I haven’t written original erotica in a long time, but as I’ve gotten back into writing fanfiction in the past year (smut included), I thought it might be fun to try writing some! The fandoms I write for are mostly fantasy or sci-fi settings, so I thought a good place to start would be with a fantasy setting piece. While this story’s setting is vaguely inspired by history, it’s not at all historically accurate and isn’t intended to be.
This story is about two transmasculine knights—Pasch (he/him) and Corey (they/them)—sleeping with each other during a tournament. There is a rivalry aspect to Pash and Corey’s relationship, as well as a push-and-pull kind of power dynamics and an implied class power imbalance. I fully acknowledge that it’s not a healthy relationship, but I don’t think exploring less-than-healthy dynamics in the context of fiction and fantasy is a bad thing.
Content note for discussion of a dubious-consent fantasy.
“Just so we’re clear,” Pash says on the third night the two of them skulk into his tent under the cover of darkness, “this doesn’t mean when we meet out there in the field I’ll hold back or hit you softer.” He doesn’t quite whisper the words so much as hiss them, his breath warm on Corey’s cheek. And it’d be less threatening because he’s currently pushed up against one of the wooden pillars of his tournament tent—the pieces of his plate scattered across the reed floor and half of his gambeson buttons undone—if it wasn’t for his voice. There’s something about the way he speaks—always poised and more than a little cold—that makes Corey feel like he’s more serpent than man. “Understood?”
“Perfectly,” Corey says, even though it’s not true. They don’t understand; not why Pash touches them by night and ignores them by day, not why he follows every moment that even suggests tenderness with something harsh and unforgiving, not why he treats them like a threat and yet risks bringing them into his tent night after night. When they kiss Pash it’s all teeth to start with. He smells of leather and sweat and dirt—none of the jasmine perfume they know he’ll be doused in come morning—and that makes it feel more and less real at the same time. Less real because the Pash under them—his breathing heavy except for the little whimpers he lets out when they adjust their thigh between his legs—doesn’t feel at all like the Paschkewicz they know out on the tournament field. More real because Paschkewicz is not so much a person as a tool, a perfectly stoic and sculpted instrument of pretend-war, and no person can truly live that way, right? No person’s authentic self can involve so little personhood.
Corey must have frozen or hesitated or done something wrong, because Pash stiffens under them, pulling away from the kiss as one hand reaches up to pull the ribbon from their ponytail. The light is low enough—Pash insisted that they weren’t to light any lamps the first night he kissed Corey with too much wine on his breath, and Corey fears the wrath of a son of House Rüdeger enough not to argue back—that Corey can’t see the expression on his face, but there’s enough roughness in the way he tugs the Brodson-green ribbon from their hair that they can sense his frustration.
“Again. Do it again.” Pash’s lips are so close to Corey’s that the two of them are breathing the same air—and fuck if that doesn’t send a jolt right through their body. “Kiss me again, and do it right this time.”
Corey swallows, and does what they’re told.
In fairness, Corey is very good at doing what they’re told. Always has been. From their day their father first handed them a sword—third hand, because that was what Caer Brodson could afford—and told them it was their duty to the House to be a good little soldier, they’d poured their entire being into it. And yes, maybe part of why was that under plate armor nobody could see the treacherous shape of their body, but that didn’t mean the other part of it wasn’t just how good and right it was to be given a commandment and fulfill it. When they kiss Pash a second time it’s open mouthed and hungry, even as something sinks and twists in their gut. Pash doesn’t surrender to their kiss—because Paschkewicz of House Rüdeger doesn’t surrender to anyone or anything, even when he is just Pash—but he softens, just a little. His hand moves from Corey’s hair, over their shoulder and down their neck, until it reaches the top fastenings of their gambeson. And despite everything—that they know Pash thinks of them as nothing more than a plaything, that tomorrow he will pretend to have never known them, and that whatever this thing between them is, it will never end well—Corey doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Pash is like the sun; perfect and dangerous, always calling for them to come a little closer. His stubble is rough, the skin of his cheek radiating heat as he lets Corey take his mouth again, and everything around them melts away. When Corey pulls away from their kiss—after what could easily be a moment or could be forever—they find they’re breathless.
“Take me to the bed, Brodson.” It’s an order—given only slightly more gently than a sergeant banneret—and that makes it easier to become pliable and obedient, to slip into formality and not think about the consequences. Corey’s skin flushes hot as the night air is cold.
They could refuse, they know that. If Pash is so ashamed of himself—be it because he’s consorting with a rival, or he thinks anyone from House Brodson is beneath him, or he is simply ashamed to want something in life that isn’t glory and triumph—that he’ll force the two of them to rely on the light of neighbouring tents, then he is ashamed enough that if Corey walks away, he will say nothing further. If and when they meet on the tourney field, Pash will treat him as just another competitor and nothing more.
Corey could refuse, but they don’t want to. Because Pash’s clever fingers are trailing their collarbone, and they know how good the short mess of his hair will look when they push him to the bed and fuck him, and because there is something so intoxicating about being close to him, even if won’t last much longer.
“As you wish,” they say instead.
Back in their own tent, Corey’s bed is a mat made of rushes, sheets of coarse linen, and a blanket that’s simple and unadorned. They’ve never been in Pash’s tent with enough of a light source to properly look at his blankets, but from the way the sheets feel on bare skin, they’re pretty sure the sheets are embroidered. His mattress is thin, old, likely brought to the tourney grounds because it’s no longer becoming of the family it belongs to, and stuffed with what feels like straw and raw wool. But compared to the setup in their own tent, it feels like the finest down to Corey. Pash has already stripped off his gambeson by the time they make it to the bed, and when Corey lays hands on him, they can feel his heart beat through the thin linen shirt and the wraps of cloth around his chest. The two of them kiss again and Pash’s hands are in Corey’s hair just as his tongue is in their mouth, pulling them closer until Corey isn’t quite sure where they end and he begins. With trembling fingers, they trace the shape of his face—fingertips running along his jaw, day-old length stubble digging into the skin—and as they pull away for air, Pash catches the edge of their lip between his teeth. They gasp, biting the noise back as it comes, because if anyone in the tents surrounding Pash’s hears them, then everything is over.
He laughs, softly. They swallow, and then lean into him.
Pash’s thighs are thick and strong, just as to be expected from somebody who can fence with either leg dominant. When Corey runs their hands along them, they can’t help but squeeze a little, feeling at the muscle. Pash tenses, although it’s more for Corey’s benefit than from any kind of reaction, and they can feel him tense and relax under them. He moans softly, and when Corey moves their hand to his inner thigh and then further still, they realise how hot and wet he is, even through the layers of clothing. They press their palm against his cunt and squeeze, gently. Pash lets out a rasped breath and for a moment Corey can’t think about anything except what’s happening, about the sounds forcing their way from his lips and the sound of their heart pounding in their head and the smell of him, leather and sweat. They squeeze again, a little less softly this time.
And then they pull their hand away.
“Please. Touch me.” There’s a little shake in Pash’s voice, and it isn’t much but it makes Corey’s heart swell with pride in their chest. Each time Pash has taken them to bed there’s been this moment—this first sign that there really is a human man beneath the armour and the heraldry—and hearing it makes them want to push even further. They want to peel back the layers of control and calculation, to undress Pash until he really is naked in front of them. They won’t do it and they know they won’t do it, because much as it’s fun to pretend that what happens under the cover of night exists unto itself, the two of them will never be able to escape who they are outside that tent. But the idea is fun to toy with, even if just for a moment.
“What if I said no?” The words come out unbidden and as they say them, Corey prays that their voice doesn’t shake. Lying this close to Pash they don’t just hear his breath hitch but feel it too, hot against their skin. “What if I got up now and left you here like this? What would you do?”
There’s nothing for a moment. And then a reply in a low, dangerous whisper. “Out on the melee field tomorrow, I’d make sure to find you.”
It’s not an answer Corey expects, and for a moment they can’t think of anything to say. When they find their voice again—mouth already open, ready for a response that never came—all they can say is, “oh?”
“You’re always mid-field, never leading but always good at following. I’d find you out there—sword in hand—and I would break you. I’d wear you down so that you’re a little off balance with your parry, and that’s when it’d be all over. You’re bad at resisting grappling, so I’d get you to the floor, helmet thrown to the side. And then I’d rest my blade at your throat and make you look up, look me in the eye and know that it was me who’d beaten you.” There’s a pause—seemingly for breath, except that then Pash’s hand cups Corey’s chin, his thumb softly stroking their cheek. “That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”
Corey wants to say yes because it is what they want to hear, even if they’re not yet sure if they want it to be true. They want to say yes not just because of what it threatens, but for what it means. They do lose their balance after the first few parries, they are bad at resisting a grapple. And the fact that Pash knows this? That means he’s watched them on the field, dissected the way they fight and the way they move, taken them apart and put them back together again in his mind. But when they open their mouth to speak, no sound comes out. They’ve been holding their breath, they realise, their body gone limp where it’s pressed against Pash’s. It’s like their head has emptied of all words, nothing left but a burning need to touch him.
They shift slightly and press a soft, chaste kiss to Pash’s cheek.
“So,” he says. “Are you going to? Get up and leave me, that is.”
Corey swallows, and lays their hand back on him.When they touch Pash, Corey thinks so little of themselves and their own body that when the two of them finally, finally strip down to their chest wrappings, it takes them a moment to realise quite how wet they are. Their cunt is swollen and hot and dripping, and they want nothing more than to press it against his and grind until one or both of them come. When Pash places the palm of his hand against their cunt—squeezing it just the way they squeezed his—they moan between clenched teeth.
“Fuck me.” To begin with Corey isn’t quite sure if Pash is saying it as an order or a request, but either way they can’t think about anything other than how much they want to give him what he wants. “Grind against me.” He swallows, as if the next word is hard to get out. “Please.”
They’re both so drenched that when they first start fucking—Corey pushing one of Pash’s legs back, straddling his other thigh so their cunts are pressed together—it’s hard to get any friction. Pash’s body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and, as Corey pushes their body harder—their nails digging into the soft skin of his thigh as they grind their hips, pushing their weight down against him—they realise they are too. Their entire body is flushed, a few stray hairs sticking to their forehead as they fuck faster, the wrappings around their chest sticking to their body tightly. Pash’s cunt is warm—no, hot—and Corey can’t help but wonder if this is what it would be like to fuck him with a cock. And then they can’t think about anything besides how much they want that, how badly they want to see and feel their cock slowly disappear inside Pash’s body.
No, not want—need.
Their hips move a little faster and a little more erratically. And Pash definitely notices, because he tenses under them, his breath catching. Corey’s thigh muscles ache and they know they’ll regret this tomorrow when they’re out on the field, joints stiff as unpolished armour, but they don’t care. Because this right here and right now—their hands on Pash’s thigh and his breath heavy and brow dripping and both their hips rolling into each other—is enough to make it worth it.
The first time Corey touched themselves until they came, they felt like they were dying. When they come this time it’s not quite like that—because they doubt anything will ever be quite like that again—but it’s strong enough that it feels alike. They feel light-headed, suddenly aware of how hard their heart is beating and how loud blood is roaring in their ears. Their legs are trembling and aching and they want to stop moving more than almost anything else. But it’s not what Pash wants and they know it’s not what Pash wants so—despite everything—they keep moving, hips rocking back and forth as they grind against Pash. When he comes they can feel his cock twitch and pulse against them.
Corey doesn’t so much lie next to him on the mattress as collapse on it. There’s a stray piece of straw sticking up from the mattress, but even though Corey knows that it’s sticking into their skin, they barely feel it. All they can think about is the afterglow. At least until Pash turns to them—placing a hand on their shoulder, gently—and they jump at the unexpected touch. Somehow it feels more improper and intimate than anything else the two of them have done here tonight. And that is enough to set Corey back on edge again, to make them want to not so much pray to the Allmother as beg her that nobody has overheard the two of them…
Pash leans across the mattress and places a kiss to Corey’s cheek.
“Corey Brodson,” he begins. He’s still near breathless, each word a harsh whisper, his body slick with sweat where it touches Corey’s. “Tomorrow, on the field, I won’t look for you.”
It’s a mercy, the biggest mercy that Pash can give them, and Corey knows it. Pash wasn’t lying when he told them he wouldn’t hold back, because he can’t. There is no room for mercy under his banner, no room for a weakness when glory is on the line. This is the best he can give them, and even though something they don’t wish to think about aches in their chest at the knowledge, they’re grateful for it. Reaching a hand down, they stroke the curve of his lips, feeling his hot heavy breath against their fingertips.
“I’ll try not to be found,” they say.
