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Though the stone walls of Pirkstein castle were wont to keep the heat in, prickles of cold still seeped through the cracks and gaps in the windows.
It beckoned a warm touch; gooseflesh blossoming across Hans' barren back.
Five points of heat splayed across his skin, spreading down his spine.
"Kurva—! Henry, warn a man, will you?"
"Sorry, my Lordship."
A smile that decidedly, and quite clearly, said anything but an apology in its demeanor. The touch didn't leave either, only tracing the lines of his form, the sharp planes down. A shiver wracks Hans' shoulders, this time for a different reason.
"You're lucky you've the high status of my bedwarmer." All haughty, and double the meaning there is to it, too.
"Aye, just your bedwarmer." In more than only the practical way, went unsaid.
"You know, there is a reason I picked you for that role, right?"
A scoff in reply, but no words. He continues.
"Peasant blood simply runs hotter."
A wide grin adorns his face as if a hook in it— clearly a prelude to some of his antics. Henry simply rolls his eyes, a good-natured smile across his face, and hooks a finger under his jaw to tilt his face into a kiss.
"If that is my assigned role..." Henry titters, tinged with the annoyance of confidence undermined. "It'd be best if I show you that your choices aren't to be regretted."
Hot puffs of air lick warm against his jawline, trailed by feather-light kisses. Days-old stubble catches his skin, a slow drag that had heat flickering up the base of his spine and his blood rushing south.
"Surely," Hans utters, lips barely moving, a poor facsimile of his audacity earlier. The room feels hotter, smaller, narrowing to where Henry's lips press against his pulse. "There won't be any regrets."
A low chuckle rumbles in Henry's throat, felt acutely against his throat. Hans swallows.
"No, m'lord, none at all."
His body curls in anticipation as his lover's knuckles brush against his skin, settling at the jut of his hips. Henry's touch is reverent, dutiful; holding him as if a treasure. A trophy, a prize to be coveted. Hans' heart flutters sharp against the inside of his ribcage, catching in his throat as his kisses trail to where his neck and shoulder meet. A heartbeat, two— teeth punch into his tender skin, dragging a ragged moan from his throat. His cock twitches violently.
"Nevermind, I just might regret it after all." It comes out stuttered, all breathless.
Henry has to hide his smile against the bite at that. It doesn't stop him in his dedication to his duty, pressing an apologetic kiss below the indentations starkly red on pale noble skin. Hans’ pupils dilate; a thin ring of sky just visible enough, glazed over.
Henry’s body presses large and warm against him, chest to back, a slow exhale puffed against Hans’ ear as they fit into one. A hard shape — his lover's need, presses insistently against his inner thigh. His mouth runs dry, the anticipation causing a lick of pleasure to fizzle at the base of his skull. He's dizzingly hard now, a want that's impossible to ignore.
“Aye, then I suppose I'd have to make up for my mistake.”
Henry’s grip, lecherous in its surety, twists around the lines of his hip and skirts down his length before wrapping around him. A heady heat floods him as his anticipation receives brief succor; a twist of his eager grip had Hans melting into the body behind him with a groan. Wetness dribbles down his prick, enough to coat those calloused blacksmith's fingers with physical proof of his ardent need. Hans rolls his hips up into the motion as Henry shifts his grip down, eking a moan from his throat. Henry’s body, guided more by sensations than sense, follows Hans’ hips in a slow roll, his own prick left unattended.
It's not enough, Hans thinks, all fuzzy and foggy. Each thrust of his hips into his hand had his chest constrict with a gasp, but he needed more, always needs more, it's in his noble right to demand more—
“Hal, please, I can't, I need—” a whine, drawn out and reedy.
He's close to breaking, shattering into a million pieces under his lover's touch. He's aching, drawn tight as the bows he fires as he rocks back against Henry. Hans swallows around a wail as Henry’s grip disappears— followed by the pop of a cork and the wet sound of oil being poured onto receiving palms; an anointment, blessing. He cries out when it wraps around him again, his thumb pressing right under the tip.
“That's it, Hans…” A quiet soothe, as if he were a spooked horse. He should feel affronted, but he's too far gone. “I'll serve you dutifully.”
He can feel Henry’s spit-slicked grin pressed against the quick two-step of his rabbiting pulse. Christ, he loves this man like no other, how could he have thought anything else before was truly love?
Oil-slicked fingers dip between his legs, the cold against his skin bringing back some semblance of sensibility in the heat-haze. Eyes half-lidded, he throws his heavy head back against Henry’s shoulder. Henry’s insistent presses betrays his need, a finger skirting up his thigh and sinking into Hans with a wet sound. His leaking prick twitches again in Henry’s grasp — he resumes his rhythm, slower to stave off Hans’ pleasure. Frustration bubbles forth in a heaving breath, punctuated by Henry’s soft kisses.
Beads of arousal dampen the light hair feathering his legs as Henry ruts against his thighs, his finger curling with an unbidden fervor. His hips cant upwards, ever greedy in his nature as he desperately attempts to sink Henry deeper within him. Pleasure curls low in his gut, the flames licking higher up his spine. His body curls in the throes of his desperation, two more fingers pressing in alongside.
Any other day, he would have it enough for now, a good pace. Today, his noble sensibilities appeal to him just enough for him to demand more.
“More,” he slurs, tongue heavy. “Now,”
A soft rumble, the insolence of this peasant to laugh— the thought leaves his head as soon as it enters, the slide of Henry’s cock against the crease of his thigh leaving only the feeling of frustration on how he isn’t inside him right-fucking-now.
“Impatient.” The huff of air from behind brings gooseflesh back to the nape of his neck.
“Impertinent…”
Henry pauses just enough to hook his ankle around Hans’ heel and drags his stance wider. The cold air hits his thighs for a thankfully too-brief minute before Henry lines his prick up. An errant thrust of his hips up into him had them melting into one, molasses, twin sighs breathed exhaled over fluttering touches and heated skin.
“Christ,” he breathes, shaky, and the feeling is familiar, like coming home. No less welcome, stars blooming behind his eyes. He takes the pieces that Henry offers him and carves a place for them within himself, an Eden in Bohemia just for the two of them.
“Good enough for you, m’lord?”
Henry’s lashes flutter against his cheek as a groan, unmoored and adrift, punches from him on the next thrust. His wrist jerks in its motions, lightning sharp and striking every nerve.
“Oh God, yes— yes, please,” Hans’ words are loose, lead-heavy, body even more so. Henry’s hand matches his rhythm and the world narrows down to the points of contact; the heat of his lover rocking deep within him. A free hand paws at his chest before sliding up, upwards, impossibly high, a perfect collar adorning his throat. The grip is rough as it squeezes and Hans’ vision goes blurred at the edges, wet slaps ringing at the edges of his hearing. He wheezes out a pathetic moan, cock dribbling all over Henry’s knuckles.
Hans’ own hand scrabbles for purchase, grip clawing into the leg behind his, nails sinking into firm muscle. He's rewarded with a baritone moan, rippling across his shoulders. Using his grip as leverage, he drags Henry’s hips as close as possible with every thrust, in lieu of shattering his own bones to remake himself around him. It'll bruise later, he hopes, his nobility claiming what's his even beneath clothes.
“Hans,”
Henry mumbles, the whisper barely felt against the shell of his ear. But it's heard all the same and he gives as much as he gets, spine arching to fit perfectly against Henry, made just for his shape, moulding to him, around him. The edges of his vision goes dark, dizzy, a heady ache in his lungs as he draws in little air— Henry relents on his grip and he inhales sharply.
In the haze of his mind, he can feel the oil dribble down his thigh, mingling with his arousal as he shamelessly drips. The collar around his neck tightens again; his body thoroughly debased in the way it loves this, loves him. His vision blurs — with the lack of air or oxygen, he can't tell.
His pace is relentless now, the push-pull of his oil-slick thrusts not so much as guiding as it is shoving Hans closer to his metaphorical death. The hand around his throat maps out his being in bated, harsh breaths, shoulders trembling with need, excitement, love — all that makes him up only within this very room. Hans’ thighs tremble, shaking, Henry’s name stuck in his throat. He sobs on choked breaths, meeting his thrusts in the middle. The sound of thrusts resonant within the room, moans stifled only by the hand around his throat and bitten deep into skin.
His body is sharpened by need but his soul is soothed with their lust, a thing born out of their love held only in what little space remains between them. Henry pulls out, his cock catching with a wet pop, only for him to press back in all slow in his duty. It catches him, the act tender enough to ache and just enough to make him come. Henry's grip slips from his neck, his moan ripping out of him unbidden as he spills.
“Christ, Hans,” he barely hears, all flushed and swollen around Henry, “You're fucking beautiful…”
There's a hot wetness stifling him from within, panting and coming apart under Henry's touch. The grip around his cock loosens enough to watch it being brought up to bitten lips, an eager tongue lapping up his spend from rough knuckles. His heart skips two beats and his cock twitches, surely spent— if it didn't, the sight of Henry’s tongue on his knuckles would be enough.
Though the air was thick with heat and the scent of sex, the moment was filled with a sweetness not enough to be sickening, but enough for him to want to spend the rest of his life right here. Henry, the ever-dutiful lover, walks both of them over to the bed where they collapse, limbs all tangled (forever, he hopes) into a Gordian knot only theirs.
“So,” his Hal breathes, laughing as he nips at the tip of Hans’ ear, nose smushed into his temple, “Any regrets making me your personal bedwarmer?”
“Come off it, Henry…”
But there's a satisfied smile caught between his teeth, fingertips brushing away damp locks from Henry’s face.
“Aye, but you're certainly warm now.” An all too-bright smirk plastered across Henry’s countenance, the self-satisfaction of knowing a job well done by him.
Hans shakes his head fondly and kisses him.