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“Christ, Hans-“
The pillow beneath Henry’s head is an old, half-flattened thing, the down within compacted with use and then left to rot in the abandoned house they’re in. Henry twists his fingers in the corners of it and feathers poke through the linen, pricking at his knuckles.
Between his thighs Hans slips free of his body. “Need something, blacksmith’s boy?” he taunts and rubs his cock into the soft crease where Henry’s thigh meets his groin.
It’s an old nickname now. Should rankle him, but Henry is transfixed by the blunt tip of his cock, flushed red and leaking. Hans draws his hips back and his prick drags across Henry’s skin, leaves the dark hair that covers his body matted with wetness.
Hans fucks like this every time. Pulls out to pause and rut against his stomach, his thigh. He smears kisses along the inside of Henry’s calf that leaves his toes curling where they rest upon his chest, and Henry can’t tell if he’s doing it to wind him up or if he’s only dragging out the inevitable end; unable to stand the idea of their bodies being parted for long.
Both, probably, Henry thinks. When it comes to Hans two things tend to be true, he’s found, even when those two things are opposites. He’s full of contradictions. Liable to drive Henry mad, if the killing doesn’t get to him first.
Odd that Hans can treat him the way he does. Henry’s got more blood on his hands than an executioner. His body should be defiled by the things he’s done and yet Hans wants and wants, licks over the scars that web his skin as though he can lick clean all the sins that Henry is stained with.
Hans tongue rubs hot on the bone of Henry’s ankle and Henry’s eyes roll back. His cock slides down to rub against the curve of his ass. It teases at his hole and Henry grinds his hips down, as though his will alone could bring Hans back inside him.
“You gonna fuck me or are you gonna sit there and lick my feet like Mutt?” Henry asks through gritted teeth.
Hans lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half ragged breath. “Well, now that you give me the idea…“
It was meant to be a joke. A cutting remark to get Hans back in him but Henry knows that look. He’s got that curl to his lips, blue eyes lit up like a boy on a dare and christ, Henry’s gone and put his foot in it now.
“Come on,“ he says, “leave off it.“
“What? I can put my tongue inside you but your foot’s where you draw the line? You do live by an odd set of morals, Hal. And besides-” Hans fumbles in the space between their hips, long, callused fingers curling around his own cock. Just as Henry finds a line of argument to fire back with Hans nudges at his hole. Slips back inside and knocks the words right from his mind. “You should know by now there’s not a single part of you I don’t want.”
Heady words. The meaning of them is lost for now, doomed to creep back up into Henry’s mind in the middle of the night and hit him like a mace with their weight. For now Henry tips his head back, adam’s apple bobbing as he chokes back a groan. His heels press into the muscle that spans Hans’ chest.
He’s not the thickest Henry’s had but God’s wounds he’s got length. A slight upwards curve that presses at his insides, towards the root of Henry’s prick, and causes him to throb. Hans tilts his hips. Rolls his movements the same way his hips roll when he canters a horse, not back and forth like a saw but rocking up and up and up.
Henry forgets, sometimes, that underneath the noble fop exterior Hans is a hunter. An athlete trained from birth, a man who fights and runs down deer and fucks for sport. That he could do this to Henry all afternoon, muscles corded and glistening with sweat, if only for the impulse that takes over and makes him spill deep in Henry’s body.
Hans locks their hips together. He grinds into Henry and Henry forgets, for a moment, everything that’s brought them here. The burning villages and bodies and dowry contracts mean nothing when he’s seeing stars like this.
It’s so, so good.
“I know,” Hans murmurs, and Henry curses himself. He hadn’t even realized he’d spoken the words aloud. “You feel so fucking good, Hal.”
Henry blinks. The greyed wood beams that span the ceiling fade in an out of view. He glances down at Hans, so golden in the afternoon light he almost hurts to look at, and watches through bleary eyes how he kisses around his ankle, over the long bones that run down the tops of his feet. Hans takes his ankle in his hand and guides Henry to bring his thigh closer to his own chest, so that he can run his palm over the sole of his foot.
His fingers are dry. Callused from holding a blade, pulling the string on his bow. Hans stretches his fingers out flat, holds his hand to Henry’s foot the same way they’ve pressed their palms together once to compare the size of their hands. Rolls his hips absently, as if fucking Henry is an afterthought, strokes his thumb along the flat spot where there ought to be an arch on his sole. A shiver races across his skin. Out of instinct his toes curl, and he tries to jerk his foot away but Hans has him held too tight. He traces circles around the ball of his foot and Henry's calf tenses uselessly at his touch.
“D’you really not want me to?” Hans asks.
His blue eyes are blown dark. He offers Henry an out, considerate at the oddest of times, as if for all his bravado he might be uncertain too. Because he might be a noble and a hunter and man who never says no to a stupid challenge, but he’s young too. Sometimes Henry looks at him and wonders if the nerves he’d had at Suchdol have ever really left him at all.
Henry’s throat clicks when he swallows. He shakes his head no, silent urge for him to go on.
Hans redoubles his grip on his ankle so he can’t kick out. Looks Henry in the eye and kisses the ball of his foot as if he’s kissing his mouth; lips barely parted, tongue sliding wet against his skin. Blonde lashes flutter against Hans’ cheek and bring out the way he’s flushed red all the way from his hairline to his chest.
"Oh, fuck-"
The sight of it’s as obscene as the way it feels. Hans rubs his tongue against his arch the way he does when his face is buried between Henry’s thighs, licking into him. Almost the same sensation as that, really. Pleasure that borders on ticklish, something he feels in his mind as much as in his cock. Hans’ brow furrows, eyes squeezed shut. When he moans against the sole of Henry’s foot the vibrations travel all the way up to the cradle of his hips and settle into the base of his spine. His belly is already so wet with pre-come from all the teasing, from how Hans has dragged this out to his breaking point. This is- it's too much, Henry thinks. Like his foot is connected directly to his cock, and the hot drag of Hans' tongue on his instep alone could make him come.
Sweat sticks the nape of Henry’s neck to the pillow. He grinds the heel of his opposite foot into Han’s chest, as if the pressure will ground him somehow, and grinds his hips down.
He’s barely fucking him now. His cock nudges inside Henry just enough to tease, hips moving in little circles the same as he tongue traces circles on the tender inside of his foot. Hans parts his lips further. Sucks at his arch as if to leave a bruise and Henry groans, leg trembling as he pushes against his grip on his ankle and tries to chase his mouth when he breaks off. Hans blows on the wet path and sends Henry swearing under his breath.
"See? And to think you almost didn't let me," Hans murmurs, lips brushing Henry's heel with every word.
Henry's fingers twist in the pillow. His mind registers a pop, sound of thread breaking, and he thinks he feels a feather drift across the back of his hand. Can't focus on that now, he's got to find something smart to say back, because he can't bear to let Hans' ego get any worse than it already is. He'll become insufferable.
Because it’s really not something he’d expected to like. But then maybe he only likes it for the same reason he’s come to like other things: because it’s Hans.
Hans, who looks lost in it, resting his cheek against Henry’s foot, eyes glazed over. His lips are as pink as the scar that spans his belly, spit slick and shining in the mid-day sun. He pants as he as he thrusts into Henry, just as he pants when he takes his little pauses from fucking, like he had to stop the kissing lest he spill and-
"You like it too," Henry says, words coming out between a statement and a question.
Hans nips at his toe. Casts a look at him that says he's not going to deign such a stupid question worthy of an answer, and picks up where he'd left off, kissing each of his toes until Henry's wriggling them the way he wriggles his hips when he's desperate for Hans to get his prick back in him. He can't stop thinking about the heat of his mouth. How wet his tongue is, the confusing, squirmy pleasure it would give him to just slip his foot into his mouth and he wants.
Henry’s body is coiled tight, wound and ready to snap like the mechanism on his crossbow. He’s so hard he thinks if he touched himself it would hurt, and so he tucks his thighs down to his chest. Reaches with both hands to grab Hans where his split hose sit just beneath the curve of his ass and drag him close.
“Don’t stop,” Henry rasps out and Hans nods, damp lock of blonde hair bouncing off his cheek with the motion.
It changes the angle, being folded up like this. Lets Hans’ cock slide impossibly deep in him and Henry can’t manage words now. Hans licks from his heel to the tip of his big toe and drags a wet gasp out of him. When he takes Henry’s toes into his mouth he sucks the same way he sucks him off, tongue seeking out the sensitive spot beneath the head of his cock out of habit and slipping wet between his toes instead and that- that’s enough.
Henry comes with a shout. He spills untouched, stripes himself from navel to jaw with the mess, nails dug deep enough into Hans’ flesh he winces with it. He fucks him through it anyhow, short, tight thrusts until Henry’s fingers go slack and he’s set free.
His body is limp, after. Melted like butter, a pliant thing for Hans to chase his own end inside. Henry lies there, drifts pleasantly outside his own body, and watches through damp lashes as Hans’ expression twists into a wince. His mouth hasn’t left his foot even for a second. He sucks desperate at his arch, hips slapping against the thick curve of Henry’s ass until he stiffens.
Hans jerks once, then twice. Henry feels his cock pulse inside him and then warmth follows. He presses his hand to his abdomen as if he could somehow catch the sensation of Hans coming against his palm, if only he felt for him carefully enough.
It’s probably only seconds they stay like this, although it feels like ages; Hans sat back on his heels, his nose mashed against the sole of Henry’s foot as he gulps for air. Henry curls and uncurls his fingers. He smears his own mess into the dark curls between his hips, unthinking, and scrunches up his nose when Hans pulls out.
Wetness follows, trickles down the cleft of him. Hans runs his fingers through it. His thumb slips inside Henry, just brief enough to make him gasp, as he tucks his come back into his body; an act that’s as filthy as it is affectionate. Hans pulling out is a loss but he’s not empty, not quite yet.
“Budge over,” Has demands.
The bed frame creaks as Henry shifts to the side. He throws his arm around to curl around Hans’ shoulders but Hans doesn’t quite make it when he collapses forward. Instead he ends up with his ribs slumped across Henry’s thigh, face planted half in his armpit. When Henry makes a face as if to ask what the hell he’s doing Hans kisses him there, where he’s soaked with sweat. Licks into the hollow beneath his arm and wriggles his hips experimentally, half-hard cock bumping against Henry’s where it lays softening on his thigh.
“I think this could get me going again if you give me a moment,” Hans says, and waggles his eyebrows.
He’s obnoxious. Horny as a goat in rut and Henry is full to bursting with how he adores him. He scratches over the knobs of Hans’ spine and watches the fine down that covers his body stands on end, shimmering in the sun.
“You do this kinda stuff, and I understand why the church puts so many rules out about what people can do in their beds,” Henry murmurs.
Hans nuzzles at his underarm, as though he’s buried his face in a poesy and not some damp part of Henry’s body. He cracks one blue eye open and blinks up at him, guileless for once.
“What d’you mean?”
“Because if men knew they could be on their backs with their toes shoved in some fella’s mouth nobody’d go to war, or plow the fields. They’d all be too busy getting fucked,” Henry says.
Hans lets out an ugly laugh and the heat of his breath condensates on Henry’s ribs. It’s not even funny but it sends him shaking with it anyhow, until Henry is dragged down and has no choice but to laugh with him; a horrible cacophony of noise that loops back around as they set each other back off, only stopping when they’re both breathless and choking for air.
They curl around each other in this room that is not theirs, but is theirs for the moment. Henry counts the cobwebs on the ceiling as Hans’ fingers walk across his chest and count his scars. Fine pink lines for every fight he’s ever gotten into unarmed and survived in the hopes of having this for one day longer. Someone who will have all of him.
Hans shoves his arm up, sends Henry hissing with the pain that follows as he wrist knocks against the headboard. He rolls onto his stomach and rolls his hips as he kisses into the hollow formed by the muscle that stretches from Henry’s chest to the ball of his shoulder. They've rested barely a handful of moments and already he's on Henry, as if they'd never even stopped. Like if only they never quit rubbing on each other this can go on forever without end. His prick prods against the inside of Henry's thigh and leaves a wet trail behind.
“Need something, m’lord?” Henry asks.
When he rocks hips hips up Hans’ inhale becomes a gasp. He’d look like a saint in ecstasy with his mouth dropped open if he weren’t such an unrepentant sinner himself, Henry thinks, and cards his fingers through his golden hair so he can force his face down against his underarm.
“Always.”