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Henry crouched low, wincing at the sound of dead leaves being crushed underfoot, his breath coming in short, sharp huffs as he waited.
And waited--
The sound of Hans’s whistling, faint as it was, was still audible in the relative silence surrounding them. Henry thought of all the possible escape routes, the ways he could put more distance between himself and his hunter.
The whistling stopped, Henry’s heart along with it.
It was now or never. He crept from his hiding place, which was really just a spot next to an overturned tree and bolted, breathless from adrenaline as he tore through the woods, pushing through the densely littered vegetation with ease that came only from prior experience. He heard Hans’s laughter behind him, the sound echoing, eerie even as it speared him with arousal at the thought of being captured.
That was the end goal, really.
Henry was unarmed, unarmored, and entirely vulnerable. Ripe for the taking, just as Hans had wanted him to be. His linen shirt was torn in places already, the left sleeve all but shredded where he’d taken a nasty fall over gnarled roots. He’d bruise, always did after their forest trysts. He knew that he was leaving a trail behind, broken sticks and disturbed ground, but while Hans was a hunter, he was ultimately just a man.
A man who was quickly catching up on Henry, if the arrow loosed to the side of him was anything to judge by.
Hiding quickly became his best option again. He’d have to hope that Hans would move ahead of him, giving Henry the chance to circle back to where they’d made camp. He stopped, pulse thumping rabbit-quick as he considered his options. Climbing the trees here was out of the option. The lowest branch wasn’t quite low enough, and really, none of them looked quite strong enough to hold his weight. There were more fallen trees here, with hollowed out trunks that animals tended to find home in. His nose wrinkled at the thought. He’d prefer to not be caught cozied up to a family of squirrels.
His other option then, was the cave nearby, a shallow thing but dark enough to provide a good hiding spot. He’d have to wade through the pond in front of it in order to reach the entrance, but the day was warm and the water was clean enough that he didn’t mind.
He approached the pond, testing the temperature with a finger first before stepping in, going further until he was waist deep. The feeling of his clothes sticking to him wasn’t entirely pleasant but he’d suffer the temporary displeasure to keep their game going even just a bit longer. He moved through the water as quietly as he could, eventually meeting the stone lip of the cave, pulling himself onto it with a grunt.
Once he was within the relative safety of the cave, hidden from the outside world, he shivered and set to wringing the excess water from his hose. It didn’t do much to help, the material still plastered against his skin, but it at least helped the steady drip come to a stop.
The silence weighed on him, the sound of his breaths seeming to echo around the stone walls. Had Hans continued on his search? Had he seen through Henry’s plan?
The shadows created by outside plant life shifted in their position, signaling the passage of time, and with it, the rise of boredom within Henry. He hummed, his once hardened cock flagging with the lack of continual excitement. He’d make it more interesting, then.
When he exited the cave, he let his descent result in a loud splash as he slipped back into the pond, rushing through the cooler water this time, uncaring of the noise it made. He slipped the vestiges of his shirt off, dropping it at the muddy shore as a further sign that he’d been there. And then, once again, he ran.
Hans was a skilled hunter. Henry had been foolish to think otherwise.
The next arrow struck true, wedging itself in the trunk of the tree he was hiding by. He knew, without a doubt, that it was a warning shot. A promise, if the linen scrap tied to the shaft of the arrow was anything to go by. It took a level of restraint that Henry hadn’t been aware that he’d even had to keep the moan from spilling from his lips, a strangled sound leaving him instead.
His shirt, found and torn by Hans. A trophy of sorts.
“He-nry,” Hans called out, stepping forward with all the grace of something dangerous. “Make this easier on both of us.” His lips twitched, fighting back a smile. “Come out, and.. It’ll only hurt a little bit,” he promised, his voice hoarse with want as he removed the arrow from the tree, tucking it back into the quiver at his back.
Henry held his breath, a hand clapped over his mouth for good measure. They were close enough to each other that if Hans just looked down, and a bit to the right, they’d probably make eye contact.
But he didn’t, instead sighing, creeping forward as he continued his hunt.
Henry didn’t breathe until he was out of sight, slouching forward until he could rest his hands on the stump he’d moved to kneel, chin on top of them. He had been close to being caught, closer than he liked, even if his traitorous body told him otherwise.
It was easy to miss the near silent approach of footsteps behind him, hands coming to clasp at his face, one over his eyes, one over Henry’s mouth. They were gentle in their grasp, the pressure light enough that if he’d wanted to, he could’ve escaped. But Henry didn’t want to escape, not when surrender could be so sweet.
“Caught you,” Hans whispered, removing his hand from Henry’s mouth, fumbling at his belt for the discarded shirt he’d picked up. “You’ll be good while I truss you up, yes? Bind my prize so that he doesn’t run from me again?”
Henry licked his lips, his eyes still shut behind Hans’s palm. The loss of his sight was disorienting, but the release that came with surrender was always worth it. “Yes,” he murmured, his breath hitching when Hans let him go, gasping when Hans’s hands returned, wrenching Henry’s arms behind him. The sound of fabric tearing made him wince-- He hadn’t brought more clothing with him, an oversight that would have to be remedied for their next adventure.
With deft fingers, Hans began to bind Henry’s wrists, pressing against the pulsepoint there with mild interest. “Hearts racing, Hal. How’s it feel to be at my mercy, for once?”
Henry started to respond, cutting his own words off with a groan when Hans tied the bindings tightly enough to leave marks on the sensitive skin of his wrists. “Fuck,” he bit out, putting more of his weight against the stump. “Sir,” Henry whined, trying to brace himself so that he could push up with his knees, lift his arse in the air, do something to draw closer to his inevitable release.
“Prey,” Hans drawled, running his hand down the ridges of Henry’s spine, tracing the scars littered there with an almost memorized path, “Does not speak. I’ll gag you with the rest of these scraps if you can’t remember that.”
Shame settled hot in his gut, blood rushing to follow it at the thought of himself truly at the mercy that Hans had spoken of. He shook his head, a silent promise that he’d be good. He’d try, at least.
“Good,” Hans punctuated his words by smacking the side of Henry’s arse, taking a step back to admire the situation before him.
His prize, now tied and relatively immobile, was a sight to behold indeed. The ridges of Henry’s back were like sculpture brought to life. He’d commission every artist in Trosky if he had to, just so he could hold onto this vision forever, propriety be damned. Henry’s fingers clasped together tightly, the fabric of his own shirt used to hold his wrists together.
“Heaven above, Henry,” Hans whispered as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Henry’s hose, pulling the soaked fabric down so that it clung to his ankles. Henry’s braies went next, the lace discarded somewhere it wouldn’t be found again in Hans’s haste to undress the man before him. “Up you go.”
Henry, with the help of Hans’s steady grasp, managed to get his feet under himself, pushing up until his hips were canted at an angle that could only be considered filthy, the stump now taking the full weight of his upper half, his arms laying uselessly behind him, his hands resting at his lower back.
Hans sank to his knees behind Henry, taking his time as he admired the corded muscle of his thighs, the fullness of his arse, and the way his back arched so prettily when he was bent over, on display like this. He kissed the dip of Henry’s lower back, reaching up to take hold of the binding at his wrist, pulling on it until Henry made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. His grin was victorious as he leaned forward, pressing the flat of his tongue to the cleft of Henry’s arse, a warning of what was to come.
When there were no protests, only encouragement in the form of Henry pressing back, Hans continued in his ministrations, moving so that he could spread Henry, this time pressing his tongue to Henry’s hole, relishing in the steady stream of ah and fuck that left Henry with each wet touch. They stayed like that for some time, until Henry was open, loose enough that two fingers sank into him with ease, helped along by the spit that Hans had left behind. Taking Henry like this was his favorite-- The way that Henry moaned, writhing beneath him, crying out in ways that seared into his mind, leaving him with plenty of material for the next time he stroked himself to completion.
“I’ve only got a bit of oil but you hardly need it,” And fuck if Hans didn’t sound thrilled, pleased by the job he’d done at working him open. He pulled his own hose down, his braies following, resting at his mid-thigh as he set to slicking oil over his cock. It wouldn’t do well for both of them to be without clothing. This way somehow felt dirtier, as if Henry truly was there to do whatever Hans wanted with him. The thought made him lurch forward, dragging himself against Henry, resting there for a moment before adjusting the angle, giving his cock a few quick strokes before pushing in with enough force to make both of them moan.
“Fucking hell, Hal.” Hans murmured, once again grasping the point of binding, using it as a handhold as he set his pace, brutal and unyielding as it was. He knew it couldn’t be entirely comfortable, braced against sharp and splintered wood, but it couldn’t have been too bad-- Not with the way that Henry so wantonly fell apart beneath him, the muscles in his back flexing taut as he fought to stay still.
“Sir,” Henry finally gasped, stiffening when Hans slowed, not quite pulling out, not quite pushing back in. Keeping him full, pressing against the spot that made Henry’s knees go weak with want. “Please,” he begged, “touch me.”
Hans sighed, the sound full of amusement and just a touch of fondness as he wrenched the last of the linen scrap from his belt, twisting it until it made a suitable gag. “Well, alright, Henry. But,” he said, suddenly, painfully, cheerful. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” It was easy to stuff the fabric into Henry’s mouth, what with his lips already parted, less easy to actually knot the fabric behind his head, but he managed with a slow roll of his hips, measured and patient even as Henry began to fall apart.
Whatever else Henry wanted to say would be lost against the spit-soaked fabric, his head moving from side to side as Hans squeezed the fat at his hips, digging his thumbs into the bone. “So-- fuckin’-- pretty like this,” he snapped, reaching around to take hold of Henry’s cock like he’d been asked to. He was bossy, sure, but he wasn’t mean. The way he had to lean to do so made Henry’s bound hands press into his stomach, a reminder of how truly caught he was. Prey once again falling victim to predator. If they’d had more time Hans would’ve sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of Henry’s inner thighs, but they’d be expected back before nightfall. He felt the clench around his cock, saw the nod at his words and smirked, his lips tilting up into something cruel. “Do you like that? Being called pretty?” Henry nodded even as his hips jerked forward, answering the question for him, his seed spilling hot across Hans’s hand.
“Messy,” Hans whispered even as he made no move to wipe it clean, instead increasing his own pace, pressing his sullied hand against the makeshift gag still in Henry’s mouth. “Sakra,” he finally swore as he gave one final thrust, emptying himself within Henry with a muffled shout. His chest was still heaving, sweat pooling at the divots in his hips as he worked to undo the bindings, taking a few breaks to admire his handiwork.
Henry, of course, being his handiwork, wrecked as he was.
The gag was dropped to the forest floor along with the other fabric. He’d leave it there-- No sense in taking it back with them when it had been so thoroughly ruined.
“Alright?” He asked, brushing his thumb across the red welts that had been left behind, running his fingers through Henry’s damp hair as he waited for an answer.
“‘Course,” Henry finally responded, flexing his arms to dispel the numbness that had begun to set in. He was sore but otherwise fine. The ride back into town wouldn’t be entirely pleasant, not with come leaking from his arse and no--
“But what am I going to do without a shirt?” Henry pushed off the stump to stand, gesturing to his bare torso, at the just beginning to form bruises and scrapes.
Hans tucked himself back into his braies, pulling his hose into order until he looked somewhat presentable. “Dunno. Say you’ve lost it in a fight with..” he trailed off as he inspected Henry, licking his lips as his gaze trailed downward. “A pack of wolves or something of the sort.”
“A pack of wolves,” Henry repeated, his eyebrows knitting. “And we fought them with what weapons. Just your bow?”
“I’m a good shot!” Hans protested before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hell, Henry, I’ll just give you my undershirt.” With a grumble he set to undoing his gambeson, letting it drop to the ground before stripping the light undershirt he wore beneath, holding it out with a sniff. When Henry took it, the shirt only slightly protesting at the stretch of Henry’s muscles, he redressed. “We’ll need to bring spare clothing next time,” He mused as they started their walk back to camp, following the trail that Hans had made for himself.
“Next time, sir?”
“I’ll have you all over these woods,” Hans promised, swinging a leg over his horse, grinning when Henry winced while doing the same.
Henry only sighed at that, thrilled as he was at the possibility of a repeat.
He was less thrilled at the rumor that sparked quickly after their return--
The rumor (truth, really) that he’d been wearing Lord Capon’s shirt.