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Hans is torturing him.
Henry grips the seat of his chair, trying desperately to focus on the numbers book on the table. Today’s earnings and materials costs for the forge. He has to sum everything up for the day, but his eyes keep darting to his lord.
On his bed.
Reading a book, looking relaxed in the warm glow of candlelight and devastatingly bare footed.
Henry isn’t sure when the boots got discarded, only that they were. The skin keeps drawing his attention with its honey-like hue that contrasts the dark sheets. The numbers have nothing on Hans’ elegant feet, given a choice he would discard them forever. His mind keeps throwing his late-night fantasies at him like rotten produce at a convict, and his grip tightens even more.
Two thousand, three hundred, forty seven groschen for the Noble’s longsword, he thinks desperately. Add two hundred and seventeen for the axe—
Hans shifts on the bed and stretches, fingers and toes curling from the bliss of it. He has Henry’s full attention again. Nobody’s feet should be this pretty. With that maddening arch and toes just the right length and shape. He wants them in his hands, he wants his thumbs in the hollows near that ankle, dreams of his lips around the—
“You’re staring.”
He startles, caught completely off guard. His eyes flick to Hans’ who is watching him with some amusement.
“What is it, Henry?” Hans smiles, huffs a laugh. “You look quite hungry.”
He groans, then laughs too. “I was looking at you, it’s only natural,” he plays along and turns back to the cursed book. He should just call it a day.
“Aren’t you tired of just looking?”
He grins then. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor. He stands up and takes a step towards the bed but freezes when he sees Hans, who sits on the mattress with his legs crossed, one jumping invitingly in the air. He swallows, tears his eyes away.
“Why are you being silly?” Hans asks with a slight smile and flexes his foot. “You’re being so obvious it’s painful to watch.”
He flushes at that. It’s true that he has never dared to partake openly before. A kiss here, a caress there, nothing more. He wasn’t sure if Hans would be… amenable. People insisted it was rather strange, after all.
“Come here, Henry,” Hans sing-songs and angles his face up. He bends down and gives him an embarrassed kiss. “Wipe that shyness off your face and tell me what the hell you see in them.”
He grabs the dangling foot and squeezes. “I just adore them, is all.”
“Adore them, you say. Adore hard enough to do something for me?”
Henry narrows his eyes in suspicion and waits silently.
“I will indulge you,” Hans says lowly. “If you indulge me.”
He stands up, takes something from the case next to the bed and Henry stares in disbelief. It has been there for so long he has stopped paying it any attention.
“What—”
“A lovely collar for my most beloved guard dog,” Hans tells him quietly, circling it in his hands. “If he is willing to trade inclinations.”
It’s a simple thing. Made of leather and dyed dark brown. He has believed himself against it before. But… Fuck. He wants it. He wants it badly. Especially now that he isn’t the only one with an inclination.
He steps in and pulls Hans into a kiss. His lord gives in instantly with a whimper that weakens his knees. He loves having that effect on him, he feels drunk on it already.
Hans breaks away. “I take it as a yes,” he licks his lips.
Then his expression shifts and Henry stills at attention.
“Put it on,” Hans orders and Henry hides his surprise. He was sure Hans would want to collar him with his own hands. Still, he takes it, unbuckles it and presses it to his throat and around his neck. Hans watches his every move, guard slipping for a brief moment to soften, then harden again. Henry stifles a smile, already not minding the damn thing at all.
He fastens it and straightens up, looking for his appraisal. Hans’ eyes are fixed on the collar before he hums and leans in to kiss it gently. Another surprise, another smile to strangle. He has a role to play if he wants his gift.
“Take everything off,” Hans says, voice low, fingers skimming the leather.
He sheds his clothes as gently as he can, as to not disturb Hans’ little fascination. He only dips to push his hose down, but when he straightens again, Hans is watching, eyes wandering from his neck to the rest of his body.
He lifts his hands to help his lord but Hans swats at them.
“Just you,” he hears the murmur.
A spike of something runs through him like a wave.
“It suits you,” Hans mutters to him, trails it with a light touch and hooks a finger. Henry hopes for a kiss but gets dragged to his knees instead. The heater keeps his bare skin warm as Hans sits on the bed with his legs crossed, looking down with an expression of cool detachment.
He thought he would be feeling unpleasant, but his cock stirs with interest instead.
“May I?” he asks, voice low and raspy with evidence of his arousal. He keeps his eyes fixed on the foot dangling prettily right next to his face,
“Not yet,” Hans says quietly and uncrosses them with a hint of satisfaction in his small smile. Henry waits as Hans ponders whatever it is he tries to work out. He knows he doesn’t understand it and Henry doesn’t need him to. Henry doesn’t understand the collar either.
And then Hans moves, tracing down Henry’s chest with the tips of his toes, stealing Henry’s breath away. He shivers and Hans notices, lips twitching before stilling. He goes lower to his navel, then lower still, making Henry lightheaded with the rush of blood.
He rests the ball of his foot on Henry’s cock and presses.
It rips a whine out of him. And they barely started.
“Ah,” Hans sighs and keeps it there.
Henry’s hands twitch. He wants to touch, but then Hans moves his other leg to rest it on his shoulder in the crook of his neck and hums.
“I have a proposition,” Hans says slowly, flexing his toes over his cock and stomping Henry’s brain to the ground. He lets out a whimper against himself and watches Hans hide a smile.
“What ah—” his eyes flutter and he has to close them as sweet sensation washes over him. “What proposition?”
Hans gets quiet, has that contemplative look on his face. But his foot is moving slowly up and down and Henry gulps.
Hans notices and stops, and Henry almost whines from the loss of it. But the other foot moves, closer to his neck, up to the collar. He feels it tighten on his throat and realises Hans pushed his toe under it, making it dig into his skin. His breath hitches, imagining how it looks.
And then it pulls.
He expects a pulse of humiliation when Hans pins his face to the floor, his cheek flat with the wood, but none comes. Instead he focuses on the way Hans’ eyes darken, on the way he parts his lips to wet them. He has the bridge of Hans’ left foot right before his face, close enough that he could dart his tongue out to find flesh.
His breaths grow heavy. His cock twitches.
Hans must know, he still has it pressed to Henry’s abdomen.
“Show me,” Hans says and Henry’s gaze snaps back to him, “properly, how much you adore them,” the pressure at his throat disappears, “and I will let you use them,” Henry’s eyes widen, “however you want,” he finished, drinking in Henry’s sharp inhale.
He gets drunk on air, paints the foot with hot puffs and sings praises inside his mind.
He cradles Hans at the heel, relishing the feel of skin under his fingers, and can't resist the urge to caress him up to the slim calf. He doesn’t care that he still has his cheek smushed to the floor, he nips at the tips with his lips and it sends a whole body shiver through him.
Hans stifles a gasp and Henry sees through the corner of his eyes the way he grips at the sheets. It’s doing something to him and Henry doesn’t care if it’s the worship or him putting himself down for this. His hips are already outside his control, rutting against Hans’ unyielding press.
He slides his tongue on the little bridges, glides his lips to the ankle with his hands on the floor like an obedient dog. Kisses the bone and dares to put his teeth to it.
Hans is panting and it emboldens him, fills his veins with fire. He puts his mouth to the middle of the bridge like he is greeting a lady and slowly gets to his knees, not letting go. Hans’ other leg is still rubbing into him with a maddening push that is at once too little and too much.
He holds Hans, thumbs digging into softer flesh, caressing up and down to memorise the shape. Kisses lower, down to the toes, runs his tongue on the underside of them and can’t help himself. He closes his lips around the middle one and sucks it in, feeling so delirious that he can that his traitorous throat lets a needy moan escape.
Hans chokes on air and the sound makes his hips buckle.
He feels dizzy, releases it with a sinful drag and nestles the side of his face against the sole, needing a moment.
Hans’ eyes are wide and dark, and his cock is straining against the fabric of his hose. Henry drinks the image in, chest heaving with aching arousal. If he wasn’t in the depths of his most self-indulgent fantasy made real, he would be having his hands all over his lord.
Hans swallows. Henry catches his gaze and holds it, tries to imagine what he himself looks like to him, bare, on his knees and kissing his feet. The vision is overwhelming, makes him squeeze his eyes shut with a tremor and spread his legs more.
He crushes his mouth to the ball of it, hot and open, with a hint of teeth, drooling at the thought of sinking them into the flesh there. He flattens his tongue instead, feels the roughness, breathes it in.
It’s like he is in a frenzy. He can’t get enough. He trails the arch with his lips, rubs his cheek against it, gnaws lightly before he can stop himself.
Hans whimpers. His face is a pretty shade of red and he looks wrecked with a hand to his panting mouth and brow furrowed like he is angry Henry is getting to him.
Henry watches and licks a strip, rides the shiver Hans’ gasp sends up his spine. Latches onto the smallest toe and sucks with a filthy moan.
“Christ…” he hears. A broken sound, coming from something unspooling inside his lord. Pride mixes with desire, any shame is forgotten. He worships as it is deserved.
Hans nearly rips the sheets with his grip. “Enough,” he says breathlessly. “You’ve earned it.”
Henry gives his foot a parting kiss and mourns the loss, yet waits, trembling, aching and completely in love.
Hans forces his lungs under control but loses to conceal his blush. Henry adores how pretty it is, stares at it even as his cock weeps on the floor.
“Turn around,” Hans commands, parting his legs. “And come here.”
He does, with a shiver of anticipation. He decides to sit, relieving his reddening knees. Hans says nothing about that so he figures he is allowed. The legs around him move, bracing him, caging him in. They rest on his inner thighs, raising the hair on his whole body.
Please, he chants in his mind, already dizzy again with desire.
Then two fingers hook around the collar and pull his neck flush to the edge of the bed with enough pressure to keep him pinned. A grip on his chin tilts his head back, forcing him to meet Hans’ darkened eyes.
A thumb pries his lips open and slides against his canines. He dares to dart his tongue against the pad of it, but it simply settles against the sharp edge of his bottom teeth like a threat.
“Bite me and this ends,” Hans tells him, keeping his voice cold, despite the flush on his skin making it warm anyway. “Now, take your reward.”
The words make him gasp a sound that ends up a whine. His hands find purchase around the feet that tease his cock, caressing the arches and gliding across those pronounced tendons. Hans gives him the faintest hitch of breath but his face doesn’t falter.
The smallest of tugs at his collar makes the fire in his veins spill, it makes his legs fall open and eyelids heavy. He traps his leaking cock between the soles and chokes on air as the pressure of them makes the ache go from painful to exciting with that tingle of relief that travels up the spine.
He takes a moment to just feel it, makes the mistake of looking into Hans’ eyes just to meet the dangerous glint there. Fingers on his jaw tighten.
“I said: take it,” Hans tells him and moves his feet up and down.
Henry doesn’t know what he sees, but it blocks his vision and he has to stop himself from biting down on the thumb between his teeth. His hips jump, his grip tightens, he was already so tightly wound and now he just wants.
He can’t look down but it’s easy to imagine milky beads smearing on the pads of Hans’ toes. He imagines licking them clean after, chases the dream with the tongue to the finger in his mouth.
A desperate moan escapes him when a rougher patch of skin brushes against his cockhead, he buries himself in that sensation, smooth, then rough, warm and as tight as he wants it.
Because Hans is letting him use him.
His eyes slide shut, toes curl within his grasp. He can picture it clearly, the curve of them around his weeping prick, the way they glisten in the candlelight where they’re marred with his eagerness, that maddening arch pressed to his swollen shaft.
He pulls them down so a heel can dig into his sack. The ache feels so good he wants to howl.
His sigh makes Hans hum.
He moves with more urgency now, rutting between Hans feet with increasing lack of control. He holds onto the last thread of it, he mustn’t bite after all, unless he wants to end the night in painful unfulfillment, but it’s close. So close. His mouth is filled with drool, it’s dripping from the corner of his lips to run down his chin and neck. He feels like a beast.
He must be a disgusting sight, and yet Hans’ breathing is laboured. He forces his eyes to open and his heart spasms in his chest, for Hans has lost his controlled demeanor, wearing an affected flush instead. It’s only then that he feels how Hans writhes behind him, how clenched the fingers on his jaw are, how the collar digs into his throat.
Their shared gaze traps them. Henry feels it in the inside of his thighs, the mounting tension there and in the pit of his stomach. He wants nothing more than to bow and run his tongue flat on the ball of Hans’ foot as he crests, but no. Hans keeps him pinned, and Henry rubs himself, control thrown to the wind. His body thrusts up on its own, the pleasure going up and up, he need to keep it happening, he wouldn’t be able to stop even if—
“Stop.”
He freezes.
He tastes blood.
The thumb slides out from his mouth and he stares at it wide-eyed, cock pulsing between Hans’ stilled feet.
Hans examines his wound, keeping his collar in place. Henry fights the maddening urge to move his hips. He swallows, the apple of his throat catching on the pulled collar.
“Curse your sharp teeth,” Hans mutters, licking it with the tip of his tongue. He glances down at Henry, his face softens. “You didn’t bite, you’re good.”
The hand returns but the invasion doesn’t. He misses it, parts his lips in invitation, pads the teeth with his tongue but stays silent.
Hans notices anyway.
“Very well,” he hears. Thumb glides over his lips, teases the canines again before sliding in, deeper this time and pressing on his tongue. His cock twitches at that, his back arches a little. There’s something claiming in that touch that wasn’t there before. And isn’t that just ridiculous? He is wearing a collar for his lord, choking on it like a half-feral hound, but it’s the finger in his mouth that is doing him in.
He closes around it and sucks, he can’t help himself. His hands are working again, bringing him back to the edge. The interruption did nothing to quench his fire, it only made him ache more.
He wraps one hand around both feet to tug at his balls and groans with need. The collar on his neck tightens, and he strains against it with each thrust of his hips.
He can feel it building. It’s in his thighs and in his belly, traveling slowly up his back to settle at the base of his skull. It’s a desperate kind of tension, the kind that curls his own toes and coaxes all sorts of sounds from him.
His legs are obscenely wide, his spine is trying to keep him from choking on Hans’ tight leash, and he can’t stop.
Sweat mixes with drool, he is holding onto the thumb with his teeth now, breathing out air so hot he is surprised Hans doesn’t flinch away from it.
“Christ, I could watch you all day,” Hans whispers, fascinated and his feet slip, twisting around Henry’s cockhead.
He spills suddenly and violently, vision whiting out. Instead of letting him go, Hans pulls even harder, tilts his head more. The finger is gone, but his lips are sweeter. Hans swallows his moan, endures his crushing hold and keeps him in place while his body spasms with release.
He feels hollowed out. Relieved. Relaxation seeps in and he sags against the bed. Hans kisses him deep, strokes his head, rubs the reddened skin on his neck.
“Good?” Hans asks, eyes hooded and mouth smiling in self satisfaction.
Yes, he thinks.
“I love you,” he says instead.
Hans sputters, goes red. Ridiculous. Does he know what he has just done?
Henry can finally look down, and the sight almost makes him hard again. Long toes curled around his softening cock, spattered with his seed.
He leans forward and puts his tongue between them. He hears a sharp gasp, Hans’ breathing gains a tremble and Henry chases every milky thread, sucks off every dot and says goodbye with a kiss.
“Don’t touch my left,” Hans’ voice is strained. Henry mourns but obeys, lavishing with attention what he can.
With one last nip, he lets go.
“Lay on the floor,” Hans commands. “On your back.”
He is surprised, but he follows, curious what comes next.
The foot he licked clean lands just above his cock, pressing down and tickling the hair there. The other smears his seed over his nipple and Henry has to grit his teeth to force himself from snatching it and putting it to his mouth again.
Hans’ breath hitches and Henry realises he is working himself fervently, hand sliding up and down. Henry allows himself to caress his ankle, the instep, to run his finger over the peeking tendons. He isn’t being told to stop, so he grows bolder, overcome with desire to see Hans come with his tongue on him.
He slips a thumb underneath, massages the sole and the ball, slowly pulls it up.
Hans’ breaths grow even heavier but his gaze is fixed on Henry, albeit heavy lidded and foggy with lust. Henry looks him right in the eye and then closes his lips around the two middle toes.
Hans makes a wounded sound and his body goes rigid, before it goes limp and Hans falls backwards on the bed, twitching and spent.
Henry drags himself up with effort. He feels so heavy now. Spent. Happy.
He climbs over Hans, steals a languid kiss and flops next to him, smiling like a sap.
“You are wilder than I thought,” Hans mumbles, warm and half asleep.
“Says the one who put a collar on me and choked me,” he retorts, laying his head on Hans’ chest.
He swats at the hands that fly to his neck.
“Leave it,” he says simply. “For when we wake up,” he adds, already looking forward to it.
Hans wraps his arms around him as much as he can. “Christ,” he hears against the crown of his head. “I love you so much.”