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2023-09-25
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2023-10-23
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(this isn’t your job)

Summary:

or, What’s a Hero Got to Do to Get Ravished Around Here?

Ballister had been under the impression they had an unstated gentlemen’s agreement not to bring the battle to each other’s home base, but apparently Ambrosius felt differently.

Chapter two: Ambrosius needs it to happen again. Ballister tries to define the lack-of-relationship. Ambrosius isn't listening.

Notes:

I somehow became completely obsessed with both versions of Nimona and the differences in the characters and their dynamics, so after writing sad but loving post-canon goldenheart, I had to explore some loving but angry pre-canon blackloin.

Chapter Text

Ballister had been under the impression they had an unstated gentlemen’s agreement not to bring the battle to each other’s home base, but apparently Ambrosius felt differently. It wasn’t as though the Institution didn’t know full well where Ballister lived and worked, but it was remote and well-trapped enough that generally no one dared approach. That had changed when he’d been unloading a cartload of supplies for the lab and one of the crates launched itself open, Ambrosius springing from it as though he were on some music hall stage, sword held aloft.

Ballister gawped at him.

“And what are you doing here?”

“Halt, villain!” he exclaimed, which wasn’t really an answer. “I have found my intrepid way into your despicable lair, and you will face me now. Draw!”

“You curled up in a crate for at least an hour,” Ballister said flatly, though he did draw his sword. “Hardly gallant. Did you hit your head while I was driving the cart up the mountain?”

“Have at thee!” Ambrosius said, which again wasn’t an answer. He leapt from the crate— had he really been standing on the edges of it?— and landed in front of Ballister, knees bending deep as he bounced into standing. Ballister rolled his eyes and knocked his sword aside with a quick swipe, though Ambrosius still kept a hold of it.

“Must we do this here?” Ballister asked. “There’s glass in some of those crates. And mold samples.”

“Mold samples?” Ambrosius asked, wrinkling up his nose, apparently side-tracked from his mission by disgust.

“Some of our greatest advancements in medicine came of the study of particular strains of mold,” Ballister said, not really expecting Ambrosius to understand or care. “Either wait until I put these away or fight me in the empty corridor. Through there.”

Ambrosius seemed to opt for the latter, heading towards the door Ballister had indicated, though he did a horrible little two-step sort of dance trying to get over there without taking his eyes off him. That was more insulting than anything he’d said, honestly.

Only one of them had shot the other in the back, after all, and it wasn’t Ballister.

The corridor was wide enough they wouldn’t be hemmed into acting like they were on a fencing piste, but could properly circle each other like the fighting dogs they had apparently become. Ambrosius leapt for him right away, over-eager as he always had been, his off hand thrown up into the air behind him in that hideously dramatic curve that did his balance no favours. He was lucky he had enough skill to almost counteract how much he hamstringed himself with theatrics.

Ballister parried, of course, keeping his footing; Ambrosius was a good swordsman, but Ballister knew he tended to tire himself out with enthusiasm. The more Ballister could reserve his energy for later in the fight, the better he’d do. Irritating Ambrosius by appearing not to put his all into the duel was just a bonus.

“Don’t just stand there,” he huffed after the fourth time Ballister had parried without riposte, moving only enough to keep Ambrosius in his sights, with small, economical movements. Ambrosius kept rounding him, his steps too predictable, too showy, and making telegraphed lunges; Ballister wondered if he really had knocked his head, because usually he was better than this.

“Make it worth my while to move, then,” he said, and then Ambrosius was in his face, slamming his head with the pommel of his sword, making his ears ring. There was a maniacal grin on his face, and Ballister hadn’t seen him approach; he’d just been there, too quick compared to his theatrical, dance-like steps from before. He’d been playing with him.

Of course. Ambrosius fought dirty, after all. He’d just never admit it.

Fighting through the throbbing in his head, Ballister shoved Ambrosius hard in the chest with both hands, scrabbling back, trying to put space between them. Now, when Ambrosius thrust, Ballister returned in kind, circling him; neither of them was playing anymore. The high ceiling of the corridor made the clash of their swords echo into a cacophony, as though there were ten men fighting, not two. They would find their way into a rhythm and compete to be the one to break it, to take the other off guard, advancing and retreating across their makeshift arena. Ambrosius landed a blow at Ballister’s shoulder that didn’t pierce his spaulder, but would surely bruise through it; he was glad he hadn’t doffed his armour upon returning home from town, because he wasn’t sure if Ambrosius’s theatrical chivalry would have extended to letting him dress.

It became immensely satisfying, after a while— the exertion, the absolute focus. There was nothing else present in his mind but Ambrosius, their swords, every movement he could read as a thrust or a feint or a retreat. His eyes glittered in the lamp-light, angry little jewels, and he periodically licked his sculpted lips in his focus. Ballister could see the sweat starting to bead at his temples and knew he was pushing hard, took the moment he brushed his hair out of his face with his off-hand to advance all at once.

Jamming the point of his sword through the scrollwork in the basket hilt of Ambrosius’s, he twisted hard and sent it flying out of his grip, skittering across the stone floor as he backed Ambrosius up into the wall. He held his sword across his throat— not touching, but enough to warn him against moving— and there was a silence as they both caught their breath.

“I am at your mercy, villain,” Ambrosius said after a long moment, tossing his head aside in a way he clearly thought was comely. “What do you plan to do to me?”

Ballister huffed, keeping his eyes on Ambrosius but also keeping his fallen sword in his peripherals, ensuring he wasn’t about to make a break for it. Ambrosius seemed perfectly content leaning back against the wall, but it could be another feint.

“You know full well I won’t kill you,” he said, because it was true. Ambrosius knew he didn’t kill, even if he also knew that if he ever decided to start Ambrosius’s own name would be top of the list.

“I do know,” Ambrosius said, a disconcerting coo to his deep voice. “But there are other things— I couldn’t stop you. Deep in your sanctum, my communicator broken, no way to call for help. No henchmen, even, to have pangs of conscience and come to my rescue if they heard me cry out.”

Ballister narrowed his eyes at him, because the henchmen were still a sore spot. It had been nice, having an organized little operation, being able to get things done, having a sounding board for his plans and a few extra sets of hands to carry them out. When the Institution had paid them off, they hadn’t only smashed half his lab and reported everything he’d been plotting, one had crushed his elbow joint on the way out. It had taken most of a week to repair it. He hadn’t been that one-handed since he’d first lost his arm, and he didn’t care for it. Insult to injury to insult. The lair was too quiet, with just him.

“And what exactly do you expect me to do?” he said coolly. “I’m not about to experiment on you; given how these things tend to go there’s too high a risk of either killing you or giving you some absurd superpower.”

Ambrosius turned his head to the other side, long neck emerging from his gorget, the tendon in it standing out starkly. It was a cocky move given that Ballister still had his sword an inch from his throat; if Ambrosius was actually afraid of him he’d be shrinking back into his breastplate like a turtle. He wasn’t, and it prickled at Ballister’s nerves.

“You could do anything to me,” Ambrosius said, too dramatic, too exaggerated, too smoky. “Anything you wanted.”

Ballister stared at him. He was shifting against the wall, his armour making an annoying scraping noise that undercut any seductive effect he might have been going for. His eyes were half-lidded, and his mouth a little open, and he looked ridiculous. Damn him.

Ballister maintained his calm as Ambrosius silently simpered at him. He refused to acknowledge the implication until Ambrosius broke down and made it explicit, which eventually he did.

“I know well you’ve missed my body, villain.”

“Have I.”

“You intend to deny it? Get it over with, have at me. Take your spoils of war.”

“You can’t actually expect me to do such a thing,” Ballister said, screwing up his nose. He knew full well this was an attempted seduction, not a genuine expression of fear, but still found the implication insulting. “You know me.”

“Do I?” Ambrosius said, still in that overwrought tone. “It’s been a long time. A lonely, cruel man, driven to madness, confronted with a reminder of what he’s left behind—”

“What you took from me,” Ballister corrected automatically.

“Who knows what he might dare?”

“I do,” Ballister growled, genuinely offended. “You do. I have standards, Ambrosius.”

He leaned in, sword a hair’s breadth from Ambrosius’s throat. Ambrosius pressed himself back against the wall, palms flat to the stone, which he needn’t have done; Ballister had no intention of making contact, just of getting close.

“You know me,” he repeated, near enough Ambrosius could surely feel his breath on his face. “And I know you, too. I know what you’re doing. I know why you’re making excuses.”

“If you know,” Ambrosius half-whined, “then you know I won’t stop you. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Ballister said, simply.

Nothing?

“Nothing,” he repeated. “Like I said, I have standards. I play by the rules. My rules. Having defeated your attempt to infiltrate my home—“

“Your evil lair?

“I do also live here, you know. Having defeated your attempt to infiltrate my home, I plan to lock you in a closet until—“

“Until you desire me? Until you choose to ravage me?”

Until the coldest part of the night is over and I can turn you out without expecting you to freeze to death. Also I’m keeping your sword.”

Ambrosius gawped at him, mouth hanging open in offense and confusion rather than an attempt at enticement.

“Is that all you want of me?!” he exclaimed, his sculpted face contorting, pretty pearls of teeth half-bared. “Have you no man’s spirit left?”

Goldenloin,” Bal said coldly, retreating to his surname to capture his attention. Sometimes he thought Ambrosius just heard his first name as praise no matter the context. “I am not going to so much as touch you unless you swallow your pride for once in your life and admit you want me to.

Ambrosius was breathing so heavily Ballister had to carefully watch how he was standing so their breastplates wouldn’t brush, so his sword wouldn’t meet his skin. He watched him squirm, watched his jaw move as he ground his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Ambrosius was wiggling one leg the way he always did when he was anxious, keyed up, impatient.

“You already know, though,” Ambrosius said. “Why can’t you just do it?”

“I am not what you make me out to be,” Ballister said, patience wearing thin.

“This isn’t about your standards,” Ambrosius said. “You know full well you wouldn’t be doing anything cruel. This is about you being smug, isn’t it?”

Ballister blinked at him, entirely taken aback— not by Ambrosius getting pissy, but by the fact he might have been right.

“Maybe it is,” he said, almost smiling. “But I’m allowed to be smug. Tell me, Ambrosius. Say it out loud.”

“Villain.”

“Hero.”

Ambrosius dropped his head back against the wall again with a dramatic thud, and he whined. Actually whined, for so long at a go that Ballister was almost impressed by his lung capacity. He waited, sword held still, staring coolly at this absurd man.

“Blackheart,” Ambrosius said eventually, once he’d whined himself out. There was a flush to his cheeks and a waver to his voice, but he spoke with conviction. “Fuck me right now.”

“You want me to?” Ballister asked, knowing he was pushing his luck and not caring.

I want you to, damn you.”

“There we go.”

Ballister sheathed his sword, and Ambrosius immediately pressed forward as though to kiss him, catching him off guard. Almost too late, he managed to turn his head, Ambrosius’s parted lips bumping awkwardly against his ear instead. He grabbed Ambrosius by the pauldron and spun him around, shoved him against the wall, burying his face in his golden hair.

“I never said that was on the table,” he hissed, and Ambrosius huffed in annoyance. Ballister rolled his eyes, not that Ambrosius could see him do it— he might be gearing up to bang his horrible ex without the brains to fill an egg cup, who had actively maimed him and still tried to arrest him on the regular, but even Ballister wasn’t such an idiot as to kiss him.

“Get on with it, then,” Ambrosius said, and Ballister nuzzled through his golden hair to bite warningly at the nape of his neck. Ambrosius drew in a sharp breath at the pain, and it was incredibly satisfying to hear him taken off guard. Ambrosius shifted, put his hands over his head against the wall as Ballister reacquainted himself with his hair— soft, sleek, each strand delicate as spider’s silk, waving gently like it had recently been in a braid. He smelled faintly of bay leaves, and he was horrible.

Ballister wanted badly to grip his waist, but his damn armour was in the way— they were both tin cans like this. Irritated, he went for the buckles at the side of Ambrosius’s fauld, tugging the leather through. He had to wrap his arms around him to get at the front buckle, the one mostly hidden under his gorget, and it was awfully close to an embrace, but it got the job done. Once it was unbuckled, he dropped the whole damn fauld and plackart to the floor, where they made an awful clanking and clattering sound, leaving him in nothing but cloth from ribs to thighs. He struggled out of his own gauntlet and then did grab his waist tightly, squeezing a groan out of him.

He was warm enough Ballister could feel it even through his gambeson and the thin leather of his own under-glove— at least, on the side where he could feel warmth at all. He had enough pressure sensitivity in his prosthesis that he could use it smoothly, and he was still a better sword-fighter than Ambrosius even now, but it was purely functional. Even as Ballister peeled the glove off his left hand and rucked up Ambrosius’s gambeson, dug his fingers into his skin, he could only actually feel him with one hand.

He didn’t say anything about it. Ambrosius was busy arching his back and squirming, and it wouldn’t do any good.

Instead, Ballister pressed up against Ambrosius’s back. His own cuirass was keeping him from properly flattening himself to his skin, but it didn’t matter— crowding him in against the wall was half the point anyway. He wormed his left hand up under Ambrosius’s gambeson and blouse, raking his fingers up his skin. He was horribly sweaty— plate armour did that, inevitably, within an hour or two— but it just made Ballister’s fingertips slide up along his chest, damp and undignified and awkward and delicious.

Ballister pressed his palm up hard against Ambrosius’s skin, feeling out his ribs, his sternum, grasping and kneading at his pectorals in turn. It was irritating how familiar his body was, as though nothing had changed, and when he caught himself worrying Ambrosius’s nipple between his fingers in an old rhythm that he already knew made him whine, he pinched him hard instead. His hand was irritatingly crushed, so he yanked it out to undo the buckles on the last piece of Ambrosius’s cuirass and haul it off, letting it clank to the floor; Ambrosius grumbled, because he really should have taken his gorget off first so he could pull it over his head instead of fully undoing the shoulder straps. Ballister didn’t particularly care about being accommodating to Ambrosius’s stupid golden armour with the decorative swirls and the absurd floral rondels.

“You,” Ambrosius said, reaching back awkwardly to pat Ballister’s side. “Off.”

“No,” Ballister said evenly.

“I don’t mean get off me, I mean get out of your armour.”

“I know,” Ballister said, and Ambrosius grumbled.

“Your cuirass is hard and it’s cold and it’s going to bruise me.”

“You think I care about that?” Ballister said, but he did take a half-step back to disrobe hastily. Spaulders— there was definitely a dent in the left one, damn— gorget, vambraces, cloak unclipped from his besagews and tossed aside, the rest of his cuirass leaned against the wall. He unlaced the front of his gambeson and shucked it off, leaning back in to flatten himself to Ambrosius again. He still had his leggings on, his cuisses, his greaves, his poleyns and his boots, and his undershirt was linen and long-sleeved— people in the markets wore less clothing in the summer, but he still felt horribly undressed.

He could feel the heat of Ambrosius’s body against his chest, smell his sweat and the vague scent of bay and orange peel from his obsessive collection of hair tonics, and it was so familiar. Somehow, he was still the boy who had dragged Ballister up to the attic when they were pages to kiss and pet each other until they were both sneezing from all the dust and couldn’t finish, who had sat in his lap at the May festival and laughed and laughed at the jongleurs until his face was red, who had saved both their lives when the wyrm they were sent to dispatch turned out to be a basilisk simply by having a compact mirror in his saddlebag.

Ambrosius rocked his hips back, grinding on Ballister’s cock and chuckling smugly to find it hard. Grumbling, Ballister reached around him to untie the drawstring of his leggings, but then cupped him through them. He fit so perfectly in his hand, and Ballister was almost distracted enough by that not to realize how loud Ambrosius groaned, how sharply his hips jerked.

“Sensitive, are we? Did you come here hoping for this?”

”Of course not!” Ambrosius said, and he sounded genuinely offended. “I fought my hardest and just— chose to make the best of the outcome. It’s only that it’s— been a while.”

Ballister raised an eyebrow, not that Ambrosius could see him do it, and squeezed him, making him jump again. “Has it, then.”

“You realize what you did to me when you skipped town, don’t you?” Ambrosius said, the trained elegance in his voice starting to break. “You left me high and dry.”

“You’re not saying it’s been since me.

“And?”

Eight years?

“And whose fault is that? Yours.”

“It is not my fault you couldn’t pull anyone else,” Ballister said, reeling.

“Think for a second, won’t you?” Ambrosius huffed, cheek against the wall as he looked over his shoulder at him. “I’m the premier knight of the Institution now. I’m a symbol of hope for the kingdom. Any man I tarried with would have the press at his door by morning— if he didn’t call them himself first to brag.”

“Oh, and we couldn’t have that,” Ballister said, shoving Ambrosius’s leggings and smalls down enough to wrap his hand around him properly, outright proud of the way he gasped. “What would the public think if they knew about your little cock?”

“How dare you—“ Ambrosius began, but cut himself off with a helpless little whine, grinding his temple into the stone wall like a cat.

“Just observing,” Ballister said, running his thumb a little too firmly along the top of his shaft, “that it’s a kind of irony the tabloids would love. The knight who dubbed himself Goldenloin, with the ostentatious codpiece, being this small.”

“You know that wasn’t the name I wanted,” Ambrosius whined, and Ballister chuckled, looking down over Ambrosius’s shoulder to watch himself stroke him.

“Not the dick you wanted either, I suspect,” he said, squeezing him hard, feeling him twitch. The horrible part was that he was beautiful, that no matter how much he tried to tease him he couldn’t actually bring himself to feel disdainful of this sweet thing in his hand. It flushed so pink, stood so proudly, perfectly formed; even the ridge of his glans curved so elegantly it was like the fluting on a decorated pommel. He’d always loved how completely he could curl his hand around it, how he could draw it into his mouth all the way to the root and still have room for his tongue to move. On the rare occasions he’d managed to coax Ambrosius off his back to top, it had nestled inside him perfectly, tugging at his rim with every frantic, needy thrust.

He’d missed it terribly, actually, over the intervening years. He hadn’t been making a lot of time for such things, but eight years of wandering the outskirts of society and making contacts with various scoundrels did occasionally allow for brief affairs. Nothing had lasted very long— thankfully, he’d stopped sleeping with the last one when he’d applied for the job as Ballister’s henchman, to avoid a conflict of interest, so at least he hadn’t been betrayed by a lover again. Not that it hadn’t still stung.

He’d known after the first few tries that he’d never really have the room in his heart for a serious relationship; having your arm blown off by the first and only man you ever loved left more scars than the physical. That was fine, though; more time for the schemes, for the over-all plan, more time to change things, more time to spend in his lab. Instead of relationships, he had vague on-again off-again encounters, and even those had been trailing off as he started to admit to himself how unsatisfying he found them. Other men were boring; they were too much like him. Ambrosius, damn him, had buried himself so deeply into his history that he couldn’t help but to want him, leaving everything else a pale imitation.

Even now, he couldn’t stop staring at Ambrosius’s cock in his hand, watching himself run his thumb across the crown. The curve felt good against his fingers, his skin was velvety and damp with sweat and precome, and he was hard enough Ballister could feel his heartbeat in it. He was gasping, cheek still pressed to the wall, mouth half open, eyes fully shut. Vulnerable. Ballister could have drawn his sword and cut his throat in three seconds, if that was the kind of thing he did.

It wasn’t. Ambrosius knew it.

It turned Ballister’s stomach a little to think that Ambrosius was that comfortable around him even now, like what he’d done was nothing, like Ballister’s lung hadn’t nearly collapsed, like he hadn’t almost bled out in an Institution hospital without Ambrosius visiting him even once, but even that sick anger couldn’t seem to make him less hard.

“You’re stalling,” Ambrosius said, voice rough and still tinged with embarrassment. “Weren’t you going to ravish me?”

Ballister dug his short nails in just enough to sting before letting go, shifting back so he could shove Ambrosius’s leggings and smalls halfway down his thighs. Ambrosius groaned, low and rumbling, shifting his stance so he was more stable despite being half-undressed. His pale, taut ass was jutting out, and without even thinking about it Ballister slapped him hard, with his right hand, something clenching deep in his belly at the noise he made. He liked the idea of leaving a mark, he found, the thought of Ambrosius on his nightmare of a thoroughbred the next day shifting, feeling it, the bruise left by cold metal.

“Fuck,” Ambrosius gasped, “do that again,” so Ballister didn’t. Instead, he knelt to rifle through the leather bag attached to his discarded cuirass, fishing out a glass bottle.

“Hold on,” Ambrosius said, looking over his shoulder, brow furrowed in genuine concern. “How do you know that’s body safe? And why do you carry your armour oil with you, anyway? Even I wait to do my maintenance til I get home.”

“Two questions with one answer,” Ballister said flatly, tugging the cork out of the bottle with his teeth before slicking his left hand with it, then shoving it back onto its stopper and tossing it to land on his cloak. “This is the stuff for my arm.”

“Every single time,” Ambrosius grumbled against the wall, so Ballister did slap him again.

A decade ago, when they’d been squires together, when they’d been in love, Ballister might have buried his face in him. Kissed his warm skin, run his tongue along the under-curve where his ass became his thigh, laughing and talking to him as he slowly fingered him open. Instead, he gripped him hard in his hand, the side that was already reddened from being slapped, and spread him enough to watch his skin dimple under his steel fingers. Holding him there, he unceremoniously ran a knuckle up his perineum before sliding his index finger inside him, not half so slow as he once would have.

Ambrosius didn’t seem to mind, going by how he arched his back and pushed onto his hand, groaning low and loud. His breath was coming heavy, and he wiggled in a way that was entirely unproductive, and Ballister grumbled at him without nearly as much vitriol as he should have had. He was distracted by how smotheringly hot Ambrosius’s body felt around his finger, silky and giving, and he’d been focused enough on breaking Ambrosius’s cocky veneer that he hadn’t really let himself think about how badly he wanted this before. He was aching, the need coiled up deep in his belly, and he had to grit his teeth until they hurt to clear his head. He crooked his finger, shoved another inside, watched Ambrosius’s spine move as he rocked back and tried to fuck himself on Ballister’s hand.

His head was hanging back a little, mouth open as he gasped, and Ballister could honestly believe it had been since him, had been all these years since he’d been touched. There was something pathetic about how needy he was, the way his fingers bent and knuckles went white as he clutched at the wall. Ballister had never needed sex, really, not when it wasn’t with Ambrosius; he’d gone after affairs because it seemed like the thing to do, as a villain, and because he thought it might take his mind off the past. It hadn’t really done the trick. He’d never even gotten that used to using his left hand to jack off, because he didn’t generally bother to try.

Now, though, with this man, this vindictive, awful, self-obsessed, petty little bastard of a man squirming and twitching under his touch, comically three-quarters-dressed with his pale ass sticking out between his gambeson and leggings, sculpted lips parted and deep, resonant voice reduced to little groans, Ballister knew the fire that was stoked in him now had never really gone out. He was always going to need this, had always needed this— not just a warm body, but Ambrosius’s body, and even if all he’d ever get again after this was sword fights and insults and melodrama, he would burn for it.

“Stop making me wait,” Ambrosius hissed. “Villain. Blackguard. Fuck me.”

“You think you can take me already?” Ballister asked, plastering superiority and skepticism onto his tone to cover up the concern. Ambrosius still felt tight, clenching down around his fingers like he was unused to taking anything in. It had been a long time, he supposed. “I’m bigger than you,” he continued, “not that that’s a high bar.”

“I remember,” Ambrosius said, an irritated growl to his voice that sent a jolt down Ballister’s spine. “Do it now.

“Awfully demanding for someone who’s supposed to be at my mercy,” Ballister said, playing at drawing his fingers out but then working his ring finger in too. He wanted to fuck him, he really did, he ached for it, but the satisfaction of making him wait along with how deeply disquieting the thought of forcing himself inside was stayed his hand. He didn’t mind Ambrosius’s blood on his hands when they fought, or running up his sword; he knew he’d left narrow scars in their fights already, scars that would never add up to anything like his own shrapnel-chewed torso and replacement arm. He could bruise him, pierce him, grab him by the pauldrons and throw him across the room, but no matter how loudly Ambrosius was begging for it, the thought of tearing him with his cock was repulsive.

He told himself it was reasonable; such injuries were likely to become infected, which would be a more lasting and troublesome kind of damage. It would cross a line; he was simply ensuring Ambrosius would be fit to battle him again. He told himself there was nothing emotional about it, about this; he told himself it was all practicality.

He told himself he didn’t love Ambrosius, and he was lying.

He told himself he hated Ambrosius, and he was telling the truth.

He jammed his fingers forward, driving them into his prostate, and Ambrosius’s whole body jolted. One hand dropped from the stone above his head to grasp at his cock— Ballister almost scolded him, but when he peered around to look he saw that he wasn’t stroking off, he was squeezing himself hard to hold back. Ballister laughed, just a little, as wickedly as he could manage, and crooked his fingers forward again, rubbing him slowly.

“Are you going to come before I’m even inside you?”

“If I do, it’s your fault for being so damned slow.”

“Admitting defeat that easily?”

Ambrosius tried to respond, but Ballister cut him off with another hard press, and he groaned instead. He was definitely relaxing, clutching more than clenching, Ballister’s fingers moving more easily now. He’d upended most of the oil bottle onto his hand, so there was still plenty, and he was perfectly willing to take his time— maybe even more so now that Ambrosius was impatient.

He let go of his ass with his right hand, reaching up to gather his hair in it instead, holding it in a messy ponytail to tug his head back and to the side. Ambrosius let it happen, easily, his pale lashes fluttering, and Ballister leaned in to bite at his neck where it emerged from his gorget. It wasn’t a kiss— it wasn’t, just a harsh bite and suck to leave bruises he’d have to cover or explain, but it did mean he tasted his skin, felt the pounding of his heartbeat, and it hurt. Ballister couldn’t back down— it couldn’t possibly be that the taste of Ambrosius’s sweat pierced through years of haze, couldn’t for a moment strike him through the heart with nostalgia for the love that had become poison, no. He ran his teeth up his throat, sucking hard, bringing him up red, because pulling back would be showing weakness.

Showing weakness in front of Ambrosius was unthinkable.

That was the worst part, maybe. Ambrosius had swanned in here by hiding like a jack-in-the-box in an empty crate, he had thrown himself back against the wall when defeated and demanded Ballister fuck him, his head was thrown back, and his helpless, cracking moans echoed in the corridor. Ballister was pulling his hair, he was three fingers knuckle-deep in his ass, Ambrosius looked a useless fool, he’d phrased it as his own ravishment, and he would still count this a victory. He could show all the weakness he wanted, and he still had power over Ballister. No matter what happened, no matter how Ballister humiliated him in the field or here, Ambrosius was the hero. Him and his selective memory, his pride, his absolute refusal to consider any guilt or failure.

He hated to lose, so he just decided he hadn’t.

Ballister trod hard on the crotch of Ambrosius’s leggings, down by his knees, and held them down with his boot. Quickly, irritated at needing to, he bent down to undo the buckles and catches on his cuisse and greave one-handed so he could grab him by the thigh. He manhandled him directly out of his sabaton and his leggings, bending his now-bare leg up and to the side and shoving him flat against the wall again, undoing his own buttons to get his cock out while he was at it. Ambrosius groaned, deep and low, and Ballister slid his fingers out of him only to immediately push his cock in instead, all at once.

“Oh fuck yes, fuck me.”

Ballister buried his face in the crook of Ambrosius’s neck and breathed, resting his teeth against his skin to keep him from getting any ideas about what he was doing there. He needed a minute— even if it hadn’t been as long for him as it had for Ambrosius, it had been a while, and it had been as long since it meant anything. He took in greedy gasps of air, trying to remember how to stand the clutching heat of Ambrosius’s body around him.

It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. How had Ambrosius put it? I know you’ve missed my body. That was all it was, of course; the lonely hero, on too high a pedestal and in too bright a spotlight to find satisfaction anywhere but the deepest shadow, and the wicked villain taking the opportunity presented to get his end away with the only fragment of light afforded to him. Transactional. Each of them only had the other, but that didn’t make them lovers.

Holding Ambrosius’s leg up with one hand, grasping at his hip hard enough to leave bruises with the other, Ballister braced his forehead against the wall next to Ambrosius’s and started to move. He rolled his hips in slow, steady movements, Ambrosius’s breath stuttering too close to his face. He was dangerously close to rubbing temples with him like a cat, and in the corner of his eye he could see Ambrosius’s pale lashes fluttering even in the shadow of their bodies, his mouth open, his chest heaving.

Ambrosius had always been loud; when they were but squires living in dorms Ballister had had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle his moans time and time again, casting furtive glances at the thin walls as though he could see through them if their neighbors were waking. Once they’d grown enough to have some choice in their living arrangements and had some actual privacy, he’d rejoiced in not having to, in fucking him inarticulate, hearing how every thrust punched another cry from his throat. He’d felt so lucky, then, so blessed, gazing down at his lover, the trail of golden hair down his belly, the long lines of his throat as he threw his head back, his perfect, drooling cock and his ass so pink and spread so wide to take him. They’d both been shining, then, heroes, proud of themselves and of each other. There had been so much joy between them.

Here, now, Ambrosius was moaning like nothing had changed, his sweet, deep voice ringing in Ballister’s ears. Ballister wondered if he could make him that inarticulate again, make it so nothing else mattered or had ever even happened between them, nothing but him and the man he used to love. His shoulder ached where Ambrosius had bruised him, his head still hurt, but he could slip his hand around Ambrosius’s body and grasp at his cock, close it in his hand, feel him jerk against his palm even as he clenched tight.

Ballister was sore, he was lost, and Ambrosius’s body was made for him, silky and hot around his cock, and he’d always needed him. He rolled the pad of his thumb up under Ambrosius’s crown, tugging him sharply, and when Ambrosius came across the wall he clasped tight around him, his groan echoing off the corridor ceiling. Ballister bit down on the edge of Ambrosius’s gorget until his teeth hurt, stuttering his hips until he followed him, nothing left in his soul but the two of them.

It hadn’t taken that long. They were both out of practice, he supposed. Slowly, he pulled out, felt Ambrosius’s cock getting even smaller in his hand as it settled down, and he rubbed his thumb across the tip fondly, feeling him twitch. Mind empty, he let go and rubbed the tip of his own across Ambrosius’s ass, wiping off the last few drops of his come, and took a weary step back.

Ambrosius turned to face him, swaying, smiling so wide and so innocent. His hair was rumpled, his gambeson slowly starting to fall back into place, gorget like a crooked golden collar necklace without the context of the rest of his armour. His pale legs were shaking under him and he looked thrilled about it, leaning in, reaching forward. He said Ballister’s name, his first name, voice hoarse and pleased.

He raised his face, and Ballister knew he was coming in for the kiss, and he would have let him. His mind was blank, and Ambrosius was beautiful, and he would have let him— but Ambrosius paused, his eyes flicking to the side, and Ballister followed his gaze.

Ambrosius had placed his left hand where Ballister’s shoulder met his chest, and of course he hadn’t felt it land. Under the coarse linen of his shirt was a smooth metal plate, his own body become armour, and Ambrosius hadn’t expected it. He had been the one to tear him apart, and he’d just forgotten.

Ballister stepped back sharply, leaving Ambrosius stumbling, and felt himself go cold.

“Through there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Go. Down the corridor and up the stairs on the right. All the other doors are locked, so don’t try anything. Up the stairs you’ll find the front hall. You can sleep there until dawn. I expect you to be gone before the sun finishes crossing the horizon.”

There was a twitch to Ambrosius’s narrow lips, something that might have been hurt, or proud offense, or pure disdain. Ballister stared him down, and stood silent and unmoving as Ambrosius sagged, struggled back into his leggings, and gathered up his armour piece by piece. Ballister watched him doing up his drawstrings, nesting the smaller pieces of his armour inside his cuirass and tucking it all under his arm. He turned towards the corner of the room, and Ballister stopped him with a cluck of his tongue.

“I told you I’m keeping your sword. Leave it.”

Ambrosius huffed, but he didn’t meet Ballister’s eyes, and he didn’t try again.

Ballister watched him go, slinking out with ginger steps, and stared at the door he’d left through. Ambrosius was the one who would sleep on a stone floor that night, bruised and swordless with come leaking from him, but Ballister was pathetic. Standing there with his cock out in the corridor by his lab, love-drunk for a bastard in a castle that only ever housed one heartbeat these days.

Leaving his armour on the floor, because who gave a fuck in the castle of a confirmed bachelor, Ballister stalked back to his small, cold bedroom.

Ambrosius was gone before the sun even began rising.