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Henry hadn’t even made it through the door properly.
Henry had barely dropped his sword belt before Hans started.
“Oh, so now you remember I exist?” Hans drawled from where he was sprawled across the bench, one leg hooked lazily over the arm, wine already in hand like he hadn’t spent the last three days sulking about being left behind.
Henry shut the door a little harder than necessary. “I’ve been gone three days.”
“Yes. Three.” Hans took a slow sip, eyes tracking him over the rim of the cup. “An eternity, really. I nearly perished. Alone. Abandoned. Forced to entertain myself.”
“You had half the town hanging off you, don’t lie.”
“Mm. And yet none of them brought me rabbit stew at midnight or argued about whether my saddle was crooked.” A beat. “Nor did anyone touch my pizzle. Or looked quite so pleased to see me as you should be right now.”
Henry snorted, dragging his gloves off with his teeth. “I am pleased. You’re just…”
“…not showing it,” Hans cut in sweetly. “Tragic, really.”
Henry paused, hands braced on the table, looking at him properly for the first time since he’d walked in.
God, he’d missed him.
That familiar loose-limbed arrogance, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the smug little tilt to his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing and intended to keep doing it.
Henry exhaled slowly. “You could say hello like a normal person.”
Hans smiled, sharp and bright. “Where’s the fun in that? I’m not a normal person – I’m a Lord.”
There it was.
The prickle under Henry’s skin. The one that had nothing to do with annoyance and everything to do with the fact he was tired, sore, and had spent three nights thinking about this exact mouth running off at him.
He moved closer anyway.
Hans watched him come, unbothered, stretching like a cat instead of getting up to meet him. “Careful,” he murmured. “You look like you might actually try to kiss me. In public. Shocking behaviour.”
“We’re not in public.”
“Oh? And what would the servants say if they walked in and saw you manhandling me like some… touch starved bath-maid?”
Henry leaned down and kissed him.
It was quick. Firm. Meant to shut him up.
Hans went still for half a heartbeat. Then, “Oh, so that’s the strategy now?” Hans murmured against his mouth when Henry pulled back. “Silence me with affection? Bold. Ineffective, but bold.”
Henry huffed a breath through his nose. “Are you going to stop talking?”
“Unlikely.”
“Then I’ll just have to…”
Hans kissed him this time.
Deliberate. Slow. Just enough pressure to make Henry’s shoulders drop, to drag a quiet, involuntary sound out of him before Hans pulled away again with a satisfied hum.
“There,” Hans said, settling back again like he’d done something generous. “I’ve greeted you. You may relax now.”
Henry stared at him.
Hans blinked, all false innocence. “What?”
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Being…” Henry gestured vaguely. “…like this.”
Hans tilted his head. “Charming? Witty? Devastatingly attractive?”
“Infuriating.”
Hans grinned. “Ah. That one.”
Henry scrubbed a hand over his face, already feeling the slow build of something under his ribs. “I’ve just ridden for hours, Hans.”
“And I’ve just endured days without you,” Hans shot back. “We all suffer, Henry. Some more nobly than others.”
“You weren’t suffering.”
“I was. Deeply. I had to drink alone. Sleep alone. Masturbate...” A dramatic sigh. “Do you know how dull that is?”
Henry let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Hans said lightly, “here I am, still your greatest weakness.”
That did it.
Henry stepped in again, closer this time, bracing a hand on the bench beside Hans' thigh. “You don’t stop, do you?”
Hans' eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up. “Why would I? You always rise to it.”
“I’m not rising to anything.”
“No?” Hans' foot nudged his knee. “You look a little tense for a man who isn’t.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “Hans.”
“What?” he said again, softer now, but still with that edge. “You come back after days away and expect me to sit here quietly like some obedient wife waiting to hear from her beloved husband on campaign?”
“I don’t expect you to be quiet,” Henry cut in. “I just…”
“What? Want me to behave?” Hans' smile sharpened. “God forbid.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Henry exhaled hard. “No, it’s not. I just wanted…”
He stopped.
Hans watched him, something flickering behind the mischief now. “Wanted what?”
Henry hesitated, then muttered, “Just wanted a minute. With you. Without all this.”
Hans' expression shifted, just slightly, but he didn’t let go of it entirely.
“Oh,” he said, almost lightly. “How terribly dull. You mean you don’t enjoy my company at its finest?”
Henry laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “You know that’s not true.”
“Do I?”
There it was again.
That push. That little twist of the knife.
Henry felt something snap.
His hand came up, catching Hans' jaw, not rough, but firm enough to stop the next comment before it could form.
“Enough.”
Hans blinked.
Not startled. Just… caught.
Henry’s voice dropped, low and tight. “I’ve missed you. I’m tired. I walked in here thinking I’d get five minutes where you weren’t trying to get a rise out of me.”
Hans' lips parted.
Henry leaned closer, not breaking eye contact. “And you are. You always do. But right now it’s not funny.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Hans swallowed, the bravado slipping just enough to show something softer underneath.
“…You didn’t say that,” he muttered.
“I shouldn’t have to.”
“I thought…” Hans huffed quietly. “You usually like it.”
“I do,” Henry said, voice easing just a fraction. “When I’ve got the energy for it. Not when I’ve just come back and all I want is you to stop for a second.”
That landed.
Hans' shoulders lowered, the tension bleeding out of him in a slow exhale. His hand came up, resting lightly against Henry’s wrist where it still held his jaw.
“…You should’ve said,” he said, quieter now.
Henry’s grip softened immediately, thumb brushing along his cheek almost apologetically. “I am saying.”
Hans leaned into it without thinking.
There was a beat of silence.
Then, softer, almost shy, which was rare enough to feel like something precious, Hans murmured, “Hello, then.”
Henry huffed a breath that turned into something fond despite himself. “Hello.”
Hans' mouth twitched. “You look dreadful.”
Henry groaned. “I’m going to regret this.”
“Almost certainly.”
But he didn’t pull away this time.
Instead, Hans shifted, setting the wine aside and tugging Henry closer by the front of his tunic, less teasing now, more deliberate.
“…Come here,” he said, quieter.
Henry went.
This kiss was different.
Slower. Steadier. No sharp edges.
Hans' fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders, holding him there, and Henry melted into it in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. Days of tracking bandits, barely sleeping, fighting, days of tension, of distance, easing under the simple, familiar press of him.
When they broke apart, Hans rested his forehead briefly against Henry’s “…You could’ve led with that,” he murmured.
Henry huffed softly. “You didn’t give me the chance.”
A faint smile. “Probably not.”
A pause.
Then, a little more sheepish than before, Hans added, “I did miss you. You know.”
Henry’s hand slid to the back of his neck, grounding. “I know.”
Hans glanced up at him, something warm and a little vulnerable in his eyes now“…I might still be annoying later,” he warned.
Henry snorted. “I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“Good.” Hans leaned in again, softer this time. “Then you can snap at me again and feel powerful.”
Henry laughed under his breath, pulling him closer properly now. “Careful. I might enjoy that.”
Hans' grin returned, but gentler, edged with affection instead of provocation “…I know you do.”
And this time, when Henry kissed him again, Hans didn’t try to turn it into anything else.
Just let it be what it was.
Henry should have known the quiet wouldn’t last.
It never did, not with Hans.
They’d barely settled, Henry standing between Hans' knees now, hands resting loosely at his hips, both of them still close from that softer moment, when Hans' fingers started idly tracing along the seam of Henry’s tunic.
Thoughtful.
Too thoughtful.
Henry narrowed his eyes slightly. “Don’t.”
Hans blinked up at him, all innocence again. “Don’t what?”
“That look.”
“What look?” His thumb dragged lazily along Henry’s side. “I’m simply enjoying your company.”
“You’re plotting.”
Hans' mouth twitched. “I would never.”
Henry huffed. “You’ve got that exact expression you get before you say something that makes me regret speaking to you.”
“Untrue,” Hans said primly. “Sometimes you regret it after.”
Henry sighed, already bracing himself. “What is it?”
Hans tilted his head, considering him like he was choosing his words carefully.
Which was never a good sign.
“Well,” Hans began, tone almost conversational, “since you were gone…”
Henry groaned quietly. “Here we go.”
“…I found myself in a rather unfortunate predicament.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I was alone,” Hans continued, ignoring him completely. “Terribly alone. Bereft, even.”
“You had servants, wine, food...”
“None of which,” Hans cut in smoothly, “are you.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “You survived.”
“Did I?” Hans said, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “Or am I but a hollow shell of the man you left behind?”
“You’re insufferable, that’s what you are.”
Hans smiled, pleased. “And yet you love me.”
Henry didn’t even hesitate. “Unfortunately.”
That earned him a brief, genuine grin, quick and bright, before Hans slipped right back into it.
“But truly,” he went on, voice lowering just a touch, “it was very trying.”
Henry made a non-committal noise. “Mm.”
“I had needs, you see.”
Henry froze for half a second. There it was.
“…Hans.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Hans echoed again, far too sweetly.
Henry dragged a hand down his face. “I’m warning you.”
“And I’m explaining,” Hans said, utterly unbothered. “Since my partner abandoned me, ”
“I did not abandon you.”
“… For numerous lingering days,” Hans pressed on, “I was left with no choice.”
Henry closed his eyes briefly. “No.”
“No one,” Hans continued, as if delivering a tragic tale, “to occupy my attention. No one to keep me suitably… distracted.”
“Hans.”
“No one to touch,” he added, voice dipping just enough to be pointed, eyes flicking up through his lashes.
Henry let out a strained breath. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Of course I am.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I had to take matters into my own hands,” Hans said, with mock solemnity.
Henry made a choked sound. “Christ.”
“Do you know,” Hans went on, leaning back slightly like he was settling in for a story, “how utterly unfair that is?”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“Oh, we’re absolutely having it.” Hans' foot nudged his leg again. “I was forced, forced, Henry, to attend to myself. Alone. Tugging myself off with only your shirt to sniff...”
Henry stared at him. “You sniffed my shirt while you had a wank?.”
“Yes,” Hans said sharply, “a grown man with a perfectly good partner who should have been there to prevent such tragedies.”
Henry barked out a laugh despite himself. “Prevent…? It’s not a tragedy!”
“It is,” Hans insisted. “A grave injustice.”
“You survived it.”
“I shouldn’t have had to.”
Henry shook his head, smiling now despite the tension still lingering in his shoulders. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And neglected.”
“You were not neglected.”
“I was,” Hans said firmly. “Left to my own devices. My own body.” He gave Henry a pointed look. “Which, I might add, is far less satisfying than yours.”
Henry’s ears went slightly pink. “Shut up.”
“I was suffering,” Hans insisted, though there was a grin tugging at his mouth now. “And I think compensation is in order.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“Yes.” Hans nodded decisively. “You should be punished.”
Henry laughed outright. “For what? Riding out on orders?”
“For leaving me to such indignities,” Hans said, utterly serious. “I had to do everything myself.”
Henry leaned down slightly, crowding into his space again, voice low. “Everything?”
Hans' breath hitched, just slightly, but he didn’t back down.
“Everything. I had to use my own fingers… my own hand… it was torture,” he said, though his voice had softened a fraction.
Hans held his gaze, something bright and challenging flickering there.
“Therefore,” he said, “I was denied proper attention. And I think you should be put in the stocks for it.”
Henry blinked. Then laughed. “The stocks?”
“Yes.” Hans nodded, entirely serious again. “Public humiliation. It’s only fair.”
“For riding out on duty.”
“For abandoning your partner to his own hands,” Hans corrected.
Henry leaned closer, voice dropping to a murmur. “You really want to keep going with this?”
Hans swallowed, but his chin lifted. “I’ve committed now.”
“Mm,” Henry hummed, one hand coming up to rest at Hans' waist. “Brave.”
“Or foolish,” Hans said lightly.
“Definitely foolish.”
Hans' lips curved. “You like that.”
Henry’s thumb pressed lightly into his side, grounding, steady. “I like you.”
That took a bit of the edge out of Hans' expression again.
Just a little.
“…Good,” he muttered.
Henry studied him for a moment, then added, quieter, “You missed me that much?”
Hans huffed, looking away briefly. “Don’t make it sentimental.”
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Hans hesitated, then muttered, “Maybe.”
Henry smiled, softer now. “You could’ve just said that.”
“And miss the opportunity to accuse you of grievous neglect?” Hans scoffed. “Never.”
Henry laughed under his breath, leaning in to press a slower kiss to his mouth, one that cut through the lingering tension, through the teasing, grounding them again.
Hans leaned into it this time without pulling away, fingers curling into Henry’s tunic again, less performative now, more real.
When they parted, Hans exhaled softly.
“…You still might deserve the stocks,” he murmured.
Henry snorted. “I’ll take my chances.”
Hans' grin returned, mischief, warmth, and something softer underneath it all.
“…Good,” he said. “Because I’m not finished complaining yet.”
Henry groaned. “Of course you’re not.”
Hans barely had time to finish his smug little smile before Henry’s hands were on him, one at his waist, the other hooking under his thigh, and suddenly the world tilted.
“Henry!”
He was lifted clean off the bench.
Hans let out an indignant sound, grabbing at Henry’s shoulders more out of instinct than protest. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Making amends,” Henry said easily, already carrying him toward the bed “For my terrible and horrific behaviour, of doing exactly as I was told.”
Hans scoffed, shifting slightly in his hold. “I would never tell you what to do.”
Henry huffed. “No?”
“No,” Hans said, chin lifting. “I never do what I’m told. Why would I expect it of anyone else?”
Henry’s mouth twitched. “Mm. Yes. That sounds very much like you.”
Hans narrowed his eyes, though there was a flicker of satisfaction there. “Careful. That sounded like admiration.”
“It’s recognition.”
“Of my many excellent qualities?”
“Of your inability to behave for more than five minutes.”
Hans gasped softly. “I am perfectly capable…”
Henry dropped him onto the bed.
The words broke into a startled exhale as Hans bounced once against the mattress, hair falling loose across his face. He pushed himself up on his elbows, scowling faintly.
“That was unnecessary…”
Henry was already leaning over him.
The rest of the complaint softened in his throat.
“…and rude,” Hans finished, quieter now.
“Was it?” Henry murmured.
Hans swallowed.
“…perhaps not entirely.”
Henry didn’t smile this time. He just leaned in.
The first kiss was slow.
Careful.
No edge, no teasing, just the simple, steady press of his mouth against Hans', grounding after days apart.
Hans stilled under it.
For once, he didn’t immediately push back, didn’t try to turn it into something sharper or quicker. He just… let it happen, breath catching softly as he tilted up into it.
“Missed you,” Henry murmured against his lips.
Hans huffed, like he might deflect, but the sound softened halfway through.
“…I know.”
Henry kissed him again.
A little deeper.
His hand slid to Hans' side, thumb brushing slow along his ribs, reacquainting, unhurried. The touch made something in Hans loosen further, tension draining from his shoulders as he shifted under him.
Out of habit more than anything, Hans' hand drifted up, fingers catching at the edge of Henry’s tunic, starting to tug.
Henry caught his wrist immediately.
Hans blinked, breath hitching slightly. “Henry…”
The second hand followed, slower this time, but just as intent.
Henry caught that one too.
And then, without a word, he guided both wrists down into the mattress, pressing them gently but firmly above Hans' head.
Hans went still.
Not resisting.
Just… melted.
“Henry…” he said after a moment, though his voice had lost some of its bite,
Henry didn’t let go. “Like this?”
Hans shifted, testing the hold once, lightly this time, not really trying to break it. His gaze flicked up to Henry’s face, searching.
“…I was only helping,” he added, quieter.
“You were trying to take over.”
Hans' mouth opened, closed again “…maybe,” he admitted, almost under his breath.
Henry leaned closer, his voice low. “Not this time.”
Hans' breath caught. There was still that instinct to push back, to make some sharp remark, to twist it into something playful, but it didn’t quite come. Instead, he held Henry’s gaze.
Henry kissed him again.
Deeper now, more certain, no rush, but no hesitation either.
Hans made a soft sound against his mouth, shifting up instinctively, but the hold at his wrists kept him there, kept him grounded.
Held.
Steady.
His fingers flexed once against Henry’s grip, then stilled.
When Henry pulled back slightly, Hans' breathing had changed, slower, heavier, his eyes darker but quieter.
Henry’s thumb brushed lightly over his wrist, a small, reassuring touch that softened the restraint.
Hans exhaled through his nose, tension easing further. “…you’re not letting me go, are you?”
“Not yet.”
A pause. Hans swallowed, then gave the faintest shake of his head, more conceding than defiant this time “…alright.”
The word came softer than either of them expected.
Henry’s expression shifted at that, something warmer, steadier, but he didn’t comment on it. Just leaned down again, slower now, kissing along the corner of Hans' mouth, his jaw, taking his time.
Hans tilted his head slightly to give him better access without thinking, breath catching quietly as he followed the movement instead of directing it.
No jabs.
No interruption.
Just small reactions, subtle shifts, a quiet inhale, the faintest press upward when he wanted more.
“…you’re taking your time,” Hans murmured after a moment, though it lacked its usual edge.
“I’ve been gone,” Henry said simply.
Hans' fingers flexed again where they were held, then relaxed.
“…Yes.”
Henry brushed another slow kiss to his mouth.
Hans met it, softer now, less about control, more about feeling. When they parted, his voice was quieter still “…don’t rush, then.”
Henry’s grip tightened just slightly, not to restrain further, just to anchor “I won’t.”
Hans nodded faintly, settling back into the mattress, letting himself be held there without another protest.
Still himself, still sharp, still proud, but for once, not fighting for the lead. Just letting Henry have it. Henry felt the shift in him.
That was the thing about Hans, beneath all the bite and bravado, once he gave, he gave completely. And Henry knew the exact moment it happened. The way Hans stopped testing his grip, the way his breathing softened, the way his eyes stayed on Henry’s instead of darting away to plan his next jab.
Henry didn’t rush it.
“…stay with me,” he murmured, more a promise than a command.
Hans' throat moved as he swallowed, a faint flush already creeping across his cheeks. “…I am.”
Henry’s mouth curved slightly at that.
Good.
His hands loosened just enough to shift, still holding Hans' wrists, but easing the pressure as he dipped his head again, kissing him slow and deep, letting it linger this time.
Hans melted into it.
There was no edge left in the kiss now, just warmth, a quiet sort of hunger that had built over days apart. His fingers flexed once under Henry’s hold, then stilled again, like he’d decided not to chase control this time.
Henry rewarded that immediately.
A softer kiss.
A hum of approval against his mouth.
“Good,” he murmured, barely pulling back.
Hans' breath hitched.
The flush deepened.
Henry shifted, one hand releasing just long enough to slide down, fingertips brushing along the fastening of Hans' shirt. He didn’t look away as he worked it loose, slow, deliberate, giving Hans every chance to interrupt.
He didn’t.
Hans just watched him.
Quiet.
Eyes dark, lips parted slightly as Henry eased the fabric open, exposing skin inch by inch. His breath caught when cool air hit, but he didn’t move to cover himself, just lay there, letting Henry see him.
“…you’ve been thinking about this,” Hans said softly.
Henry glanced up briefly. “Have you?”
A faint, embarrassed huff. “…maybe.”
Henry’s thumb brushed over his side again, grounding. “I have.”
Hans' breath stuttered.
Henry leaned down, pressing a kiss just below his collarbone, slow, unhurried, like he was reacquainting himself with something familiar.
“…missed this,” he murmured.
Hans' head tipped back slightly into the mattress, eyes fluttering for a moment before he forced them open again, like he didn’t want to miss any of it.
Henry’s lips moved again, up, back to his throat this time, light, lingering kisses that made Hans shift under him, a quiet sound escaping before he could stop it.
Henry stilled for a second at that.
Then, gently,
“Shh.”
Not sharp. Not silencing.
Just steady.
Hans flushed deeper at the sound, something in his chest tightening and softening all at once. His wrists shifted faintly under Henry’s hold, not resisting, just reacting.
“…I wasn’t…” he began, then trailed off.
“I know,” Henry said softly, pressing another kiss to his jaw. “You’re alright.”
The reassurance settled into him immediately.
Hans exhaled, tension melting further, his body relaxing into the mattress beneath Henry’s weight.
Henry’s hand slid back to his wrist, thumb brushing lightly over the inside, slow, grounding strokes that matched the rhythm of his kisses.
“…there you are,” Henry murmured.
Hans' lips parted, breath uneven now, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at him.
Henry leaned down and bit Hans’ lower lip, sucking it gently before pulling back and returning to his jaw.
Hans made a soft, helpless sound at that, turning his head slightly as Henry’s mouth found that spot just beneath his ear, the one that always got him.
Henry remembered. Of course he did.
“…Henry,” Hans breathed, quieter now, the name slipping out without its usual sharpness.
Henry’s grip tightened just a fraction, not restraining, just holding him there, steady.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
Hans went still at that.
Then softened completely.
The last of the fight drained out of him as he settled into it, into Henry’s hands, his voice, the familiar rhythm of being known.
“…yes,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Henry lifted his head just enough to look at him properly, flushed, breathing uneven, eyes soft in a way he rarely let anyone see.
“Missed you,” Henry said again, quieter this time.
Hans swallowed, then nodded faintly. “…I know.”
A small pause. Then, softer still,
“…missed you too.”
Henry smiled at that, warm, certain, and leaned down to kiss him again, slower, deeper, like he had all the time in the world to remember him.
And this time, Hans didn’t try to take control back. He just let himself be held.
Henry felt it the moment Hans stopped answering back.
Not just quieter, yielding.
The sharp edges were still there in flickers, the quick breath, the faint tension in his wrists, but they weren’t pushing any more. Just reacting. Just… feeling.
Henry softened his grip slightly, not letting go, just easing it enough to keep him anchored without pressure. His thumb traced slow, familiar circles against the inside of Hans' wrist, grounding him there.
“…Hans,” he murmured.
Hans' eyes flickered up to him, heavy-lidded, flushed from throat to chest now. “…mm?”
Henry studied him for a second, really looked at him, before speaking again, quieter.
“Do you know what I was doing before I got here?”
Normally, that would’ve earned a remark. Something sharp, something clever.
This time,
Hans just shook his head faintly.
“…no.”
Henry’s mouth curved, just slightly.
“I went to the bathhouse.”
Hans hummed softly in acknowledgment, his focus drifting, not disinterested, just… inward, like he was already slipping under the weight of Henry’s voice, his touch.
Henry leaned in closer, brushing a slow kiss along his jaw before speaking again.
“Got clean,” he murmured.
Hans' brow furrowed faintly, a flicker of confusion breaking through the haze. “…you’re always…”
Henry’s hand tightened just a fraction at his wrist, not stopping him, just holding him there.
Then he leaned closer still, lips brushing just beneath Hans' ear.
“Really clean. Especially for you,” he whispered.
Hans stilled.
The words took a second to land.
A breath.
Another. Then, Henry felt it. The shiver that ran clean through Hans.
Hans' fingers curled reflexively under his hold, his breath catching sharp in his chest as understanding settled in. The flush across his skin deepened instantly, spreading up into his ears, down his throat.
“…oh,” he breathed.
It came out softer than anything he’d said all evening.
Henry stayed close, just watching him for a moment, letting it sink in.
Then, quieter still, almost teasing, but softened by something warmer,
“I got under the water… and I put my fingers inside me…” Henry mumbled, licking a stripe up his neck, “And got myself clean. My body aches to have you inside me… Can I?”
Hans' head tipped back into the mattress, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as that sank in properly this time.
“…Henry… Yes” he started, but there was no bite in it, no complaint, just a breath, a name spoken like he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Henry kissed him again before he could find anything sharper to say.
Slow.
Certain.
Reassuring.
Hans melted into it immediately, whatever thought he’d been trying to form dissolving under the warmth of it. His body shifted beneath Henry’s without direction now, just instinct, just need, following the pace Henry set.
The hand at his wrist softened again, thumb brushing slow and steady.
“You’re alright,” Henry murmured against his mouth.
Hans nodded faintly, breath uneven, eyes barely open now. “…yes.”
Henry’s lips brushed along his jaw again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was reminding him, grounding him in every touch.
“I’ve got you.”
Hans exhaled softly, the last of the tension slipping out of him completely.
“…I know,” he whispered.
And this time, when Henry kissed him again,
Hans didn’t try to speak at all. He just let himself feel it. Henry didn’t rush.
He could have, Hans was already there for it, already flushed and pliant beneath him, but that wasn’t what this was. Not after days apart. Not when he could feel every small reaction, every breath, every shift like something precious returning to his hands.
So he slowed. His grip on Hans' wrists eased just enough to move one hand, still keeping him anchored, while the other traced down, fingers brushing lightly over his chest.
Hans shivered at the touch.
“…Henry,” he breathed, barely there.
Henry didn’t answer straight away. He just watched him for a moment, really watched him, taking in the flush, the way his chest rose and fell a little too quickly, the way his lips parted like he was waiting without quite realising it.
Then he leaned down.
Not to his mouth.
Lower.
His lips brushed just beneath Hans' collarbone, slow and deliberate, and Hans' breath hitched sharply in response.
“Oh… Christ” Hans murmured faintly,
Henry hummed softly against his skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, quiet and certain.
Hans stilled.
Not resisting, just… feeling it.
Henry kissed him again. Lower this time, then back up, mapping familiar ground like he hadn’t touched it in months and needed to remember every inch.
“…missed this,” he murmured.
Hans' fingers flexed under his hold, a tremor running through him as he shifted his hips slightly without thinking, seeking, pressing, trying to close some of the distance.
Henry felt it immediately.
His hand came back to Hans' wrist, steadying him, thumb brushing slow circles again.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Hans exhaled shakily, but his body didn’t quite listen, another small shift of his hips, a quiet, frustrated breath slipping out.
“…Henry,” he tried again, softer now, almost pleading without meaning to be.
Henry lifted his head just enough to look at him.
Flushed.
Eyes unfocused.
Trying, failing, to stay composed.
Henry’s expression softened.
Then he leaned down again, pressing a slow kiss over Hans' sternum, then another along his shoulder, lingering there just long enough to make Hans shiver.
“Good,” he murmured quietly.
Hans made a small sound at that, half breath, half something else, his head tipping back slightly into the mattress.
Henry continued, unhurried, kissing along his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest, slow, deliberate, like he was committing him to memory again.
“You feel that?” he asked softly.
Hans nodded faintly, breathing uneven. “…yes.”
Henry’s lips brushed his skin again. “You’re doing well.”
The words landed deep.
Hans' breath caught, his body responding instinctively, another subtle press of his hips, more insistent this time, chasing something he wasn’t being given yet.
Henry pulled back just slightly.
Not far. Just enough.
Hans blinked, dazed, then frowned faintly at the loss, shifting again, seeking, trying to follow.
“Henry…”
Henry’s hand tightened gently at his wrist, holding him in place.
“Not yet.”
Hans stilled.
The words weren’t harsh.
Just firm. Certain.
“…what?” he murmured, voice soft, a little breathless.
Henry brushed his thumb slowly over his wrist again, grounding him.
“We’re not ready yet.”
Hans swallowed.
The frustration flickered, instinctive, familiar, but it didn’t sharpen into defiance this time. It just… lingered, mixed with something else. Anticipation. Trust.
“…you’re being cruel,” he muttered faintly.
Henry’s mouth curved slightly as he leaned down again, pressing a soft kiss just beneath his ear.
“Am I?”
Hans shivered.
“…yes,” he said, but it lacked conviction.
Henry kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger.
“Then you’ll have to bear it,” he murmured,
Hans exhaled softly, tension and warmth tangling together as he settled back into the mattress again, no longer pushing, just waiting, trembling slightly under Henry’s hands.
“…alright,” he whispered.
And Henry, feeling that shift, softened further, kissing him again, slower, steadier, taking his time.
Henry didn’t give him time to think.
That was the point.
Before Hans could gather himself, before he could turn the moment back into something sharp or controlled, Henry’s hand slid down, firm and certain, and tugged.
Fabric shifted.
Hans inhaled sharply.
“Henry...”
Too late.
Henry had already pushed the braies and hose down, not rough, but decisive, guiding them past his hips and thighs in one smooth motion before kicking them aside without a second thought.
Hans' breath stuttered, the sudden exposure hitting him all at once, cool air, the weight of Henry’s gaze, the vulnerability of it.
“…you could have warned me,” he muttered, though it came out thinner than he intended.
Henry didn’t answer.
He was looking at him.
Not in a way that made Hans want to cover himself, but worse, somehow.
Like he was appreciating him.
Henry’s hands settled at his hips, thumbs brushing slow, grounding strokes along the bone there, easing him through that first flicker of self-consciousness.
Then he leaned down.
Hans tensed, but Henry didn’t go where he expected.
Instead, his mouth pressed slow and warm against the curve of Hans' hip.
Hans' breath caught.
“…what are you...”
Henry kissed him again. Lower this time. Then along the inside of his thigh, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
Hans made a quiet, startled sound, his legs shifting instinctively, not quite closing, just… reacting.
Henry huffed a soft laugh against his skin.
“This,” he murmured, voice low with something almost fond, “is my favourite part of you.”
Hans blinked, dazed. “…what?”
Henry kissed along his inner thigh again, slower, lingering.
“Here,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Your thighs.”
Hans stared down at him, flushed from throat to chest now, completely thrown.
“My…?” He huffed faintly, trying to gather some dignity. “That’s ridiculous.”
Henry snorted softly. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Hans insisted, though his voice wavered slightly. “There are far better options available to you.”
Henry hummed, not looking up as he pressed another slow kiss along his thigh, closer this time.
Hans' breath hitched again.
“My cock,” Hans added, with what he clearly meant to be confidence. “For example. That would be the logical...”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Flat.
Hans blinked. “…no?”
Henry finally glanced up at him then, eyes warm but entirely unmoved.
“No,” he repeated, then leaned back down, brushing his lips along the inside of Hans' thigh again, slow, deliberate, like he was proving a point.
“These,” he said quietly, “are incredible.”
Hans' mouth opened, closed again.
Henry’s hands tightened slightly at his hips, thumbs tracing along the muscle there, grounding and sure.
“Strong,” he continued, almost thoughtful now. “Muscled. Always have been.”
Hans swallowed.
“And...” Henry’s mouth curved faintly against his skin, “…completely indecent.”
That did it. Hans went crimson.
From the tips of his ears all the way down his chest, the flush spread in an instant, his breath catching hard as his head tipped back slightly into the mattress.
“…that is...” he tried, but the words fell apart halfway through. “You can’t just…”
“I can,” Henry said mildly, kissing him again.
Hans made a small, helpless sound at that, his hands flexing faintly against the mattress where they were still held, his composure slipping further with every slow, deliberate touch.
“You’re…this is…” he huffed, trying again, voice thin with embarrassment. “You’re ignoring the obvious...”
“I’m not,” Henry murmured.
Another kiss.
Slower.
Closer.
“I just prefer this. When I was away, I was in my tent remembering that time you let me fuck your thighs...Touching myself at the hot, oiled tightness you made. How you arched so beautifully every time my cock brushed your stones...”
Hans' breath stuttered again, his body responding without his permission, his hips shifting slightly, seeking, even as his face burned.
“…that’s absurd,” he muttered weakly.
Henry smiled against his skin.
“Mm,” he agreed softly. “And yet.”
Hans turned his head to the side, like he could hide from it, though there was nowhere to go, not with Henry’s hands steady at his hips, not with the way he was being looked at, noticed.
“…you’re not meant to, talk like that,” he said under his breath.
“Like what?”
Hans hesitated, “…like you’re…” he swallowed, words catching. “…like you like it.”
Henry stilled for half a second.
Then,
“I do like it.”
Simple. Certain.
Hans' breath caught again, sharper this time.
Henry lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes, one hand sliding slightly higher along his hip, grounding.
“I like you,” he said quietly. “All of you.”
Hans stared at him, flushed, undone in a way he clearly hadn’t expected.
“…that’s…” he started, then faltered.
Henry leaned down again before he could finish, pressing another slow kiss along his inner thigh, softer this time.
Hans exhaled shakily, the last of his resistance dissolving into something quieter, more vulnerable.
“…you’re perverted,” he muttered faintly.
Henry huffed a soft laugh.
Hans didn’t answer.
He just lay there, trembling slightly, flushed and quiet, and let himself be seen.
"Hans," Henry murmured, the name a soft, reverent whisper against the flushed skin of the Hans’ stomach. "Gods, you are beautiful like this."
With Henrys hands now off his wrist, Hans was able to drop his hands to be bed, scrabbling slightly at the bedding. Henry smiled, kissing and then dipping his tongue into Hans’ navel.
Hans whined, low in his throat. His hand found Henry's hair, fingers threading through the dark, sweat-damp curls. "Don’t stop," he breathed, his voice thick with need.
“I won’t… I promise.”
Henry brushed his lips down the trail of hair below Hans’ navel and followed it down to the light hair at Hans’ pubic bone. Hans’ smelled like desire and musk and Henry inhaled as he kissed across that skin, moving down to take one of Hans’ stones into his mouth, then the other, and finally returning to press a soft kiss just under the head of Hans’ cock, where that little bundle of skin sat.
“Oh...don’t tease… Please…” Hans begged, back arching.
Henry didn't. He sealed his mouth around the tip of Hans' cock, his tongue working a slow, maddening circle as he sucked him deep, then drew back with a wet, torturous slide. The air was thick with the scent of Hans. Henry’s world narrowed to the feel of hot, velvet-hard flesh filling his mouth, to the salty taste of spend on his tongue, to the ragged breaths tearing from Hans’ chest.
Now, Hans was unravelling.
All it took was three days to have Hans like this.
Shivering. Throbbing. Desperate.
Henry could feel it in the tremor of the muscled thighs beneath his palms, in the desperate clench of fingers in his hair. He sucked harder, faster, drawing him to the very brink, then pulling away completely, leaving Hans gasping and exposed to the cool air.
"Henry…" Hans pleaded, a broken sound.
"Patience," Henry said, rising to his knees. His own need was a fierce, aching pulse between his legs, but his focus was on Hans.
He reached for the small vial of oil on the floor beside them, uncorking it with a practised flick. The scent of marigold bloomed in the dim space. "You’ve been so needy… I want to make sure I’m doing it right…"
Hans whined.
Henry poured the oil into his palm, warming it for a moment before he reached for Hans’ cock again. This time, his touch was not his mouth, but his slick, sure fingers. He coated the length thoroughly, from root to tip, his strokes firm and deliberate. Hans shuddered, his hips lifting off the mattress involuntarily. "Yes… like that…"
Henry watched him, his own breath quickening. Hans’ face was a masterpiece of suppressed ecstasy, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight, lips parted. Henry added more oil, working it down to the heavy stones below, massaging gently, earning a deep, guttural moan that seemed to vibrate through the room itself.
Then Henry stood, shedding his own clothes with frantic haste. His tunic, his hose, everything was cast aside until he stood naked before Hans. The candlelight gleamed on his thicker form, on the desperate erection that curved towards his stomach. Hans’ eyes opened, dark and hungry, drinking in the sight.
"Now," Henry said, his voice dropping to a husky command. He moved, straddling Hans’ lap, his knees settling on the mattress on either side of Hans’ hips. He took the oil vial once more, pouring a generous stream over his own palm before reaching behind himself.
The first touch of his own slick fingers to his entrance sent a bolt of white-hot anticipation through him. He gasped, working the oil inside, preparing himself with quick, urgent circles. Hans watched, mesmerised, his hands coming up to grip Henry’s waist, thumbs digging into the soft flesh there.
Henry had received before – that wasn’t new – but the sight of Hans so lost in the pleasure backlit by the candlelight looked like it was straight from a vivid story of Lancelot and Galehaut.
Hans felt his breathing hitch, his cock throb as he watched Henry scissor himself open.
When Henry was ready, he took Hans’ oil-slicked cock in hand, guiding it to his body. He positioned himself, hovering for a moment that stretched into eternity, both of them trembling. Then, with a slow, controlled descent, he took Hans inside.
The world shattered.
It was a blinding, full sensation of being stretched, filled, completed. Henry’s head fell back, a choked cry escaping his lips. Hans’ grip on his waist became iron, holding him steady as Henry’s body adjusted, accepting the incredible invasion. The burn was sweet, the pressure divine. Henry sank down, down, until he was seated fully, Hans buried deep within him.
For a second, neither moved. They were locked, joined, panting into the same air.
Then Henry’s need, a frantic, clawing thing, overrode all caution. "I cannot… be slow now," he gasped, and he began to move.
He rose up, almost completely withdrawing, the drag exquisite and agonising, then plunged back down with a force that drove a sharp, delighted moan from his own throat and a ragged "Fuck!" from Hans. Hans’ body shook, his head knocking back against the headboard. His hands flew from Henry’s waist to his thighs, gripping the lean muscles there, trying to slow his frantic ascent.
"Henry! too fast, you’ll…I’ll…"
"I want it fast," Henry panted, riding him again, another hard, deep stroke. He ignored the attempts to restrain him, his own rhythm taking hold. It was a pounding, urgent pace, each descent a deliberate, grinding impact that sent sparks through his core. He could feel Hans everywhere – a hot, living presence that rubbed against every sensitive place inside him. His own cock, neglected and aching, bounced against his stomach with the motion.
Hans’ eyes rolled back, his knuckles white where they clutched Henry’s legs. He was fighting his own instinct to thrust, to take control, to match the furious pace. Henry saw the struggle, saw Hans’ discipline holding him still, letting Henry use him.
"You are so good," Henry breathed, his voice shaking with each impact. "So strong… for me… letting me… take you…"
The praise seemed to break something in Hans. A shudder wracked his entire frame, but he kept his hips anchored, letting Henry set the pace. And Henry did. He found a steady, driving rhythm- up, a breathless pause at the peak, then down with a heavy, grinding settle that made him sigh Hans’ name like a prayer.
"Hans… oh fuck, Hans…"
Each thrust was a study in sensation. The slick, hot slide. The profound fullness. The jolt of pleasure when he ground down, seeking that perfect angle. He rode him with abandon, his moans and sighs filling the chamber, a symphony of want. He could feel his own climax building, a tight, urgent coil in his belly, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the feel of Hans inside him, on the sight of Hans coming apart beneath him.
Hans was whispering now, choked, half-formed words. "Christ… Fuck… Henry..."
Henry leaned forward, bracing his hands on Hans’ broad shoulders. This changed the angle, deepened the penetration, and a sharp, startled cry of pure pleasure tore from him. He kept moving, his rhythm becoming relentless, a piston-like drive towards his own end. The sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with Hans’ on their chests. The room was alive with the sounds of their bodies, the slap of skin, the wet, rhythmic glide, their intertwined, desperate gasps.
Henrys head neared Hans’ feet, steadying himself on his hands between Hans’ spread thighs, his dark curls damp against his temples, and the length of him was on full display, his cock bouncing with each deep, rolling thrust, glistening and leaking against his own stomach. It was a flag of conquest, and Hans could only watch, his breath caught somewhere between his throat and his lungs.
Henry’s rhythm was a slow, devastating grind. He took his time, sinking down onto Hans until their hips met, then rising with a controlled grace that made the Hans’ back arch off the bed. Every descent was a claim. Hans’ hands, bit into Henry’s thighs, fingers trembling.
“Look at you,” Henry murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble in the quiet chamber.
Hans’ eyes, glazed and unfocused, dragged up the expanse of Henry’s torso to find his face. Henry was looking at him with a heat that seemed sinful, his gaze heavy-lidded and intent. The sight of that focus, of Henry’s absolute absorption in the act of taking him, sent a fresh, helpless shudder through Hans’ body.
Henry’s lips curved. He felt it. He leaned back further, a showman displaying his prize, and his rhythm shifted. It became a deeper, more deliberate roll of his hips, a circular motion that rubbed Hans in a way that made his toes curl against the sheets. A soft, broken sound escaped Hans’ lips.
“Christ…There,” Henry said, approving. “Just there.”
He planted his hands behind him on the bed, near Hans’ knees, and pushed his hips forward. The angle changed, and Henry gasped. The head of Henrys cock dragged against the silk of Hans’ stomach, wet from trails from spend and sweat, but that sensation was distant, secondary to the tight, hot clasp of Henry around him. Henry was a furnace, and Hans was burning alive inside him.
Henry began to move in earnest then, not just rolling but riding, lifting and dropping with a building urgency. The wet sound of their coupling filled the space between crackles from the hearth. Sweat traced the line of Henry’s chest, matting his hair and catching the firelight. Hans could smell it, underneath, the salt of Henry’s skin, the musk of his own arousal, the intimate scent of sex that clung to the air like another layer of heat.
Hans’ own control, the rigid command that he had once held had melted the first time Henry had pushed him onto this bed, and now it was a puddle somewhere beneath his spine. He was liquid. He was ruined. He was owned. The realisation should have sparked panic, but it only made him sink deeper into the sheets, his body yielding completely to the rhythm Henry set.
“My lord,” Henry breathed, bending back over himself so he could bring his lips to Hans’ ear.
Hans had warned him about that term used here. That anytime Henry called him my lord in public it made him get an erection quicker than a teenager seeing his first tit.
Hans flinched at the sound of it, a full-body tremor that made Henry groan.
“Yes… Hans...” Henry said, moaning. He leaned forward slightly, changing the angle again, and the new pressure made stars burst behind Henrys eyelids. “You like hearing it now. When you’re like this.”
Hans couldn’t speak. He could only let out a ragged exhale, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably. He was close. The tension was coiling low in his gut, a tight, desperate spring. He tried to lift his hands, to touch Henry’s thighs, to grasp for some semblance of participation, but his arms were leaden. All he could do was feel.
Henry saw it. He saw the helpless want on Hans’ face, the surrender in his slack jaw and glazed eyes. A dark, possessive satisfaction settled in Henry’s own gaze. He slowed, drawing the rise and fall out into an agonising, exquisite tease.
“Not yet,” he rumbled. “Look at me.”
Hans’ eyes, heavy and pleading, found his. Henry held the gaze as he began to move again, a slow, deep, piston-like rhythm that was pure torture. Henry was fully seated each time, grinding down, making Hans feel the tensing of his inner muscles.
“You’re mine like this,” Henry said, each word a soft, deliberate blow. “Aren’t you?”
A whimper was the only answer Hans could manage. He nodded, a frantic little jerk of his chin. Yes. God, yes.
Henry’s rhythm began to fracture, to lose its perfect control. His breath hitched. The powerful muscles of his abdomen clenched, and his cock, which had been bouncing and leaking against his stomach, gave a visible jerk. A fresh jet of fluid spurted at the tip, covering Hans’ navel as Henry continued to rock and grind. He was close, too.
Henry leaned back again, resuming that breathtaking, arrogant arch, presenting himself. His eyes half-closed in pleasure. But he was watching Hans’ face, watching the unravelling happening there.
“I can feel you,” Henry gasped, his own composure slipping. His hips stuttered. “You’re so deep. You’re… ah… you’re right there.”
His hand left the bed, not to touch himself, but to splay possessively over Hans’ thigh, fingers digging into the muscle. The touch was grounding, branding. It was the final anchor.
“My lord,” Henry choked out, the title a ragged, worshipful sound now. “Hans, I’m… Oh fuck...”
He didn’t finish. His body went taut, a bowstring pulled to its limit. A raw, guttural sound was torn from his chest as his climax took him. His untouched release painted stripes across Hans’ stomach and chest, hot and sudden, and the clenching, pulsing tightness around Hans was immediate, devastating, and absolute.
It was the permission Hans’ body had been waiting for. The visual of Henry coming undone above him, the feel of those intimate muscles milking him, the broken title still hanging in the air, it almost shattered him. Hans watched in amazement as Henry continued to roll and fuck his hips in short trusts, chasing that high again as his left hand scooped up some of his spend and used it to stroke himself. His cock was throbbing, still wet at the tip and Henry let his head fall backwards as he chased his second release, babbling praise and curses and prayers under his breath.
“Fuck… Henry I can’t…” Hans began panicking at the intensity.
“Shhh I’ve got you…” Henry promised, entwining his right hand into Hans and squeezing softly, reassuring and comforting even as Henry built himself back to the edge, “You can come whenever you need…”
“You… You again. Please…” Hans begged, “Please Henry… Please…”
“Yes…” Henry nodded, teeth biting on his lip and then he was there, at the pinnacle, gasping and then dipping his head to tuck it into Hans’ neck as he came again, soaking their bodies between them with pulses of hot wetness.
Henry muttered praise, told Hans how good he was, how good he made Henry feel and that was it. Hans was lost.
His back arched off the bed, a silent scream on his lips as his own pleasure ripped through him, wave after wave, draining him of every thought, every title, every shred of himself that wasn’t Henry. Hans squeezed Henry’s hand as he choked through the pulsing throbs of his orgasm. He could feel the warmth spreading around his tip, deep inside Henry which made Henry shudder.
“Christ…” Hans moaned, trembling with the intensity, “Christ...Henry...”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing and the pop of the fire. Henry, spent, slumped forward, catching his weight on his hands. He was still seated on Hans, their bodies connected. He looked down at Hans beneath him.
Hans was utterly ruined. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes were closed, and tears, of overwhelm, of relief, of something he couldn’t name, tracked from their corners into his temples. The constant tremor in his lip had stilled, replaced by a profound, slack peace.
Henry didn’t move. He just watched. Then, slowly, he bent down. He didn’t kiss him. He pressed his forehead to the centre of Hans’ chest, right over the frantic, slowing beat of his heart. He stayed there, breathing him in.
When he finally lifted his head and shifted off, the loss was physical, a cold emptiness. Hans made a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat.
Henry stretched out beside him on the rumpled silk, one heavy arm thrown across Hans’ waist. He turned his head on the pillow. In the firelight, his eyes were dark, knowing, and impossibly soft.
“Hans,” he said, just that. The name, without the title. It was the realest thing in the room.
Hans turned his face toward him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He let his hand find Henry’s where it lay on his stomach, and he laced their fingers together.
For a while, neither of them moved.
The air was still thick with heat and breath and the echo of something that had pulled tight and then unravelled all at once.
Hans lay where he’d fallen, half-sprawled, half-curled, his chest rising unevenly, eyes unfocused on the ceiling like he wasn’t quite seeing it.
Henry noticed immediately.
He always did.
His hand was already there, steady at Hans' side, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded strokes along his ribs, never stopping, never quite letting him drift too far.
“Stay with me,” Henry murmured softly.
Hans made a faint sound in response, something that wasn’t quite a word, more a breath shaped into agreement.
Henry leaned over him, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re alright,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”
Hans' fingers twitched weakly against the sheets, searching more than reaching.
Henry caught his hand immediately.
Laced their fingers together.
Grounding.
Hans exhaled, something in him loosening further at the contact.
“…Henry,” he murmured, voice distant.
“I’m here.”
Always simple. Always certain.
Henry shifted carefully, not breaking contact as he reached for a cloth and the basin nearby. He worked slowly, deliberately, nothing rushed, nothing jarring, keeping one hand on Hans at all times, even as he cleaned them both with quiet efficiency.
Cleaned the spend from his own private place which dripped out in a steady stream. Cleaned the lines away from Hans’ belly and chest.
Hans barely seemed to notice the details.
He was somewhere else, floaty, untethered, his thoughts slipping in and out like he couldn’t quite hold onto them.
But every time Henry’s touch pressed firmer, every time his thumb brushed his skin, or his fingers tightened just slightly around his, Hans responded.
A small breath.
A faint shift.
Coming back, piece by piece.
“There you are,” Henry murmured at one point, more to reassure than to correct.
Hans hummed faintly, eyes still half-lidded. “…don’t go.”
Henry stilled for a second at that.
Then softened completely.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.
Once they were clean enough, Henry set the cloth aside and moved back to him properly, easing down onto the bed.
He didn’t hesitate.
Just reached for Hans and drew him in.
Hans came easily this time, no resistance, no teasing, just folding into him like he belonged there, settling with his head against Henry’s chest.
Henry adjusted them both until it was comfortable, one arm wrapped securely around Hans' back, the other coming up to cradle the back of his head.
Holding him.
Close.
Hans shifted slightly, pressing in, his nose brushing against Henry’s armpit, the glistening hairs there as he breathed him in, warmth, sweat, something familiar and grounding that made him relax further.
“…you smell like the road,” Hans murmured faintly.
Henry huffed a quiet laugh. “I was just at the bathhouse.”
“Mm,” Hans hummed, nuzzling closer anyway. “…still.”
Henry’s hand moved through his hair, slow and steady, fingers combing gently through the strands.
“You like it,” he said softly.
Hans didn’t deny it.
Just made a quiet sound and pressed closer, his body finally settling fully, tension melting out of him in stages.
Henry kept stroking his hair.
Kept his arm firm around him.
Never stopped touching him.
“You did well,” he murmured after a while, voice low and warm.
Hans' fingers curled lightly into the fabric at Henry’s side.
“…don’t start,” he muttered weakly.
Henry smiled faintly, pressing a soft kiss into his hair. “Just telling the truth.”
A pause.
Then, softer,
“You’re safe.”
That landed deeper.
Hans exhaled slowly, the last of that distant, drifting feeling easing as he anchored himself fully against Henry’s chest.
“…I know,” he whispered.
Henry’s hand continued its slow path through his hair, over and over, a steady rhythm.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured again.
Hans didn’t answer this time.
He didn’t need to.
He just curled closer, breathing evening out, body heavy and warm against Henry’s, and let himself rest.
Henry didn’t mean to fall asleep. It just… happened.
One moment he was tracing slow patterns through Hans' hair, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the weight of him settled so trustingly against his chest, and the next, the world had gone quiet.
Still. Warm.
Hans, half-draped over him, had gone completely slack in his arms, his earlier restlessness long since melted away into something deeper. His face was tucked into Henry’s neck, breath soft and even, the faint brush of it against his skin steady and familiar.
Henry’s arm tightened around him even in sleep.
Instinct.
Holding him close.
The room dimmed around them, the fire low, the quiet stretching long and unbroken. No tension. No teasing. No need for words.
Just, this.
The warmth of shared breath.
The slow rise and fall of two bodies in sync.
The faint, lingering scent of sweat and clean skin and something uniquely them.
It felt like home.
An hour passed.
Maybe a little more.
Long enough for the world outside to shift, for the quiet to deepen, for Henry’s breathing to settle fully into sleep.
Long enough for Hans to wake first.
He didn’t move at first.
Just lay there, blinking slowly, still tucked against Henry’s chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath his ear.
For a moment, just a moment, he stayed still.
Soft.
Content.
Then,“…Henry.”
No response.
Hans frowned faintly, lifting his head just enough to peer at him.
“Asleep?” he muttered.
Henry didn’t stir.
Hans watched him for another second, eyes narrowing slightly“…unbelievable.”
He shifted, just a little at first, testing.
Nothing.
Henry stayed exactly where he was, arm still loosely wrapped around him, breathing slow and deep.
Hans huffed softly.
“You fall asleep immediately after climax?” he complained under his breath. “Charming.”
Still nothing.
Hans pushed himself up slightly, looking down at him now.
“…I could have been kidnapped,” he continued, tone picking up. “Or perished. Right here. Dramatically.”
Henry made a faint, non-committal sound.
Not awake.
Not really.
Hans blinked.
Then poked him.
Harder than necessary.
“Henry.”
A grunt this time.
Progress.
Hans leaned closer, voice sharpening just slightly. “You’re supposed to stay awake.”
Henry’s arm tightened instinctively around him, pulling him back down without opening his eyes. “Mm. I am awake.”
“You are not awake.”
“I am,” Henry mumbled into his hair.
Hans scowled, though there was no real heat in it. “You’re lying.”
“Not lying.”
“You just fell asleep mid, everything,” Hans accused.
Henry cracked one eye open, squinting at him. “…everything was done. I even cleaned your cock off.”
“That is not the point.”
Henry blinked slowly, trying to focus. “What is the point?”
“The point,” Hans said, shifting so he was half over him again, clearly intent on not letting this go, “is that I am talking to you.”
Henry let his eye fall shut again. “Mm.”
Hans stared at him.
Then poked him again.
“Henry.”
“What.”
“That was dismissive.”
Henry huffed a tired breath, finally opening both eyes properly this time. “You woke me up to tell me that?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
Henry stared at him.
Hans stared back.
“…you’re impossible,” Henry muttered.
“And yet,” Hans said, settling back down against him like he hadn’t just complained at length, “here I am, suffering your neglect.”
Henry snorted softly, one hand coming up automatically to rest at the back of Hans' head, fingers threading into his hair again like it had never stopped.
“You were asleep.”
“So were you.”
“I still am.”
Hans huffed, but he leaned into the touch anyway, nuzzling faintly back into Henry’s chest.
“…you’re meant to stay awake longer,” he muttered, softer now.
Henry’s hand moved slowly through his hair, steady, grounding, familiar.
“I stayed awake long enough,” he murmured.
“Debatable.”
“Mm.”
A pause.
Hans shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against him, the earlier edge already fading again.
“…I wasn’t done being held,” he admitted, quieter.
Henry’s arm tightened around him in response, pulling him just a little closer.
“You still are,” he said.
Hans exhaled softly at that, the last of the complaint dissolving into something warmer.
“…good,” he murmured.
Henry pressed a sleepy kiss into his hair.
“Go back to sleep.”
Hans made a faint, unimpressed sound.
“…I might,” he said.
But he didn’t move away.
Just stayed there, curled into Henry’s chest, one hand resting lightly against him, listening again to that steady heartbeat.