#wales is saying ‘dear bishop’ which is the equivalent of a versatile ‘oh god’ in Welsh

[bigein]

It’s supposed to feel good. It should. The woman Sean’s pulled to a corner of the tavern certainly seems to think so, judging by the fierce blush on her face and the loose set of her mouth. His brother is doing a right job of it pressing her high up against the wall and rucking up her skirts to make way for his hand to fuck between her thighs. Arthur cannot see Sean’s face from where he is sitting but he can see the way his back tenses every time he grounds his fingers into her. Ack at their table, sitting across from him, Dai takes a long sip of his ale and does a good impression of a man who isn’t thinking what he is: that if it weren’t for the din of the crowded tavern and the wooden beams doing a poor job at hiding Sean and the lass from sight they’d all be able to hear the wet slick of her cunt, split on four knuckles.

“Esgob annwyl,” Dai breathes into his drink with a shake of his head before putting it down.

Arthur shrugs and drains his tankard, and in truth doesn’t know what the fuss is all about. If it was Sean’s mouth on her cuntlips he might have spared them more than a cursory glance (glance, he thinks amused, as though he cannot see hem out of the corner of his eye still). Another drink and perhaps he’d even be aroused by the way her chest heaves and the hitch of Sean’s hips against her thigh. As it stands he can’t really bring himself to be much arsed because the thought of fingers drilling into him like that? Arthur’s had a go at it and all he’d gotten out of it were a sore wrist and a cramp. He’d much rather have a cock, please and thank you.

“I’d rather a cock.” He says this out loud to Wales who looks at him likes he’s suddenly spoken French. Off to the side a hard knock against the wall lets them know that their brother and his lady have finished christening this fine establishment.

“A cock,” Dai repeats like he’s parsing the word.

Arthur nods.

“I would,” he says and to himself laments that they’ve no more coin for another round. It’s hardly past midnight.

“I believe you.” Daffyd says but he looks, dare he say, nonplussed, so Arthur feels like he should explain.

“They’re not thick enough,” he starts, and when Dai is too busy chocking on his drink to interrupt him, continues. “And they’d not reach as far as a prick could.”

Daffyd is too busy cleaning his chin with the sleeve of his shirt to respond at first but when he does it’s leaning forwards over the table, eyes shifting to the sides like he’s looking to speak his confidence.

“Sean’s cock?” He asks in a poor attempt at a whisper, eyes wide.

Arthur sits back and wrinkles his nose.

“What about Sean’s cock?”

“You said—!” Dai slaps one of his hands against the table and cringes when it shakes the surface hard enough that it almost upsets his drink. “You said,” he lowers his voice again and really, if he keeps talking like that he’ll be hoarse before sunrise. “She’s faked it then, do you think? When’d you even have him?”

“Had who?”

“Had Sean.”

“Who’d have Sean?”

“You!”

Arthur twists his lips and makes a face.

“I’d sooner catch the flux.”

As though summoned, Sean chooses that moment to stumble towards them, his partner tucked close to this side. His lips are on her neck still, hands holding her waist to keep her steady as they sway, her hip coming to rest against the table until he pulls her back into his arms again.

When Arthur’s eyes flicker down he can see where Sean’s fingers have left a damp imprint on the bodice of her dress.