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Their first time, that fateful night at Suchdol, Henry had been too taken with his mouth to move anywhere else. Kissing him deeply while burning heat built between their rutting bodies, until they were both too breathless to do anything but press their faces together, dizzy with each other’s breaths.
Their next night together, they were still recovering from starvation and wounds, and only managed some lazy kisses before Hans promptly fell asleep on Henry like some fleshy blanket.
Only later, when they’re roaming wherever they please, doing whatever they please whenever they please, does the problem arise.
In the woods, this night, a small camp well-hidden off a deer track they trailed. Trees thick enough to keep them hidden, thin enough to allow a glimpse of the marvellous starry sky. After feeding the horses, Mutt, then themselves, other hungers arise.
Henry is on top of him, having kissed him until he’s succumbed to a haze of pleasure, then breathing over his lips, “I want to suck your cock.”
“Oh yes please,” Hans gasps, an eager grin as he urges Henry’s face downwards. However, Henry shakes his hand off, leaning in to drag his lips over Hans’ neck.
A sudden, terrified shout is torn from his lips. Henry is off him in an instant, hands lifted in a placating manner. Hans can’t keep his eyes on him, roaming around the trees instead, panting and clutching a hand to his chest.
“Hans? Easy, easy, look at me.”
Hans drags a hand over his face, taking a moment to hide behind it. It was only Henry, but what he felt was the cruel hand on the back of his neck, forcing him forward and tightening the noose. The deep well of despair on that stool, balancing an inch off death.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Hans breathes, still not daring to face him. “I—I just—”
“Hey, hey.” Henry’s voice is soothing. “It’s fine. Come here.” Henry’s body settles beside his, offering an open arm which comes around his waist when Hans buries in his chest. His hand strokes up and down his back, soothing.
“What happened?” The question is gentle, worried. Unwilling to talk just yet, Hans nuzzles his now burning cheeks into the soft hair between Henry’s tits. He wishes to explain, but finds his throat tight. “Hans?”
“I…” he begins, stuttering in a way unfitting for a lord. “It made me think of… of Trotsky. Of when… my imprisonment, the—the noose, the—”
“Oh, Hans,” Henry breathes mournfully, squeezing him tighter. “I’m sorry, I didn’ think, I—”
Hans’ fingers bury in Henry’s matted hair. It’s grown long and unwieldy through their travels, but Hans finds he enjoys the extra length between his fingers. “You’re not to blame, Henry. I didn’t realize I would… react like that.” His thoughts drift, remembering the brief sensation of wet lips brushing his skin. The brief spark of pleasure before his brain shut down. The thought of Henry’s lips in a smirk before setting teeth to his skin. Leaving bruises and marks. He swallows. “Besides, I would like that, I think. We might just… have to work our way up to it.”
Henry hums in agreement. “As slow as you need.”
The quiet devotion makes Hans feel weak with gratitude. A gratitude he wishes he could repay, but his heart is still flittering like a bird. “I fear I’ve quite ruined the mood.”
“That’s alright. Let’s leave it for tonight.”
They spend the evening cuddled together, swapping drinks of wine and little mindless kisses, cursing whenever Mutt’s farts are particularly rank, laughing when the dog’s only reaction is a pleased wag of his tail.
The next time in a dingy inn, serving sour ale and worse wine. They lock themselves inside their room to taste each other’s saliva instead.
After asking Hans thrice for permission, Henry starts methodically with a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “Here?”
“Fine,” Hans mumbles. Henry noses down the strong tendon in his neck, which tenses. “Not fine.”
Between his clavicles, now, licking in the hollow between them. It sends a shiver up Hans’ spine. “And here?”
“Good,” Hans sighs, head lolling to the side to one side to look down on his devoted squire. “Just the neck.”
Henry hums into his skin, before resting his jaw against his chest. Hans’ hand comes to the side of his face, which he happily presses a kiss into. “So how do you want to do this?”
Hans’ bottom lip draws into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I think… just… try it out. I’ll tell you to stop, if I need.”
“Alright.” Nervousness lingers on him, so Hans strokes a thumb over his brows, smoothing out the worried wrinkles.
He starts slow, ghosting his lips over one side. Only his warm breath has Hans’ eyelids fluttering as goosebumps spread all the way down his back. Not solely pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant, either. Hans’ heart is drumming in his chest, and when Henry’s lips gently lap at the pulse in his neck, his torso arches up against him.
“Ssh, ssh,” Henry hums into his skin, pulling off to nuzzle gently against it. “‘S alright.”
The noise Hans makes is both an agreement and a whine. His hand comes to the back of Henry’s head, holding him in place. Henry obeys the gentle command, staying right there and planting shy kisses against his pulse which slowly calms.
“Continue,” Hans breathes.
Henry mouths down his neck, slow and gentle. The wet skin he leaves behind burns with Henry’s every breath. He licks right underneath his Adam’s apple, right where the noose strained against his skin every time he swallowed, and Hans shivers, but persists.
Relaxing into the warm bed, Hans’ noises have become less distressed whimpers than pleased hums, and Henry’s mouth opens into a grin that laps eagerly at him. Hans tilts his face to the side in supplication. It’s Henry; safety and warmth and adoration, not cruelty and bloodthirst.
Then Henry’s hand finds his neck, tilting his jaw up for better access, and Hans goes stiff beneath him as his spine seizes in icy terror.
“No—no hands,” Hans gasps, tearing it off his neck.
“Sorry.” Henry looks abashed, ears burning. He interlaces their fingers, thumbing over his knuckles in apology. “I got carried away.”
Hans’ face tilts to his, planting a kiss to his forehead. “It’s fine,” he whispers.
Henry looks up at him so tenderly his heart skips a beat. “Enough for today?”
“I think so,” Hans sighs, stroking through Henry’s curls in apology.
“You did good.” The easy praise makes Hans’ cheeks warm. “We’ll get there.”
They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, Henry curled around his back, forehead pressed to the nape of his neck. Hans lies awake for a long time, squirming with the strange warmth and discomfort swirling in his stomach.
After that, Henry stays clear of his neck, clearly waiting for Hans’ initiative. Chivalrous and kind as always. They spend more days like this, hunting small game, lazing in meadows, playfully urging their horses to race in open fields. More nights like this, rarely not pressed close, tangling easily in pleasure and the haze after.
Hans can never quite work up the courage to ask. A part of him wishes Henry would use his brute strength, hold him down and ignore his pleas while mouthing at his neck until it’s wet and bruised all over. Relieving him of the choice to succumb to fear. Just like in the tunnels under Kuttenberg — necessity banishing the irrational fear from him.
Hans knows Henry would protest at the suggestion. Possibly oblige him, but looking tortured and miserable the whole while. Henry must serve so many masters; Hans doesn’t wish to impose more burdens.
He takes to ruminating on it, finds his own fingers idling thoughtfully at his neck as they ride. Sometimes he catches Henry staring, and it makes his cheeks flush.
And the days seem to fly by, no matter how Hans clutches them, treasures them, tries to press the present into his heart and forget the future.
Sunlight eases him awake. Another morning, another tavern; this one, slightly less a dive. The sheets are still rough compared to his own silks waiting in the gilded cage in Rattay, but they at least don’t grate his skin. And better yet — these sheets have Henry tangled in them, in him, arm heavy around his waist and head nestled in his armpit. They haven’t bathed in days — it’s a wonder Henry isn’t choking on his stench.
However much Hans would like to snuggle closer and laze the morning away, he’s always awoken with immediate restlessness. He often wakes Henry despite trying to stay still, as he itches to get out of bed and start the day. Instead, he’s learned to gently coax out of his arms, leaving Henry still dozing.
Today, he’s caught just moments before success, easing his foot out from under Mutt’s heavy, stubbornly unmoving form. Henry grumbles, brows pulling together, blinking blearily against the brightness.
“Sorry,” Hans whispers, pulling his leg free. He kneels on the floor, leaning in to plant a kiss to Henry’s forehead. “You sleep. I’ll get breakfast.”
“Thank you, m’love,” Henry mumbles, nuzzling deeper into the pillow. The little pet name slipped from Henry’s lips makes his heart swell. It seems to only come when Henry’s mind is altered — drunk off his gourd, half-asleep, or mind lost to pleasure. He treasures it every time, but yearns for the time Henry will speak it sober without a thought.
By the time he’s dressed, Henry is already snoring again. Hans huffs a fond little laugh at the sight. Henry’s often woken him with his moans and thrashes during the night; to see him resting peacefully is balm to his worry.
After washing his face and stretching in the early morning sun, Hans greets the innkeeper with charming smiles and easy chatter. Asking how the morning’s bread has turned out, if she got the washing in before the evening rain, listening companionably to her complaints about another party of rowdy guests. He jokes easily that at least it covered up his squire’s loud snoring, when it actually was the perfect cover for a tryst.
They agree on a loaf of bread, some apples and fresh cheese, making sure to loudly complain about his lazy squire still snoring up a storm. He forgoes Henry’s usual penchant for haggling for pressing a couple extra coins in her hand. They have become familiar with acting the part of knight and squire travelling without arousing suspicion. Their room has two beds, sure, and they have learned to keep quiet, but some surplus goodwill never hurts.
After bagging his purchases, Hans goes to the stables. He’s never quite trusting that random peasants will take care of their beasts as they deserve. A smile spreads on his face when Aethon nickers in greeting, widening when he sees his and Pebbles’ coats both gleaming. Their stalls still have hay from their breakfasts strewn on the floor. Very satisfactory.
“Hello, you,” Hans greets warmly, stroking Pebbles’ muzzle, up her broad face to scratch her mane. Her head leans into his chest, hot breath tickling his arms. “And you.” He moves on to Aethon, who happily lets him scratch inside his ear.
Both horses perk up with interest when he pulls out an apple, taking large bites out of it he offers them alternately until he can break the core in two and let them have it. The apple crunching under his teeth makes his stomach growl, but Bernard has raised him well; on campaign, no matter how tired or wet, one tends to the horses first. A lesson Hans hasn’t taken seriously until the past couple of weeks.
Outside, he spots the stablehand and his dog. A rowdy thing, not a harmful bone in its body, but far too eager and untrained, it lunges for Hans. Quick as a whip, the stablehand grabs its neck, pressing weight down on it in reproach. The dog whimpers, glancing between its master and Hans with guilt.
“Sorry, sir,” the stablehand calls. “He thinks himself a puppy, still.”
“No matter,” Hans replies easily, approaching. The stablehand releases the dog, which eagerly licks at Hans’ offered hand, whole body trembling and wiggling with its joyfully wagging tail. “You’ve treated our steeds very well, my good man.” His spare hand rummages in his pouch to offer him a copper. “I find hounds train better under praise than punishment. Offer him a sausage instead of your hand, next time.”
“I—I will, sir,” the man replies, almost falling over himself to bow politely. “Thank you, sir.”
With a final scratch behind the pup’s ear, Hans takes his leave, lost in thought. Henry sometimes takes Mutt in hand like that, too, a little harsh for his tastes. It makes him think of the near-execution, again. But something about it piques his interest. Henry’s mouth over his throat. Henry’s teeth digging into the side of his neck. Henry’s hand on the back of his neck, pushing him into the mattress—
Nerves and excitement tingle up his spine as he carefully touches his neck. Something feels different, today, a suddenly brave want in him. Maybe today is the day.
Hans sneaks back into their room, treading carefully until he sees Henry awake, still in bed but resting against the wall. The pose makes him all too inviting — heavy chest resting over his stomach, now filled out with its regular fat and muscle after surviving starvation. Mutt has settled happily in his lap to be scratched.
“Good morning!” Hans chirps, shoving aside the want threatening to overtake him. “I have bread and cheese and apples.” He rummages in their pack, pulling out a half-eaten smoked sausage.
“Breakfast of kings,” Henry laughs. “Moreso when served in bed.”
“Oh, expect me to serve you, do you?” Hans grins back. Henry can be grumpy this early; the light banter is a good sign. If he’s to get his will, a bright Henry will make it easier.
“You promised me breakfast, so yes.”
Hans huffs as he cuts thick slices of the warm loaf with his dagger. “This is exactly why the classes of noble and peasant are separate,” Hans says with pretense strictness. “Just one lenience, and they go making demands like they’re your betters.”
“I’d say the lenience is yours, my lord. With how eagerly you get on your knees for a simple peasant, I’d mistaken you for eager to serve one.” When Hans turns towards him, Henry’s grin is naughty, his thighs spread enticingly, one hand resting just shy off his crotch for good measure.
“Insolent,” Hans chides, swatting at his chest. “Make space.”
Henry orders Mutt off the bed so they can settle side by side. Henry holds the loaves of bread while Hans cuts the cheese and sausage until they have a hearty meal set out before them. Mutt settles beside the bed, head laid upon Hans’ thigh to eye him mournfully.
“Ignore him, I already gave him that old piece of hare we had left over.” Henry scowls at the dog, grumbling, “No one feels sorry for you, you greedy bastard.”
They both dig in without preamble or grace, Henry moaning indecently.
“Th’s cheese ‘s good,” he comments, mouth full. Hans hums in agreement, slicing up an apple and offering it wordlessly. It’s astounding how much food can fit in the man’s mouth. Among other things.
“I have an idea,” Hans bursts out, breaking the companionable silence.. “Regarding, um… this,” he finishes, tapping his own neck.
Henry pauses mid-chew, wincing when he swallows too much food at once. “Oh?”
“I think I’d do better on top of you,” he says slowly. “And with you talking. Distracting me.”
“Prob’bly wise,” Henry remarks, an air of attempted nonchalance Hans sees right through. “You’d be in control, could jus’ get off if needed.”
“Yeah,” Hans breathes a little laugh.
“Now?” Henry asks, a half-chewed piece of sausage falling from his lips. Mutt jumps into Hans’ lap, managing to get both his master’s morsel, and a hefty bite into Henry’s slice of bread before Henry can shove the beast off, cursing.
Hans can’t help a boisterous laugh that makes the whole, rickety bed shake. “Finish your food, you filthy boy! It goes into your mouth.”
“Gimme another, the damned mongrel got half mine,” Henry complains. Heaving a heavy sigh, Hans nonetheless complies. His manners and appetite have only grown worse since the siege, behaving as though each meal will be ripped from his hands. Though in this case it actually was. Either way, Hans is only happy to provide for him, to see him grow strong and hearty again.
“You’ve no hand for hounds,” Hans says haughtily. “One day we’ll train him properly.”
One day. Someday. When? This summer is slipping out of their hands, because they can’t keep them off each other. The future that marches steadily closer without mercy. The future that Hans isn’t sure Henry will be in, yet. The future that has Hans’ stomach turning with dread, wishing only to bury and hide in Henry’s body.
One day, a conversation for some other day. Not today. Today Hans wants to languish in the pleasant present they’re creating together.
“Whatever.” Henry waves a dismissive hand, chowing down the last of his breakfast. Gulping down the last, large bite, his voice lowers. “I’ve got other things on my mind right now.”
“Mhm?” Hans turns to face him; Henry mirrors him.
“Your neck, ‘specially.” Henry’s eyes fall, those calf-like eyelashes unable to hide the hunger that’s sparked in them.
“Tell me,” Hans breathes, tilting his jaw up for a better view.. “What you’d like to do with it.”
A shaky inhale followed by a long exhale. “Kiss it. Lick it. Feel your pulse in m’mouth.” He swallows thickly, eyes meeting Hans’ with a flicker of uncertainty. “Bite it. If you’d like.”
“Against the wall.” Hans points, getting out of bed. He whistles for Mutt, pushing his foot against the dog’s arse to gently push him out the door. Mutt trots all too happily for the forest. Nearby, the stablehand’s dog barks, but it doesn’t come bounding after him. Perhaps the man actually listened to Hans’ advice.
After locking the door, Hans swiftly strips down to his braies, before returning and climbing into Henry’s lap. Henry’s hands find his thighs to stroke up his legs.
A nervous shiver runs up Hans’ spine again. It must show on his face, as Henry reassures him, “You’re in control. I’ll obey your every command… my lord.”
“I know.” Hans laughs softly, taking Henry’s hands in his and pressing a kiss to the knuckles. Lingering for just a moment, before placing them on his own shoulders. “I want… your hands.”
Henry’s eyes widen. “You sure?”
“Yes,” Hans says, more certain than he feels. His own hands land on Henry’s chest; a plush haven to anchor. “Just go slow. Start… start with my jaw, maybe. That’s fine. And… work your way down.”
Henry lifts one hand to caress the line of his jaw, pausing over the divot of his chin. “An’ you want me to talk you through it?”
“Yes,” Hans repeats.
Henry nods, avoiding his neck to settle both hands just under his chin, thumbs at the corners of his jaw, palm and fingers around the back of his neck. Not holding or pushing, simply present. Nonetheless, Hans’ pulse spikes, and his hands ball into fists between them. “Easy, nice and easy,” Henry mumbles, his thumbs rubbing circles underneath his jaw. “You’re doing great, Hans. Take a breath.”
Hans doesn’t know when his eyes screwed shut. He doesn’t quite dare open them, yet, but forces his face to relax. Inhales. Exhales.
“I won’t let anythin’ hurt you, not even me.” Henry’s voice has fallen into that low rumble that Hans adores. “You know that, right?”
Hans’ breath of laughter further eases the tension. “There’s nowhere safer in Bohemia. I know that, Hal.” There isn’t, he’s sure; between Henry’s hands, with Henry’s eyes on him, nowhere in the land would he feel more protected.
“Flattery.” The smile is audible in Henry’s voice. “I’m gonna move my hands now.”
“Alright,” Hans whispers. Henry gives him a moment before his thumbs move lower, tracing the tendons in his neck. Goosebumps prickle under his fingers.
“Slow and steady,” Henry continues, steady and calm as ever. “‘S just me, Hans.”
Henry’s hands keep moving, up and down his neck in slow caresses. His neck grows warm and pleasant, and Hans melts into the touch. The weight of his head settles heavier into Henry’s hands, increasing the pressure. Hans gasps, but pleasure is sparking in his stomach, and he forces himself to not flinch away.
“Y’r hands,” Henry mutters, making Hans aware of how they’re clenched, nails digging into Henry’s tits.
“Sorry,” Hans whispers, releasing his grip and smoothing apologetically over the indentations he left.
“Come closer.” Henry’s hands release him, and Hans’ eyes blink open in confusion, before Henry’s hands are on his hips to settle him more comfortably atop his. Right on top of his half-hard cock, a warm and enticing encouragement. Too considerate to acknowledge it, one hand splays on the small of his back. The other finds Hans’s shoulder and coaxes him to close the space between them.
Unable to resist, Hans kisses him twice, thrice, drinking up Henry’s pleased hums. He’s a quiet lover, overall, except for when Hans’ mouth is muffling his.
When he retreats, Hans stays close, hovering just over Henry’s face. “Continue, please.”
Henry’s gaze finds his, holding it as his broad palm settles between his clavicles. Then agonizingly slowly, it travels north, just shy of his throat. Just where the noose had started to tighten. Hans’ eyes shut, his mouth falls open in a gasp, yet his arms come behind Henry’s neck to draw closer. “Ssh, ssh,” Henry coos. “You’re safe.”
“Yes—yes,” Hans pants. “Stay. Stay there.”
Henry does, hand completely still so Hans can adapt to it. His pulse is throbbing, straining against his skin as if trying to reach Henry’s. Distantly, he becomes aware of pathetic whimpers pressed through his own lips. Before he can stop the noise, Henry’s voice drowns it out.
“Good, Hans. You’re doing so good. You let me know when it’s too much, yeah? Breathe. Breathe for me.” Gulping, desperate things are all he manages. “Here—follow me.”
Henry’s stomach rises beneath him, giving Hans a steady rhythm to follow. He can do that. He would follow Henry’s body anywhere, even through his own terror.
“That’s it. Good, Hans.” The praise has Hans relaxing into his touch, so the pressure on his throat increases. Pleasurably. Henry’s breath fans over his face when he whispers, “I’m proud of you.”
And that makes Hans feel small, child-like, eager to please and confused when he doesn’t. But Henry — Henry is never truly displeased with him. Henry will never hurt him; rather, he chases Hans’ pleasure as eagerly as his own. The words settle warm and heavy under his ribs, where they’re sure to stay.
The weight of his head is held almost fully in Henry’s hand, now, Hans’ breath coming in needy rasps as his breath is softly restricted. A drop of sweat falls from his brow, splattering on Henry’s flushed cheek.
A groan from Henry makes him aware how he’s squirming on his lap, teasing Henry’s now fully erect cock between the cheeks of his arse. Even through their braies, it presses hot and needy against him. And his own, straining and dampening the cloth.
“Oh,” Hans breathes as the so-far repressed pleasure blooms through his whole body so vividly he’s struck dizzy. The hand on his back pulls him closer, pressing their chests flush. “Oh, Christ, Hal—”
“I want to kiss you,” Henry pleads, “please, Hans, can I—”
Hans obliges before he can finish the sentence. Their lips meet in a deep, sloppy kiss, Henry’s face tilting to greedily drink up Hans’ desperate pants. Hans is whimpering, again; a stuttering harmony to Henry’s groaning hums. Lower, his hips are grinding down desperately, the only friction provided him Henry’s cock against his balls and arse, and the cloth against his own.
Between Henry’s hand and mouth both, his nostrils are flared for desperate attempts at air. Only when the strength begins to drain from his limbs does he wrench off Henry. His forehead knocks against Henry’s, where he rests with wheezing, noisy pants. His cheeks are burning with arousal and breathlessness alike.
“Sorry, ‘m sorry,” Henry stutters, removing his hand off Hans’ neck, pressing it against the side of his face instead. “I got carried away, forgive me, Hans—”
But Hans wants it, needs it back, now that fear has succumbed to pleasure. He yanks Henry’s hand back into place, allowing himself a few breaths before he commands, “Squeeze.”
Henry curses softly under his breath, but obliges, finally letting his fingers dig gently into his flesh. Hans whines, the sound barely escaping under Henry’s palm, and bucks against him. “Easy, love. I’ve got you.”
There it is again. Love. It only makes Hans whine again, a wordless plea to repeat the phrase over and over until he’s lost to it. Some other day he’ll have to work up his courage for that conversation as well, where he’s sure to plead Henry to remain by his side, to remain his love.
“Take what you need, Hans.” Henry’s deep voice reverberating through his whole body brings him back. “I’m here. I’ll hold you through it.”
Hans removes one arm from around Henry, shoving it down his braies and taking a firm hold of his already slick cock. “Haah—hah—harder, Hal,” he begs, already desperate for release.
Henry obliges, pressing his palm even harder against his throat, and Hans groans gratefully. He’s lost in this haze of needs and wants colliding, of pain and pleasure clashing. The struggle, that’s what he’s always appreciated about Henry; always pushing back, challenging him, bettering him.
As he fists his cock, Hans leans further into Henry’s hand. Their noses bump, and Hans tilts his face to meet his lips — less a kiss than brief, accidental touches between his pants. Henry’s fingers tighten just a little to hold him in place, granting him access to give Hans the deep kisses he desires. Hans’ tongue is almost lolling out of his mouth, and Henry sucks on it, licks it, licks into his mouth, messy and perfect. He’s dizzy and weak, but every greedy touch from Henry overrides his need for air.
Closing in on his release, Hans pulls his cock out of his braies. Something shameless in him wants Henry to see, relish his hungry eyes witnessing how he’s undone by him. Sure enough, once their lips part, Henry’s eyes fall to his crotch, hidden under those indecently long eyelashes. Nonetheless his gaze burns, the final spark needed to drive the heat pooling low in his belly into an inferno.
For a moment, the wet, desperate sound of skin on skin is the only sound in the room as Hans’ whole body tenses on the precipice. The fervor, the need to come, has his fist moving impossibly faster, the friction so much it hurts. He whines in complaint, needing — something.
Then Henry’s hand tightens further, and Hans loses every last semblance of control. His hips buck harshly into his own fist as seed dribbles down it, drops falling to Henry’s bare stomach. His teeth dig into his bottom lip to refrain from shouting, further suppressing the whimpers Henry’s hand is already muffling. The pleasure burning through him seems endless, wave after wave rolling through his whole body, like he could stay in this blissed-out, blessedly blank state of mind forever.
It ends as suddenly as it started, and Hans slumps into Henry’s body, grateful when the hand moves from his throat to rest at the nape of his neck. He greedily gulps down lungfuls of sweet air, potent with sweat and heat. He’s utterly boneless, shaking and panting as he tries to come down from the insatiable high.
Henry’s cock is still hot and throbbing under his arse, fabric soaked between them, and Hans wants to please him back, but finds himself unable to lift a finger. Luckily, Henry has better ideas, voice rough as gravel when he asks, “Can I—between your thighs?”
“Yes,” Hans gasps eagerly, letting Henry manhandle him to his back, limp legs twisted to the side. Rustling of fabric as both their braies are pulled down only as far as necessary. Then, Henry presses their hips flush together, taking a moment to slick the dripping pre-cum over his cock before sliding it between Hans’ thighs with a relieved groan. He doesn’t move yet, instead leaning over his torso. Then, his lips finally dare find Hans’ neck.
This is exactly what he wanted; Henry needy and hungry, pressing him down, mouthing wherever he pleases. He’s almost sorry he already finished; they could’ve rocked together, spent between their bodies. Another day, they still have weeks until—
Henry briefly relieves him of the thought as he starts thrusting between his soft flesh. Hans has heard of men doing it like this, with men and women alike, and of men doing it — just a little higher up, breaching inside. He hasn’t dared broach the subject, but whenever Henry’s thick cock is between his thighs, grinding against his balls, he wonders, wants, even.
Another day—when? When Henry’s hunger for him once again makes him brazen and bold. With Henry by his side, he can do anything, through fear, through shame, through despair.
Henry’s teeth gently drag on his skin, questioning. Hans brings his hand to Henry’s sweat-soaked curls to urge him closer, adding a soft, hissed, yes.
Henry’s teeth dig in ferociously for but a moment before lapping his wet lips over the spot. Encouraged by Hans’ back arching, mouth open around a breathless gasp, he adds another bite just shy of the first.
Henry pauses his motions, his hand landing on the junction between Hans’ thigh and hip to press them tighter around him. He continues with renewed vigor, teeth and lips growing sloppy on his neck as he shamelessly fucks Hans’ thighs. The small, throaty hums trailing into whimpers let Hans know he’s close. Hans clenches his thighs, increasing the friction and the obscenely wet sound of their skin slapping together, and Henry buries his groan into the tender flesh he bites into again, and again, and again—
Sure, an animalistic fervor has come over them before, but nothing compared to this, how Henry’s taking him, unrestrained when not worrying about Hans’ pleasure. Again he wishes for more, more of this, more of Henry, more time, more damned time—
Hans is brought back by Henry’s hips slamming against his arse one final time, followed by faltering, desperate thrusts as he spends. Glancing curiously down, Hans can glimpse the tip of his cock peeking between his thighs, flushed a deep red, pumping out sticky spend that trails down Hans’ thigh. He knows how it tastes; he wonders how it feels inside him.
When he’s finished, Henry collapses atop him into an unwieldy mess of limbs, mouth panting into his tender neck. Hans parts his thighs just enough for Henry’s soft cock to slip out, falling limply between them.
Neither is able to say anything, simply heaving for breath and allowing the sweat to cool and stick between them. Hans doesn’t know where he’d start — the only thing he knows, is that he’s never adored Henry more.
“You alright?” Henry opens. “I kinda—lost myself, there. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Hans chides, ruffling his hair. “That was really good.”
Henry finally lifts off him, eyes glassy like an undisturbed lake, to survey his face. “Not too much?”
“Perfect,” Hans hums reassuringly, caressing Henry’s glistening cheek in appreciation.
His eyes flit to Hans’ neck, brows drawing together in worry. “Left some marks.”
The words have Hans’ breath hitching. “Where?”
“Here,” Henry mumbles, thumb pressing against the tender spots in his neck. Three—four—five. “Reckon they’ll bruise. Sorry.”
He looks abashed, like he’s ashamed to have given Hans the finest jewelry that will ever adorn his neck. “Ah, I’ll button my gambeson up and pull my hood tight.”
“How d’you feel?” Henry’s question sounds ridiculous to the lovely, fucked-out haze making his body lighter than it’s been in ages.
“Henry, I’m fine,” he reassures. “Amazing, actually. I—” he pauses to nibble on his lip, struck suddenly shy with the admission. “I really, really enjoyed that. Please consider my neck your territory, whenever it pleases you. Should fear strike me again, I’ll say so.”
The overly extravagant words makes Henry laugh, but he snuggles gratefully back into Hans neck to plant chaste kisses over the bruises. Hans pets his hair approvingly, lets him lap as long as he wants until Henry once again settles into him.
After enjoying the quiet intimacy for a couple minutes, the heat and stench of sweat and sex turns from arousing to disgusting. Grimacing and shoving at Henry’s shoulder, he complains, “Now, we really need a bath.”
“Yeah, ‘s been too long. There’s a stream not far.” When Hans looks doubtful, Henry supplies, “Horses could take us. They’re in need of a wash, too.”
“Excellent plan, my dear squire.” Hans grins, stretching languidly on the bed while Henry rises. “I’m sure you’ll execute the task eagerly.”
“Christ above.” Henry’s eyes roll, but chuckles fondly. “Anything for you, my lord.”
The words ring true. Whether coaxing him through irrational fears or holding him steady on the battlefield, Henry’s reliable and devoted nature would keep him safe through Hell and back. And Hans wishes more than anything to ask, beg, plead, stay, stay with me, stay for me.
Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. Someday, soon. With every day the intimacy grows and settles between them, changing from the terrified sobs at Suchdol to something strong, durable. Henry makes him drunk on foolishness and bravery, and one day, he will dare ask Henry to remain at his side, despite the secrecy of being a married nobleman’s secret lover, despite the danger of being discovered and hanged looming over him every day, despite his own selfishness snuffing out any other lives Henry could live without him.
By the stream, Hans rests propped up on his elbow, watching Henry coo sweetly to Pebbles as he washes her thoroughly, laughing every time one of her legs splashes playfully in the water, thoroughly soaked and brilliantly beautiful in the sunlight.
This is what he wants, forever. The ease and freedom Henry draws out in him. It won’t be the same, back in Rattay, locked behind moats and walls and politics. Yet the courage blooms bright and warm in his chest, almost close enough to ask him right here, right now.
One day. Someday soon.