Archive of Our Own

“I’m starving, Henry. I can’t believe Musa doesn’t let us eat after everything we’ve been through. And Katherine is with him on that!”

Hans’ pointy chin digs into Henry’s collarbone. He is all pointy and sharp now - more bones than meat. His hips poke Henry’s when Hans lies like this, a heavy weight between his thighs. It’s uncomfortable - painful even. Henry welcomes it nevertheless: in the dream-like quality of the last few days, between Henry leaving Suchdol and them returning to the Den, victorious, Hans’ touch is the only thing that seems real. 

“Musa of Mali is a renowned healer. If he says a hearty meal can kill you after a month of starvation, I tend to believe him.”

Hans scoffs. Henry runs his hand down Hans’ spine to offer reassurance. He can count the vertebrae with his fingertips even through the cloth of Hans’ undershirt. 

“I wonder how long esteemed Sir Hynek will last before he stops following Musa’s advice.” Hans’ face twists in a fake scowl, and he continues with a gravelly voice:

“Nothing's standing between me and that stew. Fuck yer stories, healer - scare the children with 'em at night if ye like. I'm fucking starving.”

Henry snorts, then schools his own features into a calm expression that never leaves Musa’s face, and answers with a tone as smooth as he can manage:

“Please, Sir Hynek, if you insist -  let me observe. I have never witnessed death by feasting after starvation. I hope to exchange notes with my colleagues after your demise.”

They giggle, their breath mixing together. When the laughter fades, it is to give room to charged silence.

Henry’s fingers dive under Hans’ shirt - careful at first. Hans melts into the touch in an instant, sighs blissfully, and Henry grows bolder. He flattens his palm against the dips and planes of Hans’ back, draws hot circles on his skin. It’s a wonder to him still, a divine miracle, to be allowed this, after months of dreaming, hoping.

“Ah, Henry,” Hans whispers, “I don’t think I’m up to anything tonight, to be honest. I’m exhausted.”

“I know,” Henry says and stills his hand. Lies. “I’m exhausted, too. We need to rest.”

Hans lifts himself up. His eyes shine in the dark like wet river pebbles.

“But we still have time. And after the wedding - I will think of something, you hear?”

Henry nods.

Hans falls asleep quickly after that. Henry doesn’t. He lies there late in the night, breathing in the scent of lavender and something sweeter, floral, clinging to Hans’ skin.

“No need to rush,” Bianca laughed and kissed his cheek when he, drunk on her warmth, asked her to marry him come autumn.

"One day I'll show you how to quench steel," Pa said when Henry told him he wanted to learn swordmaking. "Be patient, lad, I’m not going anywhere yet."

"Your concoction is good, but you need to boil marigold a tad longer," Ma told him a week before Skalitz burned, "Don’t worry, we have plenty of time to help you master it."

Henry holds Hans in his arms. The only thing he knows - the thing he swears - is that Hans won’t go before him, like the others did.

And when it happens, when Henry has to close his eyes forever, he wants Hans’ scent to be the last thing he remembers.

“Ah, finally! A worthy abode!” Hans says, standing at the centre of the dining room, painted in elegant blue.

Henry can’t disagree: it’s a nice little cottage Hans rented for them. Tidy, bright rooms with soft beds that do not squeak; thick walls; a maid that comes to cook and clean, but sleeps out.

They spend their days in bliss that an uncautious soul may call domestic. They hunt, they spar, they visit all the traders in Kuttenberg for Sir Hans to order another chest plate, or a pair of spurs, or a new pourpoint. They share drinks at the tavern and treat whatever friend decides to join. And in the privacy of their home they make use of beds, tables, benches and that pelt near the fireplace.

It’s everything Henry could’ve wanted - and yet, the end of that summer is chasing him, its breath cold and prickly on the back of his neck. 

Henry tries to outrun it, to cheat - to soak as much warmth as he can. He touches Hans all the time: puts a palm on his lower back, while leading him out of another shop; taps his shoulder to then point to one thing or another; supports his elbow when they cross a particularly nasty mud patch. Hans never objects. He blushes, and he smiles, and sometimes he makes a scandalised face, but he never once tells Henry off.

It makes something coil tight in Henry’s belly. Something dark: an animal, never sated, wraps itself around his bones and waits.

It is that animal that rears its ugly head and strikes one day.

They are at the meeting with some of the city councillors. Hans, suddenly intent on his responsibilities, speaks of possible trade deals between Rattay and Kuttenberg. It’s a rather pleasant discussion, smoothed further by exquisite food and rich wine. Naturally, the latter goes to everyone’s head, and in one moment Master Fridusch Kumel takes a step too close and puts his hand on Hans’ shoulder.

Henry doesn’t know what possesses him. One heartbeat - and he’s there, shoving that hand off. Everything in him screams, wails, roars: Hans is his, and so is the privilege of touching him.

He hears shocked gasps and exclamations. Fridusch, who’s always been nice to him - a friend, almost - looks absolutely affronted.

“Henry, my dear squire! That’s enough wine for you tonight,” Hans laughs, his voice singing out under the arched ceiling. “Look at you: barely standing, pushing people around!”

Henry apologizes. Master Kumel gives him a sour look, and the meeting continues.

Hans doesn’t say anything that evening, or the next morning, or at all - but then it happens again, and again.

Every time someone touches Hans, or steps too close, or takes too much of his attention, the beast uncoils and growls a threat. Henry can’t fight it - part of him doesn’t want to: Hans is the only thing he needs to breathe. 

It gets even worse when they are alone: that desire burns sticky-hot in him, while Hans gasps and moans in his ear. Henry sinks his teeth into Hans’ neck and wishes they were barbed - digging deep into the flesh and keeping Hans under him like this forever, forever.

“H-henry,” Hans drawls - and he remembers then, that there’s a living, beloved being in his arms. Henry unclenches his teeth, covers the mark in kisses, a wordless apology.

“You can… you can bite,” Hans pants, but Henry doesn’t dare. Hans has no idea about a creature that’s made its nest inside him; he should never catch a glimpse of that hunger. And so, Henry holds him with care, and presses his lips to the pale skin in devotion, and meets Hans’ release with the gentleness his lord deserves.

“What’s the matter with you, Henry?” Hans asks one day, when they leave the tailor’s shop. Or asked to leave, rather.

It wasn’t pretty.

“I…” Henry says. “I don’t know.”

He kicks a pebble out of his way and shifts on his feet, waiting for his own punishment - an unruly serf, who has forgotten his place and causes trouble for his master.

But the reprimand never comes, and when Henry dares to lift his gaze, there is no scorn in Hans’ eyes - only amusement.

In Henry’s dreams, Hans is spread before him on a dark wooden table, with eyes as blue as the summer sky, and lips the same bright colour as the torn wound on the sunken chest. 

"Henry," he says - and smiles when Henry leans closer, tears the gash with his teeth and swallows Hans’ heart whole, hiding it in the warmth and darkness of his belly.

Henry will keep it safe. He will make sure no one will take it from him.

Henry saw his parents being slain. He held Bianca’s lifeless body in his arms. He watched his life burn, churning in the fires that engulfed Skalitz. 

But nothing prepared him for the pain he feels on Hans’ wedding day.

He stands in the House of the Lord and thinks: that’s what Hell must feel like, when a thousand burning needles tear a sinner’s skin. The rich scent of myrrh and frankincense clogs his throat; the glare of the saints is a judgemental weight that roots him to the spot. Henry can’t look - and he can’t stop looking, his eyes are on that tall figure at the altar, on the halo of golden hair. On the woman right next to him.

The priest asks the Lord to bless the union. The crowd joins in prayer, and Henry feels it: the heavy hand of God gracing his heart with a divine touch - and then squeezing, wrenching it out of his chest. His pained gasp drowns in the harmony of the hymn. He grabs the backrest of the bench in front of him and presses his palms into the wood, hiding the tremor there.

Later that evening, when even the most stubborn drunks have passed out, Henry nurses a bottle of wine alone in his room, disgustingly sober.

It is then Hans barges through the door, kicks it closed and locks it without looking.

"I need you," he says, and Henry drops his wine to the floor, his arms suddenly full of the shaken man. Henry pushes Hans onto the bed, and fucks him, and loses his mind, because Hans keeps asking, begging, demanding: harder, make it harder, god fucking damn it, make it hurt, Henry, make it hurt!

Henry knows Hans’ pleas aren’t coming from a good place. He feels the monster stir, ready to tear, to take. Henry knows he shouldn’t - but he’s weak against those strong hands that clutch him so desperately. So he growls, and marks every inch of Hans’ skin with his teeth, and snaps his hips harder, sharper - till Hans comes with a loud cry. And it’s not his moans, or the way he clenches on Henry’s cock - it’s the sight of the tears streaming down his face that makes Henry come, too.

When his head clears, he sees Hans shaking all over, covering his eyes with his forearm. The cold, sticky terror creeps into Henry, forcing even that insatiable beast to recoil. What has he done? Henry’s not here to hurt. He’s never meant to hurt - not Hans.

Hans doesn’t answer his calls and gentle nudges. All the while, his shaking is getting worse, and Henry - he’s so used to fixing other people’s mess and solving their problems, but this? He doesn’t know how to make it better.

So he sticks to the familiar: he wets the cloth, he wipes the sweat and seed. He presses kisses and gentle words into the skin, till the shaking abates, and the blue - red-rimmed, dulled - eyes are looking at him again.

“I love you,” Henry says and hates himself. He has no right for this, not after what’s just happened.

Hans smiles at him.

Henry’s heart hurts.

“Nice weather today, eh, master Henry?” A guard says to him, passing.

Henry grunts his agreement. He doesn’t know what the weather is like: all his days are grey. Ashen.

The life in Rattay rolls like a well-greased cartwheel. There are practice drills and occasional tourneys; visiting nobles and burghers; a holiday fair, a feast. Chamberlain gets sick, some spices get stolen from the kitchen, a guard breaks his sword. Hans is in the middle of it, fighting the battle for his rights, his fiefdom every day - charming the visitors, writing letters, weaving a delicate secret web to support his claims.

Lady Jitka is often beside him. “I don’t want a war in my own house, Henry” Hans told him once - and well, they look like allies now. She’s smart, calm and unexpectedly savvy when it comes to politics. Henry feels the bile in his throat rising every time he sees them together.

Throughout this, Henry’s company is demanded all the time. Hans finds a thousand tasks for him: read those letters, Henry; help me draft the answers; come with me to this meeting; what do you think on that matter?

Henry thinks he is as useless as the sword hanging at his belt. It doesn’t leave the scabbard very often these days, except for rare opportunities to spar with real weapons in the tiltyard. It is usually Hans who drags him there.

“Come on, Henry,” he laughs, as they dance around each other. “You’ll make a fearsome knight one day!”

Hans’ laugh rings so often lately. A burst of golden light amidst the fog.

Henry wishes he could answer with his own happiness in kind.

It doesn’t get better even when they share their stolen moments. Nothing is enough any more, for every time Henry is being held, he thinks: what if this is their last meeting? How soon will Hans tire of him?

When Henry is alone, his every breath is laced with regret: he should’ve held Hans tighter, kissed him harder, reached for his hand more often. Maybe that would’ve fed the beast that’s never sated.

“And this is my faithful squire, Henry of Skalitz,” Hans says, introducing him to another noble who barely glances at him, as if he’s just a shadow.

Maybe he is.

In his dreams, Henry stands behind his lord’s high chair. There’s a feast, and the servants bring all sorts of dishes to the table: there’s roasted lamb, white bread, fresh and dried fruits, a human heart.

Henry looks at his own chest, surprised, and sees his tunic soaked in red.

There are so many people at this feast; they clutch Hans’ hands, beg for his attention - which he gives freely, well versed in the art of charm. 

Henry can’t take his eyes off him, even though his clothes grow heavier as they absorb the blood.

“Take it,” he begs. His voice, weak enough from the wound, drowns in the shouts and cheers of all the guests. “Please, take it.”

But Hans drinks his wine and eats his food, and never touches the heart, although it lies right in front of him.

Henry is so tired of his nightmares, and the dull pain in his chest; of the fog that clouds his mind; of small smiles Hans sends his way that change into light frowns when Henry tries and fails to smile back. 

One day, he passes the basket of clothes for laundry and sees the unmistakable red hood. Before he knows it, his hands grab it and his legs carry him to his room.  

He locks the door and presses the hood to his nose.

It smells so strongly of Hans, as if the man stands right next to him. There's a scent of perfumes, and also sweat, and behind it all - something else, something that is just Hans. The hood is slightly warm from Henry clutching it, and it’s so easy to pretend that the cloth still remembers the warmth of its owner.

Henry sleeps peacefully that night, his dreams filled with lavender, with blue skies and golden clouds; it is as if someone watches over him, pushing the nightmares away.

The scent fades after a while, and Henry quietly returns the hood to the laundry basket; trades it for Hans’ green hose.

And so it goes: Henry falls asleep, surrounded by the beloved scent; tucks the piece in the chest near the bed whenever he leaves.

He fucks Hans in this room sometimes, careful and considerate, and thinks of a hood, a hose, a glove or even a tunic: all fragments of Hans Henry should’ve never had, but has anyway, hidden and safe.

"Are you all right?" Hans whispers and brushes Henry's hair from his sweaty face, traces his nose, his cheek, a feather-light touch. Henry leans into it and thinks, tell me you love me.

Hans recites poetry for him. Tells him stories of great love - sometimes happy, sometimes tragic, depending on the mood. A hundred words in someone else’s verses; none in his own.

Henry swallows them all, feeds them to the beast.

Never asks.

A small alcove in the empty corridor is a frequent witness to their rushed kisses.

“I can’t meet with you tonight,” Hans whispers, parting from him. He’s beautiful: flushed all over, with mussed hair and heaving chest in the half-unbuttoned pourpoint. “The old Kunstadt is coming today, I have to entertain him. I’m sorry, Henry.”

It’s been a whole week since the last time they were together - not like this, a quick frustrating rub, while listening for someone passing by; but a proper, indulgent lovemaking.

“Of course,” Henry says, and Hans smiles weakly, dodging the kiss.

“I miss your argumentative and stubborn part. You agree too easily with me these days.”

“Hard to argue with your growing wisdom, sir.”

“Oh spare me that,” Hans laughs but finally accepts his lips.

This once, at least, Henry makes good use of the time left.

“Hans…” Henry moans deep in his throat, kneeling on the hard floor, his hand working his cock, smearing oil and first spend across the shaft.

His other hand is tangled in Hans’ braies - spread on the bed in front of him like a delicious meal. With every laboured breath Henry gets his lungs full of musk, of sweat - and of seed, for the braies are stained, and it was Henry who caused it earlier today. That smell is enough to purge any shame from him.

He groans, feeling his groin grow tight. His eyes are squeezed shut as Henry thinks of Hans: the way he bares his neck and lets his mouth drop open when he’s close; the way his thighs shake from exertion when he rides Henry, strong and so, so beautiful; the way his voice…

"Henry, my squire! I managed to get rid of that old oaf and…"

His voice.

Henry scrambles to his feet so fast it makes him dizzy. Tucks himself in with nervous, shaking motions.

Hans stays frozen at the door, the key is squeezed tightly in his palm. His eyes are wide - grow wider still when his gaze falls to the fine linen braies laid on Henry’s bed.

"I can explain," Henry says - and winces at the inadequacy of his own words. "Please Hans…sir…"

Hans bolts the door and looks him in the eye. Henry sees the apple of his throat bobbing once.

"I want you to continue," Hans says. “Will you do it?”

As Henry’s knees hit the hardwood floor, he thinks that Hans could’ve asked him to fall on his sword and he would’ve done it.

Hans’ expression is unreadable as he strides to the bed and sits, careful not to touch the braies - or Henry.

“Go on,” he says. His voice is level - the same as when he gives the orders to his hunting hounds. Sit. Fetch. Jerk yourself off over my underwear.

A shiver runs down Henry’s spine. Hans’ gaze is piercing; it strips him of his clothes, his skin and bone. Only his hunger remains - the animal to be hidden, yet somehow found, put on the brightest spot. It scares him; it frees him, too: that knowledge of the lengths he will go for Hans, of how far he can debase himself, if his lord asks.

He grunts quietly, when he reaches into his braies and finds himself rock-hard.

Henry’s eyes fall closed, as the obscene, slick sounds fill the room. He burns hot from his toes to the tip of his ears, molten rivers of lust and shame run in his veins.

He feels fingers on his nape and flinches, but Hans shushes him with soft whispers - as soft as his touch. And then there’s pressure, and he is guided down, until his face meets the stained cloth again.

“Here you go,” Hans says quietly, threads his fingers through Henry’s hair.

There’s a different kind of warmth - Henry feels it with his whole body: in places where Hans touches him, and in places where he doesn’t. Hans’ scent is everywhere - above him, under him; it seeps into him, marking him forever.

“So good for me. So willing, my squire. My hound.”

Henry whines.

His neck is sore and tense; so is his back. His knees hurt on the uneven floor. He gasps for air, as his rhythm grows desperate - that sweet, sweet release upon him. He couldn’t stop it if he tried. He would’ve tried if Hans told him to. He would’ve died.

“Like this,” Hans whispers, his voice hoarse.

He lands a hot kiss on Henry’s neck, close to where his fingers touch, and with a violent shudder, Henry comes, the pleasure wrenched out of him almost painful - or maybe it’s his soul that hurts, being turned inside-out.

“Henry,” Hans calls. He sounds drunk.

“No,” Henry sobs - a petulant, ungrateful child. He buries his face into the braies: they are damp again, but not with seed this time. 

The hand is off of him.

He counts the sounds of steps to the door as Hans leaves. One, two, three - click, thud.

Then gone.

It’s been days.

In his dreams, Skalitz burns again, but this time it’s Henry who’s lying in the dirt - unable to move, unable to scream. A tall figure stands above him, looking down; a bright white light where the face should be, a halo of golden hair. 

Henry tries to take a breath, tries to call Hans’ name. He knows: whatever happens, he has to see Hans’ face.

There’s no sound, no movement left in his rigid body.

Hans turns away then. His steps are light - no traces remain in the ash. Henry watches him go and feels his life drip-drip-drip out of him with the blood, and then there’s darkness.

He’s summoned in the evening.

The torches swim in and out of Henry’s vision, as he passes the empty corridor to Hans’ chambers. The world is odd: slightly fuzzy at the corners, as if trying to shrink and run away. It comes to focus only when Henry is at Hans’ bedroom door.

It’s slightly ajar, and through the crack Henry can see his lord, sitting at his table, writing something, as he does so often of late. Hans is wearing simple clothes - as much as they could be called that: a loose, fine linen shirt; a pourpoint, partially undone, embroidered with golden threads; hose made of thin, soft wool. Seeing him like this eases the knot in Henry’s stomach: Hans won’t banish him from service while looking this domestic.

He lingers at the door, letting his eyes feast. Hans must have just come from the bath: his skin is slightly pinker than usual, and his hair is still damp where it falls at the back of his head. Henry wants to put his mouth there - and lower, on Hans’ nape, trace his kisses to that sensitive spot between the jaw and the ear that always makes Hans sigh, surrendering.

These thoughts cause a familiar ache between Henry’s thighs. He shifts, adjusting himself, and a floorboard creaks. Hans half-turns, and Henry pushes forward, unwilling to be found like this.

“There’s no guard outside,” he says as he closes the door. Bolts it, answering Hans’ pointedly raised eyebrow.

“I dismissed him for the night.”

Henry’s heart quickens.

“It’s dangerous, my lord,” he says quietly, “all manner of men wander in the dark.”

Hans’ mouth quirks.

“Well, you’re here with me now, aren’t you.”

Henry huffs - and for a moment they just look at each other. Hans’ expression is soft, relaxed - but his gaze is keen, set on Henry as if seeing him for the first time; trying to understand his nature, pry him open. Hans doesn’t need to demand, Henry thinks; everything will be given freely, even the truth.

He clears his throat.

“I know that I overstepped…”

“Please, Henry, sit,” Hans cuts him off. Points at his bed - and then, as if afraid that Henry may still misunderstand the meaning, takes his hand and leads him to it.

Henry doesn’t speak again - and so they sit in silence for a while. Hans’ fingers trace the maze of little scars on Henry’s skin, left by the fire sparks, or someone’s weapon, or some wild thorns - and God knows what else. It’s soothing; Henry swallows the impulse to squeeze Hans’ hand and press it to his lips.

"I can never make you happy the way you deserve,” Hans says suddenly.

It’s so absurd, this notion, that a short, raspy laugh leaves Henry before he can stop it. Hans continues, as if he hasn’t heard - his only reaction is a small smile that is gone too fast.

“I can’t marry you. Can’t sire a child with you. Can’t claim you before the people or God. I can never make you happy - but, Henry… I can try.” 

Hans squeezes his hand and looks at him with wild eyes.

“Tell me what you want. I'll give you anything I can."

Henry’s hand is trembling in that grip.

“I want to hurt you,” Henry says. His body goes rigid with this bravery, but once those words leave him, he can't stop. “I want to see you cry and know that it was me who caused it. I want…” he swallows. “I want to take care of you, as well. To soothe you, and clean you, and see you smile - and I want to know it was me who caused that, too.”

“Henry…” Hans begins, and licks his lips.

“My mind knows it’s wrong,” Henry rushes. “But my heart– I tried to pray, but I can’t get absolution for this, I don’t think. I can’t love you differently. I don’t want to be the cause of your discomfort, either.”

In the silence that follows, Henry can hear candles cracking, shedding their waxy tears.

“Ah,” Hans says finally. “I see.”

He withdraws his hand, so he can undo his pourpoint and drop it to the floor. Unlaces the ties of his undershirt, too, revealing a strong sculpted chest.

“Here,” Hans says and taps the fingers on his skin. Right where his heart is. “Kiss me - here.”

The sheets rustle under him, as Henry leans forward. It wasn’t an order, he understands as much. He obeys anyway.

A sudden hand on the back of his head is lighter than a blessing and heavier than a sin. 

“Bite, now.”

And that’s an order.

As he clenches his teeth, Henry feels Hans’ heart fluttering behind the fragile wall of skin and ribs - a paper-thin obstacle that could give way so easily if the beast so desires. If Henry so desires - for they are one now, the hunger swallows him whole, making his mouth water, his stomach hollow out. He bites harder - and then sucks till his tongue tastes iron, and Hans’ breathing is so loud, every exhale is a moan.

When he withdraws, there’s an ugly bruise on Hans’ chest, purple-red. It must sting, Henry thinks, feeling himself straining against his braies. Every time the fabric brushes against it, every time Hans’ fingers brush against it… it must sting.

Hans’ eyes are dazed. It takes him several tries to speak, but he purses his lips and finds the words at last:

“I will wear this claim for days. And when it fades, you’ll land another. No one will ever have me like this.”

Hans’ voice trembles, but there’s a challenge in his eyes. Stubborn, Henry thinks through the blood roaring in his head. So stubborn.

“Say something,” Hans asks. Demands. “I can’t read your mind. And even if I could - it’s full of turnip anyway.”

“I’ve never thought I could love anyone like this,” Henry blurts.

Hans laughs; the bruise on his chest looks even darker against the flushed skin.

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” he says, and then they kiss. It’s different now, less gentle - perhaps more sincere. Hans suckles on his tongue; Henry gnaws on his lower lip in retaliation. They try to bite each other, their teeth clicking, till they both laugh, equally out of breath.

“Tell me what you want,” Hans murmurs into his mouth.

“I want you to undress,” Henry says, stopping himself from chasing Hans’ lips.

“What, you don’t want to do it yourself? Rend my garments and maul me like an animal?” Hans pouts.

Henry laughs. “Your lordship will whine about his precious clothes for weeks, if I as much as tear off a single button,” he says. Adds, softly. “And I… I want to see you strip. Want to know it’s just for me.”

It goes to his head harder than the richest wine, when Hans stands up without arguing further. 

He takes off his undershirt first, graceful and nimble as a lynx; pauses only to press his fingers into the bruise, smirking - and Henry almost growls. Off go the garters, then the hose - and Henry’s mouth goes dry. He watches every movement like a hawk, and sees the exact moment Hans loses his confidence - glances at Henry’s face and looks away just as quickly, his fingers hesitant on the ties of his braies, the game turning too serious.

"Please, Hans, you're doing so well," Henry whispers, feverish.

The smirk returns.

When Hans is fully naked, golden dusting of fine hair glowing in the dim light, Henry grips the wooden bedframe, wills his hands not to shake. 

“Like what you see?” Hans asks him, playful - but his eyes are wide, and the vulnerability is written on his face, clear as day.

Henry nods, all words lost.

Reverently, he traces the scars on Hans’ shoulder, his belly - oh how he wishes he had put them there himself, charted the path he alone can follow with his own steady hands. Would that this pain were full of admiration: a claim landed, an act of love sealed - not an attempt to harm, to take Hans’ life.

Henry grazes his teeth on Hans’ hipbone - and the answering gasp sends a bolt of such urgency through him, he tips them both into bed.

Hans really came straight from the baths: his hair, his neck have that floral note to them - roses, this time? And underneath it, Hans’ skin smells clean, and fresh, and him - and no breath Henry takes is enough. So he buries his nose in Hans’ armpit, where the scent is the strongest, and licks, long and indulgent, gathering the taste on his tongue, basking in it - like a careless dog in its favourite meadow.

Hans shakes under him, laughing.

“No more stealing clothes from me, I take it? Seeing that you have the real thing now.”

“Still need something when you’re away.”

“Fuck, there’s no sating you,” Hans says and pulls him into a hot, impatient kiss.

When they part, Henry squeezes the meat of his thigh harder than he ever allowed himself before, watching Hans’ mouth fall open.

“Still good?” Henry asks.

“Ah, sakra. Yes.” Hans hisses.

Henry bites him then - his chest, belly, his sides. Nothing close to the usual gentle nips - he feasts on Hans, feeds the beast the most delicious meal it ever had. His own arousal is a steady presence, a sharp song his body sings, while he covers Hans with bruises and teeth marks. Hans meets him in full: arches into his touch, keeps his fingers tangled in Henry’s hair, doesn’t let him go.

Henry forgoes Hans’ cock for now - no matter how much he aches to swallow it - and lowers himself further, to Hans’ thighs, then calves, strong and defined. Bites his ankle once, drawing a breathy, joyful laugh from above.

Then - presses a reverent kiss into the sole of each foot.

Hans’ leg jerks up. Returns.

“Do you really… want that?” Hans asks. 

“Yes.”

Hans furrows his brow. His fingers clutch the pillow almost helplessly - then he collects himself and nods.

“Show me why,” he says.

He does look like he was mauled by an animal.

Henry cups his foot in both palms then - it’s lighter than he expected, softer at the arch than he imagined. Hans’ toes curl slightly, as Henry peppers his instep with grateful kisses - they are light at first, but every next one lingers more. The arch, the sole, the toes - he works his tongue and mouth over every part, nuzzles into the flesh every time he needs to gulp a breath, drunk on the permission, on the feeling of owning and being owned in return. He might be just a serf, eager to prostrate himself before his lord, to please; a dog that licks his master’s feet - but the master can’t live without him, the lord can’t do without his service.

It’s a pity he only has one eternal soul to give up to damnation. He would’ve parted with more, if he could, to be allowed this.

When he finally withdraws, dazed and sated, Hans’ cheeks are wet. 

Henry slides his palms up along Hans’ legs and thighs, calloused fingers are catching on fine hair, pulling slightly. Henry’s skin is coarse, rough - his hands are shaped by war and hard labour, made perfect for Hans by Henry’s life itself.

Hans welcomes him with a rock-hard cock and the early spend pooling in his navel. Henry almost reaches out, but then a thought strikes him, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“Touch yourself,” he whispers. “I want to see.”

Hans obeys him instantly. Long gone is the performance: his strokes are desperate, his grip is tight. Henry watches those strong, long fingers move and thinks: he could’ve ordered Hans; could’ve set the rhythm. Could’ve told him to go slower, or stop entirely, kept him on that sweet, painful edge for hours.

Maybe he will, someday. They have time from now on. 

Hans’ moans climb up and up. His eyelashes flutter: he can never keep his eyes open when the little death is upon him.

“Hurt me,” Hans whispers, hoarse, and Henry feels himself grinning.

He pushes Hans’ thighs down and drags his nails along them, pressing even harder, leaving bright red traces on the skin.

“Henry– fuck!” Hans sobs, throwing his head back.

He looks divine, when he comes: the ecstasy of it draws his body tight, like a bow string; his spend escapes his grip, paints across the marks Henry left. He’s beautiful - he’s claimed, and he’s Henry’s alone.

For some time, there is just Hans’ sharp breathing - but eventually, it returns to a calm, natural rhythm. Silence falls - and in it, Henry watches Hans, hope and dread pulling at his heart so sweetly, so desperately.

“Sir,” he calls softly, when he can’t handle the waiting any longer.

Hans… laughs. 

“You’re a fucking menace, Henry, y’know that?” he says, slurring the words as if he's just woken from a deep sleep.

Henry chuckles, the tight knot in his chest suddenly undone.

“Are you all right?” he says.

”Jus’ need a moment.”

A pause. Henry’s thumb gently brushes Hans’ hipbone as Henry waits for master's orders.

“What was that you said? About cleaning me?” Hans asks, wiping his cheeks with a still-trembling hand.

“At once, my lord,” Henry says - and earns himself a smile. And a shiver.

As Henry cleans him, he has a chance to admire his handiwork: the marks map the path across Hans’ body from the chest to the lower thighs. Henry wipes the seed and the sweat; presses his fingers into bruises to hear half-hiss, half-laugh; kisses them to a contented hum.

“What about you?” Hans whispers, when Henry lowers himself next to him, rests his head on Hans’ shoulder. He’s still hard, every brush against his prick sends a jolt of pleasure-pain through him.

“It can wait,” Henry shrugs. He doesn’t feel the creature’s hunger for the first time in months. He doesn’t feel the creature at all. “We can wait.”

They lie like this a while, Hans’ eyes - bright and clear now - trace the features of Henry’s face, the shape of his body. There’s that small smile in the corner of his mouth; Henry’s gaze gravitates towards it, and he feels his own lips quirking, answering. His arousal doesn’t subside completely, but turns into a pleasant itch under his skin - it makes him heavy and warm, like an anvil, thrumming after a day of honest work.

Hans’ hand brushes his jaw, tender. Turns his head just so, and Henry breathes in the same air that Hans exhales.

“I love you,” Henry says, and feels the shape of his own words on Hans' lips.

Hans beams at him.

Henry’s heart soars.

“I love you, too,” Hans whispers into their kiss. “So very, very much.”