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Perhaps Hans had been hasty in sending his lover to bed.
But Henry had looked so worn, barely propped up on the bench while the Devil’s pack moved around him, exhaustion weighing heavily after he had returned earlier that day from being gone for three. His shoulders had slumped beneath the weight of it, his head dipping every so often as if his body meant to surrender whether Henry allowed it or not.
The sight had ached low and tender beneath his ribs, so he ordered him to take a bath and then retreat. He had even playfully threatened him with dire consequences if he found him awake and so much as mending something when Hans retired.
And yet Henry’s lack of presence made itself known the moment his heavy boots had trudged up the stairs. The shape of him fixed itself stubbornly in Hans’ mind with those damp curls sticking out in every direction, begging for Hans to run his hands through them, and down to drag against the rasp of stubble. That roughness would scrape so nicely beneath his palms, across his lips, against the soft place where his cock already started to stir.
Hans shifted, half-heartedly responding to whoever had sat themselves at his table as he accepted another cup and subtly adjusted himself where he sat. So yes, the table felt empty without his laughter. Without any quick reassuring touches or secret smiles cast his lord’s way.
---
A few drinks deeper and Hans had truly started to miss him. Miss the way Henry would speak without concern for who he addressed, his insolence a balm to Hans’ loneliness. No one else dared look at him the same and in the same breath offered him that warmth from deep blue, downturned eyes. No one else wore that slope of a nose dusted pink where he had scratched at it. No one else sat there with his tunic pulled tight across his chest, the ties loosened and hanging straight, as if he had been made to tempt Hans into ruining.
So perhaps it had been foolish to send him off instead of keeping his lover to himself. He could have imbibed in Henry’s presence as much as he indulged in his next mug of ale. Let himself grow dizzy at the sight of his rough-hewn hands as readily as the drink warming his veins. Watched those fingers curl around a cup, and imagined them on him instead.
Hans needed him with the same insistence as thirst. The desire to find him, sink his teeth in, and pull him close until they became some single, inseparable self rushed in on him, strong and fierce enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
His feet unsteady, he listed as he dared to stand and attempt the stairs, shouts of goodbyes trailing after him as he excused himself from the revelry. The temptation to lay his head right there on the steps nearly won, but longing drove him onward. A need to see Henry again before he shut his eyes, if nothing more.
The loft was stuffy with summer air and gave way to sharp relief as a breeze whipped against his skin when he stumbled out onto the balcony. Hans indulged in a few deep breaths, hand gripping tightly to the railing to keep himself from plummeting to the ground. Rain-soaked wind cooled his cheeks and slipped beneath his collar, clearing some of the haze inside his head.
The sight of his Henry caught in his throat as Hans made his way inside their shared room. He was sprawled across his bed along the far wall, his back to Hans, naked skin bared to the dim room. Hans indulged in the slope of muscle, the divot of his spine, tracing the hidden shape of his hips beneath a blanket.
Hans groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he closed the door and bolted the lock. The sound dragging up the memory of Henry doing the same only weeks earlier in suchdol, and his body reacted to it like a dog.
His eyes flicked toward Henry’s form again, as the desire to touch settled firmly behind his teeth. To cross the space, set his mouth to his flesh, sink his teeth into skin he would find scrubbed raw and tender from the bath. What soap had he used today? Would Hans still taste traces of it if he pressed his tongue to him? Lavender, perhaps. Lye and sweat and Henry beneath it all.
Hans’ mouth watered at the thought, nearly tripped over his own feet as he kicked his poulaines off, sending them to different corners of the room where he would no doubt whine and complain when he could not find them in the morning. His hood went next, landing in a heap somewhere near his bed. Then his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his pourpoint, cursing the need for so many of them when his skin felt too hot and his patience had gone thin.
Halfway down, he gave up and chucked the quilted garment off, not caring where it fell. Perhaps he should have, given how expensive the golden fabric was, but he could not find the worry in himself.
As he began to work on the ties of his hose, hip propped against the table ledge to give himself more balance, eager to rid of them so he could collapse in his bed and get to sleep. Tempted to just leave them be but knowing better. As he struggled, he chanced another look toward Henry who was still lying in the same position, shoulder jostling with the rise and fall of his breaths. His body twitched then, disturbed by whatever floated behind his lids, some dream or memory curling claws through him in his sleep. He felt his own heart jump and hammer at the notion, a sorrow seeping in where his tenderness lay.
Hans closed his eyes to steady his beating heart, as his head swam in spinning circles. He swallowed around the saliva pooling on his tongue and before he could put reason to it, he tugged his hosen the rest of the way off and made his way to Henry’s bed. His eyes traced over the sleeping form as his knees hit the mattress, and a tentative hand brushed over the swell of a bicep.
“Hal?” he whispered.
When no response came, Hans settled himself more fully on the narrow strip of mattress behind his lover.
His hand continued to roam, gentle at first, only meaning to soothe, until a more selfish desire took root beneath his touch. He pressed his naked chest to Henry’s spine and shuddered at the warmth of him. Henry was solid against him, skin still holding the warmth of bathwater and summer heat. Hans lowered his mouth to the nape of his neck, brushing a careful kiss there before his tongue darted out to gather the salt and feel the rasp of short hairs against it.
He groaned at the taste and kissed down his shoulder, warm lips trailing over exposed skin as he shifted closer, feeling Henry relax beneath the touch.
His hands drifted over the planes of Henry’s back, over shoulder and ribs and the hard muscle of his arms. He clutched, then loosened. Groped, then smoothed. Grabbed skin and squeezed until his own body drew taut with it, some ugly, hungry thing in him wanting to leave the shape of his hand behind. Then he forced himself to let go, palm flattening again as if his gentleness could disguise the want crawling hot beneath his skin.
His hand traced a path down Henry’s flank, fingers dragging over warm skin before dipping beneath the blanket so he could skirt them under the waistband of his lover’s braies.
Henry groaned then, low and rough from sleep, his hips shifting once before he scooted towards the wall and gave Hans more room. Hans smiled, kissing his shoulder in silent thanks before he tugged the blanket open and crawled beneath its warmth. His knee bumped against Henry’s thigh, and his front fit perfectly against his back. As Hans pressed even closer, he felt his cock brush against the plump roundness of Henry’s arse and choked on a sound, suddenly, brutally aware of how hard he had grown.
He jerked his hips back, and for a moment, all he could hear was his own heart and the last remnants of revelry downstairs.
It was all right, he told himself, letting out a stuttered breath. He was not doing anything untoward. These things happened. His body was only reacting to the presence of his lover, to the ache of having missed him so badly he felt hollowed out by it. Taking himself in hand was nothing compared to the way Henry felt when he touched him properly. Nothing compared to Henry’s mouth coaxing pleasure out of him, or the slow, firm drag of Henry’s hand around his length in a way Hans hadn’t been able to replicate no matter how desperately he tried.
The memory alone made his hips jump. Heat coiling tightly in his belly, his cock jutting against the fabric of his braies, dampening them as he let himself press closer again, only enough to feel Henry’s body against his own.
Fuck, he wanted him.
If only the bastard were awake. If only Henry would open those eyes, grin at him with that sleepy, insolent mouth, and pull him in by the nape like Hans had any choice but follow. And as deep as the desire was, he did not have it in him to wake him.
His mouth felt dry as he raised himself into a seated position. One hand drifted down the line of his stomach to cup himself through the fabric, seeking some semblance of relief, and he groaned at the touch before hastily undoing his ties. His fingers were clumsy with drink, catching and slipping until he cursed under his breath and finally managed enough freedom to pull his cock out. He glanced down at himself, flushed and leaking steadily, demanding and wanting and useless without Henry’s touch.
His hand worked slowly down his length, trying to apply the right pressure as henry did. He gave up on the next stroke with a frustrated sound, running his hand through the mess of blond hair at the root before squeezing at the base and drifting lower to cradle his sack.
“Fuck, Hal,” he breathed, the words caught between gritted teeth, grunting at both the pleasure and the ache that made its home there.
He needed Henry’s touch. He needed more. His lover had spoiled him rotten, ruined him for his own hand, ruined him for anything that was not the heat and weight and will of Henry turned upon him.
His addled head spun as he let go and lowered himself down Henry’s body, counting each knob of his spine with his lips. His hands followed where his mouth led, drifting over the planes of Henry’s back, over muscle and scar and the soft places between.
He kissed down the dip of his spine, slow and uneven, each press growing less careful as want crawled further up his throat. His tongue found the small of Henry’s back, the jut of his hip, the place where skin disappeared beneath fabric and made Hans groan against him. He nuzzled there for a moment, breathing him in, dragging his nose along the warm edge as his hands tightened around Henry’s waist.
Then he moved lower still.
Hans shifted down the bed, clumsy with drink and desire, mouth trailing over the backs of Henry’s thighs. The hair there tickled against his lips, rougher than the soft skin beneath, and he kissed through it, open-mouthed and greedy. He pressed his face to the meat of one thigh, teeth grazing before he stopped himself, then soothed the place as if Henry might feel the apology through sleep.
By the time he reached Henry’s calves, his breath had gone thin and ragged. He wrapped one hand around the strong line of Henry’s ankle and lifted it just enough to kiss there too, right over the bone, then along the tendon, then lower, as reverent as prayer and twice as desperate.
Henry’s foot rested warm in his palm. The sight of it, the weight of it, the rough calluses beneath his thumb, did something terrible to him. Hans groaned softly and pressed his face fully against Henry’s foot, nuzzling into the arch, into the heel, into the roughened pad beneath his toes. It was absurd. It was beneath him. It was exactly where he wanted to be.
“Hal,” he breathed against him, voice muffled and wrecked.
Eventually, he set Henry’s leg down and repositioned himself, rising up to kneel so he could straddle it where it lay against the bed. The tender skin of his balls dragging over the warm, solid line of Henry’s calf, feeling the heat of him seeping upward like fever. He indulged the urge to grind once, to feel the length of his drooling cock slip across Henry’s skin, and how his cockhead dragged against the side of Henry’s knee.
Henry shifted then and Hans froze on his next thrust, every muscle going tight. He expected Henry to wake, turn, and catch him in the act, but Henry only adjusted his position, rolling halfway toward his stomach, legs bending and spreading enough that the shape of his arse became more exposed beneath the thin fabric hugging him there.
A groan tore out of him before he could swallow it down, and he planted his forehead against Henry’s hip, breath coming in uneven pants. The linen beneath his cheek smelled of musk and soap and salt. It crawled beneath Hans’ skin and settled there like a brand.
He moved a hand down to pull his braies the rest of the way off, kicking them away with a rough sound when they caught at his feet. Once free, he pressed back against Henry’s leg, rutting there with a helpless roll of his hips. Smearing early seed over his ankle. He groaned as he grabbed Henry’s foot so he could shift lower and thrust against the flat of his arch, marking him the way a dog would, leaving thin traces of himself across every exposed patch of skin.
The thought should have shamed him. Instead it made his stomach tighten, made something hungry and low in him bare its teeth.
He squeezed the skin above Henry’s waistband, at the jut of his hips, feeling the give of it before sliding his hand to the front of Henry’s braies. He tugged at the ties, loosening them enough to pull the fabric down and expose the sculpt of him: cheeks round and perfect, his hole winking hungrily at Hans, and the heft of his balls where they were pressed against the bed.
The sight left him dizzy and breathless, and he could not help but reach up to grab at one cheek, giving it shake and watched the way Henry parted beneath his hands. A desire sinking in wanting nothing more than to bury his face there.
Before sense could catch him, he moved up, adjusting Henry’s legs so they lay where he could rut between their arches. He thrust his cock through their calloused opening, keeping Henry’s feet where he wanted with the press of his knees. No longer needing to hold him there, Hans moved his hands up to grab each arsecheek, giving them a supple squeeze before shifting his thumbs to spread him open.
As he continued to roll his hips, he leaned forward, placing his lips at Henry’s opening, swiping his tongue over the puckered skin and hair there. He should have felt disgusted at such a notion, but Henry tasted like nothing more than sweat and lavender soap. The tang bright against his tongue as he groaned and dipped in deeper, chasing his own pleasure on the pliant body beneath his.
He could come like this, he thought, lost in the feeling of warm skin and taste and smell. The way the heels of Henry’s feet pressed against his belly with every thrust. The way Hans’ saliva dripped onto the hole, making it easier to flick his tongue inside. A temptation to slip his fingers in, stretch him open, thrust into the tightness until Henry was ready to take his cock.
The memory of doing just so before Henry left came to the forefront of his mind, and the animalistic need to chase that feeling and sensation overtook him. He groaned, pressing his face into Henry’s skin, lips parted against the delicate curve of his sack, lapping at the heft of them before he returned to his prize.
“Hans?” The rough voice broke through his concentration, just as he started dragging his teeth over the puckered hole. He stilled, the reality of what he was doing crashed down on him so quickly he felt almost sober with it.
Maybe if he did not move, Henry could simply go back to sleep. Maybe Hans could put their braies back on, roll away, and pretend this had never happened.
Except Henry shifted, clearly feeling the weight of Hans where he was pressed against him, not to mention the hot, uneven breath he was leaving against the place he was exposed.
“Hmm.” Henry’s raspy voice dragged through the pillow, low and slurred. “What are you doing?”
“I was, uh—” Hans’ wavering mind scrambled for something to say as he pulled back, hands hovering uselessly in the air. “I was chasing your nightmares away.”
A soft chuckle met him then. The sound was so fond that it nearly undid him. Henry relaxed beneath him, and the weight Hans found in his own shoulders began to melt away. His eyes drifted down, catching on the mess of early seed he had spread over Henry’s feet, the thin traces slipping into the divots between his toes. Not a single speck of guilt stirred in him for leaving them there.
He dragged his eyes away when Henry turned his head so that Hans could see the corner of his mouth and the sleep-heavy curve of amusement there.
“Well then,” Henry murmured, voice warm and rough, “come plug me up so they can’t get back in.”
Hans’ breath left him with a broken laugh as Henry rolled himself fully onto his stomach, legs spreading as he adjusted his pillow and pressed more of his face into its softness, presenting himself with such lazy, trusting ease that Hans had to close his eyes to keep from finishing on the spot.
“Christ, Hal,” he whispered, wrecked already, as he watched Henry relax further and slip back into soft snores.
With some struggle, and barely managing not to fall off the bed by little more than God’s mercy, Hans leaned over and fetched the phial Henry kept tucked beneath it. Even in his drunken state, habit tugged at him with a need to slick Henry up more. He had drooled all over his hole already, yes, but oil would be far more pleasurable, as they had learned before.
The sound of the cork popping free made his cock jump.
Hans tipped the phial and dripped some oil onto Henry’s lower back, watching the first slick trail catch the dim light as it ran down the warm slope of his arse. He stoppered the remnants with clumsy fingers, before tossing it aside and then set his thumbs to the oil and spread it lower. Slow at first, hands shaking with with want, his breath hot in his own mouth, every inch of him straining forward like a predator scenting blood.
He circled the rim a few times, watching Henry clench and unclench beneath the gentle touch. The sight made his throat go tight. Then he pushed a single finger in, slow enough to feel the first brief resistance, watching Henry’s body react at first, tensing, before giving way completely.
He leaned his face forward as he exhaled with parted lips, using his free hand to grab Henry’s ankle and bring his foot back against his cock, needing something to relieve the pressure, while his fingers worked him open. Plying Henry with one hand and chasing his own pleasure against him with the other, licking up traces of sweat and oil as he added a second finger, then a third.
The taste of sweat and lavender and the bitter slip of oil sending him further under.
Hans lost himself in the pleasure of his ministrations, in the heat of Henry’s skin, in the give of him beneath his hands. Every small sound, every twitch, every soft stretch around his fingers made something in Hans snarl and preen. His. His Hal. His impossible, infuriating, beautiful Hal, sprawled beneath him and trusting him with the whole of himself.
He could have spent the rest of his lifetime there, with his fingers opening Henry up and his face buried against his skin, where desire kept building until it made his head spin, but the need to feel him with his cock won out in the end.
With a reluctant grunt, he gave Henry’s ankle a final squeeze and thrust against the arch of his foot, then dragged himself up the length of one of his legs. He groaned at the feeling of his ballsack catching against hairy skin before settling behind Henry and rubbing his cockhead against his hole.
The contact made his vision spark as he rocked himself into the cleft there for a moment, just relishing the feeling of skin against his heated length. Then, with a tight grip on himself, he positioned his cock and watched, mesmerized, as he caught against the opening and then slipped in.
Hans groaned at the sensation, offering shallow thrusts as he eased in further, the tightness swallowing him deeper with every oil-slick glide. It took no time at all before he was fully seated, pressed close against the curve of Henry’s arse, the base of his cock hugged tight by Henry’s rim.
He stayed there for a moment, eyes closed, lost in the ebb of the room spinning around him as he simply floated in the feeling. Then he rolled his hips back and pushed in again.
A broken sound caught in his throat and he soon set a clumsy pace, drowning in the way Henry’s walls hugged around him and the way his balls slapped against his sin. His hands dug into the flesh in front of him, squeezing arsecheeks and the softness at Henry’s sides, grabbing whatever he could reach because if he did not hold onto something, he feared the whole of him might fly apart.
Soon he was moving faster, the desire to come taking over his mind until thought broke down into one simple thing.
He needed. He wanted. His Hal. His Hal. His Hal.
The name beat through him with every thrust, senseless and holy.
His hands traced desperate pathways up Henry’s sides until he fell forward against his back, leaving kisses along his nape and upper spine as he continued to pound into him. His teeth caught Henry’s shoulder and bit down, not hard enough to hurt, only enough to keep himself from crying out loud enough to wake the whole cursed tavern.
“I love you,” Hans breathed, and kissed the words into Henry’s sweaty skin.
His hips stuttered with each repeating one.
“I love you. I love you. Fuck, Hal, I love you.”
He petted and tongued whatever he could reach, his mind drifting up into the clouds, higher and higher still, until the crest caught him and tipped him over completely. His body jerked through his release, pleasure tearing through him in rapid spurts, strong enough to make his fingers clench and his lungs fail.
For a while, there was nothing but mind numbing bliss and the smell of sex around him.
The press of Henry beneath him.
The ruined, shaking shape of his own body collapsed over the man he loved.
Hans was not sure how long he stayed there, only that at some point the bliss began to ebb, and he forced himself to pry his eyes open.
“Fucking Hell, Hal,” he groaned as he raised himself up onto all fours with shaky hands, his entire body trembling. He pulled out with a wince and a grunt, hissing at the sensitivity of leaving Henry’s warmth to meet the cooler air instead. The room tilted unkindly, and Hans blinked hard against it.
His eyes fluttered, barely able to stay open, as he fell down next to Henry. One hand draped over his back, possessive even in exhaustion, fingers spreading against the warm rise and fall of his spine.
It was only another breath before Hans thought of nothing more.
---
The first thing Hans came to again was the harsh bright red behind his lids as a beam of morning light filtered through the shutters.
The next was the stroke of a hand petting his hair.
He nuzzled into it, helpless as a cat and twice as shameless, chasing the touch of those fingers before thought had properly returned to him. The caress was slow and gentle, blunt nails dragging pleasantly over his scalp, fingertips combing through the mess he had no doubt made of himself in the night.
The next was Henry’s voice asking if he was awake.
Hans blinked to with a groan in response and dragged himself fully into consciousness.
With his eyes open he was made aware of the pounding in his skull as if someone had taken a hammer to the inside of it, and the rise of bile in his throat made him swallow hard. His tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth, dry as old wool, and when he managed to lift his head, he was blinded by an amused smile, brilliant blue eyes and pink lips that muttered words he could not comprehend.
“What was that?” Hans tried to say, though it came out rough and mangled.
Instead of repeating himself, Henry simply leaned down and placed a soft kiss against his lips.
Hans accepted the attention with a low grunt, prying his mouth open so Henry could better lick in, adding moisture back to his mouth and making him feel hungrier still. His body, wretched and traitorous thing that it was, stirred beneath the ache of his hangover.
Hans whined when Henry pulled back, and Henry swallowed the sound with a smile.
“There,” Henry smirked. “Now that you’re properly up, want to explain why my arse is so sore?”
Hans felt his cheeks flush hot enough to scald. The memory of his actions crashed down on him in his now sober state.
“I was, and then you, and well, it’s not as if—” Hans fumbled for an answer, tongue tripping over itself.
He only realized he was not in any true trouble when he caught Henry biting down a grin.
“You bastard!” he snapped, kicking at him.
Henry scrambled out of reach with a laugh, nearly tripping over himself as he got to standing. At some point after waking, he must have cleaned himself up, because there were no traces of Hans left on his skin, and his braies were tied back along his hips.
A shame, really.
But Hans found he did not mind as much as he ought to have, not with the way Henry danced giddily out of reach.
Hans let himself fall back against the pillow with a wounded groan, though his eyes remained fixed on his lover.
Henry started to talk about something, some nonsense Hans was certain he should be listening to, but his hands moved as he spoke, flicking through the air and catching in the shaft of morning light. The glow caught along his knuckles, his wrists, the strong line of his forearms. It gilded him in pieces, turning him beautiful, ethereal, his.
Hans watched him with a soft, helpless smile tugging at his mouth, headache and embarrassment and sickness all fading beneath the terrible, simple truth that he was so very deeply in love.