Archive of Our Own

Henry’s already three or four cups deep when Hans orders the chicken.

Doesn't ask for it—commands it. Snaps his fingers at the tavern wench (Markéta? Marika, he should know, he should remember) as if he’s summoning a hound, and she comes running because, of course, she does. That’s what you do when Hans Capon wants something. You bring it to him. You bow. You smile. You know he tips well, hope he’s sober enough to keep his hands to himself, and hope at least he doesn’t complain to your master about the vinegary wine and the gristle in the tidbits.

Henry watches the girl’s hips sway as she hurries towards the kitchen. Pretty enough. Dark hair. He should notice more than that—should wonder if she has a sweetheart, if she’d meet him behind the stables after her shift. That’s what he’d do normally. What he does now. Now that—

Skalitz is gone. Bianca is gone. And Tess is just a promise—

“Stop staring at her arse, Hal. You’re being obvious.”

Henry blinks. Hans grins at him across the table, cup halfway to his lips. The tavern firelight catches the gold threading on his sleeves, making his hair look more copper than usual. Makes his eyes seem—

Henry looks away. “Wasn’t staring.”

“Liar.” Hans drinks, watching him over the rim. “You were practically drooling. Very yokel of you.”

It’s a joke. Probably a joke. With Hans, it’s tough to tell where the teasing ends and the genuine disdain begins. Not that Hans truly disdains him—at least, not anymore. Not since the baths. Or even before that, not since that first hunt. Not since Hans watched him kill two men and looked at him like—

Like what?

Henry doesn’t let himself finish that thought. Instead, he takes another sip of his drink. The wine is decent—too decent for this tavern, which means Hans brought his own and is making them share it. Another thing Henry should refuse on principle. Another thing he doesn’t.

“I was just thinking,” Henry says, because he needs to say something.

“Dangerous.” Hans leans back, all sprawled limbs and casual arrogance. Taking up space the way only noblemen do, as if the world should simply accommodate them. “What about, o ponderous one?”

You. Always you lately. The way you say my name when you’re drunk. The way you looked at me in the bath. The way I can’t stop thinking about—

“Nothing important.”

The girl returns with the chicken on a wooden platter, steam rising from the golden skin. The smell of it—rosemary, garlic, dripping fat—makes Henry’s mouth water. When did he last eat something hot? Was it this morning? Or the day before?

Hans doesn’t even look at her (well, not her face) when she sets it down and waves her off, turning his eyes back to Henry.

“Split it?” Henry asks, though he knows the answer.

“Of course.” Hans reaches for it barehanded, tears off a leg with a wet crack of cartilage. Grease shines on his fingers immediately—drips down his wrist. He brings the meat to his mouth and bites, teeth sinking into the flesh, juice running down his chin.

Henry watches.

He shouldn’t watch. He should look at his cup, at the fire, at literally anything else. It’s just eating. Men eat. Fritz used to eat like a starved dog, tearing into whatever food they’d scrounged together at the tavern, sauce everywhere, talking with his mouth full. Matthew would laugh at him, steal bits off his plate when he wasn’t looking. Normal. Brothers roughhousing.

This doesn’t feel like that.

Hans’s tongue catches the grease on his lower lip, his eyes never leaving Henry’s face.

“Well?” Hans says, mouth still half-full. “Don’t be shy, Henry. It’s good. Best chicken in Rattay outside the castle kitchens." He grins. “Or second-best, anyway. The monastery in Sasau probably has better, but they won’t share with sinners like us.”

Sinners like us.

Henry reaches for the chicken. Takes the other leg because it’s there, because his hands need something to do besides grip the table. The meat is hot enough to burn his fingers slightly, but the pain helps. Grounds him.

He bites. Chews. Swallows. Tastes nothing but salt and his own pulse.

Across from him, Hans makes a small sound—pleasure, satisfaction. Licks each finger slowly, methodically. One by one. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Good, isn’t it?” Hans murmurs.

Henry tears off another piece of chicken, brings his greasy fingers to his mouth, and licks them clean. One by one. He watches Hans trace each digit's path between his lips.

Henry nods. Doesn’t trust his voice.

They’re more than halfway through the chicken when it happens.

Henry, reaching for the wine pitcher, needs more, needs the fortification, needs something to do with his hands besides imagine them on Hans—when fingers close around his wrist.

Not hard. Just firm enough to stop him. Firm enough that Henry feels each fingertip, the heat of them, and the slick slide of the grease transferring from Hans’s skin to his.

“Let me,” Hans says.

And Henry—Christ, Henry just freezes. Like a hare that’s spotted the fox. Every instinct screaming at him to bolt, to pull away, to laugh it off and break whatever this moment is before it becomes something he can’t take back.

But he doesn’t.

Hans pours the wine and keeps hold of Henry’s wrist. His thumb presses against Henry’s pulse point—he needs to feel it pounding there, fluttering with fear, want, or both.

“You’re tense,” Hans observes. Still holding him. Still touching. “Drink more. Relax.”

Relax. As if that’s possible with Hans’s fingers on him—warm, slick, and deliberate. As if Henry hasn’t spent the last three weeks trying not to think about Hans’s hands, about what they’d feel like, about—

He’s thought about men before. Of course, he has.

Had watched Adam draw back his bow and the slope of those shoulders leaning against the gate. Watched the guards training in the tiltyard, the muscles shifting under sweat-slick skin as they sparred. That was normal—appreciating strength, admiring the form of it. Like watching a good horse run or a hawk dive.

That fumble with Matthew behind the old shed when they were about fourteen—hands clumsy on each other, urgent and awkward, both of them hard and panting, and neither saying a word about it. Practice, they’d told themselves, for the girls they’d bed someday.

And there had been girls. Bianca. Others after her. Soft bodies, sweet sounds, the easy warmth of it.

This isn’t that.

This is Hans holding his wrist in a crowded tavern, thumb pressing into his pulse, eyes dark and focused, waiting for—what? Permission? Rejection? Some sign that Henry understands what this is?

Henry doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to understand. Understanding means naming it, and naming it means—

Hans’s thumb strokes once along the tendon of his wrist. Just once. Barely a movement at all.

Henry’s cock thickens in his braies.

“Better?” Hans asks softly. Finally releases him.

Henry lifts his cup with a hand that trembles slightly. The grease remains on his wrist, tacky and cooling. A mark. A claim. The kind of trace that casts shadows on fabric that can’t be scrubbed away. Something he can’t wipe off without making it obvious, without drawing attention to what just happened.

What just happened?

Nothing. Nothing happened. Hans poured him some wine. Friends do that. Brothers-in-arms. This is—

Hans licks his fingers once more. All of them. Slowly, lingering on the pad of his thumb.

Looking right at him.

Henry drinks.

The tavern is bustling—dice clattering in the corner, someone singing badly by the fire, the serving girl giggling at something. No one pays them any mind. Why would they? Just two men sharing a meal, sharing wine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Henry feels like everyone must be staring.

He’s hard now. Not fully—not yet—but enough that he’s aware of it, aware of the fabric of his braies, aware that if he shifts wrong, someone might notice. He keeps his breathing steady. Keeps his face neutral. Tears off another piece of chicken he doesn’t want and eats it.

Hans is talking. About what? Henry has no idea. Something about hunting, maybe. Or the tournament. Words wash over him like water, meaningless.

Then—pressure.

Against his shin first. The toe of Hans’s boot is nudging his leg. It could be accidental. It could be Hans just shifting position, stretching out those long, noble legs under the table.

Except it doesn’t move away.

Henry’s eyes snap to Hans’s face. Hans is still talking, gesturing with one hand, the picture of casual elegance. Except his eyes—

His eyes are watching. Waiting.

The boot slides higher. Up Henry’s calf. Slow. Deliberate.

Henry’s breath catches. He covers it with a cough, reaches for his wine, and drinks too fast. The pressure doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Shouldn’t—

Hans’s boot finds his knee. Pushes it gently to the side.

And Henry—God help him—lets his legs fall open.

The pressure is there—solid, insistent, the leather of Hans’s boot grinding against the rapidly hardening length of Henry’s cock through his braies—and then it’s gone.

Just like that. Withdrawn. As sudden as a punch to the gut, leaving Henry aching, breathless and disoriented.

Hans leans back in his chair, innocent as an angel. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—still greasy—and yawns as if he’s bored. Like he didn’t just—like Henry isn’t sitting there half-hard and confused and—

“I’m very drunk,” Hans announces.

He’s not. Henry knows he’s not. They killed that chicken and soaked up the wine with meat and fat. Hans is clear-eyed and sharp, mouth quirked in that predatory grin that means he’s pleased with himself. That means he’s won something.

“Take me home, Hal.”

Not a request. A command. The kind Hans gives to servants, to guards, to anyone whose job it is to see to his needs.

Except Henry’s not—he isn’t—

“The guards are outside,” Henry manages. His voice sounds weak even to his own ears.

“They can—”

“I want you.” Hans stands, swaying just enough to sell it. Drunk enough that propriety demands someone should escort him. Not so drunk that anyone would question it. “Come on. Unless you’d rather I stumble into a ditch? My uncle would be very disappointed. And after you’ve been such a good  friend to me.”

The emphasis on those last words. The way Hans’s eyes flick down to Henry’s lap—just for a moment, just long enough that Henry knows Hans sees exactly what he’s done to him.

Henry stands. The ache between his legs is immediate and uncomfortable. His cock hasn’t softened—if anything, the loss of pressure makes it worse, makes him aware of every brush of fabric, every step he’ll have to take.

Hans is already heading for the door.

Henry has walked this route a hundred times. Drunk, exhausted, bleeding from sparring, so bruised he could barely stand. Once, after dropping out of the second round of the tourney, after a hit to his helm that made the world tilt and spin, and Hans had kept a hand on his elbow the whole way, steering him like a wayward calf. He could do it blind. Could do it in his sleep.

Tonight it feels endless.

Hans walks ahead of him despite the performance in the tavern. His gait is steady and confident, with that graceful swagger that says I own this ground I’m walking on. As they pass through the tavern gates, Hans tosses a coin to the guard without breaking stride. The man catches it, tips his head, and doesn’t ask questions. Why would he?

Henry observes Hans’s back, noticing the shaved hairs at the nape of his neck, the red of his hood, and considers grabbing him, dragging him into an alley, and shoving him against a wall. He wonders if Hans would fight or melt away. He questions whether that sharp mouth would still be so clever as Henry’s hands press bruises through the fabric of his pourpoint, Henry’s mouth on his throat, Henry making him gasp for once.

I could, he thinks. Toppling him unnoticed, grabbing him from behind, I’m strong enough to pin him if I wanted to, and more than half-carried his bleeding arse back to Rattay. Could make him—

What? Submit? Beg? He’s never considered sinking his teeth into a wench's throat and tearing like this before. He should feel some horror, some disgust at the brutality of it.

He doesn’t.

The thought makes Henry’s cock throb painfully.

As they walk through the square, the night watchmen pass by; they don’t intervene, but Henry notices them, keeping enough of a distance to give their lord some privacy, yet close enough to come if he signals. They don’t speak. Why would they? Just another night, Lord Hans requiring an escort after drinking with his pet commoner.

Except Henry can still feel it. The pressure of Hans’s boot between his legs. The grease on his wrist, long since absorbed into his skin but somehow still there—a phantom touch, a memory burned into flesh. The way Hans looked at him while licking his fingers clean, one by one, slow and intent.

His cock hasn’t softened. Won’t soften. Not with Hans right there in front of him, all long legs and rolling shoulders. Not with the memory of his own fingers against the thighs that ripple beneath the fine wool of Hans’s hose, that green fabric somehow painted onto his legs, leaves even less to the imagination. Henry’s seen horses with less impressive hindquarters. Why can’t he stop thinking about putting his hands there? About gripping those thighs while Hans—

Don't look. Don’t think about it. This is—this is nothing. Just Hans being Hans. Just another game.

Except they’ve played games before, and none of them felt like this.

Late nights when the girls they wanted had already gone home with someone else or hadn’t looked their way at all. Drunk and frustrated, with both of them hard and aching, with nowhere to put it. It hadn’t happened all at once—Hans in his bed and Henry in the spare across from him, looking but not watching. Untying knots, the distance unravelling between them as they inched forward, moving closer. Until one night, they weren’t across from each other, just side by side. Until one of them reached over, or had they both? Just helping each other out—hands, quick and efficient. Practical. What else were they supposed to do? Better than suffering through it alone. Better than paying some bathhouse wench who’d judge you for not being able to finish, or finishing too fast, or—

Once in the bathhouse—just once—with only a curtain between them and the world. Hans fucking some bathmaid on the narrow bed, the wet sounds of it, her little gasps. And Henry, with a different girl in his lap, trying to focus on her, on the tight heat of her cunt—but listening. Watching the shadows move behind the thin fabric. The shape of Hans’s back, his hips driving forward, the rhythm of it. Coming so hard he’d bitten the girl’s shoulder to keep from making noise, from saying—what? What would he have said?

That was fine. That was—normal enough. Men get worked up. Men have needs. Matthew used to joke about it, about how if you were desperate enough, you’d fuck anything that held still. Everyone knew someone who’d—well. It happened. You just didn’t say it. Didn’t name it. Didn’t make promises; there was nothing to say, and silence was always better than an insult or an apology.

But this.

Hans touching him in public, where anyone could have seen. In full view of the serving girl, the other patrons, and any guard who might have glanced their way. And then—

“Take me home, Hal.”

Not to the bathhouse with its maze of private rooms and paid discretion. Not to the woods where they could claim they were just pissing in the bushes if someone stumbled upon them. Home to Pirkstein. To Hans’s bedchamber, where the servants know better than to enter without knocking, and Hans’s uncle asleep across town in the Upper Castle, where no one will interrupt—

Henry’s cock throbs, pressing against his braies with each step. He shifts his stride, trying to adjust himself discreetly, but it’s impossible. The fabric drags with every movement, a constant friction that’s almost painful.

They pass a group of townspeople heading in the opposite direction—late-night travellers or maybe some day labourers, carrying torches. Henry recognizes them, spots some of the Skalitz refugees among them: Tonda and Pickman. They nod respectfully to Hans, then to Henry with that particular look—there goes Hal, the blacksmith’s boy, drinking with nobility while we haul shit up Pirkstein’s hill.

Henry’s face burns. His stomach is full of roast chicken and rich wine while they—

His cock doesn’t care. His braies are damp at the tip. He can feel it—proof of his desire seeping through the fabric.

That might be the worst part. That even his shame can’t kill his want.

Do they know? Can they tell? Can they see the flush on Henry’s face, the way he’s walking carefully to hide his arousal, the grease still on his wrist that marks him as—as what?

Hans glances over his shoulder briefly. Just a quick look, but his eyes flick down—down to where Henry’s prick throbs in his braies—and then back up. His mouth curves into that fox-like grin. Pleased with himself. Satisfied.

Bastard.

Beautiful bastard.

They reach the castle gates. Henry tries not to dwell on his former neighbours sleeping in the moat. The guards wave them in—they know Henry by now, Lord Hans’s companion. Lord Hans’s borrowed page. Not quite a servant. Not quite a friend. Something that exists in the space between things.

At the base of the stairs, Henry pauses. One step up and there’s no pretending. No returning to a time before they did this with purpose. No more “just friends” or “brothers-in-arms” or whatever lie they’ve been telling themselves.

Hans doesn’t glance back. He just keeps climbing, trusting Henry will follow.

Henry follows.

Ascend the grand staircase. Move through the hall, past the frescoes. Past servants who duck their heads and don’t ask questions, having long since learned that when Lord Hans brings someone to his chambers, you shouldn’t look too closely. The facts: gossip is cheap, a good position in the castle is a livelihood, not worth risking by picking up things you shouldn’t notice.

Henry’s heart pounds so fiercely he wonders if Hans can hear it. He wonders whether the guards can hear it. He wonders if it’s audible proof of what they’re about to do, whatever that may be.

To Hans’s door.

There are guards at the end of the corridor, far enough away but close enough to hear if Hans calls. They keep their backs turned, displaying a mix of professional discretion and bored indifference.

Hans opens the door. Steps inside. Turns and looks at Henry—really looks at him, eyes dragging from Henry’s face down his body to where his cock is visibly straining against his braies, then back up. Slow. Claiming him with just that look.

“Well?” Hans says softly. “Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there all night like a whipped dog?”

Henry steps inside.

The door shuts behind him, sealing the last stone of the tomb.

For a moment, they just stand there.

Hans’s bedchamber. Henry’s been here before—hauling Hans’s drunk arse to bed, helping him out of his practice gear, sitting by the fire practicing his letters while Hans complained about his uncle or boasted about some conquest. It shouldn’t feel different.

It feels different.

A childhood bedroom, with hunting frescoes on the walls. The twin beds against the right wall, two of them, meant for some brother who was never born or who didn’t live to hear the cock crow. That long-lost brother, the one Hans once whispered about beyond Gallows Hill. The brother who sleeps beneath the earth. The one Henry longs to be. Two twin beds: the one Hans sleeps in alone, and the one Henry claims on nights when he can’t be bothered to wander down the stairs. Why isn’t one enough? An unanswered question. The fire burning low in the hearth casts everything in a warm shadow. No servants. No interruptions. Just them.

Hans moves first.

He crosses the space between them in two strides and shoves Henry—hard enough that Henry stumbles back until his shoulders hit the door. Hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

“Look—”

“Shut up.”

Hans’s mouth crashes against his—messy, graceless, all teeth and tongue and the lingering taste of chicken grease and wine. Not a kiss. An attack. Henry’s hands come up instinctively—to push him away? to pull him closer?—and Hans catches both wrists, pins them to the door above Henry’s head.

Henry could break the hold, flip their positions easily—he’s just as strong and has leverage; he’s spent weeks training with Captain Bernard while Hans was recovering. Could take control if he wanted.

He doesn’t want.

Or he does, but—

Hans pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against Henry's mouth. “Tell me no.”

Henry’s mind stutters. “What?”

“Tell me no.” Hans’s grip on his wrists tightens. His hips press forward—he’s hard too, his cock grinding against Henry’s thigh. “Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me—”

“I—”

I don’t know what I want. I want to leave. I want to stay. I want you to stop. I want you to never stop. I want this to mean nothing. I want it to mean everything.

“I can’t.” Henry breathes.

Hans makes a sound—triumph, relief, or desperation, impossible to tell. His mouth finds Henry’s throat, teeth scraping over his pulse. “Good. Good. Just—let me—”

His hands release Henry’s wrists, and they grapple in a small contest, hands tussling over the hem of Henry’s shirt—Hans’s shirt, really, the cream-coloured one with the ruined embroidery, now stained with grease. Henry wins this round, his first victory all evening, it seems. He intends to pull it off, but Hans’s fingers are already distracting, drifting downward, working the laces of his braies. Henry should help. Should do something besides stand there with his palms flat against the door, his cock so hard it hurts, his mind screaming—

He’s going to fuck me.

The thought hits him like cold water, splashed from a trough. Not theoretical anymore. Not some drunken fumble or quick release in the dark. Hans is going to—they’re going to—

Fear spikes through his arousal. He’s thought about it in those late-night moments; he won’t examine too closely. He’s wondered what it would feel like. Heard stories—soldiers joking about boys in far-off campaigns, about what happens in monasteries, about men who prefer the company of men. Who mount one another like beasts.

Pain. It would hurt. Has to hurt. Hans would split him open, pierce him like the chicken on the spit, and Henry would have to—could take it, submit to it, be unmade by it—

“Wait—” The word comes out strangled.

Hans freezes and steps back. His eyes are wild, pupils blown, but he’s—he’s stopping. Listening.

“I—” Henry can’t catch breath. “I’ve never, I don’t—”

“Don’t tell me you’re a virgin,” Hans snorts. “I won’t hear it. What have I been paying you bathmaids for?”

A flash of frustration, something that plucks at him, he wants to defend himself. “You—I’ve never done it like this before.”

Understanding flashes across Hans’s face. Then something else. Something that blurs the edges of it, something glimpsed through the bathhouse steam, something almost tender—like that now familiar arm thrown around his shoulders when he crosses the threshold of Rattay’s gates.

“Hal.” Hans’s voice is softer now. Still rough with want, but less biting. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

“You’re not?”

“Not tonight.” Hans steps close again, but doesn’t touch. “Do you trust me?”

No. Yes. I don’t know. I shouldn’t.

“Aye.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Come here," Hans says, pulling Henry a few steps to the far bed where he sits, extending his arms. “And help me out of these clothes.”

They’ve done this before—Henry’s fingers have worked the buttons on Hans’s pourpoint dozens of times, both of them clumsy from drink, spilling in from the baths or the hunts. But it’s never felt quite like this.

This time, Hans’s hands are steady. Resolute. He unlaces Henry’s borrowed shirt (his own shirt, really, the one Henry took and never returned) as if it matters. Like undressing, Henry is a privilege rather than a chore.

The shirt comes off.

Hans’s red hood—just as vibrant as Bianca’s kirtle had been, or the scarf Henry’s mother once made for him that now sits at the bottom of a trunk at the mill. Then his pourpoint—silk and gold thread pooling on the floor as if it’s worthless. His garters next, the fine woollen hose peeling away to reveal pale skin dusted with fine blond hairs.

When Hans sits on the bed in just his braies, the firelight flickers on his skin, and Henry thinks: He’s beautiful. God help me, he’s beautiful.

“Lie down,” he beckons, patting the bed.

Henry lies down because he doesn’t know what else to do. When Hans reaches for the ties at his hips, Henry doesn’t resist him. Doesn’t protest.

This is different. This is permission. This is—

“There,” Hans murmurs, pulling the fabric away. “That’s better.”

Hans undressing him as if it’s something they do all the time, as if it isn’t the first time they’ve done this without the pretence of wine-tinted ignorance. Henry can feel it, the shift now that both of them have confessed, in some measure, the vice neither of them cares to explain.

His hose and braies are properly unlaced, pushed away, cock hard and flushed against his belly. He feels exposed. Vulnerable. Every instinct screams at him to cover himself, to make a joke, to break this tension before it breaks him.

Hans kneels on the bed beside him. Runs one hand up Henry's thigh, nails catching through the hair—slow, proprietary. “Pretty like this. Not a bad catch. Though you’re damned hairy for a maid.”

Henry makes a sound. Protest? Plea? He’s no maid, but laid out like this, Hans cooing at him in such a familiar way. How often has he seen Hans lean into some girl to whisper something in her ear and watched her fold into his embrace? Could Henry?

“Shh.” Hans’s hand reaches his cock, wraps around it. Just holding. “Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t—”

Hans shushes him again and strokes once, then twice. His thumb brushes over the head, the way that drives Henry mad. And it does, that Hans already knows how to unravel him like this. Henry’s hips involuntarily buck, chasing that hand, those fingers. He’s not going to last. Can’t last. Not with Hans's hand on him, not after the tavern, the walk, the—

Hans releases him. Henry wants to smack him.

“Roll over,” Hans commands.

“What?”

“On your side. Face the wall.”

Henry hesitates—but then he does it, obeys, turning away from Hans, dazed and aching and—

He hears Hans moving behind him. The rustle of cloth—Hans removing his braies. The whisper of linen sliding over skin. Then warmth against Henry’s back as Hans presses close, fitting himself against Henry’s spine as if he belongs there.

Hans’s cock—hard and hot—rests against Henry’s arse. Just there. Not pushing. Not demanding. Not yet. Just there. Present. A promise. A threat.

For a moment, Henry tenses, every muscle in his body tightening. That cold spike of fear, like a trickle of melting snow down the back of his neck, cuts through the heat of his blood. This is it. This is when Hans will—when he’ll have to—brace himself, and to take it—and—

But Hans just breathes, and makes a noise not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. In and out. His chest expands against Henry’s back.

“Relax,” Hans murmurs against his ear. “You’re stiff as a corpse. That’s not the kind of stiff I’m interested in.”

“Then why—” Henry’s voice is hoarse.

“Bloody impatient.” Hans’s hand slides down Henry’s waist and rests on his belly. “I need—just. Give me a moment.”

Henry hears him swallow. Hears the slight pause in his breathing. Then—

A sound. Quiet but unmistakable. The gathering of saliva. The lewd wet sound of Hans spitting into his palm.

Henry’s whole body goes hot, then cold. He half-turns-instinct, shock, something—catches just a glimpse over his shoulder.

Hans has his hand cupped to his mouth. His lips are parted, shining. There’s spit pooled in his palm—visible even in the dim firelight—and his eyes meet Henry’s for just a second. Something in them dares Henry to say something. To be disgusted. To pull away.

Henry turns back to face the wall.

Behind him, Hans makes a sound of satisfaction or approval—then there’s movement. Henry can’t see it, but he hears it. The wet slide of Hans’s hand on his own cock. Once. Twice. The obscene slicking sound of spit easing the drag of skin on skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Henry whispers, but he doesn’t know if he’s praying or cursing.

His cock jerks against his belly, leaking. The sound of it—Hans slicking himself, Hans preparing to use Henry’s body—shouldn’t be so arousing.

It is.

What is he doing? What is Henry doing here, in a bed meant for one, on his side, staring at a crack in the wall, listening to Hans slick himself with spit because—because what? Because any alternative that comes to mind is too distant a thought? Because Hans is too desperate? Because this is what they are now—too hasty, too hungry for decency?

“Stop thinking,” Hans orders, but his voice is strained, that barely restrained want. The hand on Henry’s belly digs in slightly, possessive. “I can practically hear the thoughts rattling around that head of yours.”

The hand resting against his belly moves down to press against Henry’s cock, while the other grips Henry’s thigh. “Spread them. Just a little.”

Henry does.

Hans’s cock slides between his thighs—not inside him, just between, the shaft hot, hard, and slick with spit, rubbing against Henry’s balls, while his own cock is trapped in Hans’s fist.

“Oh,” Henry breathes. “Oh Christ—”

“Better?” Hans’s mouth is against his ear, voice rough. “Not going to hurt you, Henry. Just—fuck, just let me—”

Hans starts to move. Slow shallow thrusts, his cock sliding through the channel of Henry’s thighs, the friction of it only slightly eased with spit, some awful teasing grind. His hand is on Henry’s cock, working to match the rhythm—stroke and thrust, stroke and thrust.

Henry can’t think. Only feel. The heat of Hans pressing against his back, within the cage of his thighs. The obscene wet sound of it. Hans’s breath in his ear, his teeth grazing Henry’s earlobe. The hand on his cock, unyielding.

“Good,” Hans is muttering. “So good, so—Christ, Hal, you feel—”

Henry’s never felt anything like this. Has never been held like this—used like this, Hans fucking his thighs like Henry’s just a hole to rut into, and God, the brush of Hans’s cock head, as he pulls back on a particularly aggressive thrust, catching against the cleft of his arse sets something like fear prickling the hairs on his nape, and something else, some hot molten want, that Hans might just force his way past that final stretch and scratch the itch inside him. But even then, even without that—that kind of piercing, it feels like—like belonging. Like he’s being chosen. Like Hans could have anyone, any pretty bathmaid or burgher’s daughter, but he’s here, pressed against Henry’s back, using Henry’s body to—

Hans’s free hand moves around, slides up over Henry’s ribs and chest. Finds his nipple and pinches—hard.

Henry comes with a grunt, spilling over Hans’s fist and his own belly, his thighs clenching around Hans’s cock as the pleasure crashes through him.

“Fuck—Hal—” Hans’s rhythm stutters, goes frantic. Pounding desperate thrusts and then heat—wet heat—as Hans comes, spending between Henry’s thighs, over his balls, dripping down to mix with Henry’s own release.

They lie there, panting. Henry feels—covered in it. Claimed by it. Hans’s seed is still hot on his skin, marking him.

He should feel disgusted. Should feel some shame, or embarrassment at least.

He feels sated. Safe. Kept.

Hans’s hand, still wrapped around Henry’s softening cock, gives one last gentle squeeze. Then releases. Slides up to rest on Henry’s hip instead, holding him close.

“Disappointed?” Hans asks quietly.

Yes. No. Maybe.

“No,” Henry lies.

“Liar.” But Hans sounds pleased. “Next time.”

Next time. The promise of it. The threat.

Henry should say there won't be a next time. He should pull away, get dressed, and return to his life, where things make sense.

He doesn’t move.

They lie there in the mess they’ve made. Hans’s cock has softened against Henry’s thigh, his spend cooling between Henry’s legs, sticky and obscene. Henry should move. Should clean himself. Should—

Hans shifts behind him. His hand slides from Henry’s hip, trailing down through the mess on Henry’s belly.

“Again already?” Hans’s voice is still rough, but there’s something wondering in it. His fingers find Henry’s cock—half-hard again, twitching with interest despite just having come. “Greedy.”

Henry makes a sound. Not quite a protest. Not quite in agreement. His body has always recovered quickly—something Bianca used to laugh about, how he’d be ready again before she’d even caught her breath. But this—this is different. This is Hans’s hand on him, Hans’s seed drying on his skin, catching in his hairs, and his cock seems to think that means it should—

“Insatiable,” Hans murmurs. Almost approving. His fingers wrap around Henry’s length, stroke once, twice. “Like a dog in rut.”

The words should sting. Instead, they make Henry harder.

Hans notices. Of course, he notices. “Oh, you like that.” He sounds delighted, strokes again, firmer. “Like when I’m cruel to you. When I tell you what you are.”

Henry turns his face into the pillow. His hips push forward into Hans’s grip without permission.

“None of that.” Hans releases him—Henry feels like he could weep—and uses both hands to manhandle Henry onto his back. “I want to see your face.”

Henry blinks up at him. Hans looms over him, his hair tousled, a flush high on his cheeks. Still beautiful. Always beautiful. The firelight catches the gold in his hair, making him look like a saint illuminated in a church fresco.

Except saints don’t look at you like they want to devour you.

“Hold still,” Hans commands.

And then he’s moving down Henry’s body—hands spreading Henry’s thighs apart and settling between them. Graceful, somehow, even now, practically folded in half to fit on the bed. His breath ghosts over Henry’s cock, causing it to jump against his belly.

Henry’s scattered thoughts finally catch up to what’s happening. “Um, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” Hans looks up at him through his lashes. Runs his tongue along his lower lip. “I want to.”

Before Henry can respond—before he can think—Hans’s mouth descends.

Wet heat. Too much tongue immediately. Hans licks a broad stripe up the underside like he’s—like he’s what? Trying to eat it?

“It’s—it’s just a bit indecent,” Henry tries again. “You shouldn’t—I’m not asking you to—”

“You’re not asking.” Hans’s eyes flash. “I’m telling you. I’m going to put my mouth on you, and you’re going to lie back and accept the privilege. Understood?”

I could do that to you, Henry thinks desperately. Could put you on your back and fuck your thighs and watch you moan. I could put my mouth on you. Could make you—

Hans licks him again, from root to tip, and makes a pleased sound at the twitch it causes, then—Christ—tries to take him all the way down in one go. Chokes. Pulls back coughing slightly, eyes watering.

“Fuck,” Hans mutters, more to himself. “That’s—different angle than—”

He tries again, more carefully this time. His tongue does this swirling thing that’s probably meant to be seductive but mostly just feels wet and confusing. But then—

Then his lips seal around the tip, and he sucks, and oh, oh, that’s—

Henry’s hips jerk involuntarily.

“Teeth,” Henry gasps before he can stop himself.

“I know,” Hans snaps, muffled around Henry’s cock, clearly lying. He adjusts, wraps his lips over his teeth with exaggerated care like he’s proving a point.

Better. That’s better. Except now Hans is doing this thing where he’s bobbing his head, but also trying to maintain eye contact, and it’s—it’s a lot. Too much. Henry doesn’t know where to look.

“You’re—” Henry starts.

Hans pulls off a vulgar, wet press of lips. “Am I what? Brilliant? Devastating? The best you’ve ever—”

“You’re drooling,” Henry says.

Hans wipes his chin with the back of his hand, glaring. “So do you when you eat.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Before Henry can answer, Hans takes him back in his mouth—deeper this time, clearly determined to prove something. His technique is…inconsistent—too much suction, not enough, that strange trick he does with his tongue, but there’s something about the enthusiasm of it, the sheer determination, Hans’s hand working what he can’t fit, the little competitive glare he shoots upwards when he finds a spot that makes Henry gasp—

Christ. Christ. Christ.

It’s not—it’s different from when a girl does it. Hans’s mouth is hotter, more insistent. His jaw is stronger, his lips firmer. There’s the very faintest scrape of his stubble against Henry’s thigh—rough and unfamiliar and somehow perfect. There are more teeth involved—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to threaten. Just enough that Henry wonders, distantly, whether Hans is imitating what he likes. And the way he’s looking up at Henry while he does it, eyes dark and hungry, like Henry’s the feast and Hans has been starving for. Like this is what he wanted all along. Like he’s been thinking about it—planning it—

Henry’s hands spasm in the sheets.

Henry’s watched Hans eat. Watched him bite into fresh bread still steaming from the oven. Watched him tear into roast meat, dig into the sinews with his teeth, crack bones for marrow. Watched him lick his fingers clean of grease and gravy, savouring every drop as if it held a secret. Watched him bite into an apple, canines piercing the sun-reddened skin, juice running down his chin, looking rakish and beautiful and utterly unashamed.

He’s doing that now. Devouring.

Hans pulls off with a sinful wet sound —a lewd pop—saliva connecting his swollen lips to Henry’s cock like a spider’s silk. He’s panting slightly, his pupils blown wide, his cheeks flushed, a blush that casts all the way down his neck.

“Taste like yourself,” he says conversationally, despite his scratchy voice. His tongue darts out to catch the strand of saliva, then chases it back to Henry’s cock. “And me. We’re all mixed together now.”

The words really shouldn’t be so devastating.

Mixed together. Like wine and water. Like bread and wine becoming what? The priest had explained it—the body and the blood, becoming one thing: Christ. Two things becoming one. Inseparable.

Henry can taste Hans on his own tongue still—chicken grease and wine. And Hans is tasting Henry now, tasting himself in Henry’s spend, tasting their mingled—

“I told you to stop thinking,” Hans tuts. Then he’s ducking down again, pressing a kiss to Henry’s cock that’s almost chaste—almost tender—before taking him deeper than before—impossibly deep, until God, until Henry feels the back of his throat.

Henry’s trying not to thrust, trying not to move, trying to be good—but Hans makes another pleased sound and brings his arm up, lays it heavy across Henry’s hips, pinning him in place with surprising strength. Then—

He swallows.

His throat works around Henry’s cock, squeezing, and Henry makes a noise he didn’t know he was capable of—high and desperate broken.

“Hans—” it emerges as a warning, a plea, a prayer to a saint kneeling between Henry’s thighs, debasing himself, destroying himself, destroying Henry—

Hans doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. Just looks up at Henry with those sharp fox eyes that have haunted Henry’s dreams for months now, and swallows again. Deliberately. Like he wants it. Like he’s been wanting it, like it’s something holy and nothing base.

Henry comes with a shout; he only barely manages to muffle against his own forearm, his hips jerking despite the weight holding him down, spilling into Hans’s mouth while Hans—Christ—while Hans—Christ—while Hans lets him, takes it all, drains him like a tankard.

When Henry finally stops shaking, stops spilling, stops coming apart at the seams—Hans releases him carefully. Sits back on his heels and opens his mouth.

Henry’s seed is there on his tongue—white and obscene against the pink—before Hans purposefully, slowly, lets it spill out. It drips from his lips over Henry’s cock, down onto his balls, adding to the mess already there.

Henry’s cock—which should be felled and finished—gives a valiant twitch of interest.

Hans wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—smirking. Satisfied. Smug.

“There,” he says, his voice rough and scraped. “Now we’re even.”

Even. As if any of this could be measured. Balanced. Made sense of. As if Hans swallowing Henry’s spend and then spilling it back out like some kind of blessing could ever be even.

Henry can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but lie there basted in sweat and spend his own and Hans’s inside and out, marked and claimed, utterly and completely undone.

His head feels stuffed with wool. Or there are stars caught behind his eyes, he can hardly tell with the roar of blood in his ears.

Hans flops down beside him, casual as anything. Like he didn’t just—like they didn’t—like this is normal, natural, something they do every night.

“Stay,” Hans says.

Not a command this time. Softer. Almost hesitant. Almost vulnerable.

Like he’s the one asking for something now. Like Henry has the power to refuse.

Henry should go. He ought to slip away before dawn, before the servants begin moving through the castle. Should put distance between them, between this and whatever they are the rest of the time.

He stays.

He shouldn’t—knows he shouldn’t—but Hans’s hand remains on his chest, over his heart, and every time Henry considers moving, that hand tightens just slightly. Not enough to restrain, just enough to serve as a reminder.

Stay.

The silence stretches between them. Henry can hear his own breathing—still uneven, still catching—and Hans’s, slower now, calming. The fire has burned low, casting the room in amber shadows. Outside, the castle is quiet. The world beyond this room might as well not exist.

Then Hans pulls away. He rolls onto his back with a satisfied groan, one arm flung over his face, the other still pressed against Henry’s side. He’s grinning—Henry can see it even with his face half covered. Giddy. Almost boyish.

“More wine, I think,” Hans sighs. Not quite an order. Not quite a request. Something in between that assumes Henry will do it anyway.

Henry should tell him to get it himself. He could point out that Hans has two perfectly functional legs. Should remind him that Henry’s not his servant, not really, no matter how much Hans likes to pretend otherwise.

Instead, he sits up and climbs over Hans, who makes no effort to help Henry dismount from the bed. His body protests—thighs aching, cock tender, every muscle loose and exhausted. The mess between his legs is cooling, uncomfortable. He can feel their spend starting to dry on his skin, tacky and obscene.

“There’s a basin,” Hans says, still not looking at him. Still sprawled on the bed like a cat in a warm window, “And cloth. By the fire.”

Henry turns. There—on a small table he hadn’t noticed before—sits a basin of water and several clean cloths. Still warm from sitting by the hearth. Purposefully placed. Prepared.

Before. Hans had prepared this before they even left the tavern.

The realization hits Henry's life like a fist, a mace, a club. Hans had planned this. That he’d known—or at least hoped—that Henry would end up here. In his bed. Needing to be cleaned.

“You—” Henry starts, then stops. Doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. You planned this? You wanted this? You expected me to—

“The wine, Hal,” Hans reminds him, and there’s that laughter in his voice now. That slightly exasperated amusement tinged with satisfaction, like Henry’s moments of indecision are some calculated ploy to intrigue him.

Henry stands, his legs unsteady like a newborn foal, and he has to brace himself on the edge of the bed. Behind him, Hans makes a pleased sound—practically purring—and Henry doesn’t need to look to know he’s watching. He’s watching Henry walk naked across his bedchamber, marked and used, and still obediently fetching wine.

The pitcher is on the table by the basin. Still half-full. Henry pours two cups with hands that aren’t quite steady, acutely aware of Hans’s eyes on him. On the mess between his legs. On the bruises forming on his hips. On the way, Henry moves carefully, sore and satisfied and—

He’s looking at me like I’m his.

The thought should anger him. Frighten him. Something.

It doesn’t.

But Henry’s not Hans’s anything. His friend, maybe? He isn’t anybody’s but his own. And if Hans can kneel for him—noble, arrogant Hans who has servants to dress him and cut his meat—then Henry can damn well clean himself without asking permission.

He sets the wine cups down. Takes one of the cloths and dips it in the warm water. Wrings it out. The basin is positioned exactly to be visible from the bed—of course it is, Hans planned everything—and Henry doesn’t turn away. Doesn’t hide.

Instead, he plants his feet and brings the cloth between his legs.

Henry cleans himself slowly, purposefully wiping away Hans’s seed from between his thighs, over his balls, along the crease of his arse where it dripped and dried. The cloth is warm, the linen fine—too fine for this. What was it in another life? A shirt? A sheet? One of the delicate textures of Hans’s childhood bedroom, now discarded and shredded into neat scraps for wiping away filth. Henry takes his time, refusing to rush even though Hans is staring.

You want a show? I’ll give you a show.

Instead, there’s something nearly defiant in it. In letting Hans watch as Henry tends to the mess Hans made. In not asking for permission and refusing to wait for the order. In doing it himself because he can, because he won’t beg Hans to do it for him.

Hans seems to realize this. When Henry glances back at him. Hans’s expression had shifted. Less smug. More…intent. Hungry.

Good.

Henry finishes cleaning himself—thoroughly and methodically—then drops the cloth back into the basin with a wet slap. He picks up both wine cups and returns to the bed.

He doesn’t ask permission before handing one to Hans—just does it.

Hans takes it, sits up slightly, never taking his eyes off Henry.

The wine is good. Too good. Sylvan red again, wine that probably costs more than Henry makes in a month. The kind Hans sent him to steal that first time, watching with those sharp storm-blue eyes to see if Henry would actually do it. Testing him even then.

Henry drinks too fast, eager for the warmth of it, the fortification. Some of it spills—drips down his chin to his throat.

Hans moves so fast that Henry doesn’t have time to react.

One moment, Hans is lying back, lazily drinking his own wine. The next, he’s surged forward, crowding into Henry’s space, one hand fisting in Henry’s hair to hold him still while Hans’s tongue follows the trail of wine down his throat.

“Waste,” Hans murmurs against the skin of his collarbone, licking up every drop. His tongue is hot, currant-sweet. “Can’t waste good wine.”

Henry’s breath catches. His cock—which should be finished, should be done for the night—gives an interested twitch.

Hans notices. Of course, he notices. He pulls back just enough to grin at Henry, smug and delighted. “Again?”

And Henry—

Henry could say no. He could point out that Hans has probably already wrung him dry, that his cock is tender and oversensitive, that he needs more than half a cup of wine and a few breaths to recover.

Could let Hans win this round. Let him have the satisfaction of reducing Henry to a wreck while painting his own smug composure.

But Henry remembers. Remembers Hans on his knees between Henry’s thighs. Remembers the way Hans looked up at him, defiant and hungry, before taking Henry’s cock in his mouth like it was a challenge. Like he had something to prove.

I can do that too.

The thought comes unbidden. Clear. Certain.

Henry’s never—he’s never done that. Never put his mouth on another man. Never much wanted to, really, except—

Except he does want to. Wants to see Hans fall apart the way Henry just did. Wants to be the one who makes Hans gasp, curse, and forget how to speak. Wants to prove he can take as good as he gets.

Wants to win.

“My turn,” Henry hears himself say.

Hans blinks.

Henry takes the wine cup from Hans’s hand and sets both cups aside on the floor by the bed. Then he meets Hans’s eyes—holds his gaze—and says it again.

“My turn.”

Understanding dawns on Hans’s face. Then something else—surprise, maybe. Disbelief. His pupils dilate, swallowing the blue-grey until they’re nearly black.

“You don’t have to—” Hans starts.

“I know.” Henry shifts, moving to kneel beside Hans on the bed. His hands find Hans’s shoulders—push, gently but firmly. “Lie back.”

For a moment, Hans doesn’t move. Just stares at Henry like he’s seeing him for the first time. Like he’s trying to figure out if Henry’s serious, if this is some kind of joke, if—

Then—slowly—he lies back and lets Henry press him into the bedding.

His cock is half-hard already, flushed against his belly. As Henry watches, it twitches and fills further.

Henry’s never done this. Doesn’t know what he’s doing. But he’s watched—God, he’s watched Hans do it, moments ago. Watched the way Hans used his tongue, his teeth, the way he swallowed—

And Henry’s got less sense than he ought—enthusiasm, pluck, courage.

And hunger.

God, he’s always hungry these days. It’s been like that since Skalitz burned. Since his mother died. Since her stew disappeared—that stew with the carrots and turnips, bone stock, the way she’d skim the fat, add just enough salt. She’d make him eat even when he wasn’t hungry. “You’re growing,” she’d say. “You’ll waste away.”

He eats every day now—Hans makes sure of that, pressing food on him at every meal like Henry might disappear if he’s not fed—but nothing tastes the same. The bread is too dry. The meat is too bland. Even Hans’s fancy wine tastes like—well, like wine. Like nothing special.

But this—

Maybe this.

Henry shifts and moves down between Hans’s legs, settling on the bed with his weight on his knees. The position is awkward—he’ll have bruises there tomorrow, matching the ones on his hips—but he doesn’t care.

Hans’s legs bracket his head. Hans’s cock is right there, hard and flushed and waiting.

“Listen,” Hans says, and his voice is strange. Rough. Almost uncertain. “Henry, I know this is a bit of a—”

Henry wraps his hand around the base of Hans’s cock. Feels the heat of it, the weight. The way it jumps in his grip, eager.

“Shut up,” Henry says.

And takes him in his mouth.

It’s—Christ.

It’s not how he imagined. The taste is sharper, more intense. Salt, musk, and something distinctly Hans. And it’s—it’s big. Bigger in his mouth than it seemed in hand. Or maybe Henry’s jaw just isn’t—

He tries to copy what Hans did. That sucking thing. Except he sucks too hard and Hans makes a strangled noise that might be pleasure or pain, Henry can’t tell.

He pulls back, confused. He tries the tongue thing Hans did—that swirling motion—except Hans was doing it around the head, and Henry’s doing it along the side, and it’s—it’s probably not right. Is it?

Above him, Hans makes a sound—half-laugh, half-groan.

“What?" Henry pulls off, defensive. “Am I—is it not—”

“No, it’s—” Hans’s voice is wrecked. “You’re doing fine. Just—maybe less like you’re trying to polish it? It’s not a piece of armour. And mind your teeth, you’ll gnaw my prick clean off.”

Henry’s face burns. “You didn’t give me bloody instructions—”

“I didn’t need instructions, I’m naturally—” Hans cuts himself off when Henry deliberately scrapes his teeth along the shaft. “CHRIST, Hal, I said mind your—”

“You used teeth,” Henry argues, pulling off completely now, stubborn.

“That was different. I was—it’s a technique, you have to—” Hans gestures vaguely. “It’s complicated.”

“Show me then.”

“I can’t show you on my own—” Hans stops. Stares at Henry. “Are you seriously trying to turn this into a lesson?”

“You’re the one who said you were an expert—”

“I am an expert—”

“Then TEACH me properly instead of just—” Henry gestures at Hans’s own spit-slick cock, still hard, still aching.

They stare each other down. Then Hans laughs genuinely.

“Fine. Here’s your lesson: stop thinking about it like it’s sword work. There’s no proper form. Just—” He reaches down, guides Henry’s head back. “Use your hand with your mouth. Cover your teeth. And for God’s sake, don’t try to swallow it whole like you’re in an eating contest.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. Now shut up and try again.”

Henry does. This time, he uses his hand and mouth, and together, as Hans said, finds a rhythm that’s probably not sophisticated but seems to work nonetheless. At least, judging from the way Hans’s fingers tighten in his hair, based on the way Hans’s thighs start trembling.

He tries to take him deeper—still wants to win this somehow—and immediately gags.

“Don’t—” Hans gasps. “You don’t have to f—”

But Henry’s already recovered, already trying again. He’s faced down worse than this. He can do this. He can—

“Hal,” Hans warns. “I’m going to—you should—”

Henry understands. He remembers girls pulling back at the last moment, spitting into their hands, or letting him spend on their breasts.

And Bianca—God, Bianca—it wasn’t the kind of thing you’d ask a sweetheart to do. But once, curious, she’d tasted it from her fingers and wrinkled her nose. He’d laughed. She’d smacked his shoulder. But that was before. Before everything.

Hans hadn’t wrinkled his nose. Hans wants it. Henry does too.

He doesn’t pull back.

Instead, he doubles down. Sucks harder. Uses his hand on the base of Hans’s cock, stroking what he can’t fit in his mouth. Lips pressed so tightly to his fist that he can feel his knuckle bones against his front teeth. His other hand finds Hans’s balls, cups them, and squeezes gently the way Hans showed him.

“Hal—” a plea.

Henry knows what happens next, thinks of Hans’s mouth on him, and remembers thinking it was some sort of challenge.

So when Hans comes—shouting loud enough to make Henry worry about the guards—Henry tries to swallow just as Hans did, even more so.

Immediately chokes. Some of it goes down. Some of it doesn’t. It’s in this throat, coating his tongue, bitter and too much and—

He pulls off coughing, Hans’s seed dripping from his lips, definitely not the smooth victory he’d envisioned.

Hans is staring at him as if he’s just performed a miracle, as if he’s plucked roses from the castle garden at night—something brave and foolish in equal measure.

“Did you—” Hans’s voice cracks. “Did you just—HAL. Did you swallow that?”

Henry wipes his mouth, still coughing slightly. “You did.”

“I’m the seasoned one here, you absolute madman—”

“Seemed like a waste,” Henry croaks out, his throat burning.

“A WASTE—” Hans looks torn between horror and something else. “You’re supposed to—most people spit, or at least—Christ, did you actually manage to get it all down?”

“Most of it,” Henry admits. Some of it’s definitely still smeared on his chin. He can feel it.

Hans stares at him for a long moment. Then starts laughing. Actually laughing, breathless, delighted and disbelieving.

“You’re fucking insane,” Hans puffs.

“So are you,” Henry points out, voice still rough.

Hans opens his mouth, then shuts it, at a loss for words but not, it seems, for action. His eyes drop to Henry’s cock, hard and flushed and leaking against his belly, catching against the dark hairs. His expression changes. Goes predatory.

“Your turn,” Hans says, echoing Henry’s earlier words. “Again.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh.” Hans shifts, sits up. One hand wraps around Henry’s cock—firm, possessive. “You gave me that. Now I’m going to—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Just pushes Henry back into the bedding the way Henry pushed him, then moves down his body with purpose, settling between his legs.

And takes Henry in his mouth for the second time tonight.

—

This time is different.

This time, Hans is almost gentle. Slow. Like he’s savouring it instead of devouring. His tongue works methodically, finding every sensitive spot, every place that makes Henry gasp. This time, the rhythm of his hand works in tandem with his mouth—stroking, squeezing. A perfectly coordinated assault.

“Fuck—” He tries to warn him. “I’m going to—”

Hans just hums around his cock and takes him deeper, swallowing around him the way Henry just did and—

Henry comes almost immediately—spilling down Hans’s throat the same way Hans just spent down his. His vision turns white. It’s almost painful, the contraction of his balls, the last drops of him being wrung out; there’s less of it, but the shocking twitches seem to go on forever. His hands fisting in the sheets to stop himself from grabbing Hans’s hair and holding him there, forcing him down, making him take it all—

When he finally stops trembling, Hans pulls off and—

And spits. Again.

Deliberately. Henry’s release spills from his mouth over his softening cock, white and vulgar, and claiming. It drips down his balls, onto the sheets, marking everything.

“There,” Hans says, smirking. Wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. “Now we’re even.”

“We’re not even,” Henry argues, still trying to catch his breath. “You spat both times. I swallowed.”

“Because you’re INSANE—”

“Or braver than you—”

“It’s not about bravery, it’s about basic—” Hans gestures wildly. “You can’t just—there’s technique involved—”

“I had technique,” Henry argues.

“You absolutely did not. You attacked it like a—like a—”

“Like what?”

“Like that damn Mutt of yours,” Hans finishes. “Very enthusiastic. Zero finesse.”

Henry glares. “I’m certain, you said enthusiasm was good—”

“Enthusiasm with skill, yes, but you just—” Hans stops and looks at him. “Wait. You think you won, don’t you?”

“I made you finish. Twice.” Henry points out.

“I made you finish. Thrice.”

“But I—”

“This isn’t archery, Hal, there’s no score—”

“Then why do you keep saying we’re even?” Henry challenges.

Hans opens his mouth. Closes it. “That’s—that’s different.”

“How?”

“Because—” Hans flounders. Then rallies. “Because next time, I’ll be better. I’ll make you forget your own name. I’ll—”

“Next time I’ll swallow properly,” Henry interrupts. “Without choking.”

“That’s not—you shouldn’t—” Hans looks pained. “Why are you like this?”

“You started it.” Henry shoots back.

They stare at each other. Then both start laughing—exhausted, ridiculous, still arguing even now.

Even.

Except they’re not. Because Hans swallowed first. Because Henry matched him. Because this isn’t about being even—it’s about challenging each other, pushing each other, seeing who can make the other break first.

It’s about winning. And neither of them knows how to lose.

Henry should say something. Should acknowledge what just happened. Should—

But Hans is already moving, flopping down beside him with a satisfied groan. His familiar pose, one arm flung over his face, but this time his other hand finds Henry's hand in the blankets, and laces their fingers together.

For a long moment, neither speaks. Just breathing. They should move, should shift from this indulgent wreck into the spare bed Henry’s come to claim as his own, but they don’t. He cannot bring himself to untangle himself, to escape, not for fresh sheets or any semblance of normalcy.

Just this. Just skin and the firelight catching on the sweat-slick dampness where their bodies overlap.

I could get used to this, Henry thinks.

“Next time,” Hans murmurs, already half-asleep, voice slurred with satisfaction, “we’ll see who’s really better at this.”

“Next time,” Henry agrees.

And finds that he means it.