Archive of Our Own

"I can't believe you!" Hans laughs, his voice going high-pitched with exaggerated incredulity. "And then what did you do?"

"Well," Henry says, trying to keep his own giggles at bay, "I had to sell it, didn't I? So I puffed myself up and said"—here he gets into character, pinching his eyebrows higher, affecting innocence mingled with affront—"I thought the purse was mine! I was robbed here not to ago, you see? I just wanted to check—I'd recognise it by touch, since it's made of fine, soft calfskin. You'd try everything if you lost something like that, wouldn't you?"

"And the guard fell for it?"

"Fell for it? He damn near commiserated with me!"

Hans laughs, long and pealing. It makes his belly shake where it touches Henry's. They're both naked, on top of messy sheets, in a small and bare-bones inn room that's nonetheless cozy. Henry presses his grin against Hans's ribs, right at the most ticklish part; he nuzzles the delicate bones, the armpit, the chest. He bites at the slim muscle of the pectoral—lightly, then with more pressure—just to keep things interesting.

Hans's hand comes up to idly cradle Henry's skull. A loose-fingered grasp, more caress than guidance. "I had no idea you were such an accomplished liar," he says, pulling teasingly at Henry's hair. "And here I thought you were the virtuous sort."

"It's not exactly lying," Henry insists—even though it does, if he's being perfectly honest with himself and God, count as lying. "More like… pretending."

"Pretending, is it? Seems like you're 'pretending' your way straight into being a lying bastard."

"Come on, it's not like I'm hurting anyone," Henry protests, letting some—legitimate—affront creep into his voice. "It's only a bit of a fib to get me out of trouble, that's all. You wouldn't want me thrown into jail or the pillory again, would you?"

"Heaven forbid! No punishments allowed for my dear squire," Hans says, and pets Henry oh-so sweetly—then pokes a rude finger too-hard into Henry's innocent cheek. "Even when he deserves it!"

"Ah, come off it. With all the hardships I've been through for your noble arse's sake, I figure I'm guaranteed entry past the pearly gates no matter what." Henry digs his fingertips into Hans's flank in well-earned revenge. "And with a sincere and personal apology from Saint Peter too, for all my trials and tribulations."

"Oh, aren't you droll. Aren't you funny. You should—hey!—you should become a travelling minstrel," Hans says, breathless and giggling, because now that Henry has gone on the offensive all ticklish spots are fair game. "Henry! So much for being nice to me!" Hans is fully squirming now, smacking at Henry's biceps in an ineffectual attack. The struggle makes certain body parts align. Hans's grin turns wicked. "Let's see some of your Christian decency then, you monk."

Henry grins back, unrepentant. He kisses the smile from Hans's lips and immediately it becomes his only focus: Hans's pliant mouth, his hot body underneath, his eager sounds. He deepens the kiss. He rocks his hips back-and-forth, languid, honey-slow.

They're both too spent for the pleasure to have any real urgency. Henry ducks his head and kisses Hans's throat, mouthing at his pulse point. He sucks at it, in time to Hans's light gasps. Warmth grows in his belly, and perhaps his body could be persuaded into a second round if they keep this going—

"Do you do that often?"

Henry blinks. He detaches his mouth. "Hm?"

"Lying." Hans's blue eyes flicker down, and his gaze seems too focused considering what they've been doing. "Pretending."

"Well. When I need to, I suppose." Henry rests his chin on Hans's chest, meeting his eyes. "Why?"

Trapped under Henry's weight as he is, Hans performs a complicated, wiggling shrug. "No reason."

"Alright." Henry deliberates on whether to push the matter. His thumb absently rubs at Hans's smooth skin. "Seems like this is bothering you, though."

"It doesn't."

"Right."

"It doesn't! I just—" Hans huffs, then seems to make up his mind, his face darkening with a frown. "You just sounded so believable, that's all. It made me… think certain things."

"Certain things like what?"

Hans's pressed lips complete their transformation into a pout. "Like, what if you're too good at this? What if I can't tell when you're lying to someone? Or to me?"

"What!" Henry exclaims, laughing in relief and fondness. "Don't be daft—I wouldn't lie to you." He steals another kiss from Hans's neck. "And you'd know if I was anyway."

"Would I?" Hans asks darkly, though he loosens up under Henry's ministrations, his body arching up encouragingly. The remainder of his point seems to slip away from him—until he starts wriggling away, suddenly animated. "Henry—Henry wait, wait, listen to me. I have an idea. You need to teach me how to lie."

Henry pulls back again, this time to gawp at him. "Huh?"

But Hans is too too enthralled by his own apparent genius to be discouraged. He sits up on his elbows, practically vibrating with excitement. "Teach me! It can't be that hard if you can do it. Besides, I'm tired of bastards like von Bergow making a fool of me to my face and getting away with it! Maybe once I learn the art of it, I can recognise it in others too."

"Well—uh—" Henry sits up as well, settling his weight back on his haunches. "If you want to, I guess? Though I dunno how good of a teacher I can be."

Hans waves the words away. "That's fine, I'm a competent enough pupil that I can make up for your inadequacies."

"Hey!" Oh, the bastard has earned this pinch. "How about you start by showing some damn respect to your elders?"

"Ha! Elders! Kiss my arse," Hans says, grinning with that very punchable, very handsome face, and evades Henry's attacks. "Alright, enough, enough—let's be serious for a moment." True to his word he settles down, and focuses his not-inconsiderable attention on Henry. "What goes through your mind when you do your pretending? What's the trick?"

Henry has to think about it. "It's not exactly a trick, more like… a game? I don't let myself overthink things, I just jump in and start playacting—though I also make myself take it seriously, so I can be believable." He shrugs. "Then I just go with the flow."

"Hmm. That's… not very helpful."

"I told you I wouldn't be a good teacher! I don't know how else to explain it."

"What about the characters you choose? Are you emulating someone specific?"

"Not really. Though I did pretend to be deaf once." Henry chuckles at the memory. "And acting like a nobleman is always an easy bet."

"A nobleman!" Hans's eyes glint with interest. "Show me," he demands.

Henry, sitting as he is, naked and with the dying sun flittering through the blinds, gets into character. He knows how to do it by now: spine straight, shoulders squared, chin high. Gaze a half-lidded sneer, as if he's perpetually looking down on shit. He scowls. "Utter nonsense, all of this! Don't you know who I am? You're keeping me from an important mission." He adds a finger wag for flavour. "You'll have to answer to the nobility for this!"

Unfortunately, Hans isn't as easily impressed as the average Kuttenberg guard. He bursts out laughing, his Adam's apple bobbing as he throws his head back. "What the fuck was that?! You just sound ridiculous like this—and with that heavy accent too. Who would actually believe this?"

"Plenty of guards do!" Henry protests, pouting. Then amends it with, "Well, most of the time. At least half of the time. It works better when I'm wearing clean armour."

"Vestis Virum Facit, ey? Clothes make the man." Hans collapses on the bed with a sigh, spreading his arms like a long-suffering martyr. "Oh, this is stupid. Never mind. I don't know why I thought this was a good idea."

Hans's dejection, even exaggerated, makes Henry instinctively change tracks. "Hey now, don't give up so easily. I'm sure you'll do better than me, since you're so much smarter." He smiles at him cajolingly. "You and all that fancy latin of yours, rattling in your noggin."

But Hans is in no mood for reassurance. He throws an arm over his eyes and shoves a scolding knee against Henry's ribs. "I'm not trying to impersonate another noble, you dolt. I just want to…" He uses the same arm to make an abstract gesture. "I don't know. Feel less useless."

"You're not useless," Henry insists, stubborn in his loyalty. He gentles the sentiment by catching Hans's errant knee and squeezing it. "You're taking this too seriously. Think of it as a game, have fun with it. Haven't you ever played pretend as a child?"

"No, I have not."

"I don't believe you, you bastard," Henry laughs. He's squeezing Hans's knee again, his thumb rubbing circles over the jutting bone. "I know you've pretended to be a knight from the ballads. I bet you swung your toy sword at imaginary monsters too."

Hans finally smiles, his amusement more of a huff. "Well—yes, alright. Fine. I'll admit to that."

"See? It's the same principle here. Just choose someone you'd like to be, and play it out. There's no one here to watch you, or to judge you."

"But I don't want to be anyone else," Hans says, his honesty heartbreakingly earnest. "I want to be myself. Just—better. More free."

Henry feels himself melt, just a little. He bends down to kiss Hans's chest, a quick and fond peck. "Alright. How about you choose your complete opposite, then? Someone you could never actually be." He looks up with a grin. "Like the humble servant to the brave Henry of Skalitz, perhaps?"

"Henry!" Hans actually sounds scandalised, before he continues with the teasing. "You should be so lucky."

"Aye, I should be. And maybe I should also have someone fetching me food and cleaning my boots."

"I'll clean your ears out," Hans grumbles nonsensically. "Don't push me on this, Henry, even in jest. I won't do it."

Henry heaves a sigh, but relents—Hans really can be oddly touchy about this subject. "Fine." He racks his mind for another idea, meanwhile letting his eyes rest on Hans's torso. His nipples are pink and shiny, gleaming with the remnants of Henry's spit. "How about a woman?"

Hans's gaze snaps up sharply. "What? Why a woman?"

"Why not?" There's a strange charge between them, a prickling energy to the air, but Henry ignores it and shrugs. "It's literally your opposite, isn't it?"

Hans presses his lips together. Stays silent. "Technically," he slowly concedes. "I just find it suspect that you'd even suggest it." His eyes still search Henry's expression. "Do you have a penchant for fucking noble ladies?"

"A what?"

"A preference. A fondness. A partiality." Hans's eyes glitter like a mean fox's. "A predilection."

Henry flushes hard enough to feel it on his cheeks. "No. Fuck off. You know I don't—I've told you before, I never planned any those occasions on purpose. They just happened."

"No, of course not. Not our saintly Henry of Skalitz! He just exists, as innocent as a lamb, and women throughout the realm fall all over themselves to ride his cock."

"Hans," Henry growls in warning, and though he's smiling he still feels a stab of annoyance, grabbing Hans's hips a tad too strongly. "Can you stop being jealous for one second?"

"As if! I'm the farthest thing from jealous."

"Sure." Henry firms his grip and yanks Hans towards him, making him slide down the bed with a surprised whoop. "And who said you'd be a noble woman anyway? I think a bathwench would suit you better."

Hans is visibly blushing, but he stretches out in a cat's imitation of nonchalance, letting his long arms rest over his head. "Do I not treat you kindly enough already? Do you want me to simper?"

"I could do with a simper, aye."

"I see. A stroke for your… ego, sir?"

Henry loses the fight with his composure and snickers. "Christ, is that what they tell you?"

"Oh, I don't fucking know. I never pay attention to them." Hans lifts both legs to either side of Henry's waist, cradling him in. His knees are too bony when they press in, a familiar discomfort that makes Henry's prick stir through sheer association. "If you're expecting an expert's honeyed words then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"You're doing fine." Henry bends down to nose at Hans's throat—his Adam's apple, the faint beginnings of a stubble. His skin still feels softer than Henry's, paler and blue-blooded. Yielding to Henry's touch. "Come on, my lovely. Keep going."

Hans's blush travels down his cheeks and towards his chest, painting it a pretty pink. Yet he regroups and caresses Henry's bicep in a surprisingly seductive way. His coo could even pass for realistic—if it weren't for the way his falsetto cracked. "Ooh, sir knight, you're so—um." Here his courage breaks: Hans's expression collapses into an embarrassed, bug-eyed wince, and his once pretty blush turns blotched. The falsetto is abandoned. "Uh. Strong. My lord." He throws his arms over his face. "Fuck!!"

Henry could drown in his own fondness. "No, no," he says, smile audible in his voice, "it's good, you're doing good."

"Fuck off! I can't believe you're making me do this." Hans has covered his face so completely that only his flame-red ears are visible, but he lowers his arms just enough to glower. It's unbearably cute. "Next time you be the woman."

"Alright," Henry agrees easily. He'd agree to pretty much anything right now, with his mind distracted by arousal and Hans's body warm and squirming under him. "How about we finish this first though?" He rubs Hans's inner thigh, slow and coaxing the way he does with women. Hans's muscle twitches. His legs are strong, even this high up. "Won't you be sweet to me, my dove?"

"You don't deserve any more sweetness, you knave. You brute."

Henry isn't listening. His cock has fattened up back to life, and he slots it inbetween Hans's thighs, against that patch of skin that's so rarely touched. It feels velvet-soft, an sinful delicacy. Hans's ballsack is a heavy warmth he keeps nudging into. Despite his protests Hans's shaft has also burgeoned, curving pink and straining over his belly.

"You're so pretty," Henry blurts out.

Hans's breath hitches. He's all blue eyes in a red face, open-mouthed, astonished. His hips encourage Henry's frotting as if by habit. When he reaches up to embrace Henry, his fingers dig in harshly. "Maybe I'd look prettier in a dress."

Henry pictures it, and it's—ridiculous, sure, but also—it's good. It's good because it's ridiculous. Hans's wide shoulders stretching out the fabric, his waist too sturdy for a girdle. He already wears expensive clothes, smooth-to-touch silks and linens, but there's something about the bulkiness of a skirt, the roominess it affords. Henry could just slip a hand under and caress a firm, bare buttock. Maybe do more, if he chose an angle that kept his arm hidden. "Uh." His troat is dry. His voice comes out gruff. "Aye. You would."

Hans's eyes gleam, too intelligent—how is he keeping his focus during all this? "Then maybe you should buy me one."

"I will, I will." Henry increases his pace, feeling dreamy, out-of-balance. The words just spill through his lips. "The prettiest dress, and jewellery, anything you want."

Hans chuckles breathlessly, smug and preening, like he's just won one of their archery contests. "Easy mark."

Maybe he is. Maybe Henry has been too nice until now—he treats Hans the same way he treats his sweethearts, the exact same, the only way he knows how, with his wits thickened by honey-love and his hands gentle, eager, clumsy. It feels good, and it feels right—but that's not what this game is about. Henry reaches for a character; he thinks of virile men with shaggy chests and heavy hands, men who growl and grope and get exactly what they want. He feels his voice grow low, scraped out of his gut. "You're the easy one here. Spreading your legs for me like that." He slaps Hans's ass, a quick, sharp strike. "Spread them more."

Hans gasped when Henry struck him; now his mouth hangs open, expression shocked, breath held in. He stares at Henry for a long moment—tension snaps and crackles while their eyes meet, and Henry waits, and waits, and waits—until Hans wordlessly closes his mouth, and spreads his legs more.

"Good. Very good." There's a red haze covering Henry's thoughts. He grabs Hans's calf and holds it up, knocks the other leg to the side so Hans is stretched out wide before him, thighs trembling with the effort of keeping himself open. Hans's cock throbs without being touched. He's leaking. Henry reaches down—and bypasses it all to cup the smooth skin under his balls, thumbing at his hole. "Now I can split you open properly."

Hans grunts like he's been hit. A whimper would have been more appropriate, or a mewling denial—but that's alright. They can play this however they want. They can make up the rules as they go. Henry slips his thumb in, fat as it is, and it slides in vulgarly easy. Hans has already been fucked loose once; oil and seed linger inside him. So wet for me, Henry thinks, croons, says out loud. All at once.

His thumb is a crude instrument. Henry wields it like one, relishing the bluntness of it, hooking it against the walls, rubbing the edge. He's never done it like this before. Is it wrong? Is one finger worse than the rest? That part of him has never felt more sensitive, engulfed by heat. His skin thrills at the novelty. He wants to delve deeper—but of course, he can't. There's no squelch when he pulls back his thumb and replaces it with the much bolder middle finger, and then—thoughts whirling, ears ringing—yes, why not: two fingers more.

They fit.

Hans's breath shudders out of him. He's holding back his own legs by the hamstrings, and if Henry focuses too much on that stance he'll spontaneously combust, so he looks instead down at his fingers, at the pink rim encircling them. He can feel its flutter. He wants to lick the entire circumference, but he can't quite figure out the logistics, so he makes do with jamming his fingers in as crudely as he can. He curves up the tips, the way he'd do for a woman. "That's right," he says, nonsensically, registering only his voice's low tone, its rumbling timbre. "Look how well you take it."

Hans has been making no sound other than his tight, shallow breathing. He's flushed from forehead to chest, sweat gathering on his hairline, turning his skin slick. Usually he'd be pulling at his own prick like a maniac by this point, but something about his stillness—his bright gaze, his quiet focus—feels deliberate. Like a lurking animal, biding its time. When he speaks his voice is steady. "You wish you could do this for real, don't you? You wish you could fuck me like a woman."

"No," Henry lies, but of course now he has to imagine it, and the idea sears into him: Hans as he is but with a dripping cunt between his legs, a wet hole Henry could plow and abuse without care of worry. In this moment he wants it so painfully he goes blind from it, the arousal tightening his skin until his nape prickles. He spurts a bit without meaning to. He breathes through his mouth.

"Henry?"

Henry blinks back to reality. His grip is punishing on Hans's hips—when did he grab them?—and he has to focus before he can unclench his fingers, one by one. He dry-swallows, and he suddenly can't even remember what they'd been doing until now. It doesn't seem important, not when he's this turned on. "Sorry, uh—can I—can we?"

"Yes," Hans breathes, impatient, sounding like himself, "yes, fuck, come on. Enough games."

Henry doesn't need to be told twice. He widens his kneeling stance and takes himself to hand, squeezes the base a bit before lining up. Glances up for the nod. On receiving it he pushes in and—fuck, that's—it's hot, and easy, and so effortless he bottoms out in seconds, so deep in that his balls brush up against Hans's flesh, warmth on warmth. He tries to go deeper anyway, a grinding little thrust, then again, then once more. His groan builds up from his gut and grounds out of his throat. He's actually shaking from it. He pushes Hans's legs back and up until Hans is impossibly contorted, folded in half, gasping and sweaty and gazing wide-eyed at him. Wide-eyed and determined, holding the stance despite his trembling. He reaches up to grip Henry's biceps, and Henry goes to task.

There's no other word for it: he's pounds. Heavily, mercilessly, with his cock retracting fully and then slamming back in. Fast enough that he's already out of breath. His muscles clench with each thrust, but the ache doesn't matter when pleasure licks a fiery path from his loins up to his spine, down to the soles of his feet. He groans again. They've never done it this wildly, not even during their most feverish trysts, and the indulgence feels both scary and dreamlike, like he's pelting down a hill and can't stop. And yet, nothing goes wrong. This is allowed.

It's also not sustainable. Henry is slick with sweat, panting to fill his straining lungs. He doesn't want to stop. He slides a hand under Hans's ass and lifts him for a better angle—though it barely helps, his thrusts gone shallower as he picks up speed. Hans's gasps turn sharper, always in rhythm, interspersed with breathless grunts that make him close his eyes and shiver. He always goes quiet when the act gets serious—he who babbles and complains and whoops his way through life, a constant chatter whose timbre follows Henry in his dreams. Henry bends down until he can hear those hot exhales right by his ear, feel the tremble with his gripping fingertips.

"Go louder," he says, and maybe they're still playing a game after all. "I want to hear you."

Hans's whole body shudders, a single, violent reaction. "Henry," he warns.

Henry is beyond all warnings. "Come on," he says, then pleads, a neverending stream of words that don't touch his brain, that make his cock twitch in the wet—dry—wet heat of Hans's hole, "come on, come on, please, just do it, just do it for me."

Nothing but the sound of the headboard banging against the wall, the bed creaking underneath. Then: Hans's voice, first small, then cracking into loudness, raw, needy, desperate, coming straight from the gut. Henry bites at the throat that produces it; he wants to feel the vibrations through his teeth. Hans gives out one clear cry and—he comes, just comes like that, untouched, drizzling his seed between their bodies, moaning, shaking.

Henry is still thrusting. He licks the whine from Hans's mouth, mercilessly keeps the action going long enough for a sloppy kiss, then—lets go. His orgasm hammers into him so powerfully he jerks forward, groaning as he spills. He closes his eyes. He needs to memorise everything about this, the way it feels to spurt heavily into Hans, to do it until he's filled up, dripping with it, overstuffed. He does it till it aches.

He opens his eyes. He's still sheathed in, giving greedy little shakes of his hips, pushing out weaker dribbles even though it truly hurts now. Hans is clenching and unclenching around him, making high-pitched, mewlish noises. Henry wants to devour him whole. He kisses him instead, and eventually he softens enough to slip reluctantly out, and collapse on the bed.

There's not enough air in his lungs. They're both panting, hot and sweaty at the places they touch. Hans is still shaking minutely, resting his legs gingerly on the bed. It must have been hard, to keep that position for so long. Henry rubs Hans's heaving ribs in apology and commiseration, trying to exude as much comfort as he can.

"You alright?" he murmurs, and now that it's all over he feels a resurgence of tenderness rise up, a heightened need to croon and cosset. He kisses Hans's shoulder, the underside of his jaw. "Hans? Was that too much?"

Hans laughs through his panting. "You fucker. I'm going to feel that for a week."

Henry hums, pressing kisses to Hans's chest, nosing at his throat. "'M sorry."

"Yes, I can see how sorry you are." Hans roots around until he can grab Henry's head and pull him in for a kiss—a deep one, with nipping teeth. He bites Henry's lower lip with finality and brings their foreheads together. "But seriously, we shouldn't do that again. Someone could hear us."

"Of course," Henry says piously, one step away from crossing himself, "never again, I promise."

Hans's grin is a white gleam. "Liar."

They crack up with laughter. Henry tightens his embrace until they're cuddling in one messy heap, limbs on top of each other. From outside the window sounds of city life trickle in, distant and reassuringly ordinary.

Henry feels the heaviness of a sated body tempt him to sleep, but Hans still seems wound up. He fidgets a bit, drags his knuckles up and down Henry's chest. No doubt a million thoughts whirling in his mind. Henry waits him out.

"Henry?"

"Hm?"

A pause, one that lasts long enough for Henry to seek out his face. Hans is looking up at the ceiling, frowning lightly. Words are caught in his throat, that much is clear, when suddenly he turns to Henry and blurts them all out.

"I'm glad that we're both men," he says, unexpectedly. "Even if it's—hard, and sometimes dangerous, and not—not ideal—" His lips wobbles, but he firms it. Firms his gaze. Grips Henry hard, and looks him in the eyes, and transforms into the decisive, serious man he can at times truly be. "I wouldn't change anything about you, or us. I love you as you are."

Henry is not prepared. He feels warmth burst in his heart, sudden and strong, choking his throat. Tears threaten his eyes. "I love you too," he says, and it comes out too gruff, from a hoarse voice—but Hans will get it. Of course he will.

He does. Hans cups Henry's cheek and kisses him, long and intent. Like a promise.