Work Text:
“I suppose,” John says, in that long suffering way of his, calling from the other room, “that if you’ve put up with me this long, you won’t stop now.”
Samuel huffs out a short laugh. This is a dance he’s gotten used to. He would not give up John for the world, but John seems always ready to open the door for him. Not to push him out, but just to remind him of his freedom. It’s sweet, but unnecessary.
“But,” John continues, and Samuel shakes his head fondly. John can’t see it, of course, “I can understand if you’ve finally decided that I’m actually mad.”
“This is a lot of preamble,” Samuel comments. He doesn’t see a need to reassure John because, really, John doesn’t need him to. All John needs him to be is himself, which is someone for whom words do not always come easily.
That’s just the thing, though, isn’t it? Samuel hates talking and John loves filling silences. He finds himself glad for it every day.
“Quite, quite,” John agrees, and then he takes a deep breath like he’s steeling himself for battle. “Do you promise not to laugh? Leaving I can put up with but—”
“Yes,” Samuel assures him, “I have already told you that.” And he had, several times before when John had told him he needed his help with something. That was rare enough, but the spy was being awfully cagey and truth be told, Samuel had no idea what he was getting into. Sometimes he could guess at what John was going to spring on him, but not always. He imagined that was what made John such a good spy.
“Okay,” John says, and Samuel waits.
And then he waits a little longer. So long, in fact, he’s about to stand and walk into the other room to figure out what was going on, or at least that he was about to call for him and ask him if everything was okay.
Just as he’s about to, however, John steps into the room.
He takes Samuel’s breath away. Samuel’s lips part but no words come, and he realizes he must have the most ridiculous expression on his face, just staring at him like this, but he can’t help it. John is wearing a beautiful blue dress—Samuel is sure there must be some name for it, but, truthfully, he doesn’t even know all the silly names for the clothing men wear, he can’t be bothered to know all the clothing for women. Whatever it is, it’s obviously expensive, although it is doing an admirable job of pretending otherwise.
John is wearing some color on his face, too, though Samuel doesn’t know the first thing about that, either. A circlet in place of his hat, and his hair has been brushed out nicely. Samuel likes it, but he does at least know it’s more in fashion for women to have long hair.
In sum, John is gorgeous. But he doesn’t know why.
“Is it that bad?” John wonders, when he says nothing.
“No,” Samuel rushes the answer, shaking his head. The last thing he wants is for John to believe that he’s done something wrong or that he hadn’t put it all together nicely. “What is it for?”
“Oh, right, I hadn’t told you,” John responds, as if he’s only just realized, “we’re going to save Wenceslas.”
“Dressed like that?” Samuel wonders, looking him over.
“Yes?” John asks, but it’s suddenly a question, when moments before he sounded so sure. Samuel almost regrets asking.
So he stands, moving closer. He steps around John, admiring it. He’s bold enough to reach over and pick up the fabric of his skirt, feeling the quality under his fingertips, and then lifting it a bit to test it. It feels as nice as he’d thought it looked. And it clings to John’s body nicely, in all the right places. If John had asked him yesterday if his form would fill a dress well, he would have told him no. But he sees now that he would have been wrong.
“Are you playing an unassuming noble’s daughter?” Samuel asks, stepping behind him. He reaches up and runs his fingers through the short curly ends of John’s hair in a fit of whimsy and indulgence he doesn’t normally allow himself to have. With the way the back of the dress is cut, he can see the shiver when it runs down John’s spine, and the light smattering of gooseflesh that follows, and the start of the beautiful blush that rises on John’s neck and he’s glad that he did.
“Well, no. I was going to play a bathmaid.”
Samuel snorts out a laugh at that, “No bathmaid dresses like this.”
“Ah, but you see, the king’s favorite does.”
Samuel considers this and decides that John must be correct. A king’s favorite would dress well enough to be in his presence. He’d give her enough money to buy good fabrics, but she’d still cut her dress like a peasant. He hums approvingly.
“What about your hair?” It’s easier to focus on these questions than in the growing desire building in his chest looking at John like this. He wants to put his arms around his slender waist and kiss his way down John’s exposed neck, but as ever he holds himself back. He walks back around so he can face hm, instead, regretting that, too.
“I’ll put it up, I suppose.” John shrugs, “I rather like the circlet but you’re right that it doesn’t really fit.”
“You just wanted more jewelry,” Samuel laughs, short and fond, but well aware of John’s habits.
“It’s not such a bad desire! A man likes what he likes.”
“Mmhm,” Samuel nods, stepping closer. He likes what he likes too. This time he does place a hand on John’s waist, but just one. Testing the waters, like he does every time he touches him, like every time he needs permission, like John might be the one to send him off. “Should I buy you some, then? Pretty brooches, delicate bracelets?”
“No, schatzi,” John says, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, “you’re all I need, I’ve told you that before.”
Samuel blushes from his toes to the point of contact with John’s lips, as he does every time. Sometimes he thinks it’s silly, but he also never wants it to get old. He wants to feel this same blatant affection every time he looks at him.
He’s quiet for a long moment and then he finally says softly, “You’re beautiful,” and John knows he means it.
“I appreciate that,” John says, and it’s clear that he does, because even John is blushing now, soft but present, “but my bigger question was whether you thought it would fool the guards.”
“Oh, then, yes,” Samuel says, but there’s a hesitation, almost playful, in his voice, “though you might catch too much of their attention.”
John laughs, bright and warm, but shakes his head, “No, I very much doubt that.”
“If they did,” Samuel takes John’s hand with his free hand and brings it up to his lips, kissing his palm. Pushing a little further, now that John hasn’t told him not to. Hasn’t decided the dress is too precious. “Then you could tell them your husband wouldn’t approve.”
“My husband?” John’s smile turns mischievous, and he lets Samuel kiss his way down his palm and then his wrist, and then lower still down his arm, even if he giggles a bit at the brush of Samuel’s mustache. “I’ll be sure to tell them my husband is very good with a sword. So they know to be extra concerned, of course.”
“I’m sure he’d be very concerned about your honor, after all, being doted upon by a king as you are,” Samuel’s humor is dry, but his wit is sharp, and John always recognizes it, even when he’s sure it wouldn’t land right with nearly anyone else. Now, though, John plays along, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Oh, naturally, naturally,” John agrees with a mock-graveness. “A woman’s virtue is, after all, her greatest asset.” But this he can’t keep up with and he laughs. He’s never felt that way about women even when, admittedly, Samuel once had. John is progressive in ways that most men of their home are not. But then John’s expression shifts and the mischief becomes decidedly more lustful. Which, considering Samuel had made it nearly all the way down the exposed flesh of his arm, did make some sense. “Tell me how you’d feel about that.”
“About the guards? Or about the king?”
“Whichever.”
Samuel pulls him close, then. There’s so many layers between them with all the fabric of the skirts and he hadn’t quite counted on that, but he can still feel the outline of Johns body underneath. And there’s just so many places he can put his lips, like this. He goes for his collarbone, next, kissing his way along there and then up towards his neck as he considers.
“I’m sure it would be very hard indeed to know my wife had to play for the king every day,” he says this softly against John’s skin, but even behind the silliness of their game, there’s a note of jealousy, and a note of possession, and he knows that’s what John is seeking out. “But he’s the king, so what can one do?”
“Make the most of all the rest of the time, one assumes,” John returns, reaching up to run his fingers through Samuel’s hair, “and be grateful for the fine silks.”
“This isn’t silk.”
“Metaphorically.”
“Fine, metaphorical silks,” Samuel shakes his head but kisses along John’s jawline. “I think…” he says, drawing it out because he knows John likes that too, “I’d just have to remind my wife,” here, he draws his hand down from John’s hip and then inwards, to try and grope through the layers to find his cock (it is proving more difficult than he expected), “that the king may have money, but that I know how she likes it best.”
John huffs out a breathless laugh and then reaches down to pull up at the layers of skirts for him, “Here,” he says gently, and Samuel finds, to his very great delight, that John is wearing nothing underneath.
“Stay still,” Samuel tells him against his lips and then he kisses him once before sinking down to his knees. He grabs another handful of skirts and holds it up, letting John take that, too, so both his hands are full of fabric, and his cock is perfectly on display.
“This isn’t fair,” John says, shifting a little as Samuel starts to touch him, “If I have to hold all this, I can’t touch you.”
“There’s not enough room for both of us under here,” Samuel responds and he is, of course, right. So John stands still for him, holding the layers of fabric, as Samuel teases him with his mouth, working him up to hardness.
“I think,” John starts, because he cannot let silence linger, because he needs to fill it with the sound of his voice, and Samuel is happy to let him do so, because he likes the sound of his voice very much, “you’d present a compelling argument. For your wife.”
Samuel laughs, a sound that he’s sure John can feel against his cock, amused that he still wants to keep this up. “That’s good,” he says, as he starts to press open-mouthed kisses against his sensitive flesh.
“And what about you?” John asks, his tone softer when he does.
Samuel looks up at him, one hand cradling his now hardened cock, “What about me?”
“Do you like it?” John wonders, and he sounds so vulnerable and boyish, which is a precious thing that few people besides him ever get to hear, that it makes Samuel want to pull him close and find every word that’s ever eluded him to try and reassure him.
Instead, he presses another kiss to his skin, “Am I about to suck your cock?”
John huffs out a laugh, “a point well-taken.”
“I like it,” Samuel insists, “I told you. You’re beautiful.”
John smiles softly and he swallows thickly, and he goes through this series of beautiful microexpressions that Samuel is sure no one else in the world knows how to read but him and that makes him feel very warm indeed.
John finds a way to fill the silence when Samuel takes the head of his cock into his mouth, but not with words. He moans so beautifully, so perfectly for him. Samuel has never once had to doubt his technique; John has always made it obvious.
It’s obvious too that forcing him to stand still was a good move. He can practically feel John’s frustration, his desire to participate more, to do something. Samuel loves his desperation. There have been nights where he’s tied him up and simply made him do nothing but take it, and he’s always come apart so beautiful.
John is always beautiful, and that is the honest truth of it. He is beautiful like this, he is beautiful naked, he is beautiful in the actual silk of his pourpoint. Samuel does not think there is anything that John could do that would make him unattractive.
“Samuel,” John keens as Samuel takes his cock deeper and then deeper still. He wants to move his hips, but it’s clear he’s not sure what to do about the balance with the fabric, and Samuel likes that too. He could stand to be a bit desperate.
“Samuel,” John says again, as Samuel starts to move, taking him deep and then letting up, only to take him again. Samuel rubs his hand along John’s hip but he does not relent.
“Fuck,” John’s fingers tighten where he’s holding his skirts, his knuckles turning white, and Samuel knows well the stages of John’s pleasure by now, knows that he’ll lose coherency soon, and he loves that almost as much as he loves all the ways he knows how to weave words.
It makes Samuel feel incredibly talented to know he can do this to him. That it’s his actions and his mouth that make John, normally so strong and orator, beside himself. John sings his pleasure for him, and Samuel gives it to him as best he can, eagerly taking his cock.
When he can tell John is getting close, he relaxes his jaw and takes him deeper still. John cries out and he knows he’d normally try and stifle it with his hand, but he can’t, and he nearly laughs thinking about how well this had worked out.
So of course Samuel happily takes it when John comes down his throat, swallowing every last bit of him. He pulls off slowly, lingering near him and enjoying the view. He licks him clean, so that there’s nothing to get on the underskirts of his dress.
Underskirts which, inevitably John eventually drops in favor of getting his hands on Samuel. Samuel’s knees feel a bit like they’d rather just stay there on the floor, so John ends up on the floor right beside him, kissing him. His cheek, his jaw, his lips. John always acts like he has to repay every bit of kindness Samuel gives him, but Samuel has never seen it that way. John deserves to be treated right, and he is glad to be the person to do it.
“So you think it’ll work?” John asks finally, breaking the silence, and Samuel stares at him incredulously that he’s even got any wits about him to ask.
“Let me catch my breath,” he replies, but he’s just giving him shit, really.
“Take all the time you need,” John replies seriously, and Samuel sighs exasperated but fond.
“I think you will be the most beautiful bathmaid there, and the king will be lucky to have you,” he reaches up to try and right a few of strands of John’s hair, “but I am also worried about all of this. Can’t you take me with you? I can protect you.”
John smiles softly but sadly, and he shakes his head, “Not this time. But,” and here, his smile turns playful again, and he guides Samuel gently down back onto the floor so he can straddle his hips, “you have made an excellent case for coming home. So I will do everything in my power to return to you.”
Samuel looks up at him, this man he is deeply in love with, and he knows without a doubt that he will.