Archive of Our Own

Henry had barely woken before someone began hammering at his door.

The sound dragged him sharply from sleep. He lay there for a moment, blinking at the dim light creeping through the shutters, trying to understand what kind of fool would be pounding on a door at such an hour. The banging came again, rapid, impatient.

“God’s teeth…” Henry muttered.

He swung his legs out of bed, running a hand through his curls and stumbling across the room. The boards were cool under his feet as he crossed to the door and pulled it open just enough to peer out.

A boy stood there, perhaps twelve years old, thin as a reed and grinning like a fox that had stolen a hen.

Without a word the lad held out a folded scrap of paper.

Henry took it slowly, already recognising the hurried, messy handwriting scrawled across the outside.

Before he could even open it, the boy rocked back on his heels and said brightly, “He said you’d give me a groschen.”

Henry sighed.

“I’m sure he did,” he said dryly.

Still, he reached for his purse, fishing out a couple of coins. The boy’s grin widened immediately as Henry dropped them into his waiting palm.

The lad vanished down the street like a startled rabbit, off to whatever business occupied twelve-year-old boys at that hour.

Henry shut the door again and unfolded the note.

The writing inside was hurried and crooked, the ink blotched in places as though the quill had been moving too quickly.

I require your immediate attention. Regardless of what pointless tasks you have on today – ignore them – please, Henry. Please.

Henry frowned at the words.

Hans never said please.

Hans especially never said please twice.

“…What have you done now?” Henry murmured to the empty room.

He scratched his chin for a moment before turning back toward the small basin in the corner. Sleep was already leaving him; curiosity, and a faint prickle of worry, had taken its place.

With a resigned sigh he began pulling on his clothes. Shirt first, then his hose, then his boots. He splashed water over his face from the trough, scrubbing away the last of the sleep before attempting, with limited success, to tame the riot of curls on his head.

That done, he stepped out into the morning and made his way toward the upper town keep.

The day was already warm and bright. Traders were setting out their goods along the streets, voices calling out prices while the smell of fresh bread drifted from somewhere nearby. Children darted through the square in shrieking packs, weaving around carts and benches.

A group of them had claimed the pillory, climbing around it like a wooden fortress while arguing loudly about whose turn it was to be the bandit.

Henry couldn’t help but smile as he passed.

Rattay had once been little more than another place on the road to him. Now, watching the familiar bustle of the town waking, it felt like home.

He crossed the courtyard of the lower castle, nodding to guards and servants who greeted him in passing, before climbing the path toward the upper keep.

Soon enough he found himself standing outside the door to Hans’ chambers.

Henry lifted his hand and knocked.

For a moment there was nothing.

Then something shifted inside. A heavy scrape. Footsteps hurried across the floorboards.

The door cracked open just enough for one very wide, very frantic blue eye to appear.

Hans stared at him through the gap.

When he realised who it was, his shoulders sagged slightly with what sounded like genuine relief.

“It’s you…” he said, breathing out.

“Yes, it’s me,” Henry replied. “I got robbed for groschen and dragged out of bed. What is so important?”

Hans hesitated.

The pause was long enough that Henry’s faint irritation turned into concern.

“Hans?” he asked, leaning a little closer. “What’s going on?”

“Henry, I...” Hans began.

And then abruptly shut the door again.

The wood closed squarely in Henry’s face.

Henry blinked.

From the other side of the door Hans’ voice came again, tight and strangely uncertain.

“I need you to promise me something.”

Henry stared at the door.

“…Right.”

“You can’t laugh.”

Henry frowned immediately.

“Oh no,” he said slowly. “What have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything!” Hans snapped, the sharpness of his voice thin and brittle in a way Henry recognised instantly. It was the tone he used when he was embarrassed, or worse, hurt. “And I’m not telling you unless you promise not to laugh!”

Henry folded his arms.

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “I promise.”

There was a small pause.

Then the door creaked open again.

This time it opened wider.

Henry’s brows rose immediately.

Hans looked… wrecked.

His face, neck, and chest were flushed a deep crimson, colour staining his skin as though he’d been sitting too close to a fire. His hair stood in wild directions like a startled owl’s feathers, and his eyes darted anxiously toward Henry as he stepped back to let him inside.

Hans wore a padded robe loosely tied around his waist.

“Hans, are you alright?” Henry asked, stepping into the room. “You don’t look well.”

“I…” Hans started.

He inhaled sharply, as though steadying himself.

“I’m having a… problem,” he said carefully. “A… masculine problem. One that I do not wish to discuss with another living soul, but I fear I might die and you are the only person I know who understands medicine and… the likes.” He gestured vaguely toward himself.

Now Henry was properly concerned.

He stepped closer, lifting a hand instinctively toward Hans’ forehead.

Before he could touch him, Hans jerked away.

“No!” he blurted. “Not yet, you can’t, until you promise to help me.”

“Of course I promise,” Henry said immediately.

He crossed the room and shut the chamber door behind him, sliding the bolt into place before moving toward the window where the light was better.

Hans lingered a few steps away, chewing nervously on his lip.

Henry watched him, waiting.

Finally Hans seemed to gather his courage.

He hesitated only a second longer.

Then he untied the robe and let it fall.

“Oh,” Henry said.

And then again, a moment later…

“Oh.”

Henry stared.

For a moment his mind refused to process what he was looking at. His eyes flicked from Hans’ face, scarlet with humiliation, to the rest of him.

The robe pooled around Hans’ feet.

And the “problem” was… unmistakable.

Hans stood rigid as a statue, arms hovering awkwardly at his sides as if he didn’t know where to put them. His entire body was flushed from throat to stomach, the colour creeping higher with every second Henry remained silent.

Henry cleared his throat.

“Oh,” he said again.

Hans made a strangled sound.

“Yes,” he snapped, voice thin with mortification. “Oh. Exactly. You see the problem.”

Henry blinked several times, still trying to reconcile the urgency of the letter with the very obvious situation in front of him.

“You… called me here because you have an erection.”

Hans slapped his hands over his face.

“Henry!”

His voice echoed off the chamber walls with desperate frustration.

Henry’s brows lifted.

“It’s not… I’m not...!” Hans groaned, pacing suddenly, which unfortunately did nothing to improve the situation. “I cant finish. I’ve tried everything.”

Henry folded his arms, watching him pace.

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything!” Hans snapped “touching it does nothing, rubbing it on the mattress, against the chair, with oil, without oil,” He gestured wildly.

Henry rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying very hard to maintain the solemn promise he had made outside the door.

No laughing.

He had promised.

Hans peeked between his fingers and immediately narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not,” Henry said quickly, voice strained.

Hans dropped his hands, glaring at him.

“You are.”

“I’m not,” Henry insisted, though the corners of his mouth twitched traitorously. “I’m just… assessing the situation.”

“You’re assessing it like a jester assessing a pie fight.”

Henry turned slightly, coughing into his fist.

Hans groaned again and dragged both hands through his already chaotic hair.

“This is serious!” he said. “Why is it doing this?! It has never done this before! It has always behaved...reasonably! And now I cannot spend the rest of my life attending court like a damned siege tower!”

Henry finally looked at him properly again, trying to adopt the expression of a man who was definitely not amused.

“You’ve tried stroking it?”

“Yes.”

“And humping something?”

“…Henry!” Hans said scandalised, “I cannot – hump things – I am a lord. I – shut up.”

“Any discolouration?”

Hans looked down, then back up, deeply offended “Is it supposed to be that colour?”

Henry noted just how red it was, practically purple on the tip.

“Right. And how long has this been going on? Have you – taken any potions or anything?” Henry asked, looking over at Hans’ bedside but seeing nothing but a small potion bottle filled with oil.

Henry felt his ears redden slightly. Ridiculously.

“I…” Hans began, “I tried to finish– before bed last night. Hanush and I had – had words. Unpleasant ones. I needed some relief and so I --” he gestured randomly, “But I got almost there – like walking up a hill but never been able to find the plateau. It was just – not happening so I went to sleep.”

“And woke up like this?” Henry asked,

“Not – quite.” Hans blushed again, “I woke at dawn and tried again… I’ve been trying since dawn and I just cant – it wont and – Henry I might die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Henry reassured him.

“I feel like I might die. I feel like my skin will pop and my heart will stop and my brain might melt.”

“Christ you’re dramatic.” Henry laughed, “I think it’s probably a stress thing. You’re overthinking it too much and then because you cant – finish – you’re in a loop.”

“Right… so how do we fix it?” Hans asked,

“I wasn’t sure there was a WE in this situation,” Henry snorted, “just stop thinking and it’ll happen.”

“Oh wise words from mister dung-head!” Hans hissed, “I cannot switch my brain off! It runs constantly! Endlessly! Songs and memories and arguments I’m practising against Hanush. I cannot… stop thinking.”

Henry sighed, noticing that Hans was ramping up for another of his dramatic flounces.

“Hans…”

“What?!”

“Get on the bed.”

The room fell silent. Maids clanked in the kitchens, guards passed but that little chamber where Hans slept seemed to have all of the air sucked out as Hans turned and stared.

“You’ll help me?”

“Get on the bed.” Henry repeated,

Rolling his shirt sleeves up to mid elbow, Henry checked the door again, then walked to Hans’ chest where he began to dig through. He was looking for something in particular, he found it with a flourish and an “aha!”

Turning, Henry looked at Hans who had inched towards the bed, looking like he either wanted to throw himself down or run away. Henry smiled and lifted up the dark black fabric. It was leftover from one of Hans’ doublets but was long and thin.

The perfect blindfold.

“Sit.” Henry insisted, watching as Hans lowered himself on his bed and shuffled further over so not to crowd Henry. He seemed to be trembling faintly.

“I’m putting this on you…” Henry explained, “And it’s going to feel strange. It’s going to feel like you’re blind but I promise, I won’t do anything without telling you okay?”

Hans nodded, biting his lower lip, breathing hitching when Henry placed the fabric over his eyes and tied it at the back of his head, “Comfortable?”

“Yes…”

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do,” Henry started, “I’m going to touch you – just above the waist for now. And then we’re going to go lower okay?”

“Okay…” came the whispered reply.

Henry twisted and took the bottle of oil from the bedside table and opened it, splashing some into his palm and then warming it in his own hands. Hans seemed to be following the noises and the scent by tilting his head.

Letting a little of the oil drip onto Hans’ chest, Henry rubbed it into Hans’ skin. Starting at his navel, making the springy hairs under his bellybutton shiny with oil. He worked upwards, over the cut of Hans’ abs, caused by years of hunting and riding, then up to carefully brush against his nipples with delicate fingers.

Hans’ breathing hitched.

“There we go…” Henry muttered, almost like calming a skittish animal, “That’s right just feel it. It’s all alright.”

Hans trembled under Henry’s hands, occasionally gasping each time Henry’s callused finger or his nail brushed the small buds. Henry noted that.

Hans likes his nipples played with

Okay good to know.

Henry let his hand track lower, through that patch of sandy hair at the base of his cock. Hans’ cock was larger than Henry had ever imagined, standing proud and flushed. Henry carefully brought his hand across the pubic hair, moving the heavy shaft with the back of his hand as he gently rubbed the oil in. Hans’ breath hitched again, toes clenching and releasing against the bed.

“Good. You’re doing well…” Henry praised, watching as Hans shivered again.

Hans likes praise

Not a massive surprise but good to know regardless.

Henry did this numerous times, stroking his hand up to nipples, across to the throat and then down to the groin, sensitising Hans to his touch. Hans’ hands bunched in the bedding at either side of him, desperately seeking some sort of stability.

“Okay so I’m going to touch you now… if – if you need me to stop, I need you to say a word.”

“A word?” Hans replied, voice cracking.

“A word we wouldn’t say normally doing – this. A word for if you don’t like something or something’s changed or you need a break…” Henry explained

“Falcon…” Hans supplied after a moment, “If I – need to stop I’ll say falcon.”

“Okay perfect.” Henry reassured, nuzzling gently at Hans’ temple, “Now you can say stop, you can say slow or no and I will listen but if you need me to stop immediately, you say that word okay?”

Hans nodded rapidly in understanding.

“Perfect.”

Henry’s hand wrapped around the hot length of Hans’ cock, immediately feeling how hard he was. A shiver ran through Hans at the sensation and his mouth dropped open just a fraction. Henry watched the tight clench of his jaw, the way his fair hair was dark with sweat at the temples. He watched as if this were a puzzle, a terrain to be mapped. His grip was firm, not tentative, but his movement was a question.

He dragged his palm up the length of him again, a torturous, full-speed climb from root to tip. Felt the thick vein pulsing underneath. Felt the slick bead of moisture well at the slit. He spread it with his thumb, a slow circle, and Hans’ hips jerked off the mattress.

“God,” Hans breathed, the word shattered.

“Is that it?” Henry’s voice was low, measured. The voice of a man assessing a blade’s balance. “You like it slow?”

Hans didn’t speak. He gave a single, frantic nod.

Slow – okay

Henry nodded back, as if confirming a theory. He slowed.

His next stroke took a count of five. The rough skin of his palm, hardened by sword grip and rein leather, scraped with exquisite friction over the sensitive head. He felt every shudder it ripped from Hans’ frame. The other man’s hands fisted in the wool blanket below him, knuckles white.

Henry’s other hand moved, a steady, warm weight cradling his stones from below. He learned the shape, the heavy fullness, the tight draw of skin. He adjusted his grip, his thumb finding a different place to press on the upstroke. Hans cried out, a short, sharp sound he bit off at the end.

“There?” Henry asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t…” Hans turned his head into the pillow, his voice muffled. “Don’t ask. Just… don’t stop.”

He reached the crown and lingered. His thumb pressed into the slit, a gentle, insistent pressure. Hans whimpered. The sound went straight through Henry, a hot wire down his own spine.

He began the descent. Even slower. A dragging, teasing slide back down. His fingernails, short and practical, grazed the underside. Hans’ whole body bowed, a silent scream in the arc of his spine.

“You’re shaking,” Henry observed, his tone still that of a curious scholar.

“It hurts,” Hans gasped, his eyes squeezed shut again.

Henry paused, his hand still wrapped around him, a ring of fire. “Should I stop?”

“No.”

The fear wasn’t of the pain, or the tension. It was of the ending. Henry saw it. He understood. This wasn’t about release. It was about the unbearable, sustained note of almost. The torture of the edge.

“Then breathe,” Henry said, his voice softening. It wasn’t a command. It was an instruction, a shared tactic. “You have to breathe through it.”

He began again. A new rhythm, agonising in its patience. Up for a count of seven. A slow swirl at the top, milking another clear drop. Down for a count of seven. The room faded. The keeps sounds from below, the muffled laughter, the clank of shields, ceased to exist. There was only this bed, this fire, this body unravelling under his hands.

He learned the language of Hans’ body. The sharp intake of breath meant the angle was right. The full-body flinch meant the friction was perfect. The broken, wordless noises that fell from his lips were a map Henry studied with devout attention.

His own arousal was a distant, heavy throb, secondary. This was the work. This was the craft. To stretch this moment into something timeless, to make the pain a form of worship.

He changed his grip, using just his thumb and forefinger in a tight ring at the base, sliding up with relentless slowness. The rest of his fingers splayed against Hans’ stomach, feeling the tremors there.

“Henry.” His name, gasped like a prayer or a curse.

“I have you.”

It was true. He did. He had all of him. The control was absolute, and Hans was surrendering to it completely, falling into the abyss of the slow burn. His hips made tiny, abortive thrusts, seeking more pressure, more speed, but Henry’s hold was an anchor. He allowed only the barest movement, a tease of what could be.

“I think… I think I can…” Hans was rambling, his tongue flicking out to brush against his own lips, “I’m – close I think.”

“Just relax we’re not in a rush…” Henry promised.

“Speak for yourself…” Hans grumbled haughtily but it made them both chuckle.

Henry removed a hand from Hans’ stones and brought them up to scratch and stroke at a nipple, rough yet slow, watching as Hans’ cock pulsed more precome onto his own belly.

“There we go… good lad.” Henry moaned, inhaling the musk and scent of Hans, “You already feeling it?”

Hans nodded, beyond speech.

Sweat sheened Hans’ chest alongside the oil, catching the sunlight. Henry watched a bead trace the line between his ribs. He was beautiful like this, destroyed by patience. His restraint, his noble bearing, all of it was gone. What remained was raw, honest need.

Henry’s wrist began to ache. He ignored it. The burn in his muscles was part of the ritual. He matched his breathing to the strokes, a slow in and out, creating a rhythm that felt eternal. Up. Pause. Down. Pause. The pauses were the worst. The emptiness. The desperate, aching void of sensation where everything clenched and waited.

Henry felt the change before he saw it. A deepening of the pulse under his palm. A tight, rhythmic clenching in the stones below.

The build was not a cresting wave, but a slow, seismic rising of the earth itself. Inevitable. Terrifying.

“I can’t… I can’t…” Hans was moaning, head moving from side to side.

“Hey relax, Hans…” Henry soothed, nudging his nose to the side of Hans’ face again, “I’ve got you. It’s okay… Are you thinking?”

Hans nodded “I cant stop… it wont shut up.”

Henry thought for a second but then shuffled closer, his lips right next to Hans’ ear, voice dipping low.

“You don’t need to think about anything. Tell me, what’s your favourite ever sexual encounter?” Henry moaned, letting his voice rumble.

Hans shivered and then bit his lip, “Well… this is pretty high up there.”

Henry smiled, letting himself nibble gently onto Hans’ ear, “This doesn’t count. Tell me something else.”

“O-Once, one of the bath-maids…” Hans started, shivering again, “While she was sucking me she – she put her fingers inside me.” Hans’ back arched at the memory, “Slowly. Carefully but it felt like so much. So big. There’s a spot – there – and it feels like heaven.”

Henry was surprised that Hans had ever considered such an act. Hans always seemed so – vanilla.

“Okay and what was she doing while she put her fingers in you?” Henry asked,

“She… she was sucking me. She couldn’t get all the way down…” Hans said, making Henry smile that of course he was boasting even still, “But she was using one hand on the base, her mouth was on me and her fingers were…”

“Were inside you? Stretching you?” Henry asked.

Hans whimpered, nodding and arching his back.

“How did it feel? Tell me…”

Hans shuddered, hands moving to clench his own thigh, nails biting deep into his skin, “It – it felt hot. And strange but it – she hit this spot and it was like gunpowder in my spine. Oh…”

“Getting closer?” Henry asked

“Y-Yes…” Hans whispered, “I think so.”

“Stop thinking. Did you come in her mouth?”

Hans whimpered again, lower lip bitten until it almost bled, “Yes…”

“Did she swallow you?”

“She… She… Oh… she kept it in her mouth. I didn’t know… She kissed me and she pushed it into my lips.”

Henry moaned without realising, feeling his own cock leaking. The story was erotic but the thought of Hans’ being fed his own spend did something deeply disturbing inside of him.

“Did you like it?”

Hans couldn’t speak, or wouldn’t speak it out loud, he just nodded rapidly, licking his lip as if he could still taste himself.

Henry decided to do something he hadn’t anticipated. He took his hand from Hans’ nipple and trailed it through the precome dripping onto Hans’ belly, then cautiously fed his finger into Hans’ mouth.

The noise Hans made was unlike any Henry had ever heard.

The man arched, gasped, choked on a whine and trembled so hard that for a second Henry had to check that Hans wasn’t coming. He was – but not physically – the man was having an orgasm from the taste alone.

“Good lad… Christ that’s beautiful. Watching you taste yourself? Its got me leaking…” Henry moaned, pressing a gentle kiss on Hans’ cheekbone.

“Please… Please… I can, I know I can come, please…” Hans was begging, but he seemed to be stuck at that edge again.

Henry removed his hand from both Hans’ lip and his cock, and shook his wrists to stop the cramp.

“You’re still thinking…” Henry insisted, “But I can – finger you?”

Hans moaned again, a whine of desperation leaving him as he repeated the word yes and please again and again.

“Okay calm… it’s alright. You’re doing so well…” Henry promised, leaning to reach for the oil which he poured into his hands, “Just focus on my fingers okay – but they’re going to be bigger than the bath-maids.”

Hans nodded in understanding.

Henry let his hand slip between Hans’ perfectly pale buttocks, just making Hans aware of the sensation as he spread the oil across hot skin. Hans was like a forge, burning up and Henry felt the moment his hole relaxed enough for the first knuckle to slip inside.

“Ohhhh…” Hans gasped, grabbing his bed tight again, “Oh…”

“Hans? How are we doing?” Henry asked.

“Guh-Good…”

“Yeah? Still feel good?”

“Mhmm” Hans nodded, seemingly beyond words.

Henry moved his finger slightly, pressing it inside slowly. Hans was so incredibly tight and hot that Henry worried that maybe his finger wouldn’t fit beyond the knuckle, but Hans clenched once, then relaxed and suddenly his entire finger was buried deep inside the man.

“Ooooooooh”

“Yeah? Feel good?” Henry continued to mumble nonsense to calm him, “Feels bigger?”

Hans’ cock gave a twitch when Henry found that spot inside him. He felt the moment Hans’ shivered at the blissful pleasure.

“H-Henry…”

“Fuck… I could get used to you saying my name like that…” Henry laughed, then leaned slightly to lick a small amount of precome off of Hans’ thigh.

He didn’t speed up. He maintained the same brutal, exquisite pace. He leaned forward, his shadow engulfing Hans. He put his mouth close to Hans’ ear, his voice a dark, warm whisper in the space between the wet sounds of his hand.

“Stay with it,” he murmured. “Don’t run from it. Let it build. Let it hurt.”

A sob broke from Hans’ chest. His hand shot out, gripping Henry’s forearm where the sleeve was rolled up. His fingers dug in, desperate, anchoring himself to the source of the pain.

Henry kept whispering, nonsense, encouragement, filth. “That’s it. Take it.”

He was right at the threshold. Henry could feel it in the iron-hard tension of him, in the choked, continuous moan that now poured from his lips. Every stroke was a blow, a blessing. Hans was trembling violently, his heels digging into the mattress, his back arched so high only his shoulders and heels touched the bed. Henrys finger continued to curl and stroke that spot deep inside him. Precome soaked Hans’ stomach, dripping off in thin strands to roll down to the bed below.

Henry slowed one final, impossible degree. A single, endless stroke. From root to tip, a journey of a lifetime.

He reached the crest and stopped.

His hand was a tight, motionless ring at the very head. His thumb pressed down.

Hans froze. His body went rigid, suspended in a silent scream. His eyes were wide, unseeing, locked on the ceiling beams. The only sound was outside and their ragged breathing.

He hung there, on the precipice, for a heartbeat that stretched into forever.

"Say it," Henry whispered, his breath hot against Hans' ear. His hand was a motionless brand. "Tell me what you want."

Hans' throat worked. A strangled sound escaped, but no words. His hips gave a tiny, desperate jerk against the unyielding pressure.

"Words, Hans. If you want it, you have to give it a name." Henry's voice was calm, a dark river running under the chaos of Hans' breathing. He applied the barest hint of movement, a slow, circular grind of his thumb. "What is it?"

"Release," Hans gasped, the word torn from him. It sounded like a confession of murder. "Please. God. I need release."

Henry went utterly still again. The plea hung in the air between them, pathetic and raw. He studied Hans' face, sweat and bitten lips, the agony of want. "No," he said, soft as a falling feather. "That's not it. That's the right words. What do you want? Right now. In this feeling."

Hans sobbed, a wet, broken sound. His fingers were bloodless where they gripped Henry's arm. He was shaking apart. "I want... I want to come. I want you to make me come."

Henry leaned back just enough to see his face. "I am making you come. This is how. This slowness. This is the making." He began to move again, that same impossible, dragging stroke. "So feel it. Name it."

The friction was exquisite torment. Hans' head thrashed side to side on the pillow. "I want... the end of it. The... the peak."

Henry's rhythm was metronomic, a torture device of perfect consistency. Up. Pause. Down. The pauses were voids of pure need. Finger curling.

"Yes."

"Then fall." But Henry didn't speed up. He didn't change a thing. He maintained the pace, turning the command into a lie, a taunt. "Fall right now. Let go."

Hans cried out, a sound of pure frustration. His body was a bowstring drawn past its limit. "I can't! You're not…! you have to…!"

"I have to what?" Henry's voice dropped, intimate. "Finish you? I am finishing you. This is the finish." His thumb caught another bead of fluid, smearing it slowly around the sensitive crown.

Henry saw him writhe on the bed, untouched, his cock aching and desperate against his stomach. This was the truth. The fear of the end was nothing compared to the terror of the sensation stopping.

After three heartbeats, Henry reached out. Not with his whole hand. With two fingers. He traced the length of him, from root to tip, a ghost of a touch.

Hans shuddered, a full-body spasm. A choked, grateful sound escaped him.

"You don't want it over," Henry said, his fingers continuing their light, maddening exploration. They circled the base, drifted up the shaft, avoided the head. "You want to live inside this feeling until it kills you.” He finally closed his hand again, a loose, warm sheath. "That's what you want."

Hans nodded, frantic, tears streaming anew into the blindfold. "Yes. Yes. Please...Henry."

Henry began the slow stroke again. The return of the full, rough pressure was a relief so profound Hans went limp for a moment, boneless with gratitude. The pain was back. The beautiful, stretching pain.

Henry changed his technique. He used his whole fist, a smooth, twisting motion as he travelled upward, squeezing just slightly on the upstroke. The new sensation was a fresh hell. Hans moaned, long and low, his heels digging into the mattress again.

"You are," Henry said, his voice thick with a reverence that hadn't been there before, "the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

The words landed differently. They weren't instruction. They weren't control. They were an observation, awed and honest. They cracked something open in Henry's own chest. The scholarly distance evaporated. He was here, in the fire, burning with him.

He felt his own need now, a sharp, demanding ache in his groin, pressed against the rough fabric of his hose. He ignored it. This was not about that. This was about Hans.

About the cathedral they were building from this slow, shared agony.

His wrist screamed in protest. The muscles in his forearm were knots. He welcomed the burn. It was his offering. His part of the ritual.

He leaned down and put his mouth on Hans' chest, just over his pounding heart. He didn't kiss. He breathed. Hot, damp breath against chamomile oil and salt-damp skin. He felt the frantic beat under his lips. He moved his mouth to a nipple, taking the tight peak between his teeth with exquisite care, biting down just enough to make Hans arch and cry out.

The multiple sensations, the stretch and touch of his inner spot, the relentless slow stroke and the sharp, bright pain of the bite, tipped Hans into a new plane of existence. His babbling became a stream of half-formed words, pleas, curses, prayers in Latin Henry only half-understood.

Henry released his teeth, soothed the spot with his tongue.

"Henry," Hans breathed, his voice shattered. "I'm... I'm going to..."

"I know." Henry didn't slow. He didn't speed up. He kept the pace, the eternal, grinding pace. He tightened his other hand where it cradled Hans' stones, a firm, possessive pressure. "Let it come. But slowly. You come slowly. You understand? You don't get to rush this."

It was an impossible command. But Hans nodded, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might break.

Henry saw the moment the wave could no longer be held back. It wasn't a crest. It was a levee breaking from the bottom up. A deep, internal rupture. Hans' stomach hollowed. A soundless scream locked in his throat. His body tightened, every muscle corded, but Henry's hand kept moving, the same steady, slow drag, milking the sensation out into an impossible length.

The first pulse was a long, drawn-out shudder. Henry felt it through his palm, a deep, throbbing clench that seemed to go on for seconds. Nothing spilled. It was all internal, a seismic event held within the skin.

"That's it," Henry whispered, his own voice ragged now. "Slow. Give it to me slow."

The second pulse wracked Hans, bending him. A choked gasp. His release began, not with a spurting rush, but with a thick, hot welling that overflowed Henry's fist, spilling in a slow cascade over his fingers and onto Hans' stomach.

Henry kept stroking, through the third pulse, the fourth, drawing each one out into a separate, endless moment of climax. He was orchestrating the collapse, conducting the ruin. Hans was sobbing openly now, his body convulsing with the prolonged, agonising pleasure, his hand still a vice on Henry's arm, a circuit.

Finally, the pulses gentled, spaced out. Hans went limp, completely spent, his breathing a wrecked, wet sound. Henry slowed his hand to a stop, then stilled. Carefully, Henry removed his finger and wiped the oil onto his hose before moving to lay back beside Hans, carefully pulling the blindfold yet not taking it off fully – leaving it across eyes that would be dazzled.

He held him through the last few tremors, until the sensitivity tipped into true pain and Hans flinched.

Only then did Henry let go.

The silence was immense. Filled only by the ragged symphony of their breathing. Henry looked at his hand, glistening in the firelight. He looked at Hans, destroyed, beautiful, mapped in sweat and spend.

“You okay?” Henry asked,

“mm – Imm fine.” Hans slurred, the blindfold finally sliding from his skin. He blinked up at Henry who brought his hand to his own mouth, never breaking Hans' gaze. He licked his palm, his fingers, cleaning them slowly. The taste was salt, bitterness, musk. The taste of Hans. Of the journey.

Hans watched him, his eyes dark and fathomless. He had nothing left. No words, no strength, no restraint. He was a blank parchment.

He lowered his head. His lips hovered a breath from Hans'.

He waited.

“Tell me what you want now,” Henry whispered against his mouth, the words a hot breath shared between them. He didn’t close the distance. He held the space, a charged, aching gap. His own need was a solid, throbbing weight against the rough wool of his hose, pressed against Hans’ thigh.

He didn’t want to scare Hans off. Perhaps this was overstepping but all he could think about was covering the man below him in his spend. His scent.

Hans’ eyes, dark and emptied, searched Henry’s face. His lips parted, but no sound came. His mind was a blank, scorched field. Want was a shapeless, vast thing. He had just been unmade. How could he name a new shape?

Henry waited. The patience was a physical force. He shifted his hips, just slightly, letting Hans feel the hard line of his arousal through the layers of fabric. A reminder. A question.

“I…” Hans’s voice was a ruin. He swallowed. “I don’t know.” It was the truest thing he’d ever said.

“Yes, you do.” Henry’s hand came up, callused fingers tracing the line of Hans’s jaw. “It’s the first thing. The thing under all the others. Whisper it.”

The command was gentle. Absolute. Hans felt it unlock a box he’d kept buried beneath books and ledgers and the correct posture of a nobleman. He turned his face into Henry’s touch, his stubble scraping against the work-rough skin. He closed his eyes.

“You,” Hans breathed, the word more air than sound. “I want… you. To feel you. Not just your hand.”

Henry went very still above him. The hunger in his eyes deepened, turned molten. “How?”

Hans’ hand, trembling, moved from the mattress.

“Henry, my brain has just been melted, I can barely think...”

Hans found Henry’s hip, curled over the bone. “However you want. Just… let me feel it. The weight. The… the reality of you.”

A low sound rumbled in Henry’s chest. Not a laugh. Something more visceral. He finally closed the breath of space, his lips brushing Hans’ not a kiss, but a promise of one. “My hose are in the way.”

“Then take them off.”

Henry pushed himself up, kneeling over Hans. The sunlight carved the muscles of his shoulders and chest, gleamed on the sweat at the hollow of his throat. His eyes never left Hans’ face as his hands went to the ties at his waist. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. The fabric, rough and worn, loosened.

Hans watched, his own breath catching. This was different. Henry had been a helper, the one with the ideas but now he was revealing himself. The ties gave way. Henry pushed the hose down over his hips, just enough. He freed himself.

Hans’ gaze dropped. Henry was thick, heavy, flushed a deep red and straining upward. A bead of moisture welled at the tip. He was utterly, devastatingly real. Not an instrument of pleasure, but a man, aching.

Henry didn’t move to touch himself. He let Hans look. Let him see the effect he had. “The reality of me,” Henry echoed, his voice gravel. “Is this what you meant?”

Hans could only nod, a slow, dazed movement. He reached out, his fingers stopping a hair’s breadth from the heated skin. He looked up at Henry, a silent plea for permission.

“Go on,” Henry said. “You’re okay.”

Hans’ touch was feather-light, a contrast to Henry’s earlier sure grip. He traced the prominent vein on the underside, felt the powerful throb of Henry’s pulse against his fingertip. He circled the broad head, smearing the wetness. The skin was like silk over iron.

Henry hissed, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk. His control, so absolute until now, showed its first crack. He watched Hans’ thin, perfect noble hand on him, his expression one of rapt, agonised fascination.

“You’re so hard,” Hans whispered, awed. He wrapped his fingers around him, a loose imitation of Henry’s grip. He didn’t stroke. He just held, feeling the heat, the weight, the living proof of Henry’s want. It was a profound intimacy, more shocking than anything before.

“For you,” Henry gritted out. “Since I walked in and saw you flushed and desperate.” He lowered himself slowly, bracing his weight on one arm beside Hans’ head. His body hovered over Hans’, not quite touching except where Hans’ hand held him. “You want the weight?”

“Yes.”

Henry settled. The full, solid heat of him pressed along Hans’ side, his thigh slotting between Hans’. The ache of his erection pressed against Hans’ hip. This was it. The reality. The crush of muscle and bone and need. Hans turned his face, burying it against Henry’s shoulder and then further down to his armpit, taking heaving breaths of Henry’s musk. He smelled of sweat, leather, and the sharp, clean scent of his own arousal.

Henry’s mouth found his temple. “Good?”

“Yes.” It was more than good. It was grounding. After the dizzying ascent, this was earth.

Henry was earth.

Henry’s hand slid down Hans’ flank, over the curve of his hip. His touch was different now, possessive, claiming, but with a new, raw tenderness. He gripped Hans’ thigh, hitching it higher over his own. The shift brought their bodies into closer alignment. Henry’s cock, trapped between them, slid against Hans’ stomach, leaving a hot, damp trail.

“I could take you like this,” Henry murmured into his skin, his voice a vibration against Hans’ cheek. “Just like this. Slow. So slow you’d feel every inch for an hour. I’d watch your face the entire time.”

The image seared through Hans’ emptiness, filling him with a fresh, desperate fire. His own spent cock gave a feeble, interested twitch against his thigh. “Henry…”

“I know.” Henry rocked his hips, a slow, grinding roll that made them both gasp. The friction was exquisite, maddening. It wasn’t enough. It was everything. “But not yet. You’re not ready. You’re still soft, still open. I’d ruin you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” Henry kissed him then, finally. It was deep, consuming, a claiming of his mouth as clear as the hand on his thigh. His tongue swept in, tasting, demanding an answer. Hans gave it, meeting him with a surge of helpless hunger. When Henry broke away, they were both breathless. “I care,” he repeated, softer. “This isn’t about ruin. It’s about… duration. For me, too.”

He moved again, his hand leaving Hans’s thigh to slide between their bodies. He took himself in hand, positioning his cock against the crease of Hans’ thigh, near the sensitive, spent flesh of his own. He pressed there, a hot, blunt pressure. Then he began to move.

It was a slow, rhythmic rocking. The slide was slick with Hans’ release and Henry’s own fluid, a wet, intimate sound in the quiet room. Henry’s forehead dropped to Hans’ shoulder, his breath coming in hot gusts. He was fucking the clutch of Hans’ thigh, his movements measured, deliberate, chasing his own pleasure in the same relentless tempo he’d imposed on Hans.

Hans held him, arms wrapping around the broad, straining back. He could feel every muscle working, the bunch and release of Henry’s shoulders. He could feel the tremors of effort beginning in Henry’s arms. He turned his head, his lips against Henry’s ear. “Let go,” he whispered, parroting Henry’s earlier command. “Let it come. But slowly. You don’t get to rush this.”

A ragged laugh, half a sob, broke from Henry. He lifted his head, his eyes wild, his control fraying at the edges. “Bastard.”

“Yes,” Hans laughed, and kissed him.

The kiss broke Henry. His rhythm stuttered, lost its precision. It became raw, needy. His thrusts into the tight, hot space grew more urgent, his breath coming in sharp grunts against Hans’ mouth. “Hans… God…”

Hans murmured, holding him tighter. “I’m here.”

Henry’s body went rigid. A deep, guttural sound was torn from his throat, muffled against Hans’ skin. Hans felt the hot, sudden spill against his thigh and stomach, a flood that seemed to go on and on, pulsing in time with Henry’s shuddering breaths. Henry didn’t cry out. He shook, silently, his entire frame vibrating with the force of a release held back.

He collapsed, his weight a welcome, crushing warmth. They were both slick with sweat and spend, a tangled, breathing mess. The bed frame creaked. Somewhere in the keep below, a bench scraped across the floor.

Henry’s breathing slowly evened. He didn’t move to clean them. He just lay there, his face buried in the crook of Hans’ neck. His hand came up, fingers threading gently through Hans’ fair, damp hair.

The room was very quiet.

The frantic energy that had filled it only minutes earlier had drained away, leaving behind the slow creak of the bed frame settling and the sound of two people trying to catch their breath.

Hans lay flat on his back across the mattress, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting limply across his stomach playing with the wetness across his skin. His hair stuck damply to his temples and collarbone, and the linen beneath him was twisted and half-pulled loose. His skin still held the warmth of exertion, flushed across his chest and throat.

Henry was still on top of him.

Not quite resting, not quite moving away. Just… there.

His forehead rested against Hans’ shoulder, curls sticking slightly to the damp skin there. His breathing was heavy, though already beginning to slow, and one of his hands remained loosely splayed beside Hans’ ribs as if he had forgotten it was there.

For a long moment neither of them said anything.

The silence crept in slowly, filling the space where the urgency had been.

Hans stared at the wooden beams above the bed.

Henry stared at absolutely nothing.

Gradually, awareness returned.

Henry realised he was still lying on top of Hans.

Hans realised Henry was still lying on top of him.

Neither of them moved immediately.

Henry shifted first, but only slightly, the movement cautious, as if even adjusting his weight might somehow make the moment worse. He lifted his head a little, blinking at the bed beside Hans’ shoulder like a man waking up somewhere unfamiliar.

Hans felt the movement and glanced sideways.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Both of them looked away again immediately.

Henry cleared his throat.

Then, with careful deliberation, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and rolled off Hans, settling onto the mattress beside him. The bed dipped and the sheets rustled as he shifted onto his back.

More silence followed.

Hans continued staring at the ceiling.

Henry stared at his hands.

The room felt oddly small now.

Henry flexed his fingers once, then folded them together over his stomach. A faint line appeared between his brows as he tried very hard not to think too loudly.

Hans shifted slightly on the bed beside him, the linen dragging softly across the mattress. The movement drew Henry’s attention for half a second before he looked away again.

They lay like that.

Side by side.

Not touching.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

Hans inhaled slowly.

Henry opened his mouth.

Both of them hesitated.

Hans cleared his throat.

Henry shifted.

The quiet somehow became worse.

Hans rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly as if trying to decide whether speaking would improve things or ruin them entirely.

Henry sat up halfway, then thought better of it and lay back down again.

Another long pause.

Then,

They both spoke at once.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s normally every other day if…”

They both stopped.

Henry turned his head toward Hans.

Hans turned his head toward Henry.

For a moment they simply looked at one another.

Henry frowned slightly.

Hans frowned back.

“What?” Henry said.

“What?” Hans replied.

Henry pushed himself up onto one elbow now, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand. His ears had begun to turn faintly pink.

“I said I’m sorry,” he repeated, a little awkwardly. “That… went further than it should have.”

Hans blinked.

There was a pause while he processed that.

“…what are you talking about?”

Henry gestured vaguely between them, the motion loose and uncertain. The pools of come which glistened on Hans’ skin and the bed beneath.

“That.”

Hans followed the gesture.

His gaze dropped briefly to the tangled sheets.

Then back up to Henry’s face.

“Oh.”

A beat passed.

Then Hans shrugged, the movement lazy and unbothered.

“Well yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I’m not a selfish lover – I cant have people saying I kick people from my bed upon my climax.”

Henry laughed “So its… okay?”

“I normally need to – release pressure - every other day.”

Henry stared at him.

Hans continued staring at the ceiling like a man discussing weather patterns.

“Sometimes more,” he added casually. “If I’m bored.”

Henry blinked.

His brain stalled somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“You’re saying that,” Henry said slowly, “like you’re discussing stable chores.”

Hans turned his head toward him again.

“Well it is rather routine.”

Henry just looked at him.

Hans raised an eyebrow “usually...”

Henry opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again.

“I thought you meant we shouldn’t have…”

“Oh no,” Hans interrupted quickly, waving a dismissive hand.

The gesture was casual, almost lazy.

“That was excellent.”

Henry’s face went red.

Hans watched the colour spread across his ears with quiet interest.

Henry suddenly found the wall extremely fascinating.

Hans tilted his head slightly, studying him.

“…Unless you’re saying you didn’t enjoy it.”

Henry looked back at him immediately.

“I didn’t say that.”

Hans’ mouth twitched.

“I noticed.”

Henry looked away again, rubbing a hand over his face now as if trying to physically erase the situation.

The silence returned, though it felt different this time.

Lighter.

Hans shifted again, stretching slightly against the sheets like a cat in warm sunlight. He folded one arm behind his head and glanced sideways at Henry.

Henry was still staring determinedly at the opposite wall.

Hans smiled faintly.

“So,” he said casually, as if continuing a perfectly ordinary conversation, “if you’re willing to assist again…”

Henry slowly turned his head.

Hans continued.

“…it will likely be required the day after tomorrow.”

Henry stared.

“You’re scheduling this.”

Hans looked mildly offended.

“I’m informing you.”

“That’s scheduling.”

“It’s preparation.”

Henry pushed himself up onto both elbows now, looking down at him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Hans met his gaze calmly.

“And yet,” he said lightly, “you helped.”

Henry opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Hans’ smile widened, a little shy, “You made my brain stop talking. It was – nice.”

Henry fell back onto the mattress with a quiet groan and covered his face with both hands.

Hans watched him for a moment, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Then he settled deeper into the pillows, still smiling faintly at the ceiling.