Chapter Text
The morning sun filtered through the wide arched windows of the Rattay castle dining hall, piercing the glass panes with a brightness far too bold for such an early hour. Golden beams of light, insolent and sharp, slipped across the frescoed walls, falling onto the long table of dark wood, already set for the first meal of the day.
One beam in particular seemed to have a personal quarrel with Henry.
It was a thin blade of light, striking his face with surgical precision.
Henry squinted, his expression twisted in clear displeasure. His lashes, still clumped with sleep, barely held back the morning glare as his brow arched in irritated protest.
On the table lay fresh loaves of white and black bread, goat cheese sliced into wooden bowls, hard-boiled and scrambled eggs, cured meats in neat strips, sausages, and a terrine of lard—all arranged with care. A jug of red wine, a clear pitcher of water, and a carafe of hot milk, still steaming, completed the spread.
Henry had poured himself a bowl of warm milk, his hands moving with the slow, automatic rhythm of a gesture repeated every morning for a lifetime. Wordlessly, almost absentmindedly, he broke apart the dark bread beside the bowl, tearing it into small, even pieces. Just like Ma used to, she’d set the table before waking him, so that by the time he sat down, everything was already there, ready.
An old habit. Familiar. Reassuring.
As if the mere repetition of those motions could summon back the boy he once was, the one who hadn’t yet seen anyone die.
Then, when another beam of light bounced off the etched rim of a silver goblet and struck him square in the face, Henry furrowed his brow and pulled a grimace of irritation. He raised a hand to his forehead, as if to ward off the sun itself.
But the truth was, he was trying to drive out a thought.
A long sigh slipped from his lips, heavy and resigned, as he pressed his fingertips against his eyelids, as though he might push that thought back—shove it deep into the darkness it had crawled from since the moment he’d awoken.
A curse hissed through his teeth.
Then his head dropped, and his brow landed on the wooden table with a dull thud. He clasped the back of his neck with both hands, his spine curled forward, shoulder blades barely visible beneath the creased linen of his blouse.
«Oh, come on… how the fuck did this happen?!»
The words came out low, a strangled whisper. A lament.
Behind his closed eyelids, scattered images flickered: wine, laughter, the maids’ hands; then, the dimness of a room, damp breath against his skin, bodies tangled in the dark. Rough fingers buried in hair.
Blond hair.
Short.
«Good morning, lad!»
The voice hit him like a bucket of cold water down his spine. The door creaked open with a weighty groan, and into the hall stepped Lord Hanush in all his imposing presence. He was already dressed, impeccably so, in his padded black gambeson patterned with white diamonds, a sleeveless tan surcoat thrown over it with casual nobility. A wide golden belt, adorned with ornate fittings, was fastened at his waist, supporting a sword that hung at his hip. There was not a trace of sleep in his voice. He must’ve been awake for at least an hour. Maybe two.
Henry jolted upright on the bench, the skin of his brow still burning from the table’s wooden imprint. A trained reflex, despite everything.
«My lord…» he managed, clearing his throat, with all the respect his parched voice could muster at that hour.
His eyes were wide—haunted with a guilt he couldn’t quite place.
His breath came shallow.
And his ears were burning red, right down to the tips.
Hanush seated himself with the habitual slowness of a nobleman who answers to no one. He let himself sink onto the carved chair at the head of the table, where the shorter wall of the hall met the long stretch of wood.
«God’s wounds, lad, you look like you spent the night wrestling with a demon… or with a particularly spirited wench!» he laughed, his voice echoing through the hushed stillness of the hall. He reached out with calm deliberation and grasped the wine jug, pouring it neatly into his silver goblet. The deep red liquid swirled beneath the morning light.
Henry flinched, just slightly, as though that laughter were a sword drawn too close to his neck. He tried to return to the bite he’d been chewing—mistake.
The bread, soaked in milk, caught in his throat.
A sharp jolt in his neck, a sip gone awry. Henry froze, jaw clenched in a desperate attempt not to cough like some hungover peasant with beer-clogged lungs. He swallowed hard, eyes burning from the effort. Only once he was sure the cursed bite had passed did he speak:
«Ah— my lord… just— not much sleep…» he managed, voice strained, hoarse, rasping out from a throat too tight, too tense.
Hanush chuckled again, this time with a knowing gleam. «Mmh. A poor night’s sleep is the mark of the finest pleasures… or the worst regrets.»
Henry said nothing. He was still trying to figure out which of the two was the safer to deny.
Before he could answer, the door creaked open again with a sharp sound.
Sir Hans.
Henry dropped his gaze to his bowl and tossed in a couple more pieces of bread with a movement too slow not to seem deliberate. He brought a hand to his face, fingers spread across his brow, as if trying to hide behind them, his lips tightening into a faint grimace.
«Well, look who’s gracing us with his noble presence!» Hanush quipped, never dropping that genial tone he always used when slipping a dagger between someone’s ribs and making it sound like a toast.
He turned slightly on his seat to follow him with a glance.
«Yes, good morning to you too, uncle» Hans replied, offering the old man a poisonous little smile, tight, empty, paired with that subtle tilt of his head, hovering somewhere between deference and mockery. His tone was bold, as ever, and his gaze, sharp, precise, like a honed blade.
Then, more flatly: «Blacksmith’s boy.»
Henry glanced up from beneath his fingers.
Hans looked like his usual self—if you weren’t truly looking.
A careful eye would catch the cracks: the barely-there restlessness in each step; the stiffness in his stance, as if his body was trying to keep something from slipping through. His hair, which usually fell with artful ease, was more unruly today. And his face... bloated. More than usual. As if the pillow had clung to him longer than it should’ve. As if someone else had clung to him longer than they should’ve.
Henry responded only with a grunt that slid from his throat and vanished into his bowl.
He kept eating.
Hans approached his chair without haste. It was the last one, tucked into the far corner of the table—right beneath the window where the morning light fell at an angle.
Right next to where Henry sat.
When he reached it, he didn’t sit down at once.
He stood still for a moment, hands planted on his hips, eyes fixed on the wooden seat as if he might negotiate with it. As though the simple act of sitting had become a matter of life or death. His lips curled into a restrained pout, his eyes narrowed in silent defiance.
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
«Oh, fuck off…» he muttered through clenched teeth.
And then he sat.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly.
His hands settled on either side of the table in a gesture meant to seem casual. His knees bent with care, each movement careful, as though a single misstep of the hips might cost him a sharp cry of pain. A hiss—brief, stifled, but unmistakable—escaped between his gritted teeth.
The sound shot across the room like a silent arrow.
And struck Henry square in the gut.
He didn’t move. But his eyes widened, just slightly, and too quickly to be natural. A blink, half a beat too late. His gaze remained fixed on the bowl, on the bread now sagging in the milk.
«What a delight it is to wake up to the scent of… warm milk and despair.» Hans drawled, voice thick with irony, the kind of smile on his lips that declared war before the first strike. He leaned forward to grab the wine jug, the movement weighed down by a barely muffled groan, his other elbow seeking the edge of the table with a motion that feigned indifference.
His blue eyes settled on Henry with the precision of a blade not meant to cut—at least, not right away. Just to wound. And linger.
Henry didn’t move. His brow remained cradled in his palm, gaze nailed to the bowl. The steam brushed against his lashes like a breath full of judgment. The only motion he allowed himself was the slow stir of the spoon in the milk, steady as the swing of a gallows rope.
He thought through every word.
Every single word that might leave his mouth.
«My lord,» he murmured at last, his voice hoarse but unexpectedly steady, «with all due respect… if you’ve something to say about my breakfast, you’re welcome to go back to bed.»
He didn’t look up.
Hans raised one eyebrow. Amused.
«Nah… I’d just feel lonely.»
The words were light.
But they struck. Oh, they struck.
Henry’s head snapped up. Embarrassment flared across his cheeks like live embers, reddening the skin beneath his unshaven beard. His eyes darted from Hans to Hanush.
Hanush burst into a crude, booming laugh, sinking his teeth into a slab of meat so large it took both hands to hold. «Ah, the fire-fueled fucks!» he roared, then chased it with a long draught of wine that spilled down into his beard.
Hans chuckled, chin resting on his fist, eyebrows raised with that look that said everything without needing a word.
«Oh, you’ve no idea, uncle…»
Then he moved, just a little. Just enough to reach for the pieces of bread Henry had left beside his bowl. He did it slowly, with the ease of someone making the most natural gesture in the world.
It wasn’t.
Henry felt it before he saw it, that soft rustle, that shift in the air between one breath and the next. His head snapped up in a sharp motion, nothing practiced or controlled about it. And he glared.
The kind of look that said he’d killed for less.
He could endure many things—mockery, innuendo, even the memories that came crashing back in waves and clung to his skin like fever—but someone stealing from his plate?
That, he would not abide.
He gripped his spoon like a dagger meant to be kept in the sleeve, his gaze narrowed into a slit of stubborn, simmering hate.
Hans stared right back, that smirk on his lips, the one that always danced right at the edge of mockery and mischief. The kind that said he knew exactly where to bite to make it hurt. His eyes sparkled with satisfaction, clear, almost childlike.
And all the more infuriating for it.
Then, as he eased himself back into his seat, bread in hand, Hans let out a choked sound. A short, sharp noise, far too close to pain to be mistaken for anything else. The kind of sound a man makes when his body protests, and he tries to bury it beneath a smile.
Hanush turned toward him at once, frowning deeply.
«For Christ’s sake, Hans! Did someone fuck you with a sword up your arse last night?!»
Henry choked on his milk.
He spluttered. Coughed. Slammed a fist against the table, hunched over, gasping for air like a man pulled from drowning. His breath caught in his throat as though a fist had slammed into his chest.
Hans gave a low chuckle. A guttural little laugh, buried deep in his throat. He raised the piece of bread he’d stolen and bit into it slowly, deliberately, shifting it from one cheek to the other, his eyes still fixed on Henry.
Oh, if only he knew.
«N– no… Lord– Lord Hanush… he–» Henry stammered, voice cracked, eyes far too wide, ears red as iron left in the forge. «–He fell…»
A sudden silence stretched over the hall.
Hans and Hanush turned toward him in unison, each lifting a single brow—identical in gesture, yet wildly different in weight.
Henry looked at Hanush. Then at Hans. Then back again. Then cursed himself.
Why had he spoken? Why, in Christ’s name, had he stepped into that conversation?
No one had called on him. No one had forced him. And yet there he was, voice turning hoarse as he dug his own grave with the grace of a drunken ploughman.
Hanush was the first to erupt into a fresh burst of laughter, louder, fuller than the one before. He slapped an elbow down on the table, grabbed his goblet, and returned to eating like a man who’d never learned manners.
Hans, on the other hand, shot Henry a slow, loaded glance and gave the faintest tilt of his head, that kind of gesture that screamed what the fuck are you saying? without ever needing words.
«A-aye… took the whole staircase with his noble arse…» Henry added, only to realize—far too late—that he was panicking.
His hands clenched around the spoon, his breath came short, and his stomach twisted like he’d swallowed a nail.
Hanush laughed again. «Boy,» he barked, shaking his head and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, «I told you to be his squire, not his damned wet nurse!»
Hans, elbow resting on the table, kept looking at him—that sharp, unblinking stare. He didn’t need to speak. That was enough. Those pale blue eyes, narrowed just so, burned into him like a hot poker.
Henry dropped his gaze.
«Yes, uncle… down the stairs. And thank God my dear friend Henry was there to catch me, or how else could I have carried on with my blazing-hot night?» said Hans, every single word carved with the precision of a man who loved the sound of his own provocations.
His voice was smooth, almost languid.
But the strike hit home.
Henry looked up.
A glare.
Long. Piercing. Pleading.
Please. Stop it.
He swallowed. His throat felt tight, breath thin. The milk sat like a stone in the middle of his chest.
Then, barely above a whisper, without lifting his eyes from the bowl: «I just wanted to eat my damned breakfast in peace. But no. I have to keep hearing your insufferable voice.»
He spoke with his gaze locked on the void—beyond the bowl, beyond the food. His mind straying somewhere it shouldn’t return to, and yet it did. Where the dark smelled of wine, of warm skin, and whispered words.
He grabbed two pieces of meat and shoved them into his mouth with the desperation of a man seeking silence in chewing. Hunger born of nerves, the kind that forces your mouth full just so it won’t speak. Because if it did speak, it’d only spill what should never be said.
Hans bit elegantly into a slice of meat paired with egg—never once taking his eyes off him. He watched from beneath blonde lashes, gaze heavy with mischief.
«Except when it’s muffled by a pillow…» he murmured, voice low and wicked, just before taking a drink.
Henry froze.
The bench screeched against the stone floor.
He shot up, hands slamming against the table with such force that everything on it rattled. His eyes locked onto Hans’s like arrows—not thrown in jest, but driven deep. Behind them, a mute fury.
Or perhaps just shame.
His knee struck the edge of the table. Pain burst sharp and bright, a perfect final blow on the heap of humiliation already served.
Henry hissed a curse through his teeth, quick and raw, voice low but brimming with heat.
«You know what?» Henry said, each word bitten off, his knuckles turning white as his fists clenched. «I’m done. Think I’ll go get ready for training.»
He bent slightly, gripping his knee with a quick, almost furious motion. Then he straightened abruptly, spine rigid as a pike, hands planted at his sides. His whole body moved with the tight, brittle motion of a man leaving before he gave too much away—because staying any longer wasn’t an option.
Hanush laughed again, mouth full of food.
Hans said nothing.
He just stared.
Henry only wanted to get away.
From that room.
From that table.
From that voice.
From him.
When the door closed behind him with a dull thud, silence fell heavy over the hall. Long. Unyielding.
Hans sighed.
A low, fractured sound that slipped from his lips without resistance, yet it stole the breath from his chest like a punch beneath the ribs. He dragged a hand through his still-mussed hair. The bravado that had danced on his face just moments before—that mocking smile, that spark in his eyes—was gone in the span of a heartbeat. Dissolved. Like mist in the sun.
He stayed there a moment, seated. Eyes fixed on the closed door, where Henry had disappeared.
«What crawled up his arse?» Hanush muttered, still chuckling lazily. «Did the wenches turn him down last night?»
Hans didn’t even turn his head.
«Drop it, uncle.» he murmured, draining the rest of his wine in one go. Then he stood, the motion sharp despite the lingering ache in his hips, and left the hall without another word.
❂
«Henry!» Hans’s voice echoed down the stone corridor.
Henry had heard him. He turned his head slightly, but didn’t slow. His steps were firm, relentless. He was heading for his chamber out in the courtyard, as if it were the only safe place left in the world.
«Henry, stop!»
Hans was catching up fast, boots thudding behind him, echoing with every stride as he descended the wooden steps into the yard. He reached out, aiming to grab him by the wrist.
Henry spun around sharply, jaw clenched tight. He looked up at him from a few steps below, the angle only adding to the tension.
«My lord, I am using every ounce of strength I have not to tell you to fuck off!» he growled through gritted teeth, jerking away from the grasp that nearly found his arm, like it was a threat, not a touch.
Then he crossed the yard, stormed to his door, and shoved it open hard.
He didn’t pause.
Hans followed.
He didn’t ask permission.
He slammed the door shut behind him with a sharp snap.
«Watch your tongue, peasant!» Hans snapped back instinctively, his voice slipping into that haughty, spoiled noble tone he wore like armor. His only shield, sarcasm, arrogance, his voice.
Henry tried to breathe.
Again.
One more damned time.
Every inch of him screamed not to listen, not to answer. But every time Hans called him that he meant to put him back in his place. To remind him he was lesser.
He felt the anger rising.
Slow.
Inevitable.
This wasn’t a flare, those burn fast and vanish. No. This was a landslide. A mass that had been shifting beneath his skin for days, for weeks. A weight that had begun to slip back in Skalitz, between the screams and the fire, and had never truly stopped. He’d learned how to bury it. To hold it in. To clamp it tight between his teeth like a scream that never quite made it out.
And now it was too much.
Henry brought his hands to his face.
He rubbed at his eyes, his forehead, as if he could scrub the night away. The day. Everything he didn’t want to feel. But it wasn’t enough.
And then—
Then Hans spoke.
«Henry…» he began softly, his voice lower now. Was that—hesitation?
Henry didn’t turn. Not yet.
«Shut up…» he said, teeth clenched. A hoarse whisper, thrown over his shoulder like a blade.
But Hans didn’t stop.
He stepped closer. One pace. Then another. The sound of his boots grew softer, as if even his body was searching for balance while his words tried to find their place.
«I want it back. What we had last night.»
He said it with that voice—half-broken, half-starved—like speaking it aloud would make it real again.
Henry lifted his head from his hands.
He didn’t speak right away.
He stared at the wall. At a single, fixed point on the plain surface of the small room they’d been given.
Then, slowly, he turned, just enough to catch Hans out of the corner of his eye.
Did he want it? Like a child wants a new toy?
It happened in a blink.
All the fury Henry had kept caged since waking—no, maybe long before that—burst free without warning. He slammed into him, driving him back with the full weight of his body, one hand gripping Hans’s jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks with bruising force.
His face was so close it nearly touched his.
His eyes burned.
«I said shut the fuck up.» he hissed, breath hot against Hans’s lips. «Or I’ll make you.»
Hans’s eyes flew wide, locked to Henry’s like a man chained in place. He couldn’t look away—not from this Henry. The one who towered over him, who held him down, who scorched against his skin like flame against oil.
His breath caught.
And when his back struck the wooden door, a sharp sound escaped his lips, a real sound. Pain. But Christ, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
That look… that fire.
There was rage. Hunger. Something far too close to desire to be safe. Too close not to burn.
Hans stood frozen for a heartbeat. Then something inside him melted, just like it always did, every time Henry touched him like this. Without grace. Without courtesy. Without permission.
His eyes slid to Henry’s lips, tight, parted, teeth clenched. That breath, ragged, heated, more like a growl than air.
And he felt his body betray him.
Felt the shiver run down his spine—then lower.
Felt his fingers tremble.
Felt his arms go weightless, palms splayed flat against the wood behind him.
Felt his heart hammering like a war drum in his chest, pounding into his ears.
The voice that slipped from his throat was tight, compressed by the grip on his jaw—but warm.
Damnably warm.
Mellifluous.
«…Please. Do it.»
Henry’s breath caught in his throat, thick and heavy, burning from the inside out with every inhale. His ribs tightened, his stomach knotted. A dull ache lodged between his chest and his voice, something that didn’t know whether it was pain, want, or both.
He stood frozen, nostrils flaring with each breath, like a caged beast not yet sure whether to strike or flee. His hand remained clamped to Hans’s face, fingers digging into that pale jaw, unrelenting pressure, speaking of fury, of control, and of everything Henry was barely holding back.
And Hans—bloody Hans—didn’t flinch.
No.
He leaned into it.
He gave in.
His eyes were half-lidded, glossed with something unspoken. His lips parted. His breath came short. Unsteady. His chest rose and fell beneath his wrinkled pourpoint, barely keeping pace with what burned beneath his skin.
God, how Henry hated him.
For making him want everything he shouldn’t. Everything he couldn’t allow himself. Everything he didn’t even know how to name.
He lowered his head. Just slightly.
Only a few inches.
Just enough to feel Hans’s breath against his mouth. He felt the heat of it. Saw the flush rising on Hans’s cheeks, the tightness drawn across his cheekbones, the swallow that rolled down his throat.
Hans was trembling.
«I’m not one of your fucking whores.» Henry said. His voice was low, hoarse, but full. It buzzed in his chest, his throat, between clenched teeth.
But he didn’t look away from his lips.
Those lips that mocked, that taunted, that never let a moment pass without turning it into a game. And now, there they were. Trembling. Barely a breath away.
So Henry closed the distance.
For one breath more, he tightened his grip on Hans’s jaw. Fingers digging deep into flesh.
And then—he let his tongue slip out.
Warm.
Open.
Wet.
He dragged his tongue across Hans’s lips with cruel slowness, a filthy caress, intimate, indecent. A slap disguised as a kiss.
Hans’s eyes flew open. A breath caught in his throat.
But then—he gave in.
At once.
As if that single gesture had stolen the air from his lungs but given him something solid to cling to.
He yielded beneath the grip. Moaned, the sound stifled, lost beneath Henry’s tongue, beneath the weight of desire crashing down on him like a wave.
And when Henry pushed into his mouth, Hans didn’t resist.
He didn’t even try.
He opened his lips, and welcomed him.
Let him in with a surrender so complete, so desperate, so silent, it felt like prayer. He let Henry pour all of his rage into him, through his mouth.
There was no room left for breath, for thought, for anything except the wet, obscene sound of lips seeking, taking, devouring.
Hans moaned into Henry’s mouth.
He tried to lift a hand.
He wanted to touch him.
To press trembling fingers to his face, to bury them in the dark mess of his hair, while the other reached toward the wrist still pinning him—maybe in a half-hearted attempt to ease the grip.
Or maybe not at all.
But Henry was faster.
He tore his mouth away from Hans’s lips with a rough snap, a strand of spit left stretching between them—taut, glistening—until Henry licked his lips and broke it. Then he seized both of Hans’s wrists and shoved them above his head, pinning them to the wooden door with a strength that left no room for argument.
A sharp hiss slipped from Hans’s mouth, a fractured sound—half gasp, half moan—as his body arched instinctively, chasing that contact. His fingers curled into fists, brushing against Henry’s knuckles, trapped in his unrelenting grip. And the pleasure that shot down his spine was immediate, savage.
The hand Henry had clamped to his jaw finally let go. On Hans’s pale skin, red marks bloomed where the fingers had pressed, vivid, burning, pulsing.
Henry’s hand dropped lower, sliding down Hans’s side.
He pulled him in, hard.
And kissed him again.
With more hunger. More fury.
And as he kissed him, he slid a knee between Hans’s legs.
Slow movements. Firm. Carnal. Fabric and friction burning between them.
Hans’s erection was already there—strained tight beneath his clothes, pressed against Henry’s thigh with an urgency that stole the breath from both of them.
He gasped into Henry's mouth, unable to hold it in. His body trembled faintly under the pressure, his head bumping softly against the door.
Henry growled—a low, guttural sound, deep in his throat.
He released only one of Hans’s wrists, keeping the other pinned. The grip that remained tightened, firmer, as if that single point of contact was anchoring everything that threatened to fall apart.
Then Henry took two steps back.
But didn’t let go.
He dragged Hans with him, pulling him by the arm—not like a man. Like something. His something.
«Agh—Christ, Henry!» Hans protested, voice tight, caught between a snarl and a gasp. But he didn’t pull away.
Then Henry shoved him.
A rough, unceremonious push. Threw him onto the bed like something too hot to hold.
Hans bounced on the simple mattress, the air ripped from his lungs. His hands shot behind him to catch his weight, elbows braced, back arched, chest rising with each breath. One leg bent beneath him, the other hanging off the edge of the bed, heel dragging along the floorboards.
Then his fingers were moving fast, slightly trembling, untying laces, unfastening buttons with the frantic urgency of someone who couldn’t wait a moment longer.
Henry froze for a moment.
Just one.
To look at him.
That spoiled noble bastard.
With those impatient hands, fumbling at his clothes like they burned against his skin. With shallow breaths and flushed cheeks.
Letting it all happen. No—wanting it.
And Henry’s lashes trembled. So did his stomach. And his shaft—hard, swollen, aching beneath the tight hose—throbbed with tension, with need.
A part of his mind was still screaming: what the fuck are you doing. Stop. Stop now, for the love of God—
But his body wasn’t listening anymore.
His body had already made the choice.
He moved. Fast. Furious.
He bent down sharply and yanked open the chest at the foot of the bed, the lid slamming against the wall with a dull thud. His fingers dove into leather, cloth, folds of clothing shoved in hastily.
Until he touched it.
He grabbed it.
A small bottle.
Oil.
He stood again, quickly, and in the next breath, he was on Hans.
Hans had just finished unfastening his doublet.
Henry pinned him beneath his weight, looming over him, his hands wide, one on Hans’s arm, the other flat against his chest, pressing him down into the mattress. Their bodies crushed together, the wood beneath the bed creaking with strain, legs tangled, muscles tight.
Hans was breathless. Cheeks flushed. He tilted his face toward the hand pinning his arm, his eyes flicked from Henry to the bottle with a sudden glint—surprised. Pleased.
«So that’s where it ended up—» His voice came soft. A whisper caught between amusement and smug satisfaction.
Henry looked at him.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t shift his expression. His jaw was tight. Eyes lowered. Pupils blown wide, dark now, so wide they’d nearly swallowed all the blue.
“—you stole it…” Hans added under his breath, tone light, too light not to be a provocation.
Henry exhaled slowly through his nose. Long. Controlled. His lungs burned. His temples throbbed.
Hans… was still talking.
And that—that was what infuriated him the most.
The bottle was still clutched tight in the same hand he was using to pin Hans’s arm to the mattress. The glass pressed against his palm—cold, smooth, unyielding.
And his other arm moved.
Purposeful. Certain.
It slid up Hans’s bare chest, over the collarbone, until it reached his neck.
His fingers closed around him.
Pressed against Hans’s throat, thumb near the ear, and he heard it—the gasp, the moan—before tightening his grip.
Tighter.
He could feel the pulse fluttering under his fingertips.
Hans swallowed. Hard.
His Adam’s apple pushed up against Henry’s palm, and for a moment, a sound escaped him. A moan, more fractured than the ones before. A noise laced with a hint of fear. His free hand reached for Henry’s wrist, fingers brushing it, uncertain. Hesitating.
Henry bent Hans’ neck.
Hans’s gaze faltered, caught mid-movement, his expression shifting, something between surrender and silence.
Henry leaned in. On the exposed throat.
And buried his face in it.
He kissed him.
Bit him.
His mouth—hot, open, relentless.
His lips searched with a hunger that couldn’t be hidden, couldn’t be denied. His teeth found the tender spots, where skin is softest, where the blood rushes closest to the surface.
Where it hurts.
Where it leaves a mark.
And Henry stayed there.
For a long time.
Claiming him.
Marking him.
Imprinting his presence like an animal staking its claim.
Red marks. Dark. Livid.
Signs that would last the next day. And maybe the one after that, too.
Hans wet his lips. His mouth fell open as he struggled to breathe, pupils blown wide.
He’d given in.
Henry would never hurt him. So why worry?
His back arched like a drawn bow, chest rising to meet the mouth pressing into him. His whole body trembled beneath the contact. One knee bent, pushing up into Henry’s hips, seeking him. Needing him. The weight. The friction. His presence.
And that—
That made Henry pant.
Made him groan against his skin, a low, hoarse sound that rumbled from deep in his chest.
No longer words—just hunger.
Hans swallowed again. A quick, nervous motion. His Adam’s apple slid beneath the firm grip still around his throat, a pressure that was starting to edge too far. His fingers closed around Henry’s wrist, because his heart was pounding too fast, and his throat was starting to ache for air.
He needed to breathe.
Henry’s lips lifted from his neck.
He straightened with a ragged breath, hands releasing Hans’s throat and wrist.
Without pause, he gripped the ties of his brown hose laced to his braies, and began to undo them fast. His fingers were hasty, impatient, driven by the same urgency burning in his gut, in his chest, under his skin.
Hans, panting, shoved down his own—his usual green ones, the ones he always wore—with almost frantic speed, trembling hands slipping beneath the waistband, yanking the fabric down in sharp, hurried pulls. Impatient, too. His knees lifted to help him strip them off completely.
With a sharp motion, Henry kicked away the heap of his own clothes, sending them scattering across the floor.
Hans threw his aside with a wide, careless sweep of his hands. The green fabric and the yellow doublet flew past the edge of the bed, landing somewhere unseen on the floor.
He lay there, completely bare.
Pale skin, body tense. Breath shallow. Thighs parted slightly, still lifted from the effort. His chest rose and fell in short, unsteady rhythm. His erection, hard, flushed, undeniable, stood heavy between them, shameless and unhidden.
Henry still wore his tunic.
The ties at the collar hung loose, swaying with every breath he took, the ends brushing the amber skin of Hans’s stomach as he leaned closer.
Hans brought the little bottle to his mouth. Clenched the cork between his teeth and tore it free with one firm jerk. Then he offered it to Henry.
His hand trembled.
Henry snatched it from him with a rough motion.
No hesitation.
He poured the oil into his palm in one swift motion, the liquid sliding between his fingers and down his wrist, slow, warm. A gleaming thread that caught the dim light of the room.
With his other hand, he grabbed Hans’s leg.
He took him just beneath the knee, fingers digging into the tense muscle, and lifted, just enough to shift into place.
Hans let his head fall back.
Mouth parted. Eyes shut. Throat exposed.
He inhaled deeply the moment he felt the head of Henry’s shaft press against him.
Henry used the oiled hand to prepare himself. To slick his length. His fingers curled tight around it, breath ragged, movements short and focused. The palm moved with practiced strokes, quick, charged, gliding over the sensitive skin with relentless intent.
But he didn’t prepare Hans.
And when he began to push, when that first, slow, inevitable thrust began to take shape, a sound rose from Hans’s throat: low, guttural, raw.
At the pressure wrapping around him, hot and tight, at the way resistance gave in, inch by inch, Henry felt a shiver rip through his spine.
A violent tremor that ran up Henry’s spine, rising from the base to the nape of his neck like a jolt, raw, electric.
He tightened his grip on Hans’s leg, fingers digging into the flesh beneath the knee. His head dropped forward, chin dipping toward his chest, dark hair clinging to his sweat-slick brow. Droplets slid down his temples, soaking the edge of the shirt he still wore.
The fabric brushed constantly against Hans’s skin, across his tense belly, along his side as it flexed with every thrust. The contrast between cloth and flesh was unrelenting, rough, filthy in its intimacy.
The room, steeped in shadow, filled with the sound of their bodies.
Moans.
Shattered breath.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin.
And when Henry thrust again, harder, deeper, Hans cried out.
Louder.
His body lifted off the mattress, back arching, hands clawing at the sheets, desperate for something to hold.
His throat broke open around a sound too alive to stay contained.
Henry lunged over him.
Suddenly.
And clamped a hand over his mouth with rough force, callused palm pressing against wet, trembling lips.
Hans’s eyes flew open.
For one moment, their gazes met.
His brows arched, an expression torn between sharp pleasure and something deeper, something burning. His eyes, glassy with unshed tears, locked onto Henry’s. Breath caught beneath his hand. Soft lips pressed into his palm. Hot air trapped there, pushed back by the weight of that grip.
And everything was there.
The want that no longer knew where to hide.
The rage that had never truly faded.
The surrender that burned fiercer than resistance.
Henry gritted his teeth.
Jaw tight. Breath huffing through his nose in short, restrained bursts.
Then, with a sharp, decisive motion, he shoved the leg he still held. A firm, commanding push.
Hans folded beneath it. His knee buckled, and he collapsed forward—face pressed into Henry’s pillow. The breath left him in a rush. The rough fabric scraped against his cheek, smelling of sweat, wood, iron—Henry.
His eyes squeezed shut. A sudden sting. Tears pressing at the corners. He opened his mouth to breathe.
Buried his face deeper into the pillow, hands clutching at the fabric—wringing it, twisting it—grasping for something, anything, to hold on to, just to keep a shred of dignity from slipping away completely.
Henry, behind him, claiming him again. Hands gripping his hips, firm, unrelenting.
A second later—he felt it.
Felt him enter.
Again.
Hans moaned into the pillow, a muffled cry torn from deep inside. Saliva spilled from the corner of his open mouth, soaking into the pillowcase, leaving a stain, warm and wet.
But his legs tensed, opened just slightly, just enough to let him in deeper.
He was too tight. Far too tight. And he felt everything—every inch, every throb, every pulse that forced its way deeper.
Henry held him firmly by the hips, fingers digging into flesh with a bruising grip. Each thrust ripped another piece of control from Hans’s body.
Hans tried to resist. To keep quiet.
To not beg.
But his mouth betrayed him—again and again.
And that pillow could no longer muffle everything.
At the next moan—louder, raw, desperate—Henry snapped.
He drove in deeper. Harder. A savage thrust—deep, unforgiving.
And as he did, his hand slid forward.
Sought the back of Hans’s neck. Found it. And gripped.
His fingers sank into damp, heated skin—and he pushed.
Down.
With force.
To silence him.
Hans folded beneath the pressure, face forced deeper into the pillow, smothered by scent and sweat and the weight of this. But he managed, just barely, to turn his head, just enough to search for something. Anything.
A flicker of light.
A breath of mercy.
A reflex.
Instinctive. Fragile. Utterly human.
And their eyes met.
Hans’s gaze, clouded with tears and pleasure, was half-lidded.
Nothing hidden. Only the raw, glistening hunger of someone who needed to be dominated. Who craved it.
Henry’s eyes, in contrast, were an abyss, cold and burning all at once. Glinting with arousal. Swollen with control. The black of his pupils blown wide, deep and bottomless.
Hans inhaled slowly— and felt the grip on his neck tighten, enough to hurt.
Henry didn’t take long.
His breath broke in his chest, tension winding through his shoulders, along his spine—drawn tight like a bow too far stretched.
Each thrust struck deeper. Harder.
Until—
With his eyes half-lidded, lips curling around a held-back moan— he came.
He bit down on his lip, hard enough to nearly bleed. A hoarse grunt choked in his throat. His hands clenched into Hans’s hips, into the back of his neck, like hooks driven deep. And his body shuddered in sharp, stuttering spasms as the pleasure tore through him like a clean, merciless jolt.
And Hans—Hans came right after.
Without being touched. Without even brushing himself.
Just from the thrusts, those deep, full, claiming thrusts that pinned him to the bed and made every part of him shake. That was enough. Henry was enough. Who left no space for anything else.
He came with a sharper moan, muffled against the pillow, as his eyes snapped shut and the world went white behind his tear-wet lashes.
And then… silence.
They didn’t move.
Not for a good amount of time.
Breaths staggered and gasping, echoing in the dim room. Their skin slick with sweat, marked and raw. The pungent scent of sex clung to the air, thick, warm, heavy.
Henry moved first.
He pulled out slowly, carefully, a low groan slipping between clenched teeth.
His hands withdrew from Hans’s skin, leaving behind flushed red marks, vivid.
Then he sat back, slowly, onto his heels, his body sagging with exhaustion.
He stayed there, at the foot of the bed.
Hans had collapsed onto his side, spent— like some exhausted creature— limbs slack, legs still parted, the sheets beneath him damp, clenched in his fists. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, back gleaming with sweat, lashes stuck together at the edges, trembling faintly.
Henry didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just looked.
At what they had done. At what he had done.
Henry’s gaze had softened.
He sat at the foot of the bed, breathing steady again, eyes trailing over Hans’s body—naked, marked, filthy.
And his.
There was nothing composed in Hans now. Nothing noble. Just raw, human aftermath.
Henry’s jaw tightened. He bit his lower lip, suddenly aware of the guilt creeping into his chest. The bruises on Hans’s skin. The welts. The mess they’d made.
«…Hans—» he murmured, once the silence became too heavy to bear. His voice was low, hesitant, almost afraid to be heard.
Hans let out a quiet sound in response, just enough to show he’d heard him, though his face remained half-buried in the crumpled sheets.
«—are you alright?» Henry asked at last.
Hans shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, hair sticking damp across his forehead, eyes still glassy, but the half-smile that curled at his lips said something entirely different.
«Oh, yes…» he whispered, then dropped back onto the pillow with a laugh muffled behind his hands, trying to hide both the sheer pleasure and the flush rising to his cheeks.
Henry exhaled, shaking his head as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Slowly, he moved from the foot of the bed and lay down beside him. Hans remained curled on his side, but the bed was narrow, and their bodies touched, shoulder to chest, knee to thigh.
For a while, neither of them said a word.
Then, quietly, Henry cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling above. «Hans—» he began, voice rough with uncertainty, «—is this… really what you want?»
Hans shifted again, rolling onto his back to follow the same invisible spot Henry was staring at. He didn’t answer at first. Then, he nodded and rested his head gently on Henry’s shoulder.
«Yes.» he whispered. A pause. «But only if you want it too.»
Henry drew in a deep breath. Then he raised the arm Hans had leaned against and reached out to touch his face. His fingers brushed along the noble’s cheek, gentle, unhurried.
«I hate you» Henry murmured with a crooked grin.
«People who hate each other usually don’t fuck like that...» Hans quipped, quick as ever.
Henry turned to glare at him.
«Are you starting again? Do you want a second round?»
Hans smirked, lips dangerously close to Henry’s.
«Oh, I could go for a third. Or fourth. Maybe five. You could make sure I don’t walk for days, and I wouldn’t complain…»
Henry clicked his tongue, then gave him a firm shove.
«Piss off!» he muttered, pushing him right off the bed.
Hans landed with a thud and a gasp, followed by a breathless chuckle from the floor.
And Henry, still on his back, stared at the ceiling again—grinning like an idiot.