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Henry has a history of heresy.
The first time he felt his faith falter, he can’t quite recall. He remembers the feeling well, though. It’s the same that sits in his chest now, weighing him down to earth while he stains another man’s lips with his sin.
The journey from the battlements to Hans’s quarters was a blur. Hans was in his atmosphere before the lock slid home. Pulling at his gambeson, at his hair, his heart; hands around his neck, thumbing at the kink of his throat. Not exactly pleasant, nor painful, and he’d sooner perish than push his lover away. This lover, at least. Not after everything. Not after leaving that night.
“Stay with me,” Hans pleads.
“Where–ah–else would I go?” Henry manages.
“Stop thinking and touch me, Christ’s sake.”
Has he not been? Hans occupies his mouth, and conquers without resistance, teeth clashing like iron, inhibitions falling like men. Surely Henry’s hands haven't been clenched by his side since the door locked? He corrects his negligence with haste, hands sliding up, back down, then grasping his lord’s waist. “Forgive the mess you make of me.”
Hans pulls back from his assault, beaming. Lips wet and red, from wine, from Henry. “Oh, it’s my fault is it?”
“Everything is,” Henry rasps, lips landing to the tender flesh of his lord’s nape. “You ought to have realized that by now.”
“Is this my fault as well?” Hans asks, his hand venturing between his squire’s legs. Regrettably, his hips buck. “Or are you always like this under all that armour?”
A squeeze coaxes him to sing, and the note that leaves his lips is a pathetic one, ringing desperation. His lover’s neck tastes of salt, and when Hans’ demands more, tugging back his hair, the moans he swallows are sweet and tangy. When Henry’s back hits the door, his senses dawn. He presses his hands to Hans’ chest, tearing their lips apart, he shoves. The nobleman stumbles back, long teal legs with all the stability of a foal. Henry’s back on him before he can steady himself. “You’ve got your entire life to lead. Give it a rest for a night?"
“Take off your fucking clothes.” Hans is positively divine in this state, heaving, sweating, trembling. To strip the lord of that smug nature is a privilege. Next, to strip him of the audacity.
Henry launches back again, lowering himself onto the green quilt, leaning back on his elbows. “You first.” After a moment of hesitation, Hans works through the buttons on his pourpoint, shockingly without argument. It goes straight to Henry’s head. “Slower.”
“The nerve!” He complains, though his hands never quit working.
“Don’t I deserve a show?”
“I am not some wench for hire!” he asserts, stepping between Henry’s legs.
“When did I say you were? I only want to drink you in,” he purrs, sitting up, and staring up. “You know how irresistible you are.”
Hands land on the blacksmith’s thighs for a moment before he’s forced back down to his elbows. The smirk Henry displays is crooked as can be, and doesn’t falter until Capon’s torso is as stripped as can be. A few months ago, there was more of him, undeniably. More muscle to test, more handles to grip, more flesh to sink teeth into. It will be a joy to see the lad fatten up, to see him full and coloured once again. For tonight, he won’t mention it.
“Divine,” is the truth he speaks. His reward rears its head in the form of a blush on his lover’s neck, cheeks, chest. Hans turns his back and Henry rises again. Calloused hands steady those hips, as lips land on the first notch of his spine. “I mean it. You’re art, you know that? Fucking breathtaking.”
“Jesus Christ,” the young man prays.
“You sure you want him to see this?” Henry inquires. Slowly, movements become more liberal, more fluid and less stiff, not that the lad is void of all such appendages. It’s something he makes sure Hans knows, rutting against his backside once, twice. “You shouldn’t blaspheme, unless you’re ready to pay your penance.”
“Henry,” Capon whines, “I’m ready.”
“No, you’re not,” Henry’s tone, condescending. Having the power to reduce Hans to this is intoxicating. His lover sings another desperate note, and Henry’s chest flutters. He gently guides Hans to face him, before planting lazy pecks to his stubbled jaw. “But worry not. I’ve got you.”
“Your top… needs to go.”
Henry hums in agreement. “Get to work, then.” Even with Hans’ fumbling digits, the gambeson falls to the floor boards in no time. His lord’s hands are greedy, prodding and squeezing at his chest as if he were some wench. When his lips and tongue land to the sensitive flesh on his pec, the embarrassing thought vanishes. Henry chuckles, shakes his head and stares to the heavens. “That tongue of yours… drives me fucking mental.”
The squire’s gaze snaps back to his lord when those curious fingers linger on the hem of his chausses. When he swipes his tongue through the dark hair trailing his navel, the noise Henry makes is visceral. When Hans dropped to his knees, Henry can’t quite recall, but he’ll be damned if it isn’t a sight for sore eyes.
“Let me?” Hans pleads, gaze blue as the Baltic.
Fair locks are velvet between calloused fingers. Henry shakes his head and drops to his knees in earnest. Hans’ brows furrow, and he goes to complain before a heavy thumb lands to his bottom lip. “I wish to take my time with you tonight.” Henry resumes his arduous work on Capon’s neck.
“I don’t think you understand, Henry. I can’t wait, not now that you’re really here. Watching you leave that night… I thought…”
“Shh,” he soothes.
“Stay with me tonight?”
“Hell or high water.”
“Henry…”
“Fires or floods.”
“I… need you, more than you know.”
“You have me, more than you know.”