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Since moving to Rattay, Henry has become familiar with the numerous ways in which the bustling town announces its movements, a living creature as much as the hare that twitches its nose before leaping into the brush. For example, the apple trees losing the last of their red heralds the arrival of fresh pork sausage in the market as the butchers take their first harvest of the season. The loud complaints of back pain from old Patrik across the street heralds the flooding of the ditches when the storm rolls in. And, apparently, Lady Capon's departure for Kunstadt heralds a summons to Rattay Castle within the same day.
Henry sets his hammer on the anvil, followed by his elbows. "And did Lord Capon make it known to you how urgent his matter was?" he asks of Josef, the unfortunate soul sent to play messenger boy between him and Hans today.
Josef, a twig of a lad still too scrawny to swing a proper sword, trembles a little in place. "Very urgent, his lordship said, and he looked serious about it too. I'm worried that…" He trails off, but a nod from Henry gets his tongue to loosen again, albeit at a lower volume. "His lordship must be feeling lonely already, having to see Lady Capon off for so many days," the lad says, and nods to himself with all the affect of a learned and wisened priest.
"Lord Capon won't be lonely," Henry responds wryly, knowing that his smile only serves to confuse the lad. "What of my work orders today? Doesn't he know I have a whole town waiting on me to make nails for them?"
"I, uh, would you like me to run back and ask him that…?"
"No, no," he laughs, "I'll go see what the matter is and take care of it myself, no need to worry. Why don't you run to Vlastislav's and grab some kolaches for you and your ma before he sells out? They're delicious today, all pear."
Josef catches—with both hands clasping together—the groschen that Henry tosses to him and bows. "Thank you, Master Henry! Lord be with you!"
He still has yet to get used to that term. 'Master Henry' this, 'Master Smith' that. Christ, he's way too young to have people bowing their heads to him when he steps out onto the street—and it's hard to separate, too, that title from the way it sounds when pressed into skin by his lord's cheeky grin.
Henry is left alone in his forge, looking down at the cooling axehead beside him. The coals are still hot in the forge. He considers making Hans squirm for it—the sun is still high yet, and he does have plenty of work to get done—but he can't say that he's not getting bored working on axes and horseshoes and nails for the seventh or eighth or ninth day in a row now, the heat of the embers starting to singe and itch at his skin.
The axehead is abandoned to the workbench amongst piles of scrap, and Henry prepares to play wife for the week.
"You'll be in my chambers tonight,"
Lord Capon orders as soon as the door to the great hall closes behind Henry, shutting the ears of his guardsmen out on the other side. Today finds Pashek and Lubos standing in wait, two good fellows.
"What did you do with Hanush?" Henry asks, taking in the empty hall devoid of all but the well-dressed nobleman slinking towards him on sly feet with lecherous hands outstretched.
"I've convinced him that a hike down to Pirkstein will shake off his midday torpor." Hans' fingers are already worming their way under the hem of Henry's tunic and squeezing into the pad of fat at his midriff that he can never seem to work off. "You'll be in my chambers tonight," his lord repeats.
There is no question for either of them. "I will?" Henry responds to the demand, and responds to Hans' peck of a kiss with a raised brow and a chuckle that whistles through his teeth momentarily. "How will my customers find me if I'm here warming your bedsheets? Are you prepared for the complaints you'll be getting when every wheelbarrow and barn from here to Ledetchko breaks down from a dearth of freshly smithed nails?"
"Would you like me to beg?" Hans yanks him in by the hips, breathes into his ear. "Please. Oh, please, Master Henry, please do me the honour of baring your throbbing blacksmith's hammer—"
Henry shoves a palm into Hans' muzzle, he can't listen further—not in the hall where dinners are taken. "Aye, I'll be there. Tonight."
His love laughs and encircles him to take a hug that turns, somehow, into Henry pressed against the carved edge of the dining table. "And tomorrow."
"Tomorrow too? I have work, I'll have you know. Libor is on my case and—"
His ankles are kicked apart. "Work?" Hans drawls, "You think the pittance you make at that forge fixing rusty hoes is work compared to what your lord must suffer? Here I must entertain an entire gaggle of overstuffed nobles tomorrow, and all without my darling wife to soothe my soul with her feminine beauty. My existence is agonizing."
"Arse. I'll throw that sword of yours in the river if you keep that shite up." Henry reaches for the handcrafted longsword curving from Hans' belt, bearing on its hidden blade the mark of M and J.
He is pushed onto his back. "I wish I could have you any time I so desire," says Hans, shadowed above with arms caging Henry in on either side.
"You do have me."
Hans' eyes, darkened to black without sun to light them blue, trace over his face. Then, Hans presses his body in—neither of them hard, but the threat made clear. "Do I have you here?"
"In the great hall, my lord? How scandalous."
"Pashek knows his job." Hans rolls his hips again, and this time Henry is coaxed into drawing one leg further up, though they would both be mad to take their cocks out regardless of the quality of Rattay's guardsmen or the distance of Hans' lady wife from them. Hans knows this as well, and settles for another kiss. "Tomorrow?" he asks again. "Must I get down on my knees? Lower myself to lick a commoner's boots?"
"Oh please, don't sound too excited at the thought," Henry snorts. "You really want me to lie about in your chambers all tomorrow while you conduct your noble business? For what exactly, to be some sort of well-kept lapdog waiting around for his owner to return?"
Henry knows he's in trouble when the sarcastic remark gets a sharp grin to curl over Hans' face instead. "That could be fun, couldn't it? You'd be so close, we could fuck between meetings. At least it'd give me something to look forward to."
"As if you have the stamina. Two rounds and you'll be complaining about your thigh again!"
"How old do you think me?" Hans gasps, offended. "I can please you any time—" he grinds forward, "—of any day."
"Sure you can," Henry says, breath already coming out hotter at the thought of Hans' thick length inside him. "Kurva. Libor can wait a day for me to serve the nobility."
"That's right." Matter thoroughly settled in Hans' favour, as they usually did, he decides to pinch Henry's cheek to signal a change in topic. "I see you've still forgotten to take care of this fuzzy mold residing on your face, Hal."
They had both ended up, without agreement, in a competition over who could grow better facial hair, after Henry tried to make a short beard stick one week and lied to Hans that he had simply forgotten to shave. It was a work in progress.
"And you've forgotten to call the knacker for that dead rat on your lip," Henry laughs, poking at the light brown moustache that follows the curve of Hans' pout.
"Jitka says it makes me look sharp."
"You believed her?"
"Henry."
"Honza."
Hans wrestles him with moustache-tickly kisses across the oak, candleware and tablecloth and limbs knocked askew, until a firm rap on the door announces the need for Hans' attention, and with it, the both of them back on their feet tugging wrinkles out of each other's clothing to get to a presentable state.
"Enter!" Hans calls out once they're sufficiently tidied.
Guard Pashek steps into the hall and bows. "Lord Frederick's retinue has been spotted in the distance, sir. They may be riding up to the gates as we speak."
Hans pinches his eyes shut in frustration. "Fuck me," he mutters to himself.
"Later tonight," Henry mutters lower, just to be a prick about it.
"Can a man have no peace around here? Not one minute to catch up with his good old friend?" Hans accuses of Pashek, who, being familiar with his sense of humour, only shrugs. "Damn it all! Well, Hal, looks like my duties of playing jester start early. I'll have to see you later—you know where." The last part is whispered to him.
Henry sees him off to the gate, and jogs back down to the forge afterward to finish off whatever he can muster on the dying embers. Though they both keep their personal space, Hans means it when he asks for Henry's time, and so Henry expects to be thoroughly occupied for the near future—not to mention, at the very least, sleeping in Rattay Castle until Lady Jitka returns. She does not make a fuss about Hans' favouritism towards a male commoner in exchange for all the freedom that Hans allows her, but it still prickles at Henry to lie down in that bed while Hans' wife sleeps only an adjoining door over with her own servants: an identical arrangement of bodies, yet only one morbidly illicit.
He sweats out the burning heat until the sun starts to fall, occasionally heading to the front of the shop to chatter with those stopping by. Rattay is not nearly as large as Kuttenberg was, yet Henry has found that he does not mind the simplicity of it. Everyone knows him, and he knows everyone. Very few know his heart, but that works for him. It is not as good a heart as many would believe.
Hans would prefer for them to have supper in his chambers, but Henry has yet to see Sir Frederick's party emerge from Pirkstein, which means that Hans is likely still caught up in in his role as good host and will be for some time. He sups on fresh bread and a bowl of stew from the neighbors instead, musing over a metalworking schematic he obtained some months back that still presents a perplexing puzzle to him.
The room and its four-poster bed is still empty when Henry finally makes his way up to the castle after sunset, tentatively peeking in at first to check if Hans had somehow returned without him noticing the bustle on the main road. He does, for one moment while undressing to sit down on the cool and foreign silk, feel like a wife waiting for her husband to come back from abroad—but just as quickly shakes the thought from his head and pulls out the potion he had brewed after supper, along with a quill and slip of paper stolen from Hans' drawers.
Any time, Henry writes slowly, so as to not have Hans laugh at him again for another backwards letter. I'm being generus and giving you the full day. Drink in the morning for stamina.
The vial and note are placed on the nightstand on the side that Hans likes to sleep on, and Henry crawls into the other side, burrowing deep and curling up. On second thought, he shifts onto his belly in the middle of the bed and splays his arms and legs out wide to warm the covers as much as possible before Hans gets there—then laughs at himself, cheek pressed into plush pillow, imagining the look of bemusement that Hans will pull upon walking into the room.
He is roused an indeterminable amount of time later by the click of the door and the depression in the mattress when Hans' familiar weight climbs gently onto it. Henry yawns and scrubs at his own cheek, attempting to get himself awake enough to follow up on the playful rutting that took place earlier. Hans, however, does not share the same plans, and instead lies quietly at his side, pulling Henry with one arm into a hold that has him ready to drift off again.
"I missed you," Hans whispers into his neck, barely louder than the wind blowing against the windowpane.
Henry finds the shape of his wrist, the line of his veins. "I know. I missed you too."
"So much, Hal."
"I know." He pulls Hans' hand up to his face and kisses each fingertip one by one, until taking the tip of the pinky between his lips and hearing a lovely huff escape from Hans. Henry clasps their hands together over his chest. "I love you."
"As do I. For all the stars in the sky, and all the drops of rain in the rivers." Hans' knees, unclothed, go knocking into his. "For all the, the harts and hinds galloping through the woodlands."
"That's a new one," Henry murmurs.
"Can't have you getting used to me." He yawns. "I'm sorry. I thought we could—" Another yawn splits his voice, and cuts off the shuffling attempt to bring their groins together as Hans' entire body arches with his exhaustion, arm shivering under Henry's. He slumps down afterward. "I'm beat."
Henry turns to trade a lazy kiss with him, humming low in his throat. No words are exchanged after that, only unhurried touches under the blankets that trail off as they both drift asleep, their bodies finding each other as if they had never been apart.
Hour one.
The best part of sleeping with Hans is, in Henry's opinion, waking up with him in the morning. Partly because Hans is the only person that he can even trust enough to sleep right next to despite his night terrors and kicking and cold sweats, and partly because it's rarer even than falling asleep together, given that they both have busy schedules and often have to leave the other clinging to the sheets in protest.
Hans is not shy about touch, never has been even back when they were friends in the way that two men should be, not friends in the way that they are now. He pulls Henry to him by the shoulders and crows into his ear with that drunken squawk he calls singing, and slaps him on the arse as they get changed for combat practice. In the mornings, his hands wander everywhere they can before words can even form in Henry's drowsy mind again, taking as much as possible, drinking his fill in the time that they have.
Usually embarrassingly ticklish there, the remnants of sleep numb Henry's skin enough that he doesn't feel the need to squirm away when fingers dance up his sides and along his underarms. Hans is more awake than he is.
Henry grumbles out a, "Mornin'," and swats away the hand that tries to pinch at his beard again. He motions to the bedside table before Hans can get them too worked up.
Hans picks up the vial. "What's this?"
"Buck's blood, I'm trying something new with the recipe."
"Smells off," Hans says, his stately nose wrinkling. The note is read. "Any time, eh?"
"For today, aye," Henry responds, rolling onto his side. "I cleared my schedule for you."
"This doesn't say today. It says a full day."
"That's the same thing."
The blanket falls down around Hans' hips as he sits up over Henry, grinning. "A full day is twenty-four hours, Hal. This—" he waves the note around, "—says any time until this time tomorrow."
"I hate it when you get pedantic," Henry groans.
"And 'generous' is spelled R-O-U—"
Henry laughs and kicks him. "Want to fuck me in my sleep that badly? You can try." He grabs for the potion and tussles with Hans until able to pin him down between his legs, holding Hans' jaw open in one hand while the other flicks open the stopper. "You're not even lasting to twenty-four hours without this. Open up, Birdie."
Cornflower-blue eyes glare at him from under wheat chaff strands. Hans' wet tongue pushes out to receive the thick liquid, and does not bark a word of complaint even as his entire face is taken by a splotchy red that creeps down his naked chest in response. He swallows, taking three gulps to finish the vial, and two more to clear the bitter taste from his tongue, scowling and spitting. Ever the picky eater, Henry's lord.
Once it's finished, Henry tosses the thing aside and follows the red of Hans' skin down to his collarbones with his lips. "How much time do you have this morning?" he asks.
"Enough to give you a taste of what's to come later," Hans answers smugly.
Henry is pulled upwards in Hans' lap by two strong hands on his arse—the intent is obvious. He shifts around to measure his situation and decides that yes, he can take Hans in him now. Lucky for them both.
After having had sex with Hans for a while and getting to try out all the number of ways in which two men fit together that their creative minds have managed to think up, Henry has learned that he doesn't mind any which way they do it as long as it's the two of them. He could probably have sex with Hans while dangling from the side of a barn, somehow. So Hans' moods usually determine what they do, unless Henry is in a mood to fuck with Hans in turn and keep him from what he wants. His friend complains loudly those times, but Henry knows the challenge exhilarates him.
It takes no time at all for Hans to be satisfied with the give around his fingers and line himself up, oiled cock dragging over skin. Arousal, nowadays, gets Henry's arse and taint to tingle in ways that it never had done before Hans—only more proof of all the ways in which they had been made for each other.
They both exhale when Hans slips in. It's barbaric, how Hans inside him feels so right, so correct in the slick heft that pushes and demands his pleasure, demands that filling, limb-shaking pressure that is for Hans and Hans alone. Henry doesn't feel open when stretched around the girth of Hans' cock the same way he does on his fingers—no, he feels completed.
The gentle rocking brushes away the last of Henry's dreams like a shopkeeper's broom sweeps away cobwebs, in and out, in and out. Hans rolls them over and holds Henry where his legs come up around his waist, head hanging low as he mumbles little bits of affection, voice turned vulnerable by the rising sun and the time spent apart. Henry catches more than one Missed you—he'll come by in the evenings more, make sure no customer distracts him. He'll weather Lady Jitka's gaze to keep Hans warm through the chill of night.
Rocking turns soon into thrusting, then into f-fuck and Hans and sparks on his tongue and more, more, more. They don't hurry, but they don't drag it out either, and already the thought of doing this again later has Henry gasping and his spine bowing to meet all of Hans' movements with his own.
He knows Hans' habits as well as he knows the town's. The way his words first stutter and catch in his throat, crushed under the swell of impending release, then how his nose scrunches and his teeth clench together, holding desperately on to pull some last few, frantic seconds out of his straining cock for Henry's sake, until, finally, his arms shake and slacken from the snapped tension, along with a bestial noise as he burrows himself deep. Henry invites him in, allows himself to tip over as well on every squeeze around his love.
Sparrows twitter outside while Hans lies on his chest, spent. He feels the urge to succumb to sleep again with Hans still inside him, but instead nudges him with a heel, drawing out a stubborn groan.
"Hal," Hans starts, then chokes and wiggles out of him when Henry clenches once just to hear the gasp he makes. "Hal. Kurva—have they changed the guard yet?" An elbow smacks Henry in the chest as Hans clambers off him to get to the window, which is thrown open for him to stick his wild bedhead out of, squinting into the light. "Oh, you've got to—Bernard! Bernard!" He curses under his breath when Bernard, presumably, does not look up at him.
"Do you want to bring the whole castle running to this room?" Henry complains, very unwilling to trade his comfortable and well-fucked position for a dash to cram himself into the wardrobe.
"He can't put those two on the same shift together!" An outstretched arm waves to accentuate Hans' displeasure, until it drops along with the pinch in his brow. He smiles at Henry, flitting from one mood to the next easily. "Breakfast?"
They take breakfast in Hans' room. That is, Henry takes breakfast, and Hans takes nibbles of Henry's food when Henry pretends he isn't looking. It's a long-standing tradition between them, starting from all the way back when Henry'd gotten dragged into Jan Zizka's mess and they'd been sharing that dingy inn room. Henry breaks his fast early because he needs the energy, and Hans, preferring to wait until food is served late in the morning, needles at him for his gluttony and laziness. Yet he always has the servants bring a tray to his chambers while Henry is there in the mornings, and loves to rub his palms and his face and his prick on Henry's slight paunch, despite what his words say.
Hour four.
Abandoned to his own devices so that Hans can go work his charm on the Lords of Leipa's esteemed guests until noontime, Henry busies himself by taking stock of everything on the desk, then every article of clothing in Hans' chests—it's all largely as it was the last time he was in here, save for the scrawled contents of Hans' discarded notes. He did promise Hans that he would be in the room all day—or did he? Henry remembers Hans saying so, but does not remember any promise leaving his own lips. Surely Hans, who is stuck in a meeting and probably not even thinking of him, would not mind if Henry took a quick walk around outside. He's bored.
Henry does his due diligence and stops by the main hall first. The door is closed shut, boisterous voices sound out from inside, and the guardsman informs him that it does not seem like the lords' meeting will be ending any time soon. So, Henry decides it safe to stretch his legs.
He heads down to the market in the square. Marta's toddler is walking on his own now, she says to him, and did he hear about the dance happening next week? (He did, everyone did.) Henry nods and chuckles appropriately and makes sufficiently ambiguous noises when told about all the single daughters who will be looking for a handsome craftsman like himself to dance with there. He will be there regardless, for reasons other than dancing with the butcher's daughter, but today he pays for a fist of wormwood and some pressed-dry chamomile to replenish his alchemy stocks and kitchen cabinet in turn.
It is when he is puttering around the forge out back, looking for an engraving project that he can take back to the castle with him, that Henry is suddenly attacked from behind by a tall blond blur all desperate and rough and shoving him against the brick of the—thankfully, cool—forge.
"Jesus!" Henry exclaims as he tries to turn in place, which is difficult with a grown man's body pinning him down. "Hans!? What the fuck are you doing here?"
"What the fuck did you feed me earlier!?" hisses Hans right up against his ear, voice audibly fraying. "I haven't been able to think about anything other than fucking you this entire goddamn morning!"
"I'm flattered, but—"
Henry's attempt at a joke is punched out of him when Hans wrenches him upright and throws him over the anvil, the solid iron slamming into his chest painfully. "This, Henry, do you fucking feel this?" Steel-firmness presses up against the cleft of Henry's arse, himself stuck between an anvil and a hard place. "This! Has! Been torturing me!" Hans pauses in his frantic thrusts and lets out a strangled grunt. "I need you now pleasepleaseplease—"
Henry can't believe this, but his fingers curl into the anvil's metal instead of shoving Hans off of him. It must be the blood rushing to his upside-down head that's making him all woozy and compliant. "Not—in—the forge!" he tries to say, both to remind himself and Hans, who is currently trying to pull Henry's braies down under his arse but forgetting that a tie needs untying first, making the band of it dig into his hips.
"You said any time!"
"I'm amending it! Any time except for when we're in a spot where, oh, any-fucking-body could decide to stop by to talk to me, maybe!?"
There's a sound that Henry would call a whimper but that Hans would choke him for making fun of, and then the braies are let go, but the man around his back continues to hump pitifully. "Why doesn't your damned forge have walls? What cretin of a lord approved this half-finished construction?"
"If it had walls, I'd cook alive from the heat. Hans—" Henry warns, and again, "Hans!" when Hans doesn't stop pressing him down, doesn't let up when Henry tries to kick out behind him.
Hans has taught him a word before, vertigo, for this mind-loosening dizziness that lulls the limbs into a false sense of agency one doesn't realize is there until a step lands too far to the left, like drinking a few without the memory of it. He doesn't know if vertigo applies to being bent upside-down and soaked in the pounding of his heart, but it still feels much the same as being hugged from behind with enough force to push him, laughing and flailing, forward enough to observe the terrifying stretch of stonework sprouting from the rocks below to himself teetering at the top of Rattay's wall, held in place only by the same soul that insists on putting him there.
But it must, it must, describe the way his spinning skull loses grasp on all thoughts when he is hauled by the collar up onto his feet, caught around the vulnerable soft of his gut by his lord's other arm. This is why Henry's heart will never flutter when he dances with a sweet village-reared girl—because he's been spoiled, thoroughly, on the way Hans commands him in both body and spirit, allows him to struggle yet yanks them both through the back door of Henry's abode all the same, dancing with the same ferocity that comes out when their blades ring against each other. He bites, ignores the clutter strewn around the place in favor of grinding Henry against the wall, cries out again when Henry grips him through his clothing.
Henry makes it easier on Hans this time by untying his braies himself. The fabric is immediately shoved down his thighs and he turns himself around, bracing his head on a forearm while waiting for Hans to gather his spit.
The faint smack of tongue stops after a couple tries and Hans grunts, "Mouth dry," before holding his palm under Henry's chin instead, cupping it.
"Just go then. Your come is still inside," Henry mumbles, not yet aroused enough to say these things without his face burning, but Hans' palm muffles the last word when it clamps over Henry's jaw and squeezes until he groans and opens up.
Saliva puddles under his tongue, his obedience-trained way of getting wet like a cunt would. He pushes it out, licking salt off Hans' callouses in the process, ending on a proper wad as the hand pulls away and smears some of the dribbling moisture down his chin, satisfied with its prize.
Hans' cock pushes at his entrance without warning right after, trusting implicitly that Henry is still relaxed enough to receive him—and he is, always, already starting to ache for it in fact even though his own prick has yet to stand. He spreads his legs, plants his feet, arches back and grips Hans to him when they are joined.
"Oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck," Hans starts praying as rapidly as the slam of his hips, "I need to be very fast, they're waiting for me—"
"Waiting for you!?" Henry exclaims, "sakra, don't tell me that—"
"They think I'm on the privy, oh Hal you feel so so sososo good is it insane that I think I'm burning do I seem hot to you?"
"Hans!" His grunt is more out of aggravation than anything, but it doubles as a plea for the sparks that trickle up his spine. "Christ no you seem fine—no you're not fine, it wasn't supposed to do more than keep your energy up—" He breaks into a rough moan when one of Hans' thrusts knocks his chest into the wall, then says, "Alright, fast, I got you, I got you," and he tightens as much as he can for whatever it's worth, pinching more ragged sounds from Hans.
"I spent too fucking long trying to find you, oh I couldn't hear a single word coming from that man's goatee, all I could think about was you, and your thighs, and your chest, and your smile and your beard and how much I need you, so much that I get ill with it at night—"
He's desperate and unrestrained, and Henry knows that without the oil he'll feel this all again the next time Hans takes him, which may be worryingly soon. He thinks of a meeting hall full of nobles waiting in politely contained confusion over mulled wine for their host to return, thinks of a guard being sent to find the misplaced lord and seeing only an empty privy, then thinks of the list of the ingredients he'd put in the potion to distract himself from the utter terror of the idea of Hans being found here and grabs himself to attempt to lose sanity the same way Hans already has, all babbling melting words against the nape of his neck.
It has maybe been too long since they last did it rough like this, for when they have to be quick they kiss with violence and hands stripping their cocks, and when they get to be slow they come together with warmth blooming behind their ribs and forehead meeting forehead, lips forming around words too tender to give voice to. Hans' fingers claw bruises into his hipbones instead of petting his hair. Henry's spine shakes, his cheekbone scrapes against cool stone, and now he is feeling the building pressure for every sticky-wet fuck into him.
He tries to shift a thigh upwards to get Hans in closer—too quick, Hans slips out and drags wetness under his arsecheek on the next thrust and groans. They both fumble to get his cock back in, laughing: Henry with some humour and Hans with only edging despair.
"Getting close yet?" Henry gasps out, still uncomfortably too aware of the draining hourglass that spells a guard getting sent out to the town. He isn't—close, that is, but it's not about him.
"Almost, almost," is what he gets in return, and Hans clutches him tighter while lust-drunk nonsense spills from his lips. "I should put you in a leash, keep you on hand so you can't run off again," he says on one of his flights of fancy, "my, my, my Hal, all mine…"
"All yours," Henry says if only to help get Hans to the edge faster, though he may as well be Hans' to own how he rolls his hips to chase the raw drag along his insides without a second thought.
Hans responds with a high noise, pushed out from behind the teeth biting into Henry's skin. He speeds up impossibly so, claws at Henry's clothing, makes the grunts he makes when about to tip over and adds them to the slapslapslap that Henry feels louder than he hears.
And then, with a shuddering gasp that shocks through them both, Hans stills and his surging heat joins what had been left inside Henry already, and Henry turns his own strokes into a too-sharp too-rapid tugging over the head, eager to spend while Hans is still buried within him, eager to feel that crashing squeeze as he comes. He's nearly there, Hans remaining in place, and then, and then…
And then Hans laughs madly and thrusts again, not having flagged. "What the fuck?" he gasps, "What enchantment did you place on my cock?"
Henry didn't wait long enough. He doesn't have the presence of mind to curse himself for it just yet, it's too late, the shove into the softest aching part of his insides builds the flaming pyre too-too-too high and all at once he's wracked by his own release, seed splattering onto the brick and stray tools and sacks and all the other refuse filling his workshop.
Hans is heaving for air, sounding nearly tortured about it, but he doesn't slow. He doesn't slow even when Henry cries out and shifts his shaking legs to try and remain upright, grappling for purchase against the wall, hanging on like he's riding a bucking stallion too wild to take commands, like he'll be trampled under hoof if he slips even an inch. "I've got you, I've got you, I've got you," he promises with his own sweat clinging to the tip of his nose, even though he can hardly feel his own tongue anymore, still overwhelmed by every lingering flash of release that Hans insists on wresting out of him. It's absolutely filthy, this slickness that drips out of him now and eases the way for Hans' beating—he would feel shame if he were still capable of it, but for now he only feels possessed.
It takes slightly shorter before Hans is spilling over for the second time, yet long enough that the aching pleasure in Henry's spine and gut begins to tinge with pain by the end of it. He's as patient as he ever is with Hans—that is to say, allows him to do whatever he wants, he always will, but can't help himself from biting out "Faster, go faster," and "We don't have much time, finish already," which normally he would worry comes out with a bit too much meanness, but currently he is pretty sure that Hans does not hear a single word of.
Fortunately, it seems like Hans is done now. "Christ on a carriage, that nearly hurt," he exhales, yanking his hosen back up and making a face when he has to tuck his still-plump cock away.
"I'm so sorry, I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to experiment with the formula today, are you alright?" Henry asks, worrying over the disarray of Hans' hair. "Go back to your meeting, I'll run an antidote to you in a short bit, something with bezoar in it to draw the potion out of your blood maybe."
"No, it's—" Hans' cheeks are flushed poppy red, and he cracks into a brilliant smile, the one that Henry is weak for. "Amazing, I felt amazing. Hurts in a good way, like—you know."
"Ah."
Henry knows. He pinches Hans' cheek above the bristle of his stubble and pulls, making his friend laugh and bat him away and kiss him with the red mark still sticking on his face, so utterly young.
Hour seven.
He stays in the room after that. Hans says he should join them in the hall for the noontime banquet, that he won't even mention Henry's father if Henry doesn't want the attention, that he has as much a right to be there regardless as one of Rattay's best artisans—but Henry turns him down and benefits all the same by getting to take a platter of all of his favourites to enjoy in Hans' chambers instead. His clothes are quick to come off once he's alone and he debates cleaning himself up some—then forgets entirely after he finds too much enjoyment in pressing his fingers into the squelching mess between his thighs.
The turn of key in lock jolts him awake from a catnap. At once he's angling his hips toward the door and spreading his legs up, biting the nervous smile on his face as he waits for Hans to notice him.
Hans, however, seems to have other matters on his mind, and he's already launched into a rant about the visiting Sir Frederick and his arrogant monied arse, and the way Hanush and the others won't agree on a single fucking thing, like I'm not even present, and did he mention how the only thing they care about is filling their own coffers? as he unbuttons the bottom of his pourpoint, scowl lines deepening on either side of his moustache. He does break into a laugh when he sees Henry's—frankly, wanton—position on the bed, and shoves his waistband down as he comes over.
"I have a better idea. Open up," he says, and then he is bracing one knee on the mattress beside Henry's face to force his stiffening cock into him with all the bitter anger carried for another.
They don't know why, but only Henry can do this well. Hans, when Henry holds him down and pushes in between his lips until he's bright scorching red and looking indignant and so so handsome, will gag and cough and retch until his entire body shakes if Henry goes too far, though he'll pounce back on it within the next heartbeat only to choke and heave again, tears streaming. He says he likes it, but Henry is a worrier and too frequently annoys Hans with his questions and care until Hans gives up and they do something gentler. Henry has tried to guide him through it, to tell him to relax and manage his breath, but Hans, he knows, is easily pissed off and takes it as too much of a challenge, which only results in him nursing a sore throat later like a child with a skinned knee.
He inhales right before Hans' length clogs up the air to his lungs, right before his nose and chin are shoved into curly hairs and bunched-up linen. A wave of instinctive nonono has his throat convulsing to get it out, but Hans grips him by the hair and holds fast while Henry forms his tongue and his lips and the choke of his throat around his lord, insides of his cheeks starting to water hot in response.
Firm thigh muscle claps over his ear and blots the sound of Hans speaking off into the distance. He always rambles when he fucks Henry's throat, about everything from how good Henry feels to all his idealistic dreams for the future and sometimes You like that, don't you? and Take it deeper, which Henry finds undeniably absurd but cannot protest in his position. Today, Hans has decided to start in on an account of everything that's ticked him off since before Lord Frederick's men arrived—not that Henry can hear most of it with his blood pounding in his ears like so, and as far as he's concerned his only job is to hang his jaw open and survive.
Drool is spilling out the side of his mouth when Henry finally manages to get a grasp on Hans' arse in between all the motion and the stars in his skull, and he pulls, using the weight under his palms to ground him through the blind vertigo. Without letting go of his bucking prize, he slides his fingertips back behind Hans—waiting for Hans to respond with a groan of encouragement before pressing further against his rim, skin soft like his lips and slightly damp from the sweat of the day.
Henry intends only to rub around teasingly, but something stops him. Hans is loose.
The surprise causes him to shake his head and pull back until he can spit out Hans' cock, coughing and clearing the phlegm from his airways and blink the tears from his eyes, turning aside to gasp until he can feel his thoughts again. "Did you—" he starts, but his voice comes out a croak so he ends with a grunt that he hopes sounds questioning enough.
"Hn?" Hans says. He's looking down like he's confused as to why they stopped, blacks of his eyes blown out wide.
Henry curls a finger in. Despite the friction from the lack of oil, Hans opens with ease, as supple as if he'd been taken recently.
"Oh. Oh that feels nice, another," Hans breathes out, responding to his touch with a roll of the hips that bumps his wet cock into Henry's cheek. Henry pulls his hand back—getting a disappointed hiss from Hans, who enjoys the burn too much—to spit into his palm and spread it around, then he returns, pushing a finger all the way in.
Hans' body forgets that this is possible. If they've not done it in a while it'll be a slow process, and Henry has had to learn the hard way that when Hans says he's ready, he can't be trusted. Now he gives way without any resistance, panting and thigh muscles jumping, and Henry can feel that he'll accept another—a third, even, once that goes in as well.
"Hal, please, Hal," Hans is begging, rocking now between Henry's hand and his mouth where he's trying to push his prick in again. "Don't tease me, I'm close…"
Henry, to tease him, sticks his tongue out and licks up the taste of Hans beading at the tip of his cock, before opening his jaw again.
It's no less rough when Hans enters him this time. He's fraying and near release, and Henry is less pleasuring him with either fingers or tongue than he is hanging on and letting Hans use him. Even if his eyes weren't squinted shut he doesn't think he should be able to see anything, not with how the terrifying pressure is starting to compress his ribcage and skull and beg-beg-beg for a proper lungful. He won't find it though, not until his lord is seen to.
Hans comes and Henry can only feel it in the violent clamp around his fingers and the thighs compressing the sides of his head, can only count the heartbeats until he is finished. His throat begins to burn when Hans draws out, twitching, trailing bitter seed down the flat of his tongue.
Gentle hands settle on either side of his face. "Look at you," Hans whispers over the rattle of Henry's breath, "...my Adonis."
Hans brushes the tears from Henry's eyes until he's composed enough to blink them open again, and the drying mess on his face prickles when they grin at each other's ugly mugs.
Hour eleven.
Henry accepts the invitation that evening to join the nobles on their hunting excursion. It's not truly hunting—not in the couple hours of daylight they have—but that's what they call it, for Sir Frederick is a man who enjoys displaying his marksmanship and Sir Hans is a man who enjoys impressing visitors with the breadth of his lands.
He is introduced to the group as Hans' personal huntsman, which means that nobody takes a second look at him. They may not even remember his face enough to be confused the next time he'll be introduced as Rattay's swordsmith, or Lord Capon's bodyguard, or whatever Hans decides to rope him into in the coming week. Those in the group who do already know him, like Berthold and Bernard, know that Henry doesn't like the attention, so they don't say anything to the contrary as the hunting party heads out.
The group splits in the woods, of course they do. Henry has been anticipating this ever since he was fetched for the outing. Hans hasn't looked behind him once as they journeyed, Henry on foot with the rest of the servants and the hunting dogs on their leashes, yet he can tell from simply the way Hans holds himself in the saddle while talking to the other nobility what he's really thinking of.
Captain Bernard, whose family is connected by a cousin-of-a-wife-of-a-cousin or something like that, takes some of the nobles out east while other men follow with Hans and the master hunter in a group that splits somehow even smaller, until it's only Hans and Henry and Hans' horse, led between them as they head on foot far past where the good hunting is. Their shaken tail won't stay lost forever, but they're practiced at this and know how long they have before they get to return with muddy boots and a wild duck in hand or maybe two, claiming a doe that led them too far off the beaten path.
Hans is done up in wool that hugs all his best angles from his waist to his collarbones, where the hood of his short cloak is turned up to fend off the wind that nips at them. Mischief flares in his eye right before he tackles Henry against a pine.
Over the many months since nearly losing his life falling from that cliff—since Skalitz, even—Henry's body has found all sorts of inventive ways to make him suffer for surviving. The sharp pain in his spine when he stays too late at the forge some nights, or the knot in his shoulder that forms when Hans hasn't massaged it in too long. But he prays that he can have this forever. That Hans, energetic and intense and the epitome of knighthood, will never soften the blows that hit his gut, will never let up when he has Henry by the neck. That he'll never let his foot slip when they're locked arm-in-arm just because he notes the shake in Henry's left arm. That he'll never, ever, think to stop kissing Henry so ferociously that it draws blood.
They twist like fighting foxes in the leaf litter, barrelling over one another as hands end up under clothes and knees get banged sore. Henry lands on top long enough to sniff the musk at Hans' hairline, then is thrown tumbling into a bed of cowleek that crushes underfoot. Hans will win today, because it's his day; Hans will win today, because Henry is clean and sated and lazy from an afternoon of nothing, and is itching to have his skin scorching hot and scraped raw by dirt.
Like any worthwhile prey, however, he must defend himself to the last. He kicks and claws as his tunic is yanked up around his armpits to bare his chest, and laughs too loudly when he's dragged by it across the ground. He can't help it. Hans catches a blow to the ankle and dances around comedically on his other foot, before setting the heel of his boot on Henry's stomach and grinding down hard enough that Henry can feel the spur digging in.
You win, you win, he thinks, delirious from the rush, and says, "You have me," for his clothes are bunched around his neck and arms and his braies are hanging low like a deer strung up by all four limbs, and he's in the mood to get gutted. What will you do with me now? he asks of those cornflower eyes, Which cut of me shall you eat first?
Hans licks blood off his lip. "I seem to have caught myself…the most monstrous little beast," he says, words broken by ragged breath.
"That you have." Now Henry shivers and stretches as Hans' heel starts to drag its way up to his chest, rubbing grit into skin. It stops at his collarbone, sole resting on the fabric tangled around his throat, and Hans, with eyes dark and blank and dazed, tips Henry's chin aside with the tip of his boot.
Henry lets him. He can smell the earth that dirties his beard, feel the pressure keeping him down. He wonders if he looks a fine catch for this hunter, whether his flesh is fattening enough for the banquet table. If he's worthwhile enough for Hans to boast about besting to a hall full of attentive eyes.
"Come on," he finally goads once the blank look has gone on too long, "lay claim to your prize, my lord."
Hans' lip curls into something resembling a sneer and a smirk both. "Claim you?"
The boot leaves Henry's jaw and thuds into the ground instead, and then Hans is loosening his braies far enough to pull out his half-hard cock. His hand tugs slowly—and Henry thinks he knows what's coming, the fool that he is, so he bares his belly and waits to be marked.
The hand pauses at the end of a stroke. "You're mine today, aren't you," Hans says as if a threat, and his nostrils flare like the hound that catches a hare on the wind. Before Henry realizes it, his feet are shifting, planting him into a stance that Henry himself has been innately familiar with his entire life.
"You wouldn't dare," Henry rasps. All of a sudden he's overly aware of the chill in the air that bites his navel and nipples, aware of his arms held above his head. The blue in Hans' eyes is now entirely gone.
"I would."
There should be no reasonable explanation for why Henry feels himself stir in his braies at the commanding note in Hans' voice. There shouldn't be, but he knows himself, and knows how much he desires Hans' masculinity. How his mind has been known to wander—once or twice or thrice—on those times when they relieve themselves in the woods, neither of them polite about it, and how he's never paused to think before taking Hans in his mouth regardless of where they've been. How his mouth waters when he licks down Hans' crack, equally as wanting as it is for any fat-dripping ham roast.
He knows this, and yet it is entirely unreal when it happens. He's unable to break eye contact with Hans and he knows that the longer he goes without rolling away the deeper and deeper he's digging this grave for himself—so he sees Hans' eyes widen at the exact same moment that warmth splashes across his chest, as if it's as much a surprise to Hans himself as it is to Henry.
It's hot. Hotter than seed, as hot as Hans is inside. It's so hot that Henry shivers from the contrast against the cool air and he prickles all over, the sudden thrill of it racing to sharpen all sensation of his cock trapped under clothing. It splatters with force like waterfalls do at their destination, trickles like molten copper down the side of his ribs. Hans is still staring at him, shocked, throat bobbing on a swallow as he continues to mark Henry the way the wolf does its territory.
Then the stream turns into a pitter-pitter-pitter, and then a final drop, and then…
It's over. And piss is cooling in the hollow under Henry's ribcage, and wetness is soaking the back of his braies, and the smell is reaching his nostrils, and his brain is starting to pick up on what had just taken place.
"Fuuuck," he groans. Even the simple act of inhaling is awful now, and he pulls a grimace. "Fuck you, you cunt."
"You didn't say a word to stop me!" Hans accuses, voice rocketing up in pitch. He's fumbling with his pizzle now—hops on his toes to shake it, too, and somehow the last little drop of piss hitting Henry's stomach gets him to start quaking with laughter, which tips Hans over the brink as well.
It is a herculean task to keep Henry hard after that, but Hans is not the one sopping with stench and Henry can see the way his disbelieving gaze keeps returning to Henry's chest, so he bites his lip and spreads his knees until the hand on Hans' prick starts to move again, flicking dampness from the knuckles. It's soaking into his skin the longer that this takes, and Henry already knows that neither of them have brought soap. In a way it feels natural, that Hans' filth should settle down into him, that his stink should seep into his bones until there is no question in anyone's mind who Henry really belongs to, who Hans truly claims.
It's absurd, juvenile, and he can't stop trying to turn away from the salty acrid smell—but God, he rubs his fingertips up the middle of his chest to feel the damp drag under them, and waits for Hans to finish. And when the last thick splash of bitterness hits his face he laughs again, and forces Hans to scrub him tender and pink in the brook after that.
Hour sixteen.
"Twenty this month, or twenty-five next month?"
"Mmh."
"You're right, they need the extra coin after that mouse infestation. Next month it is." Hans scratches his pen over the ledger where he's working through the town finances in his wife's absence, then reaches down and ruffles Henry's hair in absentminded contemplation.
Henry adjusts his tongue and tries to keep his eyelids open. Though Hans is still readily able to get himself hard thanks to the potion lingering in his blood, he seems to be tiring physically from the constant sex, especially this late at night. So they're settled in front of his desk with the fire crackling behind Henry, his knees sunk into a fur as he keeps himself silent on Hans' cock.
A thumb brushes through the hair at his temples. "Then there's the question of what to do about the bakers' ovens…" Hans mutters to himself, and trails off to chew the feather end of the quill. More indistinct mumbling, then he asks, "What do you think?" and Henry responds with another grunt.
Kurva, his mouth is getting all drooly again. He tries to suck up the mess without getting Hans too excited.
"You always know exactly what to say, old pal." A kiss is pressed to the top of his skull.
When Henry is roused from a bout of unconsciousness by a gentle shake on his shoulder, he finds that his jaw is stuck stiff and that he's been leaking saliva down Hans' ballsack in the meantime.
"All done. Let's get you to bed, eh?"
After the candle has been snuffed out and the desk tidied, they climb under blankets that have yet to pick up any warmth. Henry yawns and stretches to fill the space, nudging Hans with his bare foot. "Still nine more hours of this, technically."
"Eight," Hans responds, though he's rubbing his own eyes just to keep them open.
Henry thought he had been counting correctly, but it's possible he misjudged the turn of the hour, all time seemingly melding together after the church bell rings for curfew. It doesn't matter besides, for he will hopefully be asleep through most of it given that Hans is here to calm his worries.
"Eight, then."
"Was only joking about that, Hal," Hans mumbles into his pillow, "Today was…wonderful, actually. Thank you for coming on the ride with us too, I know you don't enjoy being around these pompous arseholes."
"Luckily for you, there's one pompous arsehole I happen to enjoy very much, and he outweighs all other pompous arseholes in my eyes. Even when he gets it in his noble head to whip out his cock and—"
The corner of his pillow is shoved up into his face as Hans groans. "It was madness, I told you. You drive me mad. We'll never do it again—no, don't think you'll give me my comeuppance, I'll slap you if you try."
Henry chuckles and slaps him in the face, just the lightest pat of palm to cheek, which curves into a smile under his touch. For one heartbeat, he's struck by Hans' beauty—a heartbeat that stretches long, something hollow in his chest seizing tighter from it. The spill of his hair over pillow, which Henry selfishly hopes he has witnessed more of than Lady Jitka; his sharp eyebrows and moustache that catch the light from the dying fire and go ruddy from it.
It stills his tongue, and he doesn't know how to explain, so he doesn't. Instead, he reaches under the covers and pushes off his own braies, grabbing it with his toes after to pull the fabric up and out between them, hoping this is enough for Hans to understand. "You still have eight hours," he reiterates.
The braies are taken, Hans' eyebrows raising higher. "If you…if you want me to."
"I do." His words are met with silence, so Henry grows uncomfortable, reconsidering what he's asking for. "…If I do, is that so bad?"
"No. I only—well—your sleep…It took you so long to get used to being next to me, so…" One final swallow, then he says, "Well, alright then," having gone through the entire discussion and come to a conclusion on his own.
"Alright then," Henry echoes. Nervousness jitters through him and he shuffles and grins and hides it in his pillow, already looking forward to waking up with Hans again.
There's something else that happens too, but the memories are blurry and faint from his near-unconscious state, and he's not sure if he even remembers correctly at all. It's like this: At some space in between the real world and reaching dreamland, someone touches his face. If you're still mine for tonight, a voice much like his best friend's says, then…could you…
Hm? Henry tries to say, is unsure if the sound makes it out of him.
Can you tell me you'll stay by my side?
I will, Henry thinks he says, needing to reassure this…this whoever this is. There's nothing more important, he knows.
Until I die?
Until we both die, Henry promises.
Hour twenty-four.
Henry stirs because his blanket is trying to strangle him. It seems to have gotten much thicker, heavier, and hotter during the night, and he tries for a moment to kick it off his back, but fails and accepts his fate.
Then he feels the bluntness demanding entrance at his arse, and he does jerk, only to be caught by the arms wrapped around him.
"Shh shh shh," Hans whispers in his ear, "it's me, it's only me." His cock, slipping from where it had been stretching him, gets ground against his tailbone instead. "Alright? Relax, relax for me…"
"Ah…Honza…"
The silk sheets are warm with them. Henry loosens his limbs into his own imprint, and braces himself.
"Sweet dreams, Hal?" Hans is nudging at his rim again, pressing in slowly. His knuckles brush the inside of Henry's arsecheek, guiding his prick. "Curses, I thought you might be able to stay knocked out at least until I was in. It's so odd to have your finger inside a snoring man, did you know that?"
His cockhead pushes in fully at that, Henry clenching in increments to remember the shape of him. There is a small sting of pain but it's pushed to the background soon, the drag starting to awaken the tingling inside him faster than his prick is to respond.
A short yawn steals Henry's voice before he's able to muddle out some words. "Mgh…slept through a finger? Knew you were lyin' about…pleasin' women…"
"I'm going to pretend you're awake enough to make a joke that's actually funny, and not simply make a fool of yourself," Hans says as he bottoms out. He kisses Henry's neck, and winds their fingers together. "Is this alright?"
"Mm…a'ight," Henry responds, eyelids heavy. His thoughts are trickling slow like honey, still foggy all over like a pleasant dream—a rarity for him, so this must be the real world.
Hans chuckles nervously against him, nearly a giggle, and begins to move, slowly, slowly. "You have a habit of—Oh, Hal…you have a habit of fondling me while you sleep, drives me insane some nights."
"Whuh? No I don'."
"You do," Hans says with a kiss. "For the longest time I was certain you were doing it on purpose, until you muttered something about me being a court jester. It was adorable, and very insulting."
Henry forgets the thread of the argument to the cobwebs of his drowsiness, as sensation crawls up his belly from the inside. It's a bit uncomfortable, unusual without being hard already, but at the same time so much easier to relish when the only thing he can feel is Hans' heft tugging at him, stirring all the right parts of him to awareness. Hans continues to soothe him with little words of care and worry, which Henry can only respond to in the warm breath falling from his lips.
When he feels human enough to string two thoughts together, Henry adjusts the pillow under his face until he's able to turn, catching a glimpse of Hans behind his shoulder. "How long have you been up?" he asks.
Hans leans forward and kisses the side of his mouth, leaving a damp spot there that makes Henry smile. "Since dawn. I was sitting here thinking about what I wanted to do with you."
"Fuckin' my arse, how unusual," Henry chuckles, but he really can't complain.
"I'll aim to be more inventive next time."
It's just like every other morning that he wakes up with Hans, only they've skipped straight to the sex this time. Hans strokes and kisses every inch of his skin like he can't get enough, pets his hair and nibbles his earlobes. It hasn't always been this way, and there was a period of months in which Henry couldn't stop jolting awake if Hans accidentally touched him as they slept—or God forbid, reaching for his dagger whenever he forgot who exactly was in his bed. The fact that he now trusted Hans so deeply, not just in soul but in body as well, to be able to sleep through being touched there at all was a miracle that filled him with warmth from head to toe.
"I love you," he says because the words need to be said, and Hans receives them with a kiss that deepens until it cricks his turned neck.
Hans, in response to Henry's groan of mild bother, guides them to turn until Henry is on his back, his legs folded up for Hans to press in close. Then he's sliding back in so deep that it prods at some small tangle of pain far inside him, a discomfort that he loves because he associates it with Hans alone.
Of the two of them, Hans had been the better at swordplay for quite some time while Henry struggled to learn to wear armour and steal from bandits and keep his head attached to his neck—that was, when the nobleman wasn't complaining about this or that ache to get out of situations he found tedious. Now they're both so familiar with each other to be anything but matched in that aspect, so Hans' skill shines through in other areas—for example, wielding his cock like a weapon crafted personally for Henry's ruining.
Hans would enjoy that comparison too much, which is precisely why Henry would never speak it. But it's hard not to think it when Hans slants his brow and smirks to himself in the exact same way he does when they spar, intensely concentrated on spearing Henry right through his most sensitive spot with every thrust. It's better in this position and Hans is maddeningly aware of this fact, frequently boasts the curve and length and size of his cock until Henry rolls his eyes and shuts him up.
The flame is stoked inside him, and Henry begins to sweat, no longer lazy with sleep. "H-Hans, Hans," he begs, needing to climb up and up and up further. His cock is hard; he squeezes his hand under his bent leg to grab it, to try and get there faster. "Please, more, like that, like that—"
Hans crushes their mouths together until it hurts, breaks with a slick noise so he can pant, "Hal, my love, fuck—you're so beautiful, how are you possible—"
Moan resonating through his chest, Henry grabs Hans by the back of his head and pulls him back down, needing to feel his words, to taste him, to have him at every point. The corner of Hans' mouth points up when Henry's tongue swipes over it, his smile unending.
"Never ever shave this mold of yours," Hans orders in the middle of rubbing his nose down Henry's beard. It gets sucked on, briefly, until Hans loses the focus needed for that and buries his face under Henry's jaw.
"I knew you—I knew you liked it." Henry has to concentrate to get the words out in one piece, for his head is starting to swim away into their rocking waves.
"I do, Christ yeah I do, it gets me hot like nothing else seeing you look so distinguished," Hans stammers. His hips speed up into rough snaps, filling Henry's ears with the sound of their mating. "Now you're supposed to, to say you like mine, say it back."
"I don't know, I'm still deciding," he lies.
"But it's sharp and handsome and makes me look lordly, doesn't it? Doesn't it, Hal?"
Henry pulls him up by the chin and pushes a thumb into his blond moustache, enjoying the broken sound that Hans lets out at that. "I'm ambivalent."
"Don't strain your brain trying to use big words, blacksmith's boy." Hans grunts, head dropping again. "Kurva, I'm close, I'm nearly there, hold on, hold on."
There is just enough energy in Henry's pleasure-weakened frame for him to hook his feet around Hans' back and flip him and his defenseless lord entirely around until Henry is on top, which gets Hans to yelp way too loudly and thrash and go Hal Hal Hal, I need you until Henry is lowering himself down properly, joining them one last time.
"Birdie," he says, holding their foreheads together. "My Birdie."
Hans' breath hitches on a quiet cry and his bucking hips still, every ounce of his climactic joy trembling upwards until Henry can see it twitch through his face, his cheeks, his brow, his fluttering eyelashes. He watches long enough to see that brilliant, dazed blue reappear, then brings himself off with only some hurried tugs, penning the inevitable conclusion to the blind pleasure that had been fucked into him until his toes curled with it.
He keeps their foreheads pressed together, the tip of his nose rubbing into Hans' own. The burning dry heaves of exertion calm into mingling breath between them, and Henry shifts on top of him, finding a more comfortable position for lying down.
"I hope you know that no matter what you look like, you'll always captivate me," he finally says, thumbing a swirl into the light hair on Hans' chest.
His ear is pinched. "Romantic, but entirely unnecessary. Moustache or no moustache, what's your answer?"
"It's as handsome as the rest of you," Henry says, which gets his hair yanked. "Ow! Arse! That was a compliment! Alright, fine." He pecks a quick kiss to Hans' upper lip. "It's fun to kiss, keep it. Even if it does make you come off a bit pretentious."
"You think I look pretentious?" gasps Hans, mock-offended, and he tickles up all the spots along Henry's sides where he's unfortunately vulnerable to noble fingers, until Henry is cursing and laughing and shaking for an entirely different reason than bodily pleasure.
It seems that Hans has managed to beg off morning duties until later for no guardsman comes to knock on his door afterward, and Henry knows that he should head back to the forge soon but he can't be arsed to leave his wonderfully comfortable Hans-shaped pillow. No more sex today, please, Hans declares, and Henry says, We're in agreement there. So they lie watching the square of sunlight from the window make its crawling journey across the bedroom wall, until the need to take care of human functions outweighs the sloth that calls them to stay in bed, and they push each other up onto their feet, ready for another day to start anew.