Chapter Text
“Insatiable.”
Hans often used the word to describe Henry. He would murmur it against his jawline in the dark, teasing, when Henry’s hands refused to still even after their bodies had already shuddered apart.
“Insatiable.”
And Henry knew it was true. He could not help himself. From the first time he woke as a youth in Skalitz, stiff and aching, sneaking into the hayloft while his parents still slept, the hunger had been there, an itch beneath his skin that no single release ever seemed to soothe. Even with Mathias, those fumbling nights of ale and discovery, it had been Henry who remained restless. While his friend softened and rolled away with a sigh, Henry stayed hard, chasing himself to climax again and again until exhaustion at last dragged him under.
When he began courting Bianca, it had been a blessed relief. No more furtive groping in the shadows of barns, no more shame-quickened fumblings. She welcomed him as much as he her. Ravenous in equal measure, laughter tumbling from her lips as often as moans. They spent whole nights in her bed, tangled until dawn, reaching peaks more times than Henry dared count. Even in hurried moments, she was his as wholly as he was hers. In the tavern’s pantry, he’d bend her over a chest, her skirts gathered in her fists. In the shed, he’d press her to the wall, her legs tightening around his waist as she urged him on. At night, when the craving gnawed sharpest, he would climb to her loft, lift the blanket from her shoulders, and she would greet him with a drowsy laugh that melted into a gasp as he pressed inside.
She gave him something rare, precious in its silent permission. The unspoken promise that he might take his pleasure whenever the need struck, and she would meet him there, eager, pliant, delighting as much in being used as he did in using her.
It had been, to Henry, a perfect arrangement. A bond not just of flesh, but of trust and appetite. One he mourned as fiercely as he mourned the girl herself. The ring she had worn still weighed heavy in his pouch, its dull metal a reminder of both her laughter and her absence. Sometimes, turning it between his fingers in the dark, it felt heavier than his sword.
After Skalitz, he sought comfort where he could. With Theresa, it was tenderness he found, not fire. Her touch was warm, her body familiar, but there were shadows in it that neither of them could banish. Their joining was not born of hunger, but of grief of two wounded souls reaching for one another in the ashes of their losses. For a time it soothed him, dulled the edge of his ache. But when they parted, it was with a hollow pang. They promised friendship, even permission to return to one another if the need struck, yet Henry left her bed emptier than he had entered it. What balm there had been faded quickly.
Later, at Trosky, then in Kuttenberg, he did not bother to seek attachment. He knew it would not last. Though willing bodies were easy to find. The Black Knight had answered a smile with a rough tumble. The bathhouse girls laughed and took his coin, giving him skilled hands and practiced mouths, easing his need for blissful moment. But afterward he would lie staring at the ceiling, wrung out, the ache still gnawing. None of them offered what he craved.
So he resigned himself to it. Told himself it was folly to mourn not just a woman, but the shape of their arrangement. He clenched his jaw and made peace with whatever comforts he could scrape together, whether from coin, chance, or his own hand.
And yet, when Hans surged up to kiss him before he departed Suchdol, lips fierce and desperate, the thought returned like a blade drawn from the scabbard. Sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.
The weeks that followed at the Devil’s Den were thick with idleness and wine. Too many hours to think, too many shadows to fill. Yet they had each other, and that was no small thing. A shared room. Shared beds. Stolen moments when no one lingered near the door. Hans was willing, pliant, eager in his way, but like Mathias before him, Hans was satisfied with a single crest, sinking into the mattress soft and drowsy, unaware that Henry still throbbed with need beside him.
Henry told himself it was enough. More than enough, to have someone who gave not only their body but their laughter, their sharp wit, their stubborn heart. To have Hans, at all, was a gift he never would have dared pray for.
But still, at night, when Hans slept spent and Henry rolled onto his side, he pressed his cock into his palm in silence, shame burning in his throat. He spilled quietly, staring at the dark wall or the ceiling beams.
It became a ritual of sorts, one Henry despised and yet could not resist. A secret release in the hours when Hans’ breathing had gone soft and steady, when his lord’s body was warm but out of reach.
“Insatiable.”
The tavern had gone quiet some hours ago, the din of voices fading into sounds of chirping insects and rustling of the horses in the stable. The muted crackle of the hearth and the muffled snores of other men through the walls reminded them where they lay. Their room was cloaked in shadow, the shutters drawn tight, the air heavy with sweat and ale.
Hans was warm and soft beneath him, his skin flushed from wine and their recent exertion, mouth slack with the beginnings of sleep.
Henry, though, could not still himself. His chest pressed against Hans', lips grazing along his jaw, hips working almost unconsciously against the mattress. The ache in him lingered sharp and insistent, that restless hunger that never seemed to leave him.
A shift of his hips dragged the head of his cock across the inside of Hans' thigh. Slickness smeared heat against soft skin.
Hans gave a startled laugh, muffled into Henry’s neck. He tugged him closer by the nape, breathed the word into his jawline like a kiss.
“Insatiable.”
His free hand wandered lazily down Henry’s stomach until it found what strained below, fingers curling loosely around the leaking length. His grip was slow, softened by drink and drowsiness, not the firm touch Henry’s body craved, but welcome all the same.
Henry groaned into the pillow and pressed a kiss to Hans' temple. “Always am for you, my love,” he whispered back, voice thick with heat.
Hans huffed, eyes still closed, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “How could you not, with the way I strut about? I daresay you want me all the time.”
Henry barked a quiet laugh, low in his throat, though the truth of it struck deep. His hips pushed again into Hans' lazy palm. “I would take you every hour God granted me breath, if I were able,” he confessed before he could stop himself. His voice cracked at the edges, stripped bare. “With you…it is never enough.”
Hans cracked one eye open, amusement flickering there. “Then I must be leaving you unsatisfied, some nights.” The words were light, teasing, but the moment Henry’s face went hot with color, the smirk faltered. His hand stilled, loose fingers now a weight in Henry’s lap.
Caught, Henry buried his face into the crook of Hans' throat, shame prickling hot across his skin. Still, his hips betrayed him, subtle thrusts into Hans' hand.
“Hal…” Hans' voice softened, tinged with something unsteady. “Do I?”
The jest had vanished. What lingered now was worry.
“Do I leave you unsatisfied?” Hans demanded, the humor drained from his tone.
Henry burrowed deeper, as though he could hide there, but there was nowhere to go. “That came out wrong,” he muttered, rough, the words muffled against Hans' collar. “You’ve never left me wanting, not once. I’m just-” He groped for an excuse, something that might make it vanish. “I’ve always been restless after. It’s no fault of yours.”
Hans stilled completely. Then, with sudden purpose, he let go of Henry’s cock and pressed his palm flat against his chest, pushing until Henry lifted enough to meet his gaze.
They stared at one another in the dim light, Hans' eyes sharp despite the haze of drink. Searching. Measuring.
“You could have just told me, you dolt,” Hans said at last, his voice low but steady, carrying the edge of reproach. “Christ, Hal- do you truly think I’d rather you yank your pizzle off in silence, like some miscreant in a hayloft?” His hand pressed harder against Henry’s chest, not shoving, but anchoring him there, forcing his eyes to hold his own. “I love you. Your pleasure is mine as well. To know you’ve been left…unsatisfied?” His mouth twitched, frown deepening, for a flicker of a moment hurt glimmered through, raw and unhidden. “Do you think so little of me?”
Henry’s throat worked, a rough swallow that scraped his voice raw. “Never,” he whispered hoarsely. “I just- I never wanted you to think I take you for… for just a body to spend myself in.” The words stumbled out, tangled between shame and truth, clumsy under the weight of his fear.
Hans huffed sharply then barked a laugh, incredulous and fond all at once. “Christ’s wounds, Hal. That’s what gnaws at you?” His voice pitched between disbelief and amusement. “You think I’d believe myself little more than a bath wench in your eyes?” He shook his head, still chuckling as he let it fall back into the pillow. Yet even in laughter, his hand came up, brushing fingers trhough Henry’s hair with startling gentleness. His thumb traced down to his cheeks. “You daft creature. Even if I thought you wanted me for no more than that, I’d still count myself fortunate.”
Henry opened his mouth to protest, words thick on his tongue, but Hans cut him off with a sly grin. “Truth be told,” he drawled, “you could use me anytime you pleased, if that’s what it would take.”
The invitation lingered between them, curling in the air like smoke.
Henry stared down at him, breath shallow, something in his chest lurching. The words, even if tossed lightly, struck like tinder to dry grass, flaring into heat he’d long pressed down.
Hans arched a brow at his silence, smirk softening into curiosity. “Would that please you?”
Henry swallowed hard, his throat dry. “You’d mean it?” His voice was low, rough-edged, as though the very shape of the question threatened to undo him.
Hans tilted his head, a lord even in disarray, hair mussed, lips kiss-swollen. “Why not?” His tone was soft but certain. “We’ve no need for grand ceremony in this bed. If the urge strikes you, then take your fill of me. I’ll tell you if ever I cannot bear it. Until then-” He lifted his legs, wrapping them higher around Henry’s hips, tugging him down into the cradle of his body with deliberate, easy strength. His eyes gleamed, unflinching. “-I am yours to use as you see fit.”
Something inside Henry gave way at those words. Restraint crumbling, collapsing under the weight of Hans' easy surrender. A shudder tore through him as he braced himself on either side of Hans' shoulders, breath ragged, heart hammering. Then he sank forward, burying himself once more in the heat between his lord’s thighs.
Hans welcomed him with a low, broken sound, clutching at his shoulders, nails scraping lightly down his back. His legs tightened around Henry’s waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. Henry moved without thought, falling into a careless rhythm filled with raw need, hips snapping with desperate force, chasing the satisfaction he’d long denied himself.
Hans murmured against his ear, slurred with drink and spent pleasure, but coaxing all the same: “Yes, Hal…just like that…”
The words stripped the last thread of restraint from him. Henry rutted until the fire behind his ribs seared into release, once, then again, wringing himself dry inside the body that yielded so willingly to him. Each time he spilled, Hans only held him tighter, voice gone to soft encouragements and breathless little gasps.
By the time the hearth’s glow had guttered out, Henry was trembling with exhaustion. He pulled free with a groan, body shuddering as his cock slipped from Hans' loosened grip. The sight below stole what little breath remained in him. Hans sprawled out, cheeks flushed deep with exertion, his thighs wet and glistening. Seed leaked freely, soaking into the mattress in an obscene mess Henry could hardly comprehend as his own.
He collapsed at Hans' side, utterly spent, his body loose and heavy. For the first time in months, perhaps the first time in his life, he felt wholly, blissfully satisfied.
Hans turned lazily toward him, a smile tugging at his lips. He pressed a kiss to Henry’s temple, humming fondly against his skin. “There now,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “My Hal, appeased at last.”
Henry gave a weak, breathless laugh, dragging him close, too tired for words.