Chapter Text
Hans watched as Henry knocked a hammer against steel and tried not to imagine what it would feel like to have those whistling lips wrapped around his cock.
It was hardly his fault. After storming Semine, he'd broken his sword. Broken it killing… innocents, really. He hardly wanted to think about that.
So he didn't think. Henry had offered to make him a new one the night after, and Hans didn't want to be alone with his thoughts so soon after the massacre, so he'd come along.
He'd brought wine. And with nothing else to do— it took a surprising amount of time to bash an ingot into a blade, who knew?— he'd gotten well beyond tipsy. Henry too wasn't the most clear headed, pausing his work occasionally to let Hans tip the wineskin like a fountain into his mouth. He'd stripped off his shirt at some point, condemning both the external heat of the forge and the internal heat of the spirits.
He shone like metal himself in the light of the hot coals, broad shoulders and chest glistening with sweat as they flexed. Sparks flew from his work, and when they occasionally bit his skin, his whole core tightened, revealing the strength hidden beneath a comfortable layer of plush stomach.
In the din of evening— it was well after evening — there wasn't much to look at but the page as he did his work. Hans had certainly tried to keep himself entertained elsewhere, had even attempted to make up a game of horseshoes with the iron nails and horseshoes scattered about the forge. But he was a fickle man, and far too easy to bore. After one round of horseshoes without Henry stopping to compete, he'd abandoned them, nail dug into the dirt and horseshoes scattered about the lot.
Now, he sat on a stool with his knees spread, elbow postured against one thigh as he leaned sluggishly against it, watching those whistling lips.
Henry had been yapping away only a while ago, keeping Hans occupied. But after a while, he'd turned to whistling, chiding Hans gently for trying to stir up conversation again.
“If you want a sword by tomorrow, you'll have to hold your tongue, my Lord. I need to focus.”
And he did want a sword to follow that damnedable Chamberlain Ulrich into battle, for better or for worse. He'd prove himself regardless of the fool's leadership.
So he kept quiet. He watched. It was too dark to look at anything else but the light as it danced across Henry's body, and after enough time watching sweat drip from his collarbone down to the thatch of hair between his pectorals, Hans’ mind was decidedly in the gutter.
Hans’ posture readjusted, back straightening briefly only to lean instead against a pole holding up the forge’s roof. It left his arm free, so he let it fall against his thigh, palm cupping his knee before gliding slowly up his hose, stopping just at the edge between hose and braies.
He wasn't that drunk, surely.
Henry only appeared to know a handful of working tunes, or perhaps only so many were useful for the pace he needed to work at. Still, of the three he'd rotated through, Hans liked the one he was on now best. Henry would tilt his head back and forth ever so slightly to the rhythm, and it had a staccato effect on his hammering which kept his arm raised just long enough for Hans to admire the tuft of curls which burst from underneath it.
Over the smell of ash and iron, he certainly couldn't smell the sour musk of the man practically melting before him. But part of him desperately wanted to.
He tried to cool his head. There was nothing sexy about Henry of Skalitz. He stank of horses and dog slobber and probably thought an act of sodomy would send him straight to hell. No need for death, a gate would just open up beside him and a goat-hooved devil would kick his sorry arse right through.
No, there was nothing sexy about a man who would never actually do it.
Hans wished he actually believed that. He was always fondest of the things he could never have.
His fingers crept closer to the fork of his thighs, so close he could almost feel the heat of his eager self.
Henry wetted his lips, pink tongue darting out and leaving a white sheen of saliva.
Hans wondered what those lips would taste like.
His fingers tightened against his inner thigh, crumpling the starched fabric. Henry wouldn't look. He hadn't looked up in practically five minutes, now. A quick tug on the pizzle, just enough to tide him over until he was back in bed.
Sir Otto had put them both in chambers deserving of their stations. It was a blessing Henry's were nowhere near Hans’, or else he might have to hold his tongue tonight. But where Henry's little room by the forgemaster's was barely more than a wooden shed, Hans’ rooms were walled in stone. No one would hear him if he couldn't help but moan a forbidden name.
He could just leave now. Let Henry give him the sword in the morning.
Oh, how he wished Henry would give him a sword. A proper sword, impale him on it over and over again until he—
Christ alive, maybe he was drunk.
“Hans?”
He flinched, pulling his hand from his lap as if burned.
“Huh?”
“Come look, is it long enough for you?”
His eyes darted decidedly to the wrong place before he remembered himself. A glance at Henry told him the innocent bastard had no idea what was going through his head. He had an eyebrow cocked, a quirk of a smile, but no disgust painted his pretty face.
In response to what he must have interpreted as Hans’ drunken stupefaction, Henry chuckled. “You've outdone yourself. We ride out at dawn tomorrow, are you sure drinking that much was wise?”
“I'm perfectly sober.” Hans said, and nearly didn't slur every word.
He stood, catching his balance on the pillar beside him and then again on Henry's shoulder after two unsupported steps. His hand was immediately slick with sweat.
The sword was glowing dimly, reddish orange against the black of the anvil.
Henry asked, “How does it look?”
It was a short blade, double edged like a military blade but stout like a hunting sword. It would hang nicely from a belt without knocking against the uneven terrain, and not be unyieldy in the heat of battle.
“It's not the size that counts, it's how you use it,” Hans said, laughing quietly to himself.
“Would you like it a bit longer?” Henry asked. His voice was too sincere.
Hans looked at him, nearly rolling his eyes. “It's fine.”
“I'll make it longer—”
“Good heavens, man, I said it's fine. I was making a joke about —” Hans used the hand that wasn't on Henry's shoulder to swat at the blacksmith's cock, meaning to bash it in a playful, boyish manner.
In execution, it came out to be more of a groping.
Henry's eyes widened. Under Hans' hand, his shoulder stiffened. His pinky finger, flush against Henry's thigh, felt cords of muscle flex.
Hans admired the weight of the thing he held in his hand before remembering himself and letting go.
After a moment, he let go of Henry's shoulder, too.
It was deathly silent. Even the coals seemed hellbent on keeping their crackles quiet.
How could it feel so cold in the center of a forge?
“My apologies,” he said the words through a burp, not really feeling their meaning, but hoping they would work like a magic spell to make the warmth come back.
Henry stared at the sword cooling on the anvil before him.
“You ought to lie down. Get some rest before tomorrow.”
Hans' heart sank. He'd fucked it. “Henry—”
Henry held out his hand, nearly pushing against Hans’ chest but stopping just before contact. His gaze still wouldn't lift.
“I won't ask you to stumble back to your rooms in this state. Heaven knows Trotsky is a maze, even sober in the daytime. Just… go have a lay on my cot while I finish this. You're right, it's too short. I'll help you back to a proper feather bed once you've found your senses.”
“Henry, I didn't mean for—”
It was Henry's eyes finally meeting his that shut Hans up. He wore a fake smile, meant to look reassuring. But Hans wasn't an idiot.
“I'm not mad. You're drunk, is all. And the forge can be a dangerous place. Can't have my lord injuring himself before the big day.”
Hans wanted to scream. Drunk in a forge was hardly more dangerous than sober on a battlefield under Chamberlain Ulrich‘s directives. It wasn't even a good lie.
He took the olive branch, anyway.
“... Right. I'll let you… sword. Yep. I'm sure it'll be great.”
As much as his face screamed hesitation— and yes, there was the disgust Hans had expected earlier— Henry still started to follow Hans as he began to leave.
“Should I walk you to the door?”
“Fuck off, I know where it is.”
He stumbled into the darkness, nearly tripping on the horseshoes he'd left scattered.
Hans entered Henry's chambers with a knot of shame and frozen heat threatening to make him ill.
The bastard left the door unlocked, and not without reason. The place was entirely devoid of personal belongings.
Hans even peeked into the chest at the foot of the bed, finding only a few dried earthworms and a book with wrinkled pages and ink smudged beyond reading.
He hadn't exactly decorated his chambers either, but at least he had a few sets of clothing to put away. Housed in the castle, he didn't need to personalize his quarters to keep them from feeling plain and unlived in. There was actual furnishings, tapestries, a hearth.
In Henry's room, there were only bare necessities. On the overturned crate that served as a nightstand there was a pewter pitcher of water and a pear. Hans took to both immediately. The water was warm and metallic and the pear gritty, but he had no one to complain to, and so he held his tongue. The sustenance didn't make the knot in his stomach any better.
Though it was gritty, the pear was plenty ripe and sweet. Juice dripped from the bitten edge into his palm.
Mindlessly, he licked the line of nectar from the creases of his hand. He froze.
Not only was his tongue greeted by the sweetness of the fruit, but an overwhelming, heady saltiness.
He realized this was the hand that had touched Henry's shoulder, and nearly dropped the rest of the pear.
He managed to set it down on the crate, quickly retrieving his hand to examine like a crazed man. The heat in his stomach began to thaw, primal need overpowering any frail sense of self loathing Henry's reaction had ushered into him.
He dipped his tongue against his palm.
Salty, ferrous, sour.
Hans moaned.
He used only the tip of his tongue to scour the taste from his hand, wanting to take from it completely but wanting it to last also. With his other hand, he fumbled the ties of his braies.
Fuck, this was Henry's bed, too.
He turned from his hand just long enough to examine the bedding. A yellowed straw-stuffed pillow, a single fur over a thinly stretched and well-stained sheet.
Henry hadn't been here very long. It almost certainly hadn't been washed before his claim.
Still, Hans let his upper half fall into the mattress, nose pressing against the sheet.
He pulled air in like a man who had been held underwater.
Mould, hay, animal stink, layers and layers of men's bodies. Somewhere in the mix of odors, Hans was breathing in Henry.
He shuddered, scrabbling to take his cock in his fist.
Hans fucked his hand, breathing deeply of the horrendous mixture, seeking with each breath some recognizable honeyed musk of the walking Adonis he spent his days craving. Finding none, he slid his fingers between the crush of face and mattress, sucking the taste of him down like he was starved of it.
He curled his fingers against his tongue, quickly deviating into a fantasy of that heavy cock he'd held, parting his lips and pushing down the bend of his throat. All too quickly the taste faded, and he pushed another finger into his mouth.
It was all well and good that his mouth was occupied, otherwise he might not be able to keep himself from screaming Henry's name. It wasn't so much that he felt an overwhelming pleasure, a wank could really only do so much. It was the intoxication of desire that had his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
He twisted, knees landing on the ground, cock just the right height to grind against the side of the bed. He did so eagerly, mindless of the wet stain quickly forming where he stroked.
The mattress was covered in stains. Were any of them Henry's? Or was Henry the kind of man to call upon the bathhouses when need arose? They were only a few buildings away.
His mind battered him with images of Henry, fistfulls of swelled breasts, glistening in soapy water. Hair wetted and falling into his face, a fucked-out expression on lips bitten red. A chest marked with a woman's scratches.
He hated it. He couldn't get enough.
Hans attempted to imagine himself in the wench's place. Immediately his focus turned to the meeting of hips, of Henry's massive cock squeezing past the press of his untouched hole. He could almost feel it.
Using his fingers now wetted with saliva, he scrabbled out of his underclothes, leaving his tight hose where they clung against his knees. He stroked the valley of his ass, rolling fingerpads firmly against his hole.
His hands were shaking. Henry would never take him, not in a million years. The Ottomans could take over and Henry still wouldn't look at him like he wanted.
He imagined it was Henry's tongue laving against his ass, firm, callused hands spreading him apart. Mouth now uninhibited, he gasped and moaned, burying the worst of his cries against the mattress.
Hans squeezed the root of his cock as he felt his balls flexing, release threatening to come all too soon.
He didn't want this to be over. If it was over, he'd be left with nothing but thoughts. Of this, or of bloody Semine, or of a future where Hans was just a pawn in someone else's game.
He thought of Henry, and pushed two fingers cruelly inside of himself.
He came, keening his name against drool-stained sheets.