Work Text:
Hans needed to be quiet.
It was a mantra he kept repeating in his head, clenched behind his teeth as he stifled a moan.
Henry was on his knees before him, the worn fabric of his hose brushing the rough wooden floor. His broad palms slid slowly up Hans’ bare thighs, the heat of them leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Hans bit down on his fist, teeth sinking into the skin to keep the sound in as Henry’s mouth worked over his cock with infuriating confidence.
Then came a particularly wicked swipe of tongue as Henry dragged up the length, warm and wet and maddeningly slow, and Hans nearly choked on the sound that rose in his throat, the pressure in his chest burning for release he couldn’t afford.
“Careful, Lord Capon,” Henry said, voice thick with amusement, lips brushing the head of Hans’ cock as he spoke. “You wouldn’t want us to get found out now, would you?”
Hans glared down at him. Henry looked positively smug, his expression gleaming with mischief as he took a few slow, steadying breaths. Hans’ cock resting hot and heavy against the flushed curve of his cheek, a bead of slick smeared where their skin met. One of his calloused palms skimmed lightly over his aching length, fingertips dragging gently down the sensitive underside.
The image was so obscene, so perfectly filthy, that Hans nearly spilled right there.
“Don’t look so smug about it, blacksmith’s boy,” Hans laughed, the words edged even as he squeezed his eyes shut against the spinning in his head. “The Devil would be unbearable if he won the bet, and we can’t afford for that to happen.”
Henry hummed low in his throat, vibration teasing the tip of Hans’ cock, and gave it a particularly pleasant twist at the head with the flat of his tongue before trailing back down to the base. One hand wrapped around the shaft with practiced ease while the other slid down to cup his balls in a warm, steady hold as his tongue traced over them. The sensation made Hans’ thighs twitch, made his teeth sink harder into his own white-knuckled fist.
Henry moved up again, breath hot and damp, and pressed a gentle kiss to the swollen, leaking tip, tongue flicking out to lick a slow, maddening circle around the head. He groaned softly at the taste.
“I don’t know,” he said idly, lips brushing with each syllable. “Zizka’s still in denial about it. But we could give him a run for his money.”
Hans bit his lip as Henry took him down again, swallowing him nearly to the root. The wet heat of it, the tight glide of Henry’s throat around him was maddening. Hans barely managed to bite back a moan, one hand reaching out instinctively to card through the other’s hair, fingers tangling in the sweat-damp curls before gripping the strands tight.
Henry flicked his gaze upward through his lashes, the corner of his mouth curling in amusement around Hans’ cock. Then he closed his eyes again and groaned, low and pleased, the vibration sending a jolt down Hans’ spine. He jerked his hips forward before he could stop himself, the tip of his cock bumping the back of Henry’s throat. Henry choked slightly, pulling back just enough to regain control, his fist curling firm around the base as he started a steady rhythm with the bob of his head. Hans’ eyes fluttered shut as he tried, and failed, to keep quiet. He could feel the way Henry’s Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow, could feel his own early slick mingling with spit and heat and the edge of a growl threatening his throat.
Lately, silence had become something of a sport between them.
Since returning to the Den after Suchdol, the whispers had swirled like chimney smoke around the two of them, curling through the rafters, impossible to pin down, but always present. The Devil’s Pack, God bless them, had taken up speculation as a shared pastime. The Devil himself was the worst of them, bold enough to call out their “shared morning glow” in front of the entire hall. Even Katherine had placed a quiet wager with nothing more than a raised brow and the ghost of a smirk.
Every time Hans and Henry emerged from their room with their hair slightly mussed, tunics a touch too creased, or cheeks flushed for reasons that could not be blamed on the glaring heat alone, it added fuel to the fire. No one had caught them yet, but the betting pool had grown noisy, jostling beneath the surface of every meal, every drink, every training round.
It was always the same chorus, spoken in jest but laced with a sharp curiosity: were the lord and his page just comrades forged in blood and battle, drawn together by shared trauma and the proximity of their narrow beds in a shared room? Or were they, as Hynek so eloquently barked across the room last week, “Fucking each other senseless the second the door shut”?
Hans could have ended it. A word, a laugh, a casual acceptance and the whole thing would’ve been celebrated with raucous groans and half-hearted victories. If there was any group in Bohemia that might accept them as they were, it was this one. This mismatched little company of outlaws and mercenaries. These fools who’d lived through worse. Done worse. They’d raise their cups to it, call it love, and ask no further questions.
But that would ruin the game.
And Christ, it had become a game. One that thrilled Hans to his very bones. A game he and Henry played without ever speaking the rules aloud.
Brushing past Henry in the narrow corridor and letting his fingers just barely catch his wrist. Leaning over a shared book with his mouth too close to Henry’s ear, breath teasing the curve of it as he spoke of nothing important. Henry answered back in that low, rumbling tone that always sent heat curling down to his gut. The flicker of his eyes. The half-smile he wore when he was winning.
They kept score, the both of them.
Hans remembered the night they'd nearly been caught behind the stable, Henry pressed up against the wall, still panting from drills, dirt on his hands, Hans’ fingers tangled in his hair. They heard footsteps and Kubyekna’s laughter and froze. Hans had barely pulled away in time, heart thudding wildly, the ties of his hose barely back in place before the man rounded the corner.
And then there was the instance at the baths. Henry had left tossing a smirk over his shoulder, still dripping, with water trailing down his spine and that self-satisfied glint in his eyes that made Hans want to drown him in the tub they’d just left. Hans was left alone with steam curling around his bare shoulders and the lingering ache of indulgence still warming his thighs.
Droplets still clinging to his skin, hair damp and curling at his temples as he tugged his pourpoint back into place. Hans had lingered only a heartbeat long enough for the heat to fade, and then followed, boots scuffing the packed earth as he ducked through the canvas flap.
The air outside was cooler, the breeze a pleasant balm against his flushed skin. Hans was still fastening his belt when he caught the weight of someone’s gaze.
Janosh sat nearby at one of the tables with a mug in hand, elbow propped casually on his knee. He looked between the two of them once—Hans standing in front of the tent fully dressed, and Henry’s retreating form still in his braies. Then again. His eyes lingered just long enough to be unmistakable.
He said nothing.
Instead, Janosh took a slow, deliberate sip from his tankard, lips quirking at the corner. Then he lifted the drink in a small salute, his grin just a little too knowing.
Hans felt heat crawl up his neck. He fixed his attention firmly on his belt and did not, under any circumstances, look back as he made his way back to the Den.
It was a dangerous dance, but Hans had no intention of ending it just yet.
Especially not when it led to moments like this.
Henry gave a particularly greedy swallow as he let go of his base, taking Hans down to the root again, nose pressed close, lips stretched red and wet around him. Both hands gripped Hans’ thighs now, fingers digging into the flesh to hold him still when his hips tried again to buck upward. Hans pried his eyes open through the haze, needing to see. The back of Henry’s throat worked around him, tight and slick, and Hans nearly lost himself right then.
Henry moved slowly now that he had Hans’ gaze again, drawing back with tight suction before sinking down once more, making sure the head of his cock met the back of his throat on every pass. Hans trembled, every muscle tight with restraint.
Then Henry pulled back entirely, lips dragging wetly off the head before he began mouthing at him. Pressing open-mouthed kisses and teasing licks along the underside, the edges, the flushed curve near the base. His tongue traced shallow, maddening lines, pausing now and then to suckle gently at a spot before moving on.
And then he wrapped his lips around the head again and just stayed there. His face was full of mischief, eyes gleaming as he took in the sight of his squirming, panting lord above him. Hans trembled, the hand at his mouth shifting from a clenched fist to a flattened palm, pressed hard over his lips to muffle the complaint threatening to escape. His breath came ragged, rattling through his chest as Henry planted an innocent kiss right at the leaking tip before letting his tongue dip into the slit.
Hans groaned into his palm.
Henry’s hand moved from his thigh, fingers dragging down to cup his balls again. He rolled them gently, thumb circling one, the other fingers pressing firm underneath in a way he knew drove Hans mad. His other hand resumed its slow, careful strokes down the length, just enough pressure to make Hans’ knees tremble.
Then their eyes met, and Henry smirked as he pulled off the tip, a strand of saliva connecting them both.
“How do you want to finish?”
The way Henry said it made it sound so damned innocent, nothing more than a peasant asking how he could please his lord, but it made Hans burn. The words slithered down his spine like candle wax. His stomach clenched.
Hans pried his palm away from his mouth, breath ragged.
“Down your throat,” he panted. “Oh God, I want to spill down your throat so I can taste my pleasure on your lips.”
He rolled his head back with a groan as Henry took him down again, lips slick, his fist curled firm around the base, holding Hans back just enough. He couldn’t thrust as deep as he wanted with that grip acting like a guard, but the sensation, the pressure, the heat, the way Henry’s throat closed around him with each groan was more than enough.
Hans rutted into it, unable to help himself, his hips rolling forward with each choked moan vibrating against his cock. He barely registered the way Henry let go of his balls, shifting one hand down between his own thighs to stroke his own abandoned cock, already leaking and red from neglect which he pulled it out of his braies.
Hans’ gaze dropped, and the sight nearly undid him: Henry on his knees, cheeks flushed, lips stretched wide and glistening, his lashes damp from tears, and his fist moving over himself with desperate, practiced strokes. He looked utterly lost in it—not just the act, but in the sheer pleasure of pleasing Hans. Like this was enough for him. Like Hans’ cock in his mouth was all he needed to fall apart.
That was all it took.
Hans’ entire body locked up, muscles going taut like a bow drawn to its limit. His eyes fluttered shut as a blinding wave of heat surged through him, starting low in his gut and rolling outward in dizzying pulses. His hips jerked forward, as he spilled hot, pulsing spurts down Henry’s throat.
Henry swallowed greedily, lips still sealed tight around him, throat working with each wave as if he could drink down every last drop. He didn’t stop until Hans was trembling above him, breath ragged and uneven, fingers clenched in Henry’s hair like he might fall without the anchor.
When Hans finally dared to open his eyes to look down, his breath caught in his throat.
Henry was an absolute mess. Spit and seed coated his chin, catching on the dark stubble of his jaw. His cheeks were flushed red, his lips swollen and wet where they still circled around Hans’ cock, eyes puffy with unshed tears from the deep thrusts. His hair stuck out wildly where Hans had gripped him, a disheveled halo around a face that had never looked better.
And then Henry stilled, his own body twitching suddenly, his face scrunching up with a broken sound as he came with a choked groan, one hand still moving sluggishly over himself. Hans watched, utterly undone, as Henry rode out the wave, his cock spilling across his own belly before he slumped forward and slowly pulled off with a shudder.
He sat back on his heels, panting like a man winded in battle, and wiped his hand on a discarded tunic nearby. His knees creaked as he shifted, wincing from the strain of kneeling on the hard wooden floor. He groaned softly, one hand on the bedframe as he rose to unsteady feet, legs shaking beneath him.
Hans watched him move, still catching his breath, chest rising and falling with each pulse of his racing heart. Henry made it to the table and grabbed the pewter pitcher, pouring water into two dented cups with trembling hands. He drank deeply, throat bobbing with each swallow, then brought the other cup to Hans.
Hans took it with a grateful grunt, watching as a droplet of water escaped the corner of Henry’s mouth and trailed down his jaw. It slid lower, cutting a path across his flushed chest, over a faint bruise on his ribs, and down to his navel before disappearing into the dark curls at the base of his softening cock.
Henry snorted and reached out to card Hans’ hair back into place, fingers gentle. “You are insatiable, my Lord.”
Hans laughed, voice hoarse as if he’d been the one with a cock down his throat, and leaned back with one palm wide on the straw mattress, spreading his thighs without shame. “I simply can’t help but indulge when I’m presented with a view like this.”
He grinned up at Henry, who flushed from the ears down, those lovely pink spots blooming across his cheeks. His mouth parted slightly, and for a second Hans thought he might say something but instead, he just stared, caught in it.
Hans drank it in. That little tremble in Henry’s fingers as he adjusted his grip on the water cup. The way his eyes darted from Hans’ lips to his chest to between his legs and back again before he swallowed hard and tore his gaze away.
Christ, he wanted to keep going. To keep praising him until the sun set. He wanted to tell Henry how good he looked like this—flushed and debauched, sweat clinging to the hollows of his collarbones. He wanted to coax every reaction out of him, every shiver, every pink flush, every shy smile he tried to hide behind gruff words and averted eyes.
But Henry had other ideas. He patted Hans’ shoulder and set his cup down on the small stool beside the bed.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get dressed. I don’t want the pack to get any wrong ideas.”
Hans snorted. “You say that like most of them haven’t already figured it out. All they need is proof.”
But Henry was insistent, already turning away to gather his clothes. Hans lamented his fate with a theatrical sigh as he stood and stretched, joints cracking, and leaned in to press a happy kiss to Henry’s mouth. Then he followed suit, pulling on his hose and tunic. Anything more than that felt like torture in the heat that had settled thick and humid in the room.
He grabbed a damp cloth and gently wiped at Henry’s chin first, then his own face, hoping the cool water would dull the flush still clinging to their skin. He used what was left to try taming Henry’s hair, dragging wet fingers through it in a futile attempt to restore some order. He needed a haircut, but Hans liked the slightly longer curls on him.
He must’ve been smiling like a lovestruck fool, because Henry caught him looking and frowned. “What?”
Hans only shook his head and patted his cheek before turning to the door.
The tavern loft was stifling as he pushed the door open. He heard Henry plodding after him, and while the sight of them descending together at this hour would do nothing to quiet the rumors, Hans couldn’t find it in himself to care.
The tavern’s main room was thick with wood smoke and the smell of stewed meat and spilled ale. The Devil’s Pack was already gathered around the long table, tankards in hand, mouths full, laughter echoing off the beams.
As Hans and Henry stepped into the space, several heads turned. The noise stopped like someone had cast a spell. Enough that the creak of the floorboards under Hans’ boots rang out loud and accusing.
The silence stretched, long enough for Hans to feel every pair of eyes on them. Long enough for the air to grow heavy with anticipation, like the moment before a blade dropped.
“Pay up, you bastards!” Hynek hollered, breaking the silence, slamming his tankard down on the table so hard ale sloshed out the sides. Groans erupted, coin purses clinked, and a flurry of curses and whoops followed as half the table reached for their belts and started handing over coin.
Hans startled, and turned to Henry, who looked just as lost until his gaze flicked down to Hans’ neck. His eyes widened in horror.
Shit.
Hans slapped a hand over the side of his neck too late. He could feel the tender spots beneath his fingers where the love bites from the night before were blooming. Exposed for the whole room to see.
So much for being quiet.