Chapter Text
The evening dragged on torturously. Between the wind whistling sharply outside the Den's walls and the ale that tasted somehow more sour than usual, none of the men gathered around the crackling fireplace found themselves eager to laugh, joke or throw dice, as if something had crawled out of the autumn darkness and settled between them, sapping all the joy from their veins. Even Henry, as comfortable as he was pressed against his lord's side and with a hefty portion of stew warming him inside out, succumbed to the weight of it, eyes closed and a half-empty mug abandoned in front of him. The buzz of attempted conversations drifted past, meaningless against the year's tiredness that slowed his mind, until—
"…shame 'bout the silver, though," Dry Devil's voice scratched through the air.
"Silver?! That's what you're missing…?!" It would be impossible to ignore the anger that sharpened Katherine's voice, loud and fiery in contrast to the stupor that had so overtaken them all. "We lost Adder, and you're thinking about the silver?!"
"It did have strategic importance..." At that, even Henry cracks one eye open to steal a glance at Žižka. "…but it's a shame Adder's no longer with us," their commander finishes much more carefully, earning himself an approving nod from Katherine.
"He might still be 'round, no?" Kubyenka's remark, slurred somewhere from the corner, is enough to catch the attention of just about everyone in the room, drawing confused —and somewhat alarmed— gazes to the archer, who, instead of elaborating, only shrugs and drains the last drops of ale from his mug.
Even Hans, who Henry could have sworn dozed off about two rounds of ale earlier, stirs and sits more upright, knocking his knee against Henry's under the table.
"…how so?" It falls to Henry to ask as much after a too-long moment of stunned silence. The question rasps against the back of his throat uncomfortably, making him wince in an effort to keep the syllables from tapering off into something laughably quiet. "We all saw—"
"Unfinished business and all that," Kubyenka interrupts him, gesturing with his now-empty mug. "Tonight's supposed to be for the spirits, no? Those that stuck around."
"Stu—" Henry frowns, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. It's not that he believes Kubyenka would make things up for the sake of it, but… Well, that does sound a bit like Kubyenka, actually. Especially drunk, bored Kubyenka. The fact that Hans tenses up against his side, mouth drawn into a thin line and hands wrapped tightly around his mug, doesn't help much either — it's mostly for his benefit that Henry lets go of the question, opting instead to huff out a hopefully-confident, "No priests ever told me about anything like that..!"
"Kubyenka's not wrong." It takes Henry a moment to connect the words to Godwin's silhouette propped up against the fireplace, and then another beat to realise the irony of it. "It must be Forefathers' Eve, if I'm not mistaken. The time of commune between the living and the dead, so that we may help the spirits who…" Godwin cuts himself off with a deep sip of ale, shaking his head lightly. "…that's what the Poles believe, or so I've heard at least."
"'s to ask 'em if they've got unresolved business left," Kubyenka adds with all the certainty of a drunkard. "They gather 'round and whisper, if you promise that you'll help them."
"What do you mean? There are no…" Hans's voice drops in volume and pitch; wary, perhaps, that something outside of his perception might be listening in on the conversation, and Henry can't help but shoot him a slightly-concerned glance. "…ghosts here! This is a tavern, not a graveyard!"
"Could as well be both," the grim remark comes from Žižka, of all people.
There's a gravitas to it, as if he truly meant every word. It's difficult to brush off as a joke, especially so when the wind picks up outside, howling with a hunger so tangible that it almost seems alive — it's an unpleasant enough coincidence that it sends a shiver down Henry's back, though even that is hardly noteworthy when compared to the reaction Žižka's words draw out of Hans.
His face immediately drops, corners of his mouth tugging into a deep frown that Henry's all too aware of despite the room spinning entirely too fast, and though it's hard to tell in firelight, his face seems a little paler. Sweaty? Henry wonders, trying to blink his lord's face into focus. Surely, it's not that—
"No!" Hans's protest is all too loud to seem like a simple disagreement, with that pitch to it that reminds Henry of the time when Hans had confided in him about haunted turnips. Or was it carrots..?
"It's true, I suppose. We can't be sure." As if blind —maybe purposefully so— to the future lord of Pirkstein's distress, Godwin continues almost philosophically, staring into his mug as if it held all the answers to the mysteries of the universe. "On lands this old..."
"This isn't consecrated ground!" Hans cuts him off as soon as he's managed to draw in a full breath; his hand digging into Henry's thigh so hard it makes Henry wince. "No one could be buried here!"
"Is the lord afraid of ghosts?" This time, it's Dry Devil who chimes in, his scarred faced morphed into a wide, twisted grin that somehow looks even more unsettling than usual.
Maybe it's the firelight again, or the ale that Henry's drunk, but either way, just a quick glance at that expression has his stomach churning, enough so that he takes another hefty sip of ale and resolutely tries to pay no mind to the discussion unfolding around him. Impossibly so. Hynek all but cackles, which only spurs Hans into an offended scoff as he puffs his chest out, leaning over Henry to continue arguing.
"I am not afraid, I am rightfully wary of incantations—"
"He's afraid," Kubyenka unhelpfully provides, lifting his tankard to his lips.
"Aye," Dry Devil agrees. "Afra—"
"—incantations that go against the Lord and His—" Hans continues more forcefully, leaning even further over Henry.
"Adder!" Dry Devil interrupts again. Hans's immediate protest is lost in the clattering of clay against half-rotted wood as Hynek dives for the bottle of cheap vodka in front of Kubyenka. "If you can hear me—"
"This isn't funny!" There's more than just anger in Hans's voice. It's sharp, still pitched a bit higher than usual, and with a tightness to it that makes Henry wince more than just the sheer volume of the protest being shouted right by his ear. It almost makes him want to intervene —somehow— but before he can really gather himself enough to do so, Hans draws in another breath, "You—"
"Ask him if—" Kubkenya hiccups, entirely uninterested in whatever the future lord of Pirkstein might have been wanting to say, "—if he's found a good fuck on the other side."
"That's not the point…" It's Žižka who butts in this time, though not with enough conviction to stop the duo from continuing as they please.
More than that. Dry Devil pushes himself upright, bottle of vodka held tightly in his hand as he jumps onto the table and waves his hand around in a gesture that looks a bit like a greeting. Or a bow? Henry can't quite tell with how much Hynek is swaying. Either way, it's enough to draw a delighted cackle out of Kubyenka, who raises his mug up to cheer along.
"Darkness, dullness all around…" The rhyme flows from Hynek's lips with surprising clarity, loud and decidedly provocative with the way his gaze remains trained on young lord Capon, "…what it'll be now? What it'll be now?"
Droplets flicker in the firelight as Dry Devil tips the bottle over, letting the vodka pour onto the floorboards. It fills the air with the sharp stench of alcohol, unpleasant enough to draw a quiet, muffled cough out of Katherine, though the rest of the Pack remains silent — at a glance, Henry can't quite tell whether it's due to anticipation or from trying to hold back laughter. Only Hans looks decidedly on the verge of panic, jaw hanging halfway open and nails digging into Henry's thigh.
"Speak now, Adder, or begone!" Hynek adds for good measure, slapping the bottom of the bottle to push out every last drop of vodka out of it, and…
…nothing happens.
Only the wind picks up once more, whistling sharply through the windows' cracks.
But the tension dissipates as quickly as it had started rising at the first mention of ghosts, and the evening continues on unchanged — Katherine coughs again, Žižka's hand brushes along her back. Hynek hops off the table, nearly falling right into Godwin, who keeps him upright with a surprisingly steady hand, and only Janosh's eyes flick down, away from the chaotic display by the fireplace, and land sombre at his feet instead.
Henry holds his breath a little longer, just in case. The fire keeps crackling as it had before though, not a drop of vodka disappears from where Dry Devil had poured it out, and when Kubyenka hiccups loudly, even Hans's vice-like grip on his leg isn't enough to stop a quiet huff of laughter escaping from Henry's chest.
"Just as I suspected," Hynek mumbles with a sage nod.
Henry's not sure what, exactly, he was suspecting.
More than that, Henry's not even sure what he was expecting, either..! Nothing, probably. The idea that Adder would just rise up and speak to them because they poured some vodka out for him is… Well, it's silly. Ghosts don't exist, plain and simple. Although… there's no denying that Hans's expression disagrees; pale and unsettled as he leans back until he's no longer pressed as tightly against Henry's side for the benefit of argument.
Shame, a thought drifts through Henry's mind at the realisation. He quite enjoyed the warmth of the nobleman's body against his own, especially so with all the wind whistling outside, and…
"I think I know what that means!" Kubyenka's drunken laughter scatters the thought easily.
"What do you figure?" The question comes from Žižka, whose arm now loops conspicuously around Katherine's waist. To feign nonchalance —or maybe he is just that nonchalant, Henry wonders— he drains the last of his ale while waiting for an answer.
"He found a good wench! Now he is too busy fucking her to bother with the likes of us!"
The room doesn't quite erupt in laughter — it bubbles up slowly, with the same hesitance it always seems to have when Adder's name comes up.
"Exactly! Bring us another round of ale! We'll drink to Adder's cock, and to the wench impaled on it!"
Although crass, Hynek's comment breaks the last remains of tension. Laughter carries through the inn with more force now, even managing to flicker over Janosh's face and softening the bout of hiccups that overtakes Kubyenka as he waves his mug around to catch the attention of one of the maids and demand another round. She leaps to her feet immediately, gathering the empty dishes with an ease of practice, and when she makes her way to their table, Henry offers his cup eagerly. Hans, however, pulls his back, shaking his head for emphasis.
"No, that's quite enough for me." Whether that bitterness in his voice is because of the so-called incantation, or because he's already had far too much to drink, Henry isn't sure. There's something deeper in his expression, lingering past the dizzying intoxication normally present there after a night of drinking, but with everything else swirling through his own head, Henry finds it difficult to decipher. "I'm going to bed. Now."
The look Hans sends his way is unmistakable.
We are going to bed.
So Henry, of course, follows him dutifully.
The room is dark as the door swings open — nearly quiet, too, once Henry allows the conversation downstairs to melt into an indistinct hum.
Nothing disturbs the peacefulness of it, except for the cool breeze that creeps in through the un-shuttered windows, raising goosebumps along Henry's arms as he latches the door behind him. It's just barely there, brushing against the nape of his neck and tugging at the slightly-torn curtains, but it proves difficult to ignore even though he tries, frowning in focus to double check the door, just in case. Just because that something still lingers, now that the quietness bears down on him. It's there even as he turns around, fully intent on stumbling his way to sleep, and…
…pale moonlight paints the floorboards in front of him, but stops well short of where his bed is stuffed tightly into the corner.
Instead, it pours and mingles with the glow of the candle Hans had carried up. Silver-blue and orange light dances across the nobleman's skin as he moves about the room, more and more of him bared to the evening air as he sheds layers of clothes until his torso is covered only by wrinkled, well-worn braies hanging low across his hips, and the delicate fabric of the hose pools loosely around his strong calves.
Henry's mouth goes dry at the sight. Slowly, almost not daring to do so, his gaze flicks upwards to follow the soft curve of Hans's breast, only to then trail down again, over the powerful expanse of his stomach and the angle of his hip, sharp where it disappears beneath pale linen with a trail of coarse, blond hair, that— no.
When he swallows down the thoughts of what he knows lies beneath that barrier, it's thick; choking on desire at the sight of a man he knows he has no right wanting, who he can never truly have beyond this darkened room, but—
Wsadź your tongue w dupę… A voice whispers somewhere past him, so quiet it might as well be a figment of his imagination.
"Wha—" A half-formed question slips past Henry's lips involuntarily.
Hans lifts his head, brow cocked up halfway to his hairline at the sound of Henry's voice, but Henry can only shake his head. He's simply hearing things. An illusion, prompted entirely by too much ale and the show Dry Devil had put on downstairs. Nothing more.
Nie pozwolisz mi zabrać tej sztuczki to the grave, will you, Hal? Zaufaj mi, faceci za tym szaleją…
Or… not?
"What." That's all Henry manages to utter, trying to glance left and right as subtly as he can, without moving too much and —Saints forbid— losing his balance all over again.
"You should be grateful I stopped you before you got another drink!" Hans speaks up from where he's settled, barely balancing well enough to lift a leg to peel the hose off his feet. Whatever he says next, though, is lost past that voice.
…Słuchaj no, lad. Raz w życiu zachowaj się jak mężczyzna…
"Wh—"
"…Huh. It's oddly cold in here," Hans interrupts him, seemingly oblivious to the strange whispers flitting by Henry's ears.
He makes quite a sight right there; hands propped up on his hips and shadows shifting across his broad shoulders and back as he glances about the room, hardly paying attention to Henry's current conundrum, which… Well, that's alright, Henry supposes. There are certainly better things to do than trying to make sense of something that simply cannot be real.
Better things, like… Henry's feet carry him forward before the thought even fully crystallises, every part of his being drawing towards Hans as instinctively as one inhales a lungful of fresh, summer air.
"Maybe I could warm you up," he blurts out then, only distantly aware of just how corny that must sound — and not caring a single bit.
Not when he gets to watch from up close how the corner of Hans's lips twitch up into a held-back smile, unsuccessfully hidden by the way he ducks his head down, making a whole show of shaking it in pretend —or so Henry hopes— disappointment.
"You need to work on those lines of yours," Hans huffs out, though with a lightness that could not be mistaken for anything other than utter, slightly-drunken fondness. "But, you're right!" He whips around on his heel, arms immediately winding around Henry's neck. "You simply cannot let me freeze. Just imagine what Hanush would say!"
That's all the encouragement Henry needs, really.
"Aye, it wouldn't do," he agrees, letting his hands settle on the nobleman's waist. Even despite the slight chill lingering in the room, Hans's bared skin is hot under his touch, pulled taut over hard muscle yet still with enough give that Henry can't help but dig his fingers into Hans's sides a bit more, savouring the deeper breath doing so earns him. "It would make me a real…"
Henry stumbles. Or is it Hans who pulls him? Either way, before he can get through the sentence, he finds himself falling forward onto the nobleman's bed, just barely managing to not crush said nobleman in the process.
"…bad squire," Henry grunts out, blinking at the man below him.
Hans only laughs and pulls him that tiny bit closer, until they're pressed chest to chest and hip to hip, with nothing but a few layers of fabric between them.
Everything else fades into a meaningless blur. There are only Hans's lips finding his own, a little chapped but still so wonderful that Henry can't —doesn't want to— do anything other than melt against them entirely, his tongue darting out to taste the remnants of the evening's ale on the sigh that Hans lets out in response. It's quiet. Wanting. It emboldens Henry enough to let his hands slide down, roaming over Hans's exposed side and quickly landing on the nobleman's arse in an appreciative squeeze. Hans pushes right back into it, as if in a wordless permission to let Henry touch, squeeze and grope to his heart's content while his own hands work on tugging Henry's tunic up, flicking across his nipples playfully before reaching down to the lacings of his hose, and—
Kochasz go??? To wyliż his ass…
There it is again.
"I don't—" Immediately distracted, Henry sways, whipping his head left and right to find the source of the voice. All he achieves, though, is the world swirling violently around him, and a rather impressive arch of Hans's brow where he stares at Henry quizzically.
"Are you serious, Hal? You are in bed with Hans Capon, half-naked, and you're… what, looking at the decor?"
"Thought I heard something, is all," Henry mumbles back a little sheepishly.
It really was silly, wasn't it? Hearing things that just weren't there and, worse perhaps, paying enough attention to them to nearly lose sight of what —who— was right in front of him, half-naked and wanting.
Not just silly, Henry thinks then, but plain stupid.
So, with newfound determination to ignore just about everything else, he catches Hans's lips in another kiss, licking into his mouth like it's the only thing in the world that's worth doing. In a sense, that's true. Especially so when Hans responds in kind, pressing his tongue against Henry's own and wedging his leg between Henry's thighs until Henry can feel their cocks stirring with interest against each other — as wonderful as always.
Perfect, even, with the haze of ale still lingering at the edges of the world, but… The whisper's idea still lurks somewhere there when Hans pushes his ass right back into Henry's eager palm.
Just then, it doesn't seem all that outlandish, really. Henry had already let his tongue wander at times, when Hans had allowed him between his legs in moments surrounded by the luxury of not having to rush. It hadn't been a conscious choice, back then. Just that same, bone-deep need for Hans, his taste and smell and reactions, like that little, surprised breath when Henry's tongue dipped behind his balls, or—
"I want to try something," he blurts out before the thought can carry any further.
"Huh…?" Hans's brows knit together, corners of his mouth just barely turning down in a frown at Henry's latest distraction. With a half-annoyed, half-tired huff, he rolls his hips into Henry's —perhaps, Henry thinks, to turn him back to the task at hand— before he finally answers. "It's the middle of the night! You want to experiment now?"
"Jus' a little," he mumbles out into the hollow of Hans's throat, dragging his tongue across the freckles scattered there. "D'you know how we uh—" Henry stalls, following the freckled path along Hans's shoulder. Something tells him that Hans, as crass as he can at times be, may not appreciate a: Can I stick my tongue up your arse? and, frankly, when it's phrased like that, Henry's not sure if it sounds all too appealing to him either.
"How we what?" Hans urges him on before he can get too tangled in that thought. "If you simply wish to sleep, you can just say—"
"No! I mean, how we— How I sometimes use my mouth?"
"Yes, Hal." There's a bit of impatience in Hans's voice now, paired with another press of his knee up between Henry's legs that makes it clear enough what he really wants.
Normally, Henry would be more than eager to comply, except… he can't get that voice out of his head.
"I want to do that," he continues with a hint of determined stubbornness, "but…"
"Well, go on, then! Why are you—"
"But more..!"
"More how, Hal?"
"Well—"
Before Henry can find a way to explain himself though, Hans's impatience seems to win over and he lets out a quiet huff, settling back down on the mattress.
"If it means I get off, Henry, you may do whatever experiment you'd like."
Well, that's simple enough.
"Oh..! Alright." Henry hesitates only for a moment, not entirely certain how to go about it all. He's done similar things with Bianca before, but— well, nothing exactly like this. "If you just— lay on your front?"
"Finally."
It takes a bit of fumbling to get the rest of their clothes off after that — Henry's rather sure his shirt lands somewhere in the heap of muddied fabric that used to be an overcoat, and Hans knees him in the side while wriggling out of his braies, but it's alright. More than alright. It's perfect when they fall back together with nothing between them, lips meeting in another quick kiss before Henry nudges Hans into turning around as he had promised, just barely ducking out of the way of another kick.
"Careful…!"
"You be careful," Hans huffs back, wriggling around on the too-narrow mattress until he's finally, finally settled on his belly, legs kicked apart lazily and neck craning to to look at Henry quizzically. "…what now?"
The question flutters by unanswered.
All Henry can do is stare, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, at the sight the nobleman makes in front of him. Silver and pearl-white in the moonlight, the expanse of his bare skin seems to stretch on indefinitely, from the broadness of his shoulders and along the ridge of his spine, arched a little when Hans presses his chest further against the mattress, to the Talmberg scar that so deliciously disturbs the roundness of his arse. Tufts of golden hair peek out beneath his outstretched arm, tempting Henry to bury his nose right there, where he knows the scent of him is the strongest, heady after a long day and one too many drinks, and if he lets his gaze wander lower again and cants his head just so, he can catch a glimpse of Hans's balls tucked away between the furs he'd laid on top of, and—
"Seriously?" Another question reaches him, and Henry blinks hazily, forcing himself to look at Hans's face again. "Am I not enough to hold your attention?" Hans quickly shifts into a disapproving mutter, letting out a grumpy, "Already distracted…"
"No…!" Henry objects quickly. "Not at all…"
If anything, he'd call himself appreciative rather than distracted, but the willingness to argue as much fizzles out within a blink, powerless against the call of Hans's lips pursed on another somewhat-amused, decidedly-impatient huff, which Henry steals away with a kiss. Then another. Then one more, lingering with a flick of his tongue against Hans's, before his lips trail off along the line of Hans's pointy chin and down his neck, right to the scattering of freckles on his shoulders. It's tempting to linger there, retracing the familiar patterns with his mouth and tongue, but with the memory of Hans's impatience still fresh between them, he makes sure to not keep Hans waiting too long — with another kiss, a nip of teeth along his shoulder blade, lavishing him with attention as much as possible.
Still, it takes Henry time to work his way down the length of Hans' body.
There's just so much of him to appreciate — every line of muscle, curve of fat where he's filling out again after the siege, every single scar across tanned and sun-burnt skin down his back and arms before Henry finally reaches the pure, milky-white of his ass and thighs.
Every sound uttered between drags of Henry's teeth and tongue down Hans's back is nothing less than the most beautiful symphony, until Henry finds himself pressing a kiss to the scar from Talmberg. It draws a soft, relaxed sigh out of Hans, eased all the more as Henry's hands massage his ass before parting his cheeks, breath held — whether out of anticipation, or plain nervousness about Hans's reaction, Henry himself can't tell.
But to his surprise, Hans doesn't falter — he only arches his back further, baring more of himself to Henry until he's there, beautiful and spread wide in front of Henry, smelling of himself and the lingering lavender from his bath that afternoon. The scent of him sends Henry's head spinning as he drops lower, kissing his way towards the cleft of Hans's ass, which —maybe because he's a noble?— seems surprisingly clean.
The realisation emboldens Henry enough to lean even closer. He noses along the small of Hans's back with deep, curious breaths that leave his senses full of nothing but Hans; the warmth of his skin and sweat caught between the notes of lavender soap, both familiar and so wonderfully intense that it draws a quiet, stuttered gasp out of him before he lets himself wander even further, between Hans's cheeks and down his taint, right to where his balls hide softly, and—
—his tongue finally darts out, following the line of Hans' body up from his balls, listening to the way he lets out a tense breath in anticipation… Right up until Henry curiously licks across his hole.
"What on earth are you thinking?!" Hans yelps, jerking away just enough to look over his shoulder and back at Henry.
"Well—"
"Licking my ass?!"
"Aye, it's—"
"Dirty!"
"No..! You just bathed, how could it already be dirty?" Henry points out, though perhaps not as clearly as he would have liked, given how difficult he finds it to lift his head up from where his cheek is pressed against Hans's… well, cheek.
"I am not!" Hans huffs out, with an edge of something that Henry has come to know as probably-frustration in his voice, "And— well, regardless, I'm not a wench!"
"'s why I'm trying to lick your arse and not your cunt," Henry mumbles back resolutely and, as if to make his point even clearer, reaches lower to give Hans's ballsack a fond squeeze before adding, "…can I try again?"
"Hal, I—" Hans goes quiet for a moment, though Henry can't tell what he's thinking, especially as Hans turns his head away again in favour of burying his face in the crook of his elbow. It feels like an eternity has passed before he utters a very muffled, perhaps embarrassed, "…very well."
So Henry does. His tongue darts out and as soon as it meets Hans's skin again, Hans makes a strangled noise, his muscles tense under Henry's fingers.
"Christ, Hal…"
The sigh floats by Henry's ears, appreciated but nonetheless left unanswered as all of his attention drifts to the myriad of sensations unfolding before him. The softness of Hans's skin contrasted by the prickling of the pale-blonde hairs that thicken up from his inner thighs, the warmth of him, somehow more intense right there, where Henry had only ever let his fingers wander before — now, he sinks into the wonder of tasting, too.
Without a thought behind it, he spreads Hans's cheeks wider and flattens his tongue out, dragging it up from Hans's taint and over his hole, full of wonder at the sensation of it. It's not at all like tasting a woman, he notes distantly. Better, perhaps, with the knowledge that it's Hans laid out in front of him. All freckled skin, lavender and musk that coats all of Henry's senses until nothing else matters; until all he craves to do is to dip his tongue into the cleft of Hans's arse again, slower this time and with more saliva dragging behind…
The next sound from Hans is weaker, wavering with yet another pass of Henry's tongue. Henry almost misses it entirely, too entranced by lavishing Hans's ass with kisses and licks, until Hans stutters out another gasp, just as delicate as before and oddly new in a way that makes Henry pause, lifting his head up with half a mind to ask if he ought to stop.
Before the question even forms though, strong fingers tangle in his hair and pull him right to where he was, so insistently that Henry's head slams hard into Hans' ass. Cushioned —thankfully— by the well-earned muscles there.
"Ow..!"
"Are you hurt?" Hans lifts his head only enough to barely glance back at Henry over his shoulder, though the awkward bend of his arm doesn't lend itself very well to it. There's a small touch of genuine concern there, which brings a smile to Henry's face, despite the very real pain in his nose.
"I'm alright…!"
"Good! Then back to it!"
Henry starts to laugh, but the sound cuts short once Hans pulls his face hard back into his arse again — this time, though, Henry's prepared for it. With another unfortunate collision easily avoided and Hans's hand still tugging at his hair, Henry settles in his spot, letting his tongue immediately dart out to catch against that perfect, dark-pink ring of muscle as his face buries between Hans's cheeks, and Hans…?
Hans pushes back into his touch, hips rocking to the rhythm dictated by the laps of Henry's tongue as it spreads saliva over sensitive skin, moving back and forth with relentless enthusiasm that melts into every fibre of Henry's being, until nothing else exists anymore but the wonder of it, buzzing at the back of his mind and spreading down along his spine.
The first hum is accidental; a quiet sound of purest satisfaction that slips out of Henry's mouth entirely on its own as his tongue darts out again to brush over Hans's hole, slower this time. More appreciative. It leaves Hans whining right into the crook of his own arm, and another soft hum escapes Henry in response.
It carries on like that— Hans lets out barely-muffled cries against the crook of his elbow, and Henry hums with delight along each pass of his tongue, and each ever-more-insistent rock of Hans's hips back against his mouth. There's something beautiful about it, something Henry can't really name —or maybe just doesn't have the presence of mind to try— that only has him trying more, diving in deeper, until his nose is firmly pressed into the crease at the top of Hans's ass and all his senses are so undeniably full of him.
It might just be a stroke of genius when he shifts his hand between Hans's legs to cup his balls gently, drawing a stuttered gasp out of the nobleman.
"Hal!" It's still quiet, restrained, but Henry groans against Hans's skin in response, diving in again as he rolls Hans's balls in his palm, slow in contrast to the desperate brushes of his tongue against the tight ring of muscle twitching underneath his attention.
It gets wetter with each pass, and in the light brushes of his fingers, Henry can feel that Hans's cock is hardening fast as well, now hanging hot and heavy under his belly as his back arches up higher. Hans' cock drags across the furs beneath, seeking friction with each desperate roll of his hips, and if Henry wasn't so wholly unwilling to tear himself away, he would have wanted nothing more than to simply watch the sight Hans makes like this, all open and wanting and Henry's.
It dawns on him just then, that there's no feeling stronger than that of knowing he belongs right here, between Hans's legs, absorbed in the heady scent of him and the sounds of his quiet pleas for more — and Henry rushes to comply, as he always does.
Except… this time, that desperate plea uttered into the now-sweaty crook of Hans's elbow sparks an idea.
More…. more. Put your tongue in his ass, that voice had said…
Henry's jaw falls open even further, enough so that he can point his tongue, muscle straining as he holds it steady and presses deeper, until he can feel Hans's rim tensing under his touch.
It happens every time Henry pays attention to Hans's hole —nervousness, perhaps, about the implications of this joining that hadn't quite faded— but it takes nothing more than gentle persistence, massaging of the taut muscles of Hans' ass, and a soothing drag of a hand across Hans's lower back, to help him relax slowly.
Once he seems truly soothed by the repetitive touch, Henry's hands shift to grip hard at his ass, spreading him open enough so that Henry can lick up along his taint again — and just then, with a long sigh, all remnant tension eases out of the nobleman. Henry gets to feel rather than strictly watch, as his back arches that much more to press back into Henry's tongue as he points it, once again, at the tight ring of muscles. Beautiful, the thought shoots through his mind as it always does around Hans, and his grip tightens even more, pushing Hans's cheeks apart even wider, opening him up until he's completely on display, just for Henry.
His hole shines with saliva, reflecting the orange glow of the candle, and it spasms —almost impatiently so— as Henry stares in wordless awe. Below it, his balls hang heavy in a haze of golden hair and the thick droplets of pearly-white stain the furs where his cock dragged over them repeatedly — just the thought of it has Henry salivating, eager to take Hans's length into his mouth and lavish him until he would spill down his throat. He doesn't.
He leans, instead, back to where Hans's hole awaits, spread wide for him, and presses his tongue hard into it.
"Oh, Hal—" The gasp falls from Hans's mouth seemingly unbidden, and entirely too loud for the secrecy of the act, but Henry's couldn't shush him even if he wanted to as he presses his face closer, tongue diving in until it breaches past the ring of muscles, prompting Hans to let out an undignified squeak — the embarrassment of which does nothing to stop his cock from twitching, or his hips from pressing back into Henry's face, seeking more.
And Henry is all too happy to oblige.
He tries sliding his tongue in deeper, reveling not only in Hans's scent, but this new, unexplored depth of feeling and taste, overwhelming with the presence of Hans as pure and unadulterated as it can be. Henry groans against his hole, sparking another loud noise in turn, but the reality of being careful about being overheard matters little as he retracts his tongue only to press it back in, again and again, right along with each rock of Hans's hips.
"Fuck! Fuck, Hal, don't— Ah!— don't stop!"
Henry won't. Couldn't possibly, unless he was dragged kicking and screaming from between Hans's legs, and even then he would fight as hard as he can to remain right where he is, he thinks.
"More!" Hans begs quietly, one hand curled tight and knuckles white with effort as he holds onto the bedsheets with everything he has. "Hal…" His hips rock harder, driving his cock down against the furs spread across the bed, only to then lift his ass up to rock back onto Henry's tongue, "More—"
Henry pauses, drawing a long whine from Hans's lips that has him placing a placating kiss over the Talmberg scar before he takes Hans's hand into his own and leads it down, until their linked palms wrap around the length of Hans's cock.
Hans all but cries at the contact, hips rutting desperately into the warmth of their hands, and Henry doesn't wait for him to make sense of the sensation — his tongue dives back into Hans's slicked hole immediately, curling and pressing against the soft, warm skin that gives under his ministrations, so lovely that Henry can't help but chase each and every involuntary twitch.
It's a desperate push and pull; Hans rocking back and forth between Henry's tongue and their paired hands until, all at once, he breaks. He comes with a cry muffled only by the way his teeth dig into his own forearm, hard and messy. It's full of panting breaths and his hips shaking with the force of it, cock pulsing in their shared grip while Henry keeps lapping at his hole until there's nothing at all left in him to spill.
Only then does Hans collapse right into the puddle of his own seed; weak, sweating and quietly panting Henry's name as the aftershocks slowly fade away, leaving him with nothing to do but to breathe.
Henry doesn't relent until then. Slowly —reluctantly— his grip on Hans's cock loosens and with one more, nearly affectionate, kiss placed over Hans's hole, he retreats until he can lay his head on Hans's butt cheek instead.
"Shit, Henry…"
Henry presses a soft kiss where his lips rest on Hans' skin, and then another, and one more, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex in the air.
"Was it good?" He asks, with just a hint of hesitation caught somewhere between the syllables. After all, it hadn't exactly been the most… thought-out idea, nor one that, just a couple of hours ago, seemed like something Hans would ever entertain, let alone appreciate.
"Good?! Ha!" Hans laughs, really, truly laughs, and for a moment Henry does end up feeling that he'd fucked up — right until Hans continues with, "I think I blacked out."
"Don't be ridiculous…!"
"I'm not! That was— Fuck! Well, it shouldn't have been so good!"
That's enough to make Henry laugh too, as he slowly untangles his hand from the loosened grip around Hans's cook and drags himself up the length of the nobleman's body instead, settling face to face with him.
"So it was good?" He asks again, just in case.
"Very good."
At that, Henry shifts closer, pulling Hans in with an arm around his waist until they're pressed against each other. It's perfect. Beyond perfect, Henry thinks, with the scent of sex and Hans in the air, and the warmth of the nobleman's bare skin against his own. The only thing that somewhat disturbs the contented laziness creeping in on him is his own cock resting against his stomach, still painfully hard and leaking despite hardly having been given attention — and even now, Henry's rather certain he could ignore it if he had to; if that would be the price for letting this moment stretch on indefinitely.
But Hans —beautiful, generous Hans— seems to have taken note. His hand tracks down the length of Henry's body, tracing light lines across the soft expanse of Henry's stomach, until it brushes across the wet, reddened head of his cock.
It draws a soft whine out of him, just somewhat muffled by how he presses his lips against Hans's, eager for every bit of offered closeness… Only for Hans to pull his head back with a scoff.
"Henry, please. What you did was… excellent, but I am not kissing you after you've licked my arse!"
"Oh," is all Henry manages to utter at first. It's difficult to think with Hans's hand still wrapped around his cock, brushing up and down the length of it so lazily that it borders on frustrating, and it takes all of Henry's willpower to ignore that torturous sensation for a moment.
But it makes sense, he supposes. Noble sensibilities and all that…
So, resolutely, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans in to kiss Hans again, pausing short of their lips meeting when Hans gives him another pointed look. Right. He runs the back of his hand over his lips again, then one more time for good measure —which luckily also helps with muffling a rather undignified moan when Hans's thumb teases the tip of his cock— and even huffs into his palm to make sure his breath is somewhat acceptable before trying to lean in again.
This time, Hans does kiss him. It's all lazy brushes of tongue and lips that leave Henry craving more, and it lingers like that for a torturous moment of Hans's palm just barely dragging along Henry's cock, reaching lower to fondle his balls and teasing the foreskin away from the weeping head — and never, ever doing so quite enough to satisfy.
To Henry, it feels like an eternity —a wonderful, frustrating eternity— until Hans breaks the kiss, easily escaping from Henry's overeager mouth that chases after him.
"Now, it wouldn't be very kind of me not to reward my squire for his service, would it?" Hans half-whispers, right as his hand finally closes around Henry's cock properly.
"…no," Henry just barely manages to utter, even though it's hard not to collapse into nothing but soft, desperate whines.
The effort is decidedly worth it, though, because Hans starts moving immediately. His hand works the length of Henry's cock with the dizzying confidence, knowing just when to squeeze and when to let go, as he dives back in to kiss him — it's messy, with sweat and saliva pooling between their mouths and tongues trying to dive in ever deeper, but it's all Henry wants. All he needs, too, as he keeps trying to lick up Hans's taste off his lips while Hans swallows down each desperate noise, working his cock and urging more out of him with an insistence Henry could never resist.
It's overwhelming, in ways Henry never thought possible, and the feeling of it builds tight in the pit of his stomach until it's almost unbearable — he whines at it and Hans, as if he knew it better than Henry himself, bites down on his lip. Hard. It hurts, badly and wonderfully, and with a cry of pleasure-pain, Henry paints his own stomach and Hans's hand with his seed as the world breaks apart around him, the very edges of it fading into darkness.
"You made a right mess on my bed," Hans murmurs what feels like an eternity later, unceremoniously wiping his hand across Henry's chest.
It draws a soft noise of protest out of Henry, though he doesn't bother doing much more than that — if he keeps his eyes closed, he thinks, the world will stay comfortably far away, and he won't have to do anything other than to breathe in Hans's presence, all warm and wonderful and…
"It's really unbecoming of you," Hans continues, and it's enough to make Henry crack one eye open.
"Well, we—" he tries to correct, but the half-formed protest gets cut off immediately.
"Nuh-uh!" There's even a pointed wave of a finger that draws a quiet huff of tired, exasperated laughter out of Henry. "It's still entirely your fault, Hal. If you had only planned better…"
"Aye, alright," Henry mumbles back, rather willing to take the blame if it would mean lingering in the sleepy, content haze for as long as possible, "We can sleep in mine then."
"No! There's too much hay poking out of your mattress…" There's something rather ironic by how Hans gets interrupted by a pretty impressive yawn, "…I don't want to know what you do to it, really…"
Sleep, is what Henry wants to say. But opening his mouth to utter even one word feels like too much of an effort, so instead, he only pokes at Hans's arse sleepily, earning himself a huff and a kick in the shin that hardly even registers when sleep draws him in all too quickly.