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Hans knows what he’s doing is wrong. Reprehensible. Sinful in a way that Hans thought even he wouldn’t—couldn’t be. Morality as dictated by God never meant much to Hans, but at this point he’s far beyond His domain. Henry just made it so damn easy.
It wasn’t until they shared a room at the Devil’s Den that Hans realized how deep of a sleeper Henry is. The handful of times they’ve gone camping have shown the man as aware and attentive, always popping up at dawn to set out and obtain the biggest kill possible. At the time, Henry seemed to be able to hear a twig snap acres away.
At the Den, Henry sleeps like the dead.
He doesn’t snore or breathe heavily. He’s silent as a ghost as he lies there—usually splayed on his stomach like a child after a big meal. Hans thought it… adorable at first. He still does. But…
Henry shifts position in his sleep regularly. He is in sleep as he is awake: restless. There are hours of stillness only for Henry’s bulk to shift around on the mattress until the straw surrenders. Hans, so used to the relative silence of Pirkstein and its thick stone walls, had woken up to his writhing more than once. He never complained, however. Shocking and uncharacteristic as it is, Hans isn’t sure how many people would complain when faced with the masterpiece displayed before them.
Moonlight drips through the window and caresses Henry’s body with a lover’s touch. Pale light paints in broad strokes across strong muscles and sturdy features. It plays in his hair, seeming to card through the strands. It’s getting too long for Henry’s taste. Hans has watched Henry uselessly scrape his fringe back from his forehead when it dares to fall in front of his eyes. The moon graces the elegant shape of Henry’s upper lip in a kiss, one Hans desperately wishes to replace with his own.
Some nights he does.
It started the first day they were forced into this den of iniquity. Woken up by Henry’s movement, Hans almost snapped at his companion before his mind caught up with him. Fearful that Henry might be experiencing one of those horrible nightmares he never talks about, Hans rushed over and was stopped cold by the beauty splayed on the thin haystack they call a mattress.
That night, he only looked. Greedily soaked in every bit of Henry’s body. Drank in the heaving swell of his bosom and the way his braies slipped down thick hips. Traced the forest of hair across his chest as it trailed down, down, behind well-worn linen.
Looking alone felt bad enough. The next time, when his hand moved of its own accord, Hans felt so horrible that he nearly found the closest cliff to fling himself from. It had only been the soft fur covering Henry’s chest tangling around his fingertips that kept Hans in place. For a breath, he let himself indulge before yanking his hand back and forcing himself to bed.
Every night proceeding only led to further and further depravity. Hans has tested his limits, shaken Henry awake to see how hard it truly is—very—and justified it with only a passing thought of Henry not knowing anything has happened at all.
It’s wrong.
So, so wrong.
Hans is awake when Henry rolls in his sleep. He’s sitting on his bed, hand cupped over his chin and the skin of his thumb between his teeth as he waits. Patience is not a virtue Hans generally possesses. Watching Henry settle onto his back with his thick thighs parting and his braies slipping down is a special sort of torture. Only a beat goes by before Hans is on his feet and padding over, trying to keep his heart from beating through his chest.
Yesterday, Henry came back from his wandering adventures with a cut through his bottom lip. As if his face wasn’t already distracting enough, seeing that dark red, angry line dance as he spoke and split as he smiled—Hans hadn’t been able to stay long around his friend. Absence has only made him needier.
The pad of Han’s pointer finger smooths over the cut. It’s long since scabbed over despite the recurring stress Henry unthinkingly causes it. Soft skin separated by a hard ridge of old blood and healing tissue, raised enough for Hans to feel it beneath his fingerpad.
He trails the finger down the handsome jut of Henry’s chin and takes his jaw in his hand—fingers to one side and thumb to the other. Slowly, he tilts the man’s face toward him. Heavy brows twitch and tense at the movement, but Hans knows full well the look on Henry’s face when he’s about to wake up. He’s not even close.
Muscles made slack in sleep release as Hans pulls at Henry’s jaw. Thin, scarred lips pop open to reveal the shiny surface of his tongue.
Between his thighs, Hans’ cock gives a painful lurch at the sight.
Beautiful, he sighs as he leans down and brushes their noses so softly together. Henry’s hot exhales fan over his face, smelling of schnapps and blood. Hans inhales, greedy.
His next movements are tender and light. The cut on Henry’s lip is severe enough to potentially ruin Hans’ plans if he treats it rough enough. Yet, he can’t stop himself from lapping at the wound. A kitten’s lick, really. Rich metal bursts over Hans’ tongue. It’s disgusting, how violently his cock flexes at the taste of the blood of the only man—the only person at all—who Hans truly cares for.
He slips his blood-tipped tongue between Henry’s teeth. It’s not so much a kiss as a dog lapping at another’s fangs. Hans breathes through his nose harshly as he plays at the roof of Henry’s mouth, slips the slick muscles together, traces the shape of his teeth. He tastes like violence and old crushed mint.
The only movement from the man beneath him is reactionary, instinctive twitches. Hans isn’t expecting anything more. He hopes there isn’t anything more—after all, he doesn’t want to be thrown across the room and strangled for his wretched, sinful gall.
Eventually, Hans must abandon Henry’s sweet mouth. After one last lick, Hans pulls back and admires the sheen of spittle on those lips. If he could, Hans would spend all night sinking into the taste and sensation of this bastard’s version of kissing. Tonight, he can’t. He has a plan.
Releasing Henry’s jaw takes the willpower of a thousand men. Hans’ fingers don’t go far. He trails them down the bobbing knot of Henry’s throat, tracing strong muscles beneath sunworn skin. Down, down to the divot of Henry’s collarbone where sweat has gathered due to the stale air of their shared room and the balmy evening.
Hans’ tongue twitches against the backs of his teeth.
Slowly, he climbs over Henry’s lax body. He’s careful where he rests his weight and makes sure the process is slow, gradual. Nothing sudden enough to rouse Henry from his deep slumber. Eventually, Hans settles on Henry’s thick thighs and looms above his silent body.
Gorgeous, Hans whimpers in the privacy of his own sinful mind. Mine.
His. His to do with as he wanted. His to touch and squeeze and taste and use.
Hans leans down, palms braced on the bed on either side of Henry’s body. His tongue draws circles in the soft dip of Henry’s clavicle. Musky salt coats his tongue and Hans has to close his mouth entirely to keep from whining.
He’s so hard. His cock strains against his own underthings, pushing the fabric to its very limit and soaking it with his excitement. Hans has never been this fevered for the trysts he had with wenches and bathmaids. They are good, but this is something wholly different.
Henry’s forest of chest hair tickles Hans’ face and scratches against his stubble. He nuzzles close between muscled tits and tastes the sour sweat there too with a broad lave of his tongue.
It’s not a good taste. Henry’s bathed recently if the telltale scent of fragranced oils tickling Hans’ nose is anything to go by—but he still spent Lord knows how long atop his nag in the dreadful heat of late summer. Sweat has sunken into his skin and made him sharp to taste.
Hans is intoxicated by the bitter sting.
As he laps beneath heavy pectorals, Hans lifts a hand and brushes his thumb against one of Henry’s peaked nipples. Soft skin gives beneath his touch and eagerly stiffens as Hans teases it with the very end of his nail. A tiny touch that has Henry’s face scrunching at the tease. The expression only gets deeper as Hans rolls his tongue around the other in languid strokes.
Seeing Henry’s chest should be nothing special. The heat and nature of the peasant beneath him causes Henry to forgo his shirt often. Every time, Hans finds it impossible to look away. Muscled chest, soft belly, curling hair… Hans could imagine no one more beautiful.
He takes his time. Hans suckles on the hard nub between his lips and closes his teeth around it. He tugs gently and rolls with Henry’s body as it heaves into the pleasure. He’s so sensitive here. Hans wonders how he’d react awake. Would he react more? Would the flush warming his chest, shoulders, and cheeks be deeper? Would those pretty blue eyes fill with betrayed tears when Henry realizes Hans is the one making him pant and whimper?
Hans takes a chance. He grips both of Henry’s—Henry’s breasts. They fill his palms and stuff nipples peek between his knuckles. There’s nearly enough meat there to encase his cock if he wanted to fuck between—
Another night.
Hans releases Henry’s chest and watches his friend squirm and huff through tight lips. His skin has turned a beautiful pink with the attention. The nipple that Hans had been accosting is swollen and red.
He bites down on a moan at the vision splayed beneath him and has to grasp his cock through his braies to keep from making a fool of himself.
Further down Hans travels. Worn linen has almost entirely slipped off muscled hips by the time Hans settles between Henry’s splayed thighs. The very base of his cock peeks from underneath, the rest pressing against fabric as it hardens in reaction to Hans’ oral abuse.
Saliva fills Hans’ mouth. He’s a dog once more, drooling at a perfectly plump sausage.
There’s no stopping his gasp when Hans tugs down Henry’s braies. The hardening barrel of his cock flops from its prison and collides with Hans’ jaw. Thick heat burns Hans’ skin and his mouth opens in a whining plea. As if Henry is awake, slapping him with his manhood just to remind the noble how fucking desperate he is.
Hans groans low in his chest and buried his face in the thick thatch of hair at the base of that magnificent cock. Musk and salt and heat and sex overwhelms his senses entirely.
Even before his depraved thoughts took solid form, Hans was impressed by the size and heft of Henry’s balls. They’re large, heavy, drooping low beneath his frankly ridiculous shaft.
Built to breed, Hans thought. Thinks. Kurva.
The taste of sweat is strongest there, at the hollow between cock and teste. Gently pressing his nose and mouth against that spot has every one of Hans’ sense flooding with Henry. Breathing becomes difficult the longer he nuzzles against Henry’s fat stones. Hans would happily drown if that is what he must do to ease this ache inside of him.
Saliva readily coats Hans’ tongue. He opens his lips and presses the flat of the drenched muscle to the root of Henry’s prick. Silky skin is so unbelievably soft against the flexing expanse of Hans’ tongue and his taste—immaculate.
Hans can feel blood rushing to fatten Henry’s shaft as he drags his tongue up the underside. The thick vein he traces pulses with arousal, making the entire length lift and twitch. In time, in intoxicating time, Hans reaches the thick tip of Henry’s cock. He’s become so stiff that the usually loose skin that hugs it has pulled back and revealed smooth, shining glans.
This. This is what he wanted tonight.
Finishing his journey upward with a flick of his tongue, Hans watches as Henry’s body heaves and settles. One of Henry’s arms has bent over his face, hiding his eyes from view. Only the slack gape of his mouth reassures Hans that he still sleeps deeply despite the mouth on him.
His heart pounds against his ribs. The beat of it pulses on his tongue and in his throat. It’s so fast and strong that Hans feels dizzy with the thrill. Several breaths must pass from Hans’ lips before he’s fit to continue or he knows he’ll find himself sick. Sicker.
Hans cannot grip the base of Henry as he so wants to. The danger is too much—in his mind if not reality. So, he presses his thumb against the underside to prop the heavy, turgid shaft up. Closing his mouth around the very tip is like tasting Heaven.
Salty and bitter, Henry’s beaded excitement sinks into Hans’ tongue. When the very end of said eager tongue dips into the slit where Henry leaks, Hans has to squeeze his eyes and tense his throat against the whimper that wants to escape. If he were any more shameless, Hans would beg to stay on his knees before Henry at all times, drinking him down until his stomach hurts with his seed.
Christ, forgive me. Hans opens his mouth and takes more of Henry’s cock inside. Pursed, wet lips make a soft noise as they drag over the crest of Henry’s cockhead, and slip back over Hans’ teeth as he slides down once more.
Although he’s burned for men as long as he can remember, Hans has never had the chance to truly taste one. He’s fantasized, asked the filthier bathwenches, pressed his tongue down with his fingers to feel even a bit of how it might be. Nothing is like the reality of feeling Henry’s girthy cock weighing his tongue down.
One more cautious glance upward has Hans watching a bead of saliva drip from the corner of Henry’s lips. The arm that had once been over his eyes is above his head now and his brows are drawn tight together as Hans savors him. Long lashes rest against tense cheeks, fluttering slightly every time Hans sinks down again.
He’s so beautiful in overwhelmed repose. Hans exhales hard through his nose as his breath is punched from him at the sight, the thought. Swallowing and inhaling once more, Hans slips pursed lips down the velvet length of Henry until his thick cockhead presses into the soft pad at the back of his throat.
His body wants to revolt. Muscles spasm in his belly and gullet, an instinctive reaction to the threat of his throat being stoppered. Hans lifts and tries to remember what that one wench said about this. He’d asked one drunken night, whispering into her ear like the secret it is. Her already beautiful eyes lit up in excitement and she spilled utter filth from her tongue.
Helpful filth, but filth nonetheless.
Slowly, Hans breathes as he holds Henry on his tongue. One last inhale and he’s bowing his head again. When Henry’s tip teases that plush, sensitive area and deeper still, Hans swallows. It’s not nearly as easy as the wench described and Hans is certain he’ll make an unforgivable mess at times. His stomach clenches and heaves, sticky noises eking out between his swallows. At one point he has to pull back again, this time releasing Henry’s prick entirely as he pants, open-mouthed.
Eyes glued to Henry’s face, Hans wraps just his pointer and thumb around him. He strokes and basks in the twitching reaction he gets. Henry’s lids flutter and even lift over dark irises, but he still doesn’t wake.
As Hans takes him back into his mouth, jaw aching, he wonders what would happen if Henry awoke to find him like this. His strongest fear is Henry attacking him, furious with being watched and used. Henry’s strength is only admirable insofar as it’s used against their enemies. There would be nothing that Hans could do against him.
(And why, oh why, does that excite him? Why does his cock jump at the thought?)
However… what if Henry awoke and melted on Hans’ tongue? His sleep rough voice murmuring praises as his callused peasant hands tangle in Hans’ hair. They would begin to guide him in a slow, easy rhythm. Muscled hips would flex and lift in turn, shallowly fucking Hans’ dripping mouth until Henry is wholly taken inside.
There’s no stopping the soft whimper that fills Hans’ mouth in the little free space available. He can feel his brow tensing as he hollows his cheeks and hugs Henry’s girth with their silky surfaces. Above him, a breath is pressed from Henry’s lungs as if the Devil himself is squeezing his ribs tight.
This time, it’s not so bad. Hans’ throat continues to fight against the intrusion, but the panic from before doesn’t rear its ugly, unhelpful head. Working his way further down allows noisy gasps to vibrate around Henry’s length. It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm—the feeling of Henry’s cockhead stroking the naturally tight sheath of his esophagus.
Soon, his lips are brushing against where his pointer and thumb hold Henry’s prick. One last swallow and Hans sinks down to the very bottom. Curling, thick brown hair tickles the insides of Hans’ nostrils and scratches against his skin. The swell of Henry’s balls cup his chin as if holding him in place.
Hans can feel himself drool into his own braies. Tingling pleasure runs rampant through him. It’s difficult to tell if he reaches that grand climax but, in a way, it doesn’t matter. The mere fact that he’s got Henry as deep as he can be within his body is more than euphoric.
He wishes he could stay here, warm throat wrapped around Henry, tending to him and drinking anything he so deems. He wishes he didn’t have the human necessity of breathing to deal with so he could stay forever more. Unfortunately, Hans can feel his head begin to swim and darkness begins to creep into the edges of his sight.
Pulling Henry from his mouth is almost worse than getting him inside. He heaves at the sensation of Henry’s slick cock slithering free, coughing and panting as he’s finally able to breathe again.
The length of Henry is coated in thick saliva and an unknowable substance that webs from Hans’ mouth to his shaft. It’s disgusting. Hans chokes on a whimper at the sight, his hips lowering finally, finally to press into the bed. Lightning pleasure tears through his gut. As he wraps his entire hand around Henry and pulls at his perfect cock—the disgusting mixture on him making it effortless and wet—Hans rocks against the straw mattress beneath them.
Seed and sweat smears on his belly, catching in the fine blonde hairs there. Hans can feel his balls draw up tight. He’s going to fall apart before Henry has the chance.
Distressed at the realization, Hans takes Henry’s prick back into his mouth. He bobs his head, enjoying the sound of his throat clicking noisily around the tip every time it threatens to go deeper. The length of his tongue wriggles and swirls along the underside, sloppy but so, so eager. Only once more does he force Henry’s cock down his spasming throat again—because as he pulls back, salty spend fills his mouth.
Surprise nearly makes it impossible to swallow. Hans grunts in his shock and beads of wasted seed spill out the corners of his aching mouth. Using his free hand, he catches the drops as he forces himself to swallow and swallow and swallow. His throat hurts. It burns to take Henry’s essence into his belly. Hans wouldn’t have it any other way.
A high-pitched tone has overcome Hans’ hearing. So, when a thick, familiar hand threads into his hair, he nearly chokes himself in surprise before looking up with wide eyes.
Henry pants, a fist on his forehead and his brilliant blue eyes swallowed by the black of their blown centers. He’s focused on Hans. Watching him. Holding him by his hair. Letting Hans swallow the rest of his seed until nothing else comes from his now lax balls.
Perhaps Hans can suffocate himself on Henry’s prick before it softens all the way. He’s sorely tempted—but is prevented by a firm grip on his hair pulls him up and off. The length of that perfect, used shaft lands on Henry’s heaving belly with a wet slap. It’s a mess. Hans wants to clean it with his tongue.
Except.
Henry is still staring at him. Hans breathes heavy through his mouth despite the entire span of his throat screaming for rest. It feels as if he’s been carved into by Henry’s cock, flayed open from the neck down.
Spend is beginning to coagulate on Hans’ hand. Right. The drops he’d caught as to not have them be lost and completely wasted.
It’s obvious Hans isn’t thinking right—if he ever was—as he lifts his hand and laps Henry’s seed from his palm. Wet breaths fan against his skin as he licks up the smears of Henry’s release. His lips smack when he swallows and returns to panting like a dog in heat.
“Christ.” It’s the first word spoken aloud since they bedded down for the night. The sound burns through Hans’ entire body. His teeth clench to try and keep his mewl inside.
He fails. Hans keens as if he’s been punched in the gut. His hips flex and snap against the bed. A puddle forms in his braies, soaking through the fabric and into the mattress. Trembling thighs tense and try to hide his shame though his face reveals all his sins.
“Christ, Hans…” Wonder. Henry’s voice is filled with no small amount of wonder as he watches Hans find release at the mere sound of his voice.
“Ha—” Oh, speaking is not possible. Hans swallows and grimaces at the sharp pain. Fingers still grip his hair like a fisherman with his net, so he can’t move to—to do anything. He can only lie there in his cooling spend and breathe.
“Let me get you…” Henry trails off, his mind already on his destination, as he finally releases Hans and scrambles to grab one of the smaller packs he hauls around. Ceramic clicks against itself inside. He pulls out a bottle and holds it out to Hans. “Here. For—um. Y’know.”
For several long painful breaths, Hans stares at Henry. This is nothing like he imagined. It’s not the rage he feared, nor is it the confident sex he fantasized. Yet, it is, unabashedly, Henry.
Lord, Hans is such a fucking idiot.
Fingers shaking, Hans takes the marigold concoction. He recognizes the illustration rubbed into the side of the bottle by Hal’s talented hand. The bulb of the bottle fits perfectly in Hans’ palm and the stopper comes free without a noise. Drinking it down is immediate relief. If this witches brew of Henry’s does nothing else, at least it numbs the raw edges Hans ripped into his own throat. He makes sure to drink the entire bottle before returning it.
Neither of them speak. Hans wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and balks when he realizes that Henry’s spend has dried into streaks of something like dust on his chin. He immediately scrubs at his skin as if to rid himself of the evidence despite the victim himself watching him as he does so.
“Didn’t—”
Henry’s voice draws Hans’ eyes up from the void he’d been staring into. The man is obviously struggling with what he wants to say, his mouth opening a bit before closing. He’s got his braies in his hands, crushed into a ball that he’s positioned between his thighs as if Hans doesn’t know the shape and heft of the cock he’s hiding.
He’s sick. Hans’s hands still tremble as he drags one of them through his hair and grimaces when a fine knot catches on his fingertip.
“I didn’t—realize…” Haltingly, Henry begins to speak. “I didn’t realize you would go this far.”
“You knew?” The words are spat out of Hans’ mouth, faster than he can breathe.
In the dark of their shared quarters, Hans almost misses the way Henry’s face flushes. Only when he shifts and drags his palm against the back of his neck—a painfully Henry motion to do—does Hans realize the embarrassment painted onto his friend’s entire body.
“I’m a light sleeper,” is all he offers, the rumble of his voice even deeper.
So.
Henry knew the entire time. From the moment Hans touched his chest to—
“Why didn’t you stop me?” Hans wheezes. It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows. “You could have stopped me.”
“I think you know why.” Henry refuses to look up from his braies, fingertips worrying at a loose thread.
“No, Henry. I don’t.” It sounds as if he’s blaming Henry for this when, truthfully, it’s all Hans’ fault. His depravity dragged Henry down with him, forcing his hand. There’s no other explanation. There can’t be.
Blue eyes catch the light of the moon through the window as Henry lifts his gaze and captures Hans by his neck. When he swallows, even the marigold’s numbing power can’t cover the tight pain within.
“Hans,” Henry croaks. “I’ve wanted you to touch me. Ever since that stupid fucking brawl in the tavern, I’ve wanted you.”
What?
“No.” Hans shakes his head and laughs, his ruined throat making him sound more like a belligerent toad than a man. “That’s not possible. My—My sin is my own and you feel like you must reciprocate because I am your Lord. That’s all this is, Henry.”
“Horseshit.” The same big hand that had gripped Hans by his hair now wraps around his wrist. Henry abandons his braies to the floor as he drags Hans close. “Utter fuckin’ horseshit.”
“Henry—”
“Nah, you listen to me, my lord.” Hot, hot skin settles around Hans’ neck. Henry’s generous fingers fit beneath his jaw like they’re meant to be there. Breath passes through Hans’ lips in frantic pants, his heart kicking like a hare. “You listen to me good, Hans Capon.”
All Hans can do is whimper.
“You aren’t that special.” Feeling Henry’s forehead against his own is overwhelming in itself. Hearing those words from his mouth has tears springing to Hans’ eyes. “You’re a noble, a fucking Lord… I’ve met so many of you cunts I’m drowning.”
Hans’ heart can’t slow down. He holds onto Henry’s arms, trying to keep himself aloft and keep the hand around his neck from tightening despite the twisting position he’s now in.
“I wouldn’t give a shit if you were noble or the butcher’s fuckin’ son.” Scalding breath heats Hans’ face even further than it already burns. “I would want your pretty mouth around my cock either way.”
A hissing breath presses from between Hans’ teeth. His heart feels like its about to burst. He—He doesn’t know how to feel about that ridiculous monologue. His mind is spinning too fast to figure out what the fuck to think. To say.
“When I saw you watchin’ me sleep, it made me so fucking hard.” When Henry speaks, his lips brush Hans’. “I thought you’d notice when I turned over. An’ then you started touching me.”
Shame stabs through Hans’ belly as a sob burbles from his lips. His fingers press into Henry’s biceps, nails digging into tough skin. Henry doesn’t flinch.
“Tastin’ me. Playing with my chest and droolin’ over me like a fuckin’ mutt.”
Oh God. Hans whines and tries to push himself closer, feet skidding across the mattress. The grip around his throat refuses to budge and holds him effortlessly in place. Being so firmly reminded of Henry’s impossible strength has arousal pooling in Hans’ stomach, alongside Henry’s seed.
“I wanted to wake up an’ take you right there.” A crazed look gleams in Henry’s eyes—barely visible with how close their faces press. “And then you do this.”
“Hal,” Hans chokes out as his swollen lips tremble.
“I’m furious, you know.” He sounds it. “You thought you’d get away with it. Takin’ advantage of me. Choking on my cock while I slept and drinking me down.”
Another sob, this one tighter than the last as Hans wriggles in Henry’s grasp, unsure if he should try to escape or present himself for the punishment he deserves.
“You’re a little demon, Hans Capon.”
“No!” Hans’ nails scratch down Henry’s forearm, goring his excitement-fear-horror-rapture into Henry’s skin. “I just—”
“Were you going to continue?” That manic gleam only gets brighter as Henry moves ever closer until their mouths touch with every word. It’s a kiss by any other name, and Hans’ heart refuses to settle. “Put your dirty fingers inside of me? Inside of yourself?”
Hans squeezes his eyes shut. A tear leaks from the corner of one, quickly caught by Henry’s tongue. He can’t admit his plans. He can’t reveal that he was going to come back, loose and wet, and soak Henry’s seed into his very soul. He can’t admit that he was thinking of dragging them both down to Hell together by feeding off his spend, his God given right to create life.
“You were.” That note of wonder comes back, though buried deep beneath the growl blessing his voice. “Christ, Capon…”
“I-I am—” Hans sobs, teeth squealing as he clenches his jaw. “I am depraved.”
Against his neck, Henry’s breath speeds up.
“I-I am sick.” Between his thighs, his braies are pulled tight. Not by his cock, but by Henry’s hand as it delves between fabric and skin, cupping Hans’ entire cod and holding him tight. Hans’ breath stutters in his chest and, around a moan, he warbles out, “I am a disgusting deviant!”
Henry’s stroking him. Cupping his palm over his steadily hardening, already coated cock, and rubbing him against his own belly. Hans’ body spasms with painful pleasure, his mouth working wordlessly.
“Yeah?” Henry buries his teeth into the skin beneath Hans’ ear, just beside his own thumb. A wail escapes Hans as he feels the pinch and pull of delicate skin. “Keep goin’, my lord.”
It’s impossible. The grip around his neck is steadily tightening. Hans’ mind is becoming unmoored. Spit drips from his lips as he gasps out more words, any words, anything to keep Henry touching him.
“I am—I am a wanton whore,” he raggedly groans into Henry’s panting mouth. His legs are beginning to tense and curl. “I would do anything to feel—feel you inside.”
Henry’s mitt speeds up its ruthless circuit against his cock.
“I-I want to con—consume you,” Hans gasps as his eyes roll into the back of his head and the pressure in his gut rises further and further. “I want to taste—taste your—your spend and—”
His voice falters as his toes begin to curl. Henry, impatient, jostles him by his neck.
“Keep. Going.”
“I want to be bred by you,” Hans spits out in a rush. “I never want to be without you. Your seed in me. The feeling of—of your cock burning my throat. Making me loose.”
“Fuck.”
“I want to wear you on my face as I address my people—” Hans is speaking so quickly it feels as if he’s not making any sense at all. “Show them that I am yours.”
“Hans.”
“I want—! Mm!”
The world blooms with light as Henry takes Hans’ mouth and that telltale pressure in his gut bursts. Hans’ lips hang open for Henry’s questing tongue as he shakes apart and adds to the mess between his thighs.
He can’t see anymore.
He can’t feel anything except Henry’s teeth and the stabbing ecstasy in his twitching gut.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
***
When Hans awakens, he’s fully nude and as clean as he’s ever been. Instinctively swallowing has Hans hissing in pain, the ruined remains of his esophagus protesting such abuse. He can smell the morning dew on the grass and leaves outside, a breeze carrying in the scent on its wings. It dulls the pain. Just a little.
He’s not sure how long he lies there, breathing in the dawn. Time becomes pulpy and unknowable. Eventually, Hans knows he has to try and sit up.
Eventually comes with a knock at the door.
“Sir? I have a meal for you.” Henry’s voice calls through the wood. “May I come in?”
Why the hell is he asking?
Hans grumbles and rubs his neck as he croaks, “Enter.”
Quickly, Henry slips into their room and nudges the door shut with his heel. He must have been sparring—his hair is mussed and a new bruise purples his wrist. Hans knows he didn’t cause that last night.
“I’m afraid it’s not very fancy,” Henry says as he drags a stool over with his toe, sliding it into position beside Hans’ bed. “Just some porridge. Your throat will thank me, though.”
It’s difficult to tear his eyes from Henry’s face. His handsome features are smoothed and relaxed. He holds an ease within himself that Hans doesn’t think he’s ever seen. It’s as gratifying to see as it is offputting.
“Hal…?”
Henry looks up from where he sets the bowl of lumpy porridge on the stool. Big blue eyes blink quick in question.
“Yes, my lord?” he murmurs, sounding as unsure as Hans feels.
At least Hans’ hands aren’t shaking anymore. He notices the stillness in his fingers when he reaches out and takes the hem of Henry’s coat between his fingertips. Only a small tug is needed to have Henry lean over him, a hand coming to rest by Hans’ head.
“Are you mad at me?” Hans whispers. It’s easier to talk when less air passes through ragged tissue. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
Fondness overwhelms curiosity. Henry’s palm cups Hans’ cheek, holding him perfectly. Between one breath and the next, Henry presses a kiss to his lips. A peck, really.
Hans hates that tears comes to his eyes because of one lousy peck.
“I was,” Henry says. “Problem with you is I can’t stay mad for long.”
A wet breath shudders through Hans’ entire body. “Kiss me again.”
Hans doesn’t need porridge or marigolds to fix the wounds he’s made. All he needs is the tender brush of Henry’s tongue against his own. The feeling of his hands against Hans’ skin. The stable curve of muscle beneath Hans’ touch.
Easy breaths are shared as Hans wraps his arms around Henry’s shoulders and pulls him down. Henry sinks into him with a smile.