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When Henry drags his riding-heavy body into their room at the Devil’s Den, he expects to find it empty. Since their return from Suchdol, Hans has had an even harder time keeping still than before, and Henry will not blame him. When he has to go away on his own, Hans roams around the tavern, shoots his bow in the woods, or gets drunk in the baths.
So Henry thinks he can be forgiven for tripping over his own feet when he walks in to find his lover half naked, reclined on his bed reading in a position that looks like the least comfortable for the job.
“Uh,” he stammers, forgetting his armful of laundered clothes and letting half of them slip to the ground.
Hans’ eyes remain infuriatingly riveted to the page he is holding above his nose, the book loosely held while his arm is twisted back, the heel of his hand resting over the headboard.
“Welcome back, Hal,” he drawls, as if any of this is perfectly normal.
Henry, cheeks red with the shock, bends to pick up the strewn garments and grumble:
“Yeah, welcome.”
He doesn’t care that he’s not making sense. Vexed, he goes to his own bed to fold the laundry, stealing glances at Hans every few seconds to check that yes, his lover is still ignoring him in favour of literature. When he hasn’t seen Henry since the day before.
A scratch at the door briefly pulls him out of his musings to say that Mutt has followed him upstairs. Hans is usually firmly opposed to the dog sharing their room, which means that today, Henry eagerly strides to the door to open it and let his dog in. Mutt happily jumps around his ankles a few times, while Henry locks the door with a stifled groan.
His skin has become firmly attuned to the proximity and attention of Hans Capon, in the months since they’ve met. Henry knows, intimately, hairs rising at the slightest touch of Hans’ gaze on him, when his lover is looking.
Which means he knows with resolute confidence that right now, he isn’t.
He can’t possibly let that slide.
He pivots on the ball of his feet, palms against the flat support of the door at his back as he contemplates the offending object of his affection, and what he can do about the situation.
Summer still beats hard and hot against the walls of their humble abode, turning their little room into a sweating tent on a good day. It is therefore understandable that Hans has shed his undershirt and pourpoint, sweat glistening from his collarbones down to his belly in a tempting arrow to lick.
It doesn’t explain why he’s reclined like Saint Sebastian getting martyred, only without the look of agony, and with the addition of an infuriating little smirk. The fucker just had to know how good he looks, didn’t he?
Henry would bet a good amount of groschen that Hans has artfully arranged the tousle of his hair, strands pushed back save for a few stray wisps brushing at his temples, on purpose.
Which begs the question: what the hell kind of game is he playing now?
Henry pushes off the door with a determined inhale. He’s never been known to back down from a challenge, and he won’t start today.
He kicks his boots off and sheds his own upper layers, evening the playing field before he pads his way to Hans’ bed. One calculating look later, he shoves his head under Hans’ folded arm to rest it on his lover’s chest, pushes Hans’ legs apart and settles his own in between.
“Wha—” Hans babbles, a hand grabbing Henry’s shoulder on instinct.
Henry nuzzles against the damp skin under his face, rubbing Hans’ sweat over his brow and nose before he finds a comfortable position, nose almost tucked against his lover’s armpit.
“Don’t mind me,” he says.
As if. The new tension in Hans’ arms, the clench of his stomach muscles says exactly what Henry wants to hear. I’m playing the game, he thinks at the other boy, hiding his smirk into coarser blond hair.
Hans’ fingers on Henry’s skin relax, splaying out until his pinkie rests over the point of his shoulder, his thumb in the hollow of his throat. A thoughtful hum rumbles in Hans’ chest and into Henry’s skull before he does what he’s asked, and resumes his reading.
For a second, Henry forgets to play. The day has been long, and the night rough, spent outside on his lonesome. And he did miss Hans terribly, missed the comfort of his arms, his scent on the pillow they’ve taken to sharing. The whiny complaints when Henry steals the blanket at night only to throw it over the edge of the bed when he inevitably runs too hot.
He lets tenderness wash over him, brings a hand to rest gently over Hans’ waist and delights at feeling him settle into this, too. He half wishes Hans would read aloud, only to remember it has to be either extremely boring, or absolutely awful. Hans doesn’t like in-betweens.
Which is why, after a few minutes of revelling in the comfort of their embrace, Henry tilts his head back, and starts detailing Hans again in search of an opening. To his dismay, Hans’ gaze is still very much set on the book held up above his face. From his vantage point, Henry cannot make out any words, hardly even sees the edge of the page Hans is so intent on.
That’s when he realises. Hans has not moved since Henry walked in. Has not turned a page.
Oho.
Henry is not the fastest reader, and it can take him minutes to go through a normal page when he’s peering over an alchemy abstract, but Hans has learnt this in his younger years. And considering the man leans towards poetry most of the time, there shouldn’t be that many words on the page for him to get through.
With the fingertips of his right hand, Henry traces a line up from Hans’ hip to his armpit, stopping just short of tickling him.
Hans shivers, but shows no other sign of interest. Only Henry knows he’s already won. It’ll just be a matter of reminding his lover that he wants to give in, too.
He drags his fingers back down, rests them with the pads brushing over the line of Hans’ braies. Hans’ skin is warm and yet the fine, nearly transparent hairs there raise under his touch. Goosebumps appear under Henry’s cheek, and he raises his head ever so slightly, high enough that his breath can ghost over the skin and make it worse.
He gets caught at his own game when the sight of Hans’ pebbled nipple floods his mouth with a rush of saliva.
A quick glance upwards shows no sign of a reaction still, so he chews on his lips, pondering. Either his next move will break Hans right away, or they’re embarking on something a little different.
Only one way to find out.
He brings his mouth down with all the delicateness he’s capable of, the accuracy learnt from brewing precise potions, picking petals and measuring pinches of dried herbs. Hans’ breath catches, but he says nothing. All right, then. It’s on.
Henry parts his lips and touches the tip of his tongue to the sensitive flesh, holding back a groan at the sensation in his mouth. The first time he did this, Hans had balked a little, ashamed to be treated like a wench. With a bit of coaxing, and a hand on his cock, Henry had managed to convince him there was something very manly at getting his tits sucked, and Hans hasn’t protested it since.
He gets lost in it, rubs the flat of his tongue left to right, up and down, both hands on Hans’ ribs to feel the shaking of his own breath there. His heart is under his mouth and he times his sucks with the beating of it until a firm hardness pokes him in the stomach, and he pulls back with a smirk.
Hans’ upper chest has flushed pink, and the book has moved upwards in what Henry would bet is a desperate move from Hans to hide his own reactions. Desperate, and fruitless when Hans is hard in his braies, and his left pec shiny with spit.
Henry hums, proud of himself, and nearly misses the breathy, thin laugh that comes from above. His own resolve falters, and for the second time since he entered their room, he opens his mouth to speak:
“Is that book any good?”
Hans’ breastbone dips with a huff beneath Henry’s chin, and the reply comes as threadbare as the sheets under them:
“Yes. Very.”
Thumb brushing over the spot his mouth has deserted, Henry hums.
“Good, then. Enjoy.”
He shifts lower down the bed, his head resting over Hans’ sternum now while he plays with the laces of Hans’ hose and braies alternatively. Hans doesn’t stop him. And Henry doesn’t plan on denying his own needs much longer.
He tugs on the laces, relishing the slightly obscene sound, too loud in the quiet of their room, and shifts lower, lower, until he has to kneel on the floor by the bed to drag the fabric down Hans’ legs.
Hans’ hips rise to help, and Henry holds back a laugh at the sight of the fairly precarious hold he has on that book now. Surely it’s too close for Hans to be able to read anything, and the image of his lover going cross-eyed while Henry slides his palm up his shins, over his knees and the inside of his thighs to part them again, fills him with joy.
“What’s happening now?” Henry asks, lips brushing on a scar as he makes his way back up.
“Uh?”
“In your book.”
“Oh…” Hans’ throat clicks on a dry swallow and he brings his other hand up now, pushing the book far enough away that his eyes can realistically focus on the text.
Henry’s attention returns to the expanse of skin offered up to him. He’d only have to reach his hand up a fraction to wrap it around Hans’ hard prick, but leaves that for in a minute. He places a kiss on the firm jut of muscle where Hans’ thigh begins, and grins there.
“So?”
“It’s a… poetry,” Hans gasps when Henry’s mouth moves higher and he has to kneel up to be able to reach.
“A poetry?”
“Yes,” Hans snaps, although the way the sibilant drags speaks less of annoyance and more of something else.
Henry pushes his smile into the skin harder, opens it on teeth while his thumb digs into Hans’ other thigh, pushing it so far the motion is stopped by the wall.
“Hal…”
“Keep reading,” he rumbles, and presses kiss after kiss in an inexorable ascension that takes his own body back onto the bed, elbows making room between Hans’ legs.
He stares at the inevitable, at last. Hans’ cock is arched back against his belly, the tip kissing a trail of blond hair in messy drips of clear liquid and Henry’s mouth wets at the sight again.
It would be the first time they do this. So maybe they needed the pretense, the flimsy barrier of parchment between them so Henry forgets to think about what he’ll look like with a mouth full of cock, forgets to feel any sort of shame when he breathes over the skin of Hans’ sack, then inhales the heady smell of it and closes his eyes.
There, if neither of them can see, perhaps he doesn’t have to feel bad about it when he moans around his first taste.
A sound comes from above, quickly followed by the rustle of a page hastily turned and Henry almost laughs that this is what it would take for Hans to switch to a different poem. He wonders if this one is as dirty as what Henry’s doing between his legs.
The room fills with a different set of sounds, wet, sucking from Henry and high, fragile breaths from Hans.
He takes nearly the full length of his lover’s prick in his mouth, cradles it on his tongue and finds he likes it there, safe in between strong thighs that could crush him but instead shake against his ears. The same calmness returns that had taken him before, with his head over Hans’ heart. There is no need to move, when he is right where he belongs.
Hans’ hips twitch under him, small huffs of frustration that cannot outlast Henry’s will to remain steady.
Keep reading, he thinks again, and relaxes his jaw so he forgets himself to be a vessel. He hears the moment Hans’ breath gives in surrender, and his whole body goes lax under him, all the firmness concentrated between Henry’s tongue and palate.
He loses himself to the feeling, eyes closed, rubbing blissful hands up and down Hans’ thighs to keep him right where he wants him.
Who knows what Hans is reading up there, if at all.
All that matters is the game.
He drools around his mouthful, has to swallow once in a while so he doesn’t drown, and watches the rest trickle into the nest of Hans’ pubic hair, landing like dew on lush summer grass. His mind goes somewhere else, to valleys and hills blooming orange with marigold, to the cloying smells of summer night spent lying in the weeds, suckling on a head of clover under the caress of the setting sun.
The same sweetness blossoms on his tongue, pulling peaceful hums from his throat.
“Hal…”
Henry bobs his head once in acknowledgement. The book lands on the floor with a thud and he smiles. He’s won, like he always knew he would.
Long, archer’s fingers comb his hair back in drowsy surrender and they find their way together through a dialogue without words, that ends with Henry’s mouth filled and bitter, and Hans gasping curse words that all sound like love declarations.
Dizzy, Henry climbs up the length of Hans’ body and finds refuge in his arms, his legs that wrap around him properly and guide him to rut down until he meets his own end, held everywhere and safer than he will ever be.
Their hearts settle, not aligned but finding ways to beat as one while hands stray, pet and linger to spell the words they haven’t recovered yet on clammy skin.
“Henry,” Hans murmurs after a while, pulling him back from the brink of sleep.
“Hmmmm,” he groans.
“Henry,” coming this time with a hard shove of elbow into his side.
“What the fuck is wrong now?!”
“Get the fuck up! Your fucking dog is eating my book!” Hans shouts, forcing Henry to duck with a wince for his poor ear.
He sluggishly pushes up on one arm, blinking at the room to confirm what the hell Hans is on about.
“Ah.”
It appears with all that’s happened, he’s forgotten he had let Mutt inside the room, and that his dog is, at the best of time, a menace. The beast has indeed innocently carried Hans’ book off into a corner and gripped it with both front paws to serenely chew on a page.
“Ah?” Hans squeals, shaking him by the shoulders. “Ah?!! Has he been here the whole time?”
He pushes against Henry’s chest again, but Henry is heavy, and tired, and Hans shouldn’t have been so comfortable if he didn’t want to be used as a mattress.
He collapses onto his lover again with a grunt, and proceeds to ignore the fists half-heartedly landing on his upper back.
“Can’t have been such a good book for how much you were paying attention.”
“I was paying a lot of attention, how dare you!”
“Tell me one line you’ve read since I came in.”
Hans’ throat emits a sound like he’s swallowed a very angry cat. Henry chuckles.
“See. No great loss. Now stop pretending you’re upset about me sucking your pizzle and let me sleep in peace.”
“But my book…”
“I said shut up. Let my dog appreciate the poetry you couldn’t, and hold me.”
He shouldn’t preen at how fast Hans conceded defeat. Pride is a sin and yet, he can’t begin to feel badly about it when Hans’ touch on his back always feels like praise.
“Besides,” he mumbles as he’s finally about to tumble into slumber, “you were doing it on purpose.”
“What, pray tell?”
“Waiting for me all… enticing.”
Hans chuckles, no bite to his next words:
“How dare you insinuate I’d have such evil intentions.”
“Because it’s true. And you can’t lie to me. Never could, so don’t try now.”
A smile presses against the crown of his head.
“A great tragedy, that is. Now sleep, blacksmith boy.”
Lower, when Henry crosses the threshold into unconsciousness:
“I missed you.”