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The laces bite into Estinien's fingers as he pulls them taut. The harness tightens; Haurchefant lets his breath out in a long sigh. The next indrawn breath tests Estinien's knots, but they hold. It'll be at least five hells getting them undone later. Estinien slides his fingertips under the buckles at Haurchefant's sides and finds there's still a pleasing give there--if he wanted to try Haurchefant sorely, he could take a few of the straps down another hole without straining the leather. Fetching, frivolous thing. "Seems an awful lot of work, for something I'm just going to be taking off you again in a moment."
Haurchefant only laughs and relaxes back against his chest. The new leather creaks as he stretches, reaching back to wind his long fingers through Estinien's hair. "It's not meant to be taken off like a shirt. See how cunningly it's designed, so as to bare every part of you that you could wish for the act of love--"
"All I'm saying is, next time you want me to swive you with your clothes on, just tell me, and I'll pull down the back of your trousers and have you over a table."
It's impossible to miss how Haurchefant shudders at the suggestion, nor how his hand closes into a fist in Estinien's hair. "Come now," he says, voice going rough and deep as he turns to kiss Estinien's jaw. Haurchefant's lips barely graze the point of his chin, and still Estinien has to swallow down a thick knot of lust at the heat of it. "There will be time for that another day."
"I couldn't agree more," says Aymeric. At his voice, Estinien straightens; he turns to meet Aymeric's eyes, which in the warm firelight are more fathomless than blue. "If you've finished, I would see the end result of your craftsmen's labors."
Reluctantly, Estinien lets Haurchefant go. He steps back to survey the effect of the harness as though he is sizing up an enemy's armor--but where armor protects, Haurchefant's leather harness seems only to emphasize his vulnerability. The long corset-like piece over his abdomen is little more than an elegant stomacher, held in place by buckles and straps; it draws attention to his trim waist and hips, the swell of his arse, his bare chest and powerful shoulders. The bracers and greaves, too, are merely decorative; their only claim to function is the array of steel loops that let them be linked together or bound apart.
He imagines Haurchefant's wrists laced together over his head, his great muscular body hanging from a hook like a stag's ready for slaughter, and his heart pulses hard against his ribs.
Every ilm of exposed flesh demands to be touched. Every hollow and angle offers itself to be savaged, and Estinien can scarcely resist sinking his teeth in.
"A fair piece of work," says Estinien at last, letting his fingertips trace the slight indentation of flesh where the leather bites into Haurchefant's skin. He feels more than hears Haurchefant suck in a breath at the touch. "My compliments to your leatherworkers."
"Indeed," Aymeric agrees. He settles back in his chair, raising a glass of House Fortemps's best wine to his lips. Alone among them, he still wears the armor of his office. A bit of petty theatre, Estinien had thought when first Haurchefant had explained the game--but now, caught between Aymeric's resplendence and Haurchefant's embellished nudity, Estinien feels the lightning charge between them as keenly as a lance.
Haurchefant grins and spreads his arms, turning so that they might get the full effect. Estinien marks well the creeping flush that bleeds down from his neck, and the smooth, heavy curve of his cock. "Were it not for the demands of discretion, I would gladly convey to them your compliments. Alas, they will have to content themselves with my praise alone."
The wine doesn't quite hide Aymeric's smile. "Your praise is a gift that does not diminish for being widely given. Full glad would I be to receive it."
"My friend." Haurchefant bends down to press a chaste kiss to Aymeric's brow, and Aymeric tilts his head up in answer. They linger like that a long moment, eyes closed and faces close, Haurchefant's breath stirring the soft curls around Aymeric's face. When at last they break, Haurchefant's smile is like a light. "I shall never have aught but praise to speak of you."
Aymeric traces his knuckles down Haurchefant's cheek. Estinien ought to drop his gaze, to give their intimacies a moment's grace, but he can't make himself look away. "No matter how hard I use you?"
A grin breaks across Haurchefant's face, so bright and sharp and keen that it takes the wind out of Estinien. "I would praise you the more, the harder you use me. And that goes for both of you," he calls over his shoulder, bringing Estinien into the compass of his goodwill as surely as though he'd slung an arm around his waist. "Make yourselves a gift of me. I did not dress myself in this outlandish caparison only to be admired."
"You didn't dress yourself at all," says Estinien, but he can't help chuckling, low. Aymeric is in a humor to watch, it seems, which leaves Estinien the full pleasure of taking Haurchefant apart.
He catches Haurchefant's wrist, clad in supple leather, and draws him in as though for a dance. Haurchefant comes into his arms light-footed, laughing. He leans in with a gladiator's grace and kisses Estinien full on the mouth, his lips open from the first to drink him in.
All this time, and Estinien still isn't used to the way it feels to be kissed by Haurchefant--as though every bite and indrawn breath, every eager sound is cherishment. As though he's surfaced after a long time underwater and taken a first, clean breath of air. He bites down until Haurchefant's lip splits under his teeth and feels Haurchefant shudder like a windblown leaf in answer--but still the kiss goes on, sharp-edged and tender.
"Turn him for me," says Aymeric. His deep, warm voice carves through the kiss, and Estinien glances up with Haurchefant's blood running down his chin. Quite the picture we make, he thinks, lips quirking at one corner. Let's see how long the Lord Commander can keep his prick from rising.
He glances down to Aymeric's parted legs, to the hand resting as though casually on his lap, then raises his gaze again. Aymeric licks his lips.
This isn't their usual game, but Estinien would be a fool not to see how it affects Aymeric to play it. "Your will be done, ser," he says, digging in just hard enough on the title to make Aymeric's pulse jump.
He turns Haurchefant in his arms, skating a hand from his bare throat down to the leather over his stomach, where the black will set off the whiteness of his hand.
It's worth the pageantry to see Aymeric swallow at the sight.
Estinien trails his fingertips up to where leather meets bare skin. He can already feel indentations from the stitching, tracking like faint scars over the ridges of Haurchfant's ribs. Every shallow breath makes Haurchefant's chest swell under his hand until the leather draws tight. This, more than the spectacle of the harness, makes Estinien's blood sing--to feel this great swordsman's strength straining against his bonds, and to know that he stands bound for their pleasure and his own.
He kisses the side of Haurchefant's neck, teasing with teeth until Haurchefant tilts his head in invitation. "If you'd have me gentle, say it now," says Estinien, just a breath against all that flushed skin and silver hair. "Else I've no mind to be gentle with you."
Haurchefant drops one hand back to splay over Estinien's hip. Even through his trousers, Estinien feels the ready heat of it, and his cock aches in answer. "Do not stint your lance, Azure Dragoon," says Haurchefant. His voice is laced with mirth, a goad surer than any rider's crop. "I've lain awake too many nights in eagerness to crave mercy at your hands."
Estinien needs no further invitation. He wrenches Haurchefant's head back by the hair, scarcely taking a moment to savor his sharp cry of shock before bending to savage his throat. Each bite leaves a deep weal that blooms hectic red across Haurchefant's skin; each sharp and suckling kiss leaves pinprick bruises in its wake. Estinien bows his head to lave those marks with lips and tongue, and Haurchefant only reaches up to press Estinien's mouth harder against him.
By now, Aymeric is sitting forward in his chair, hands on his knees and pretty lips parted with want.
Estinien traces down Haurchefant's chest with the flat of his palm--throat to collarbone, down to the hard, exposed points of his nipples. His calluses catch on that soft skin, rough and sudden enough to draw a hiss of pleasure from Haurchefant. He rocks back into Estinien hard enough that he has to brace against the weight of him, while every kindled nerve urges him to rut up in answer.
He eases a hand between them and undoes his belt and trousers, freeing his cock to lie flush between the cheeks of Haurchefant's arse. They've got off like this together before, when there wasn't oil for a proper fucking; even now, he thinks it would be enough just to grip Haurchefant by the back of his harness and buck his hips into that sweet, tight cleft until the world went white.
Instead, he plucks Haurchefant's nipples between his fingertips, pinching and twisting, rolling them slowly between callused thumb and callused forefinger until sounds of pleasure give way to pain--and beyond that pain, back into pleasure again. Haurchefant's breath comes short, stuttering; his cock juts out beneath the black curve of the harness, the tip of it shining and slick.
What Estinien wouldn't give to bring Aymeric down from his chair to wrap his lips around the root of that beautiful cock.
"Enough," says Aymeric. A flush lies high on each cheekbone and spans the bridge of his nose. "I--I would have you take him over your knee."
Estinien suckles another leisurely kiss into the hollow of Haurchefant's jaw, still idly fondling his swollen nipples. Even the lightest whisper of a touch is enough to make Haurchefant swear and praise him in the same breath.
Aymeric swallows. "Take him over your knee," he says again, his voice ringing with command, "and beat him until I give you leave to finish."
A slow, feral smile spreads across Estinien's face. He feels like a hound unleashed; he feels like the wild creature that lurks beneath the heart of every hunting hound. "Ser," he answers, and lets Haurchefant go.
It's the work of a moment to slide off his chemise and trousers. He leaves his boots on--for the menace or the leather or the veneer of civilization; he doesn't really give a damn. When he sits with his knees apart and beckons Haurchefant to lie across them, he feels as powerful and desirable as he has ever felt in his life.
Haurchefant comes to him smiling, red everywhere that Estinien's hands have used him. The black leather of the harness only sets off the high color at his throat and nipples, and in that moment Estinien thinks that he has never seen him lovelier. "Do not stint me, ser," says Haurchefant, and he kisses Estinien's cheek so warmly that it burns like a brand. "Even if I weep, do not stint me; I swear to you, I have only lost the voice to beg for more."
He lays himself across Estinien's lap, settling and resettling as leather and buckles dig into them both. Estinien can't help sweeping his palm down the long line of Haurchefant's back, from the sweat-dewed hair at the nape of his neck to the tight-knotted laces of the harness. There is a gracefulness to it that Estinien had not appreciated when he was tying the knots--as though whoever made it knew Haurchefant's body as well as Estinien and Aymeric do, and meant to glorify every line of muscle and bone.
Sentimental.
His palm comes down hard on Haurchefant's arse, leaving a red print in its wake. Haurchefant gives a great roaring cry as the blow rocks him; his cock presses urgently against Estinien's thigh, but they've done this often enough to know that it will give him no relief.
Again, this time to the other cheek. This time, Haurchefant is ready for it, and he groans and buries his face in the arm of the chair as Estinien's hand comes down. "Again," he cries, arching up into the blow. "That was magnificent--please, Estinien, again--"
And again his hand falls with a crack like thunder, again and again, until every sound Haurchefant makes is jagged-edged and Estinien's palm stings with every blow. Until the blows rain down uncounted, uncountable, tallied and overwritten in the red marks on Haurchefant's arse.
A hand falls on Estinien's shoulder, and he looks up and into Aymeric's shining eyes. "Enough," he says, and brings up Estinien's aching hand to kiss.
This is what Aymeric craves, more even than the power to command pain: the power to end it with a word. To be not only the blade but the balm.
"Enough," Estinien agrees. His throat is dry and raw, as though he's been the one screaming. When he draws Aymeric down, he comes unresisting, kissing Estinien's mouth melting-sweet and deep.
Between the two of them, they ease Haurchefant down to the rug and smooth cool, clean-smelling salves over his backside. The redness softens to pink; the outlines of Estinien's handprints grow indistinct, then fade entirely. "I hope you haven't raided your infirmary on my account," Haurchefant mumbles against his folded hands, but he sways up into their touches all the same.
"Nothing that the chirurgeons will miss, I promise you." Aymeric smiles as he works the salve into the cleft of Haurchefant's arse. Gone is the tension of wanting and watching; his face fair shines with quiet joy, and his hands are deft and gentle. With his armor gleaming in the firelight, he looks like some ancient hero stepped out of a tale. Or would do, if he weren't fucking Haurchefant on his hand.
When Aymeric slides a finger into him, Estinien matches it with his own--the both of them seeking and straining, sunk knuckle-deep in their lover as they work him open together. Muscle tenses, then gives; Aymeric anoints his hand in salve again, then pushes in with another long finger. Haurchefant arches his hips up in answer, urging them with praise and profanities to take him harder, deeper. He staggers to his knees so that he can drive himself back on their hands with all the strength left in his body. "Pray, sers," he pants. "Do not deny me longer."
Warmth coils in Estinien's gut at the need in Haurchefant's voice. Blood pulses hot through his cock until the very root of him aches for requital. "I'll not deny you," he says roughly, and he pulls his hand free to brace on Haurchefant's hip.
He slides in with Aymeric's fingers still half-caught inside. For a moment, the tightness around his cock is almost more than Estinien can bear; he feels his climax rushing down on him like a great wall of white. Haurchefant sags with a half-choked cry, still working his hips back onto Estinien's cock and Aymeric's hand as though he can imagine no sweeter release than to have them both inside him.
Then Aymeric draws back, and Estinien masters himself. He hooks his clean hand in the back panel of the harness and drags Haurchefant up onto his knees, until the sheer weight of him lets him sink all the way down on Estinien's cock. It's easy then to roll his hips up to meet Haurchefant bearing down--to catch his heavy prick in one hand and jerk him off in time with each thrust; to guide him into an urgent rhythm that brings them tumbling over the edge together.
When Estinien slips out, Aymeric is there to spell him. Naked, now, he trails lavishing kisses down Haurchefant's spine, whispering praises too low for Estinien to hear. When at last as Aymeric slides into him in one long, sure thrust, Haurchefant shudders and brings his fist to his mouth. He snaps his hips as though seeking another hand to fuck, but his cock is soft and spent.
Slowly, Aymeric eases Haurchefant back into his lap, stroking his hair and kissing his shoulders. There is such a weary, hard-fought tenderness in their expressions that it makes Estinien's chest ache. But for the come streaming down over Aymeric's balls, they might be a monument in iron and marble.
With patient hands and words of praise, Aymeric coaxes Haurchefant to hardness again, and he rises on trembling thighs to ride Aymeric's cock.
Estinien drains Aymeric's wine to the lees and watches them fuck--how Aymeric's thick cock slides in and in and in again; how Haurchefant's mouth forms unspoken blasphemies as each thrust drives him closer to ecstasy. The way Aymeric's dark hair falls in his eyes, curtaining him with curls that beg to be brushed aside.
The way they collapse together when it's over, as though only the frenzy of their coupling held them up.
Afterward, when they've moved to the bed, Estinien works the buckles undone and eases Haurchefant's harness down around his hips. The knots on the laces, he won't try until his hands are steady again; even then, he'll probably need needle and pliers to tease the cord free. He sets the bundle of leather neatly on the chair beside the bed. No doubt Haurchefant will want it later.
Aymeric lies on the quilted bedspread at Haurchefant's side, tracing the red lines that the stitches have left on his skin as though mapping a military campaign. After a moment's hesitation, Estinien joins him. His callused fingertips chase down old, familiar battle scars.
"Will you stay?" asks Haurchefant lightly, as though it is of no consequence to him. "I can have supper brought for us, if you like. You may avail yourselves of every service of my household, meager though it may be."
Aymeric's hand stills on Haurchefant's back. Estinien can see him weighing his time, the way he always does--whether a few bells of indolence now will mean messages unheard, orders ungiven, battles lost.
Estinien draws back the covers and wriggles underneath, tucking his chin against Haurchefant's shoulder and his arm around his waist. "Can't very well leave after you've tired me out," he says. "Let supper hang. I'll need to sleep until sunrise."
He feels the weight on the bed shift, and then Aymeric's fingers lace through his over Haurchefant's back. "I hope you haven't exhausted yourself yet, Estinien," he says, mild and wicked as no one else can be. "There is much and more I would still have of the both of you."
"And when I speak with my leatherworker," says Haurchefant, "I shall have a few additional requests."