonight.

Chapter Text

Back in the cramped room, alone, Hernys earlier resolve unravelled like frayed rope. The confines felt suddenly suffocating, the walls closing in. He paced the creaking floorboards, panic clawing at his chest, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm, echoing in his ears.

“Christ blood,” he muttered, a hushed plea to no one, his fingers raking through his sweat-damp hair

The washbasin he’d carried up earlier glinted in the dim glow, it’s water a dark mirror. Desperate for distraction, he stumbled towards in on unsteady legs, his fingers fumbling with the laces of his tunic, then his threadbare undershirt, trembling as he yanked them over his head and tossed them aside.

The chill air kissed his bare skin, raising goosebumps across his chest and arms, the fine hairs standing on end. He scooped the icy water into his shaking hands, splashing it over his face, his neck, his back. Rivulets tracing gleaming pathways down his torso, the biting cold a fleeting distraction from his racing mind.

You wanted this, you fool, he scolded himself, bracing as another freezing handful of water stung his skin, sharp as a lash. The memory of Zizka's touch, rough and possessive, flashed unbidden, how he’d dissolved under those strong hands, it sent a shudder through him, warmth coiling deep in his core despite the cold.

He’d fumbled other men before, but nothing like this, those were quick, clumsy grapples in haylofts, wrestling turned heated, hands chasing release through sweat and sawdust. Transgressions shrugged of, dismissed as the haze of youth.

But Zizka was no awkward youth, fumbling in a stolen moment, willing to grind against anything that offered resistance. His hunger ran deeper, We’re not done, you and I, it was a dark, seductive, promise of more - what more might entail exactly set his mind ablaze with shameful, stirring possibilities.

Half-blind, he groped for his shirt to dry himself, burying his nose in the damp cotton, fighting to steady his breathing, but his thoughts spiralled. Zizka wanted him. He wanted to- to bend him over, to spread him wide, to- claim him- in ways that he had only heard of in crude jokes. The images burned in his mind; vivid, forbidden, intoxicating.

Henry stifled a startled yelp, his heart lurching as he lowered the shirt to find Zizka looming in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, his broad shoulders filling the frame. Surprised, he stumbled backwards, the bed frame snagging the backs of his knees, sending him sprawling, flailing, tangled in the sheet, he scrambled to right himself, clutching the shirt to his chest like a shield.

A sly smirk curled Zizka’s lips, “By all means, make yourself comfortable” he drawled, his timbre low and teasing, eyes glinting with amusement as they roved shamelessly over Henry’s half-naked form, lingering on the taut lines of his exposed stomach the shirt couldn’t quite conceal.

Henry stiffened, thrown off-balance by the brazen gaze, his pulse quickening as Zizka crossed his arms, his smirk widening at the sight of Henry’s evident flustered discomposure.

“Zizka- I-“ Henry’s cheeks flushed, words tripping over his tongue as he cleared his throat, mortified. “There’s- There’s something you should know-“

Zizka pushed off the doorframe, the door thudding shut behind him, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. His calloused palm clamped firmly over Henry’s mouth. Silencing him. Holding him in place. The brush of his skin against Henry’s igniting a faint, quivering thrill. Zizka raised a finger to his own lips, shh, then tracing to his ear, slowly, deliberately, listen.

Henry’s heart thundered, the press of Zizka’s body and the bed hovering behind him doing nothing to calm him, he strained to hear over the rush of blood in his ears.

Through the shoddily built walls, where the planks failed to meet, Hynek’s rasping bark carried from the room next door, Then I kicked him up the arse for good measure!, the sound of a bottle uncorking, Kubyenka’s low chuckle, unnervingly close in the still room.

They can hear everything.

Henry’s eyes widened in alarm, his mind reeling with raw panic, pulse thundering in his ears. They’d be overheard- unless- unless Zizka intended to take him like this, in stifled silence, his own hand a brutal gag to choke any cry. His chest tightened, fear overwhelming him as he braced for violation. Yet, Zizka’s grip softened, a startling shift to gentleness that Henry hadn’t anticipated.

To his surprise, Zizka’s hand slid slowly from his mouth, fingers settling along his jaw with a tender caress. The rough pad of his thumb grazed his lower lip, achingly gentle, the unexpected intimacy wrenching a soft, trembling whimper from Henrys throat.

Zizka leaned in, the coarse bristles of his moustache brushing the sensitive shell of Henry’s ear. His hot breath ghosted over the tender skin, “What’s got you burning to confess, lad?” he murmured, voice low and laced with amusement, fingers trailing from Henry’s jaw to the pulse at his throat, a subtle, possessive stroke.

Henry blushed, unable to meet his eye, “I-“ his voice was faint, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like a man bracing for a blow. “I’m-“ The words stuck, the dim candlelight casting jittery shadows across his flushed face.

Tilting his head Zizka studied him, his sharp gaze catching the anxious tremor in Henry’s frame, a flicker of concern softening his gaze. “Steady lad,” he murmured, the warm rumble vibrating through Henry’s chest, a roguish grin breaking through. “What, afraid to cross swords again so soon, eh?”

The teasing jest carried a playful edge, surprising half-laugh from Henry’s lips, shaking his head in disbelief at the gall to joke at such a time. “Bernard didn’t exactly cover this,” he huffed, then softer, wavering. ”I’ve never-” The confession spilled out, raw as a wound, his eyes darting to the splintered floorboards, bracing for the sting of mockery.

Zizka’s response was a low chuckle, but it was warm with understanding, soothing Henry’s frayed nerves like a balm. His rough fingers, tilted Henry’s chin, coaxing his faltering gaze upward, his smile devilish in the tavern’s flickering candlelight. “Well, there’s no need for fancy footwork,” he murmured, eyes sparking with gentle humour and wicked promise. “And lucky for you, I’m a damn fine swordmaster.”

Henry did laugh at that, a choked thing, melting the panic in his chest, igniting a cautious, thrumming thrill in its wake.

With a wry smile Zizka moved to slide the bolt on the door home with finality, then, with slow, aching precision, he peeled his undershirt over his head, letting it fall beside Henry’s in a languid heap.

Candlelight played across his broad chest, illuminating raised scars that gleamed silver against his skin, each a story etched in flesh. Henry’s breath hitched, fingers twitching to trace them, to map them like stars in the night sky.

With deft, unhurried movement Zizkas hands moved to his hose, loosening the laces, stepping free of them with casual ease. And Henry watched, the sight of Zizka’s exposed form, muscled and brazenly bare, making face burn hotter, a shaky exhale escaping, loud against the creaking stillness of the hushed room.

A knowing smirk curved Zizka’s lips, his eyes locked on Henry’s as he prowled closer. His fingers brushed his clenched fists, coaxing them open, guiding one trembling palm to rest against the firm expanse of his chest. Henry’s fingers twitched against the coarse hair, feeling the steady thump, thump, thump of Zizka’s heart matching his own frantic pulse, anxious despite his outward confidence, Henry realised with surprise, the thought some comfort for his own quaking nerves.

The firm weight of Zizka’s hands settled on Henry’s hips, his rough fingers teasing the edge of his hose. He tugged at the laces, pausing as Henry drew a sharp inhale, his dark eyes flicking up, their steady gaze questioning, Still with me?, Henrys nod was resolute, a quick jerk of his chin and Zizka continued, easing the garment down with deliberate care until Henry stepped free, suddenly bashful in his braies.

Zizka pressed in, his breath warm against his neck. “There’s still time to yield,” he whispered, his tone soft and coaxing, warm hands gliding up Henry’s sides with a lingering, comforting touch. “No shame in it, pup“ the endearment was surprising, soothing, easing the tension in Henry’s chest.

Fear be damed, he’d made his choice.

His hand, still pressed to Zizka’s chest, trailed lower, fingers mapping taut muscle and raised scars, feeling the flesh quiver beneath his touch. His fingertips lingered at the edge of Zizka’s braies, hesitating to go further.

A shuddered breath escaped Zizka, a suppressed moan caught in his chest, gently hie circled Henry’s wrist with loose fingers, taking control, “Let me,” he murmured. With steady hands he eased Henry down onto the bed, the old frame creaked harshly. Henry froze, pulse spiking, his eyes darting to the wall where Hynek’s muffled story still carried.

With a steady hand, Zizka cradled Henry’s jaw, his thumb brushing gently along the curve, drawing his gaze back with a soft touch. “Just us now,” His voice was an intimate promise, “It’s no one’s business but ours.”

Easing over him slowly, Zizkas warm body engulfed him, pinning him in place, aligning them; mouth to mouth, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs tangled. The brush of their bare feet sent a jolt through Henry, his toes curling reflexively against the raw intimacy. He froze as rough lips grazed his shoulder, his heart a wild staccato in the quiet room, “Easy now, pup,” Zizka murmured, warm breath stirring the damp hair at his nape “I’ve got you”.

Henry exhaled shakily, willing his rigid muscles to unwind as he sank back into the mattress, letting the steady exploration, slow and measured against his skin anchor him. His body’s response was undeniable, the hard proof of his arousal nudging Zizka’s thigh, a shameful flush searing his cheeks.

Drifting to the sensitive skin at Henry’s neck, Zizka pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his pulse that sent a shiver racing down his spine, a faint moan trembling on his lips before he bit it back.

His body tensed with anticipation as Zizka’s heated tongue trailed deliberately down his throat to the hollow of his clavicle. The languid rhythm had him panting, breaths ragged, fingers flexing against the rough sheet, tingling with every graze, aching for the next.

Henry had expected it to be more jarring; rougher, stranger, the absence of softness or curves impossible to ignore. But their bodies fit seamlessly, angles slotting together as if forged on the same anvil, natural and right in a way that stoked the slow fire in his veins, burning away his doubts.

The hand that settled on Henry was a warriors grip turned velvet, fingers gliding upward slowly, splaying across his stomach, tracing the ridges of his ribs in a soothing caress. Zizka pressed closer, bringing their bodies flush, the unmistakable pressure of his arousal grinding deliberately against Henry’s thigh, mirroring his own. He arched instinctively, craving the searing friction, mouth opening, a groan catching in his throat.

A low approving hum rumbled from Zizka, vibrating against Henry’s jaw, his hips rolling down with slow, deliberate intent, the friction through thin fabric igniting white-hot pleasure that surged through Henry’s body, points of light bursting behind his eyes.

Grasping for Zizka’s shoulders, Henry’s fingers dug into firm sinew, urging him closer, desperate for an anchor as fire licked at his skin, molten need pooling in his core. He pressed his mouth against Zizkas chest, cursing into the heated skin as his hips snapped upwards, then again, chasing a fiercer rhythm, the surge of raw need making him reckless.

The answering growl from Zizka was a filthy litany of curses, muffled into the pillow beside Henry’s head as he matched the frantic pace, grinding down again, and again. His teeth grazed his exposed throat, drawing a startled yelp, Zizka clamped a palm over Henry’s mouth, stifling the sound before it met the room. “Hush” he breathed, the sibilant hiss urgent against damp skin, holding him there he nipped again, teeth and tongue devouring the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder.

Henry fought to obey, but the relentless slide of Zizkas erection against this own was almost unbearable, pleasure crashing over him like waves. He raked a hand down the broad back, fingers digging into firm flesh, hard enough to bruise, clinging on, as that mouth turned merciless, biting and licking and sucking, until he was babbling and incoherent, his pleas lost against Zizkas palm.

“Fuck,” Zizka rasped, voice ragged with need, shifting to slide a thigh between Henry’s legs, giving him more purchase, before baring down again relentlessly. The shift increasing the friction, setting off fresh explosions of pleasure, driving him higher until he was panting, sweat-slicked and desperate, writhing and rutting shamelessly against Zizka’s thick thigh.

Lord have mercy- ”Zizka- Jan, please,” he begged, voice muffled against the hand over his mouth, teetering on the edge, his world narrowing to the searing rhythm, release so close he could taste it, that delicious peak.

A heavy clatter from the next room shattered the moment. A startling reminder they were not alone, not unheard.

They froze, Zizka’s mouth stilling at Henry’s ear, his breath hot and ragged, a shuddering exhale betraying his own frayed composure. His hand slid beneath Henry’s lower back, cradling him close, shielding him, as they held their breath, ears straining.

Henry’s trembled, heart pounding, pulse a deafening roar in the silence, suddenly exposed, starkly aware of the intimacy of their tangled bodies, the vulnerability of their position were the door to open.

Footsteps shuffled heavily in the adjacent room, a low grumble and muttered curse carrying through the wall, then the sound of a bed creaking, cloth rustling, a sigh, and then, eventually, mercifully, the soft drone of snores.

Against the damp, quivering skin of Henry’s back, Zizka’s fingers tightened, a subtle reassurance, then relaxed. ”Henry” he whispered, soft as a prayer, faltering and unguarded. Henry felt his lips brush the skin behind his ear, featherlight, a contrast to the earlier urgency. Breath stirred his hair once more “Still with me, pup?” His voice carried a thread of apprehension, tender beneath the gruff edge.

Turning his head, Henry dislodged Zizka’s sweat-slick palm, pressing a tentative kiss to his lips, heart pounding with trembling courage. Zizka’s sharp, incredulous moan, raw with disbelief startled a laugh from him. Emboldened by his wide-eyed bewilderment, Henry kissed him again, Zizkas moustache tickling his top lip as he teased his mouth open, slow and deep. Not the frantic clash of their bodies before, but something softer, something soul-stirring, something profound shifting, laced with a longing that ached in Henry’s core, leaving him exposed.

The realisation struck Henry with quiet awe: this didn’t terrify him as he’d feared, not as it should, his heart laid bare yet strangely steadied.

This time is was Henry who eased Zizka’s hips down, slipping a leg between his thighs, coaxing him to rock against it with a careful touch, kissing him deeply, savouring the soft sighs that tumbled from Zizka’s lips, each one a reluctant surrender to the tenderness he clearly hadn’t expected, a thread weaving them closer.

“I didn’t know,” Henry breathed, voice breaking as he tilted his head, inviting Zizka’s lips to trace his neck once more. “I didn’t know it could be this good.” The confession shimmered, radiant with wonder.

He wasn’t sure if he meant with a man or sex in itself. This was like nothing he’d experienced before, no one had ever made him feel so achingly unraveled, so fiercely cherished.

Zizka hummed against his skin, nosing at his throat, shifting to capture his lips again. “Neither did I,” he said breathlessly against his mouth, voice soft with bliss, kissing him again, his tongue sliding against Henry’s in a slow, gentle exploration, “I want to touch you,” he murmured his hand sliding from Henry’s stomach to cup the damp bulge in his braies, dark eyes gleaming with a raw, beseeching need. “Please, God, let me touch you,” he pleaded.

Henry exhaled a shaky moan, arching up into the touch shamelessly, the words pushing him perilously close to the edge again, “Please,” he hissed, voice barely a whisper.

With skilled ease, Zizkas fingered deftly slipped beneath the sweat damp fabric, his rough palm teasing Henrys aching cock, circling it loosely, dragging back and forth in a careful, measured rhythm, The coarse texture of his skin, weathered from years of wielding steel, grazed Henry’s sensitive flesh, each deliberate stroke sending molten sparks of pleasure coursing through him. Henry dissolved into the practised touch, his body yielding, flushed and pliant in the warmth of Zizka’s hand.

Above him Zizka’s dark eyes watched, grip tightening, pushing him harder, tracing every shiver of Henry’s body, his gaze a roving the taut lines of his trembling form, drinking in the raw desperation with a greedy hunger.

Henry exhaled with a shudder, his hips arching off the bed, chasing the heat with shallow, frantic thrusts, his fingers curling into the damp fabric of Zizka’s braies clutching him closer, each desperate roll of his hips seeking the searing friction that set his nerves ablaze.

Whispering sin against his sweat-slick skin, Zizkas hot tongue traced the pulse of Henry’s neck, each languid stroke stoking a coiling pressure deep in his belly, tight and clenching with need in the stifling hush.

Zizka’s hand stilled and Henry collapsed back, chest heaving on the thin mattress, his skin sensitive and tingling, aching to be touched.

A slow, roguish smile curled across Zizka’s lips, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of Henry flushed and needy beneath him. “Do you want it like this?” he murmured, voice dark and breathless, flicking his wrist with deliberate laziness, drawing a strangled moan as Henry bucked beneath him, “Or… do you want more?”

And there it was. More. The word hung heavy, a velvet taunt.

More. The spectre that had stalked his nightmares and stoked his fevered dreams, that had him fisting his bedsheets, burning with desire, cold with sweat, the promise of surrender both thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Yet the fear he’d expected to claw at his chest didn’t have teeth, Zizka’s body pressed warm and solid against him, hands skilled and lips persuasive, promising only pleasure. “What- what do you mean more” he asked, voice hushed, hesitant, his eyes searching Zizka’s in the candlelit quiet.

”Well, what stirs your curiosity most, hm?” Zizka murmurer, his voice husky, breathless against Henry shoulder, his rough hand stroking Henrys quivering flank with a searing touch, “In bed… With a man… What would you like to do?”. Each word dripped with a slow, deliberate seduction.

Henry gawked uselessly, words failing him, his mouth opening and closing but arousal tied his tongue. His usual eloquence abandoning him so only a breathy moan escaped his lips.

Zizka’s grin flashed, all teeth against Henrys neck, kissing slow, hot, courage into the sensitive skin. “Come now,” he coaxed, “You’ve dreamt of it… Tortured yourself with it.” His tongue grazed the shell of Henry’s ear, his voice hushed, “Ever imagined a man taking you in his mouth?”

Henrys eyes widened at the brazen vulgarity, a flush burning his cheeks. Zizka chuckled dark and sulty, his moustache tickling Henrys ear. “And what about all the other ways a man can be pleased?” He mused, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper “Ever imagined three fingers curling deep inside you? Or a tongue?” He leaned closer, lips brushing Henry’s ear, breath hot. “Or a cock?”.

Henry nearly unraveled, blood pounding in his ears, his body arching instinctively closer, craving more. “I-” he choked, panting, unable to form the words but suddenly desperate to give them breath, “I’ve thought about-“ but it wouldn’t come. Christ save him. He dug his fingers into Zizka’s arse, hips canting upward in a slow, pleading grind, aching for understanding, for release from the torment, for mercy.

Zizka’s eyebrows shot up, an incredulous grin spreading, glinting with knowing delight. “You want to fuck me,” he rumbled, voice thick with amusement. “Well, damn me, lad you are bold.” A low hum vibrated from his chest, his hand drifting to the damp bulge in Henry’s braies, stroking slow and teasing, considering.

Henry seized his wrist, breathless and shaking. “Keep that up” he huffed, “and I’ll be done before we start”.

His grin curled smugly, but Zizka relented, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Henry’s lips before sliding to the foot of the bed, fingers hooking into his braies, peeling them away with tantalising slowness, exposing himself fully in the candlelight. Henry couldn’t help but stare, hunger swallowing modesty, a warm flush creeping down his neck.

“What- what are you doing” Henry rasped, voice cracking.

“Teaching,” Zizka smiled darkly, reaching for a small vial on the table. He uncorked it with a faint pop, then poured a glistening stream into his palm, fingers gleaming as he coated them with languid strokes, the sweet, herbal scent of oil faint but distinguishable. “I heard you were a quick study” he said gruffly, sliding lower on the sheets, thighs parting wide, muscles flexing under scarred, sweat-slick skin, eyes locked on a Henry “Best watch close.”

Henry’s heart stopped as Zizka’s oiled fingers slipped between his legs, the wet glide taking a on steady rhythm, working himself open. Each stroke more deliberate than the last, his breath becoming hitched and choked, the candlelight catching the sheen of sweat on his taut chest as his teeth sank into his lower lip.

Henry surged upright, limbs trembling with urgency, his hands clawed at Zizka’s thighs, the corded muscle flexing under his grip. “Lay back,” he demanded, voice hoarse, “I- I need to see-“

Yielding to his touch, Zizka complied, legs splaying shamelessly, fully exposing himself, and Henry watched, drinking him in, parched for every detail. Zizka was stretched around his fingers, rocking himself down, the wet sound obscene in the tavern’s hush, his body coiling tighter, head thrown back, throat bared, a primal groan grinding free.

Henry crawled closer, deeper between his powerful thighs, the heat radiating like a furnace, his fingers twitching with the urge to touch, to feel. “Does it- Does it hurt?” he whispered, voice barely a breath, imagining the stretch as Zizka eased in a third finger, his own body clenching in empathetic anticipation, even as his arousal strained against the confines of his braies.

”Not if you do it right,” Zizka moaned, bearing down again, fucking himself with the invading digits. “It’s been a while… But fuck- Fuck it’s good.” His free hand clutched the sheets, knuckles whitening, the air thick with the smell of oil and sweat that made Henry dizzy.

He seized Zizkas wrist, hot and slippery under his grip, stilling him as need obliterated hesitation, “Let me.”

With a shuddering sigh, Zizka complied, easing back onto his elbows, his hungry gaze locked on Henry, offering himself fully, a willing sacrifice to his desire.

Henry steadied himself, tried to recall anything he’d read about this in a book and came up short. But he was a quick study, and he had been watching very closely.

His fingers brushed the raised entrance hesitantly, circling with agonising slowness, tracing the silken heat, drawing a shuddering gasp from Zizka’s parted lips. Their eyes met in the flickering half-light of the tavern’s candles, holding that searing gaze, determined to soak in every detail, Henry pressed gently, the thick oil easing his way until, with a soft pop, the muscle yielded, and suddenly, irrevocably, he was inside.

Zizka’s body tensed, a trembling breath escaping as he pressed into Henry’s touch, dark eyes wide with stunned surrender, hands clutching the bed frame above him.

“Fuck,” Henry choked, shaken by what he was doing, by the tight, hot clench against his finger. The thought of his own aching length there made his vision constrict, his flush burn hotter. “How do I…?” He gasped, barely able to draw breath.

“Like this,” Zizka whispered, voice choked, reaching to loosely encircling Henry’s wrist, guiding his shaking hand to press deeper, his hips rocking forward with a slow, measured slide, swallowing the digit in a silken, clenching embrace. A sordid supplication spilled from Zizkas lips, raw and desperate, as he bore down again, moaning through gritted teeth in a desperate attempt to be quiet, a flush spreading down his neck, spilling across his broad chest.

Bashful but emboldened Henry took up the rhythm, slipping a second finger into the tight, slick heat, slowly dragging them in and out as Zizka trembled against him, “Crook your finger…” Zizka urged, hips shifting to guide him. “Yes, shit, yes, there!” He clamped a hand over his own mouth stifling a shout, his body shuddering, hips grinding down as Henry hit the right spot.

Henry choked back a groan, his own arousal throbbing with neglected need, pulsing in time with his quickening pace. He drove deeper, striking the same spot relentlessly, watching intoxicated as Zizka unravelled beneath him, his dark eyes glazed, lips parted and panting. His hips grinding against Henry’s hand, the sculpted muscles tensing and flexing, a vision of raw ecstasy.

Henry gripped Zizka’s hip, pinning him firmly to the sweat-soaked sheets, holding him down and driving harder, a thrill of control surged through him, relishing the power to undo someone usually so restrained, so composed. The wet sucking sound of each stroke was obscene in the tavern’s stifling air, sending shivers of madness through Henry’s core, driving Zizka higher.

“Henry-” Zizka nearly whined, eyes black with lust, voice hoarse and desperate. “That enough- You can- Please-“

Zizka’s pleas dissolved into a shuddering gasp as Henry curled a third finger into him, deftly finding that sensitive spot that sent tremors through his core, his hips arching into Henry’s hand. “Patience,” Henry admonished, surprised at his own confidence, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of Zizka’s knee, now raised high off the bed as fevered desire coiled his body taut, every muscle quivering.

Zizka parted beneath him like holy water, utterly undone, his hips chasing the relentless thrust of Henry’s fingers, even as they bore into him again, even as his breathless pleas begged for it to end. His heaving, sweat-slicked chest shimmered golden in the candlelight, casting him as a divine vision, his fingers clutching the sheets with the fervent devotion of a supplicant at an altar, yearning for divine intercession.

Henry grip on Zizkas hip tightened, rough and possessive, fingers digging into the slippery flesh to bruising. His hand tantalisingly close to the weeping length straining against Zizka’s quivering stomach. Henry had a fleeting urge to take him in hand, to drive him hard, beyond redemption, but the searing need to claim the molten heat, to feel it around himself, overwhelmed all else, demanding he have it now.

He eased his fingers free with a slow, torturous, drag, the slick pull wrenching groans from both of them. Henry clawed at his braies, discarding them with some effort, the thin fabric catching on his moist skin, nearly kicking Zizka in the face in his haste. Seizing the oil Zizka thrust into his hand, he coated himself with light strokes, the oils cool glide over his aching length a maddening tease, he clenched his teeth, taking a couple of deep breaths to try and stave off his imminent climax.

Zizka’s chest heaved, his ravenous gaze devouring every curve of Henry’s naked form, predatory eyes burning with unconcealed hunger, poised as if to lunge and claim him in a fierce reversal of their position, forcing him to surrender. The thought sent a jolt through Henry, his pulse hammering, a flush blazing across his skin. Shaking his head to banish the vision Henry took a few more ragged breaths, muttering a desperate prayer to a God he hoped was not watching.

His hands trembled as he gripped Zizkas thighs, pulling him down the bed towards him, the thick, corded muscle supple and slick under his fingers. There hips met, flush and searing, as Henry guided himself to the swollen entrance. Zizka tilted his hips, a deliberate invitation, his sweaty hands steadying Henry’s with a firm, urging grip, drawing him closer. Henry pressed forward with gentle pressure, slowly, reverently, until the muscle yielded, sheathing him instantly in hot, wet, tight. The overwhelming sensation nearly blinded him, pleasure coiling so fiercely he doubled over, shoving a fist into his mouth to muffle the guttural groan ripping from his core.

“Slowly… slowly” Zizka choked out beneath him, voice strained, even as his hips arched up off the bed impatiently. “You’re not exactly small, lad...”

Clinging to fragile restraint, Henry did go slow and that was the only thing that kept it being over in an instant. Each measured thrust was a torturous glide, the forge-hot, vice-tight clenching heat of Zizka’s body enveloped him, sending jolts of pleasure scorching through his veins, driving him to the edge. Zizka writhed beneath him, a quivering canvas of torment, pain and pleasure fused in exquisite extremes forcing curses and pleas from his lips in a fevered litany.

The pace surged, Henry’s thrusts growing frantic, his control fraying as need roared through him, a relentless tide consuming every thought as his hips drove forward, plunging deeper. A dozen desperate thrusts was all he could manage before, to his eternal mortification, the coiled tension exploded, he cried out Zizka’s name, pleasure erupting like an arrow loosed, its blazing flight piercing the heavens, fletching aflame as it carried him soaring, cresting, then plummeting over the edge in a shuddering, breathless release.

Zizka followed, his calloused hand stroking himself with frenzied urgency, chasing the same arcing path with a raw, pained moan that tore from his throat like a battle cry. His powerful body convulsed violently, sweat gleaming in molten beads across his skin, catching the fading candlelight, The sight of Zizka’s unraveling, his restraint shattered, his own desperation laid bare, sparing Henry the sting of poor stamina at least.

Zizka groped blindly for Henry’s shoulder, pulling him down to collapse against his oil-slicked chest, cradling him as the aftershocks of their release rippled through them, their hearts thundering like war drums. The bed groaned beneath them, protesting the misuse.

Henry melted into the embrace, burying his face in the warm, musky hollow of Zizka’s neck, frantically sucking in air now his body had remembered breathing was non-negotiable. He trembled as the haze of desire lifted and the weight of what he’d done settled like a spectre in the room, panic rising in his chest now he could form coherent thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut against the enormity of it all, grappling with the raw truth of his actions, how fiercely he’d wanted it, wanted it still, his identity unraveling in the quiet.

“Easy, lad… easy” Zizka murmured, his voice a warm, soothing rumble that vibrated against Henry’s chest, his hand rubbing firm, grounding circles across his back, sensing the direction of his thoughts. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

Henry’s limbs softened, heavy with sated exhaustion, the adrenaline ebbing like a receding tide. Gently, Zizka rolled them onto their sides, turning Henry in his arms and drawing him back firmly against his broad chest, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a sacred whole.

With a soothing murmur, Zizka reached for the cloth at the washbasin, cleansing Henry with slow, tender strokes, letting cool water drip like soft rain over his chest, his stomach, lower, each delicate drop cool against his fevered skin, sending a gentle tremble through his oversensitive body. Zizka settled himself back down, gathering Henry into the curve of his arms, draping the thin blanket over their tangled forms, a fragile shield against the world.

His sure fingers carded through Henrys hair, brushing it back from his sweaty brow with quiet care, a heavy arm settling over his waist, its steady weight calming Henry’s trembling nerves. Henry pressed closer, burrowing into the warmth, into the security of the embrace, safe, at least for now, from demons real and imagined.

“Sleep, pup” Zizka murmured,“You’re safe, I’m here” his voice a warm hum, close at his ear, his arms tightening with fierce tenderness, hard enough to bruise, but Henry didn’t mind, he thought it might be the only thing holding him together.

Mercifully, sleep claimed him swiftly, his spent body surrendering to the void, the world fading to a single point of candlelight before being snuffed out completely. The steady thump, thump, thump of Zizka’s heart against his back a soothing rhythm, lulling him into a welcome abyss, the new spun thread between them shimmering like a lifeline in the dark.