Work Text:
“And God saw that it was good.”
Genesis 1:31
In the clamorous din of the tavern, where the air was thick with wine and cheap ale, where no soul had thought of sleep for three days and nights until the first pale light of dawn, the liberators of Suchdol had taken their rest.
At first glance, they looked more like common brigands, yet even that was not unusual in such a place of dubious repute. They drank endlessly, quarrelled, laughed, drank again — and then, sinking into heavy silence, they mourned the fallen. Even the most battle-hardened and valiant men could not rid themselves of that cursed sense of loss. War left its wounds upon all — upon those who fought, and upon those who merely bore witness. And even if one had won… at what cost?
Henry was the first to rid himself of his plate armour, selling it for next to nothing to the first smith he came across, not even bothering to wipe the dried blood from it. Hans had seen how the man, barely hiding his revulsion, turned away as the heavy breastplate struck the earth with a muffled thud. He spoke not a word — truth be told, he too longed to cast off all that reminded him of the battles. Though a fragile peace had come to Kuttenberg, his wounded shoulder still ached, ever calling his attention to it.
And yet, after all the nightmare, they still lived. When Hans first picked Henry out from the crowd of comrades, his own wound was as nothing — as though the bleeding pain had never scorched his muscles a moment before.
In that moment, it seemed to him that this — this was the reason he had fought. That the weary smile and handshake, which took near all the strength they had left, were worth the risk of taking an arrow ‘twixt the ribs. And to this day, he held to that belief.
Then, each time his squire was absent, when his heart was gripped by unseen fetters and dread welled up in his throat, Hans cast such thoughts aside with certainty. His Henry could not perish so. Not now, not when so much had passed between them and so little had been spoken. He had no right to die.
And now, seated at a table among former — and perhaps future — cutthroats, the young lord felt a strange and unbidden lightness. At the very least, he found comfort in the thought that they now had time enough to speak their truths — though no true occasion for such had yet arisen.
Their eyes met far too often across the shared table, lingering a breath longer than propriety demanded. Hans did his best to disregard it, yet each time Henry, swaying slightly from the ale, offered him one of those faint, tipsy smiles, something within him clenched. As though they shared some shameful secret that even the dullest village half-wit could discern, were he to look upon them for more than a minute.
It was becoming unbearable. Henry — with his broken nose, ale-warmed gaze, and infuriating charm — was so damnably winsome that Hans had caught himself, for the tenth time that evening, aching to reach out and touch him. As if sensing all too well, the blacksmith’s son cast him a narrowed, knowing glance that forced Hans to press his lips into a thin line, if only to keep from grinning like a fool and betraying himself with something akin to, “Stop staring, you oaf.”
It was madness. Those dampened lips, the faint blush upon his cheeks, the deep scratches from battle, and that damned linen shirt — so thin and open at the collar, where now and then a glimpse of his firm chest would show, each time Henry leaned over the table, as though doing so on purpose — locking eyes with the nobleman.
Hans rubbed at his temple, breaking off another round of their silent game, and shut his eyes. But the images flared behind them at once, and for one torturous moment, he almost wished it were ghosts of war that haunted him.
No — it was Henry. Bared, fevered, trembling beneath the gentlest touch. His soft lips upon Hans’ neck, the faintest moans. And the most damning thing of all — it felt real.
The young lord turned his head this way and that, striving to cast off the memories he allowed himself to revisit but rarely — and only in fleeting glances, as one might regard something most secret, something that comes but once in a lifetime… something truly real. Yet the past clung to him with tenacious fingers, refusing to let go, and the harder he tried to banish it, the more vividly it returned to his thoughts.
Hans had even come to rue the morning when he found in his hands a curious treatise — what Boguta had called “The Sinfulness of the World” — or, put more plainly, a book on sodomy. At first, he had only leafed through it, prepared to sneer at the pompous, fear-drenched lines. But instead, he remembered how the former priest watched him with idle interest, how, at some moment, he had smirked and, as if in passing, forbade him ever to ask why, though cast from the Church, he had never had the heart to burn the work.
Hans thought little of it then, flipping through those dull, self-important passages, the pages thick with long citations of punishment and corruption. But when his eye fell by chance upon the engravings at the back, his hands reached for the hearth on their own. He nearly cast the book into the fire, as though it bore plague. As though touching those pages might leave stains on his fingers no washing could cleanse.
But he did not throw it. His gaze lingered. Far too long. And then came a thought — sharp as a blade — slicing through his mind. What if he had let slip too much? That night, when Henry left the keep, and he had drunk himself witless with Boguta — what if his tongue had wagged too freely? No, foolishness. And yet… Boguta had known. Known, as he handed him that book. Known, as he watched him with the look of a confessor waiting on a wayward soul too frightened of his own words to begin the penance.
The text, which ought to have struck terror, was little more than a bundle of hollow threats. He cared not for the circles of hell, nor for the damned reaching heavenward in the grotesque engravings. But the images… they held him. Far too lifelike. Far too detailed. Far too close to that which Hans had never dared let himself ponder. The lines, yellowed faintly with age, showed too clearly the joining of men — too openly the thing he had never seen, and yet, in some deep and quiet place, had always known.
And the longer he looked, the clearer the truth became. He and Henry had done nothing truly sinful. All that had passed between them that night now seemed but a child’s mischief. Aye, they had kissed one another. Touched, as if for the last time — their fingers digging into hot skin, as though they might commit each other to memory forever. Their palms, damp with sweat, slid over bodies, caressing, exploring, clinging desperately to the fevered illusion. But that was all. That was the end of it.
And if even this was enough to drive him near to madness — if the mere thought of it would not let him rest — then what, in God’s name, would become of him if…?
Hans slammed the book shut, casting it onto the table as though it might catch fire in his hands. But the image was already burned into his mind. And there was no undoing it now.
The Devil’s Den had ever been far too loud come evening, and in that chaos Hans found strange relief. Laughter cut through by shouting, the clatter of mugs, the scrape of boots upon old wooden planks — all of it dulled the pounding of his own heart, which now seemed to thud louder than the whole damned tavern.
He did not know. He did not know what Henry had felt that night. He did not know if he thought of it now, if he regretted it, if he remembered it at all. He did not know whether it had been merely a means to cast off tension ere battle — or, worse yet, a silent farewell.
That not-knowing dragged at him like a stone tied about the neck. And worst of all was the fear — the aching, gnawing fear — that perhaps it had indeed been just that.
For more than anything in the world, Hans did not wish to lose his dearest friend. And if all that had happened was a mistake, then perhaps he truly would have rather fallen to the enemy’s blade than live on, knowing he had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.
But — God curse it — had he not felt Henry’s gaze just the same? Had he not seen that lingering look, that faint blush, that soft, involuntary breath when their hands brushed upon the handle of a jug?
He let out a heavy breath, trying to convince himself that it was the wine — the damned wine — that had stirred what ought never be stirred. Not now. Not here. Not in a crowded tavern. Not beneath the eyes of those who, perhaps, had long since begun to suspect what Hans himself refused to admit.
And so he resolved to do the only sensible thing: to rise. While he still could. Before thought gave way entirely, before memory tangled with desire and betrayed him outright. He had nearly stood, already rehearsing some half-hearted apology — something about too much drink, a need for rest, the pull of his bed — when, in that very moment, he felt a strong hand come down upon his shoulder.
Warm breath brushed his ear.
“Are you unwell?” — the voice was low, slightly rough, and Hans tightened his grip on the mug, for that sound alone sent a tremor through him.
He wanted to say something. To wave it off, to jest, to pretend there was still enough boldness and will in him to drink until dawn and bed half the village, should the whim take him.
But no words came. For the only thing he truly wished to say was to whisper “No.”
No, I am not well.
No, I cannot breathe when you are so near.
No, I want you so fiercely I fear myself.
And all he managed was a short shake of the head, eyes lowered. He knew that if he looked up now, his gaze would betray too much — too raw a longing, too naked a helplessness.
Henry rose, yet did not remove his hand from Hans’s shoulder, as if he would allow him no choice. Hans could feel the tension in his fingers, the heat of his touch sinking beneath the skin, while he himself seemed to burn with shame.
“We’ll be off, I think,” Henry said to the table with a note of casual ease, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
The others groaned their discontent. One made a half-hearted attempt to call them back; another simply waved them off with a slurred, “Let him go — drunk like a noblewoman.”
For form’s sake, Hans endured the pleas to stay, promised that come the morrow they’d drink themselves witless — unless someone planned on shooting out another eye, casting a wry glance at Žižka with his head wrapped in a bandage. Žižka let out a raspy laugh and smirked, tossing back that he’d not be the next, squinting at Dry Devil across the table.
Hans forced a smile in return, though it felt tight on his lips. The fingers on his shoulder gripped a little more firmly. Henry said nothing, but the gesture spoke plainly enough — be at ease, if you can.
And that, perhaps, he could still manage. But with every step they took away from the table, his heart pounded harder, for now that they were leaving for the stairs, he could no longer deny where this was headed.
They had scarcely reached the first landing when Hans at last dared to glance at Henry — in hope, or perhaps in dread, that he was thinking the same. He was not mistaken. A faint flush bloomed across the other’s cheeks, betraying something far more than ale, and his breath came fast and heavy, like a man just finished with a bout of swordplay.
“You want to encourage me, Henry?” Hans asked softly, his voice low and edged with meaning — a clear echo of that moment after the liberation of Suchdol, when Henry had called their “closeness” nothing more than support.
Henry seemed to understand at once, his mouth opening as if to reply — but no words came. A shiver passed down Hans’s spine as he gathered the nerve to ask the next question.
“Or did it mean… something more to you?” he added, turning his face away at once, as though hoping that if he could not see the answer, he would not have to hear it either — that perhaps the moment would dissolve into the tavern’s din and be lost there.
“What? How could you even—”
Henry didn’t finish. There was confusion in his voice, as if Hans had just asked the most foolish thing in the world. But there, standing face to face in the field beyond the keep, he had said the words — and Hans could not forget the sting of them. As if he’d been used, no more than the nearest available girl, for passing pleasure.
“Those were your words, not mine.”
“Was I supposed to start preaching to Lord Hanuš about how bloody good it felt with you?” Henry’s voice rose — sharp now, taut with feeling. “That it was the best night of my life, and that I—”
Hans silenced him with a sudden palm against his lips, his own cheeks flushing scarlet. It was too much. He had hoped — needed — to believe that the feeling was mutual, but Henry had chosen the worst possible moment to start confessing. They had not even reached the top of the stairs, and already eyes and ears were too close.
“Don’t,” Hans whispered, voice tight and breaking. “Say another word and I’ll kiss you right here.”
Henry smiled with his eyes — bold, unrepentant, as though he wouldn’t have minded in the least. Hans did not test that theory. He seized him by the hand and pulled him swiftly toward the farthest, quietest corner of the gods-forsaken place — and prayed to every saint he could name that they were, indeed, forgotten.
They were damned lucky. Every soul still drinking or bellowing downstairs was either too drunk to notice or too hardened a brute to think of sleep so soon after sundown. That meant one thing — no neighbours through the wall. At least, not for a while.
That thought alone made Hans feel like a boy again — one who feared being caught doing something improper, sneaking moments to be alone. Was it foolish? Perhaps. But knowing he was already calculating how much time they had brought a warmth to his chest he dared not name.
He only hoped that, despite all the drink, his estimation would hold.
And then they reached the last room — the one adorned with a fading wreath of forget-me-nots. The room they had shared for several days now. Hans locked the door behind them, stepped to the edge of his own bed, and turned sharply toward Henry.
“Promise me,” he said, his voice rough, thick with emotion. He swallowed hard. “Promise we won’t make a sound.”
And when Henry, after a nod that was a touch less certain than Hans had hoped, pressed a soft kiss to his lips, Hans knew it at once — the fear of being caught was nothing, nothing at all, compared to how much he had missed him.
All that damned time.
And the rest of the world faded, slow and sure.
He returned the kiss with tenderness, stilling within the other’s embrace, the warmth between them almost unreal — as though it had been out of reach mere hours ago. His arms wrapped tightly around Henry’s shoulders, drawing him closer, as if to make up for the days of restraint, disappointment, silent hurts and needless doubt.
Henry held him at the waist, gently pressing forward until Hans was made to sink back onto the narrow bed. He yielded without resistance, feeling the soft fabric beneath his back. The bed creaked faintly under their careless motion, and he tensed, already about to whisper for silence…
But in that moment, a hot, wet tongue grazed his lips.
Hans gripped Henry’s shoulder sharply, startled — uncertain how to receive such a touch, or how to respond to it. It was unlike anything he had ever known — something not even Boguta’s cursed books had dared describe.
Henry, too, seemed to freeze at his own reckless boldness, pausing as though unable to believe what he had done.
When the kiss finally broke, the air between them hung heavy and heady, like steam in a bathhouse stoked beyond reason.
“Again,” Hans breathed — not quite a whisper, not quite a command.
With infinite gentleness, Henry laid a palm across his heaving chest, slow and reverent — as if to learn by feel, as if to memorize every line, every breath. As if he had missed him terribly. As if he had thought of nothing else while fearing he, too, might lose him.
There was too much in his eyes — far too much — and Hans wasn’t certain he could bear it.
Hans shifted his hips forward, leaving no room for ambiguity — making it plain in what state he found himself. Their time would come — later, when the walls were not so thin, when the fear of discovery no longer lingered, when the world beyond could be forgotten.
And yet, when Henry’s tongue once more brushed his kiss-bruised lips, Hans exhaled through his nose, then parted his mouth further, leaning in to meet him, to taste him in turn. Exquisite.
As though reliving the memory of that first night, Henry’s hand began its slow descent, fingers finding the ties at Hans’s trousers. He felt it at once. For a moment, a shred of resolve still flickered in his mind — the will to hold back, to remain within the bounds of what had already passed between them.
But that maddening tongue, that building heat between their bodies, that slow, ravenous press of mouths… every firm line of decision crumbled into dust.
He rocked downward without restraint, his hips meeting the other’s arousal, and in that instant, a jolt surged through him — sharp, greedy, sweet. His whole body clenched, as if it knew what it craved, yet dared not speak the words aloud.
Hans’s mind flashed to the images — unbidden, persistent — those cursed illustrations from Boguta’s book, etched into his thoughts like scripture. Not a line, not a joined body forgotten. They rose now, vivid and relentless, as Henry pressed in between his thighs with soft insistence — not only into his mouth, but into his thoughts, into the very marrow of him.
He thought he might cry out.
But before Henry could lose himself fully in those touches, hands now closing around them both, Hans gave a short pat to his shoulder. Henry pulled back, alarmed — fearing perhaps he had gone too far.
Hans caught him by the nape and pulled him close, whispering softly:
“I want you.”
The blacksmith’s son blinked, eyes wide even in the dimness — and Hans offered no explanation, for shame was crashing over his words in waves, drowning them before they could form, even in fragments. All he could do was reach down, pressing gently at the edge of lowered undergarments, showing — not telling — what he wanted. What he ached for.
He felt the tension in Henry’s fingers — a flicker of doubt in what was allowed. But he did not pull away. On the contrary, he helped Hans ease the cloth down, stripping away the last barrier between them. Then he was between his parted thighs once more.
Hans, knowing both Henry’s fear and his own, paused to listen — to the din below. It never ceased, not for a heartbeat. The tavern rang with drunken shouting, with singing, with tankards slammed to tables by men who had no notion that, just one floor above, two men trembled not from cold or shame, but from desire itself. His heart thundered in his throat — not because he feared what would happen next, but because he had never in his life wanted something more.
“Henry,” he whispered against his ear. Henry stiffened, like a deer poised to flee at the sound of a hunter’s breath.
“I want you to be inside me.”
Silence.
Henry froze, breath caught. He looked at Hans as if he had heard a foreign tongue — a strange arrangement of sounds with no clear meaning.
“What… do you mean?” he asked, voice uneven — not from fear, but from honest, wide-eyed bewilderment. Innocence, pure and unschooled.
Heat flooded Hans’s face. He felt the blood surge to his cheeks, to his ears, and lower still — where want could no longer be hidden. He hadn’t expected to explain it. How would Henry know, when Hans himself had only come to understand the truth scarcely a week ago? And even then, he had seen — clearly — only a part of it.
He brought his hand down, brushing past his own need, guiding his fingers over the other’s. He was exactly as he remembered — unbearably hot and impossibly hard. The touch sent another shudder through him, the tight knot in his belly coiling with hungry tension.
“Straight…” Hans whispered, so softly that not even the loudest brawl below could drown it — for there was no one to hear but them.
“Here.”
He guided Henry toward him — toward where he ached — giving him the answer without words.
He did not expect Henry to move. But he did. Just slightly — a cautious press forward, as though his body understood something his mind had yet to grasp.
It was too much. Too hot. Too tight. Too impossible.
For a fleeting moment, Hans thought the whole thing foolish — a doomed idea, bound to end in failure — and he nearly asked him to stop.
But… God above. This man.
A moan slipped from him as Henry left a soft, almost hesitant pressure at his entrance, burying his face in Hans’s neck, breathing heavily — pressed close, yet not daring to go further. He didn’t move. He merely trembled. It seemed the very knowledge of what they were doing had shaken him to the core. Hans could feel it in his skin — how hot he burned, how his breath caught, how he fought against himself not to press forward.
He could have sworn he felt it — the slick trace left behind from that one tentative contact, damp heat lingering on his skin. It was the most mad thing he had ever known.
And yet it felt as impossible now as it once had seemed simple. Something was wrong. A stab of guilt lanced through Hans, as if he had misled Henry with false hopes — when, in truth, he himself had been deceived by a book.
If those people in the illustrations were truly committing sin, then why… why was it so difficult? So painful?
Or perhaps — perhaps that was the reason for the punishment: because a man gives himself over entirely, heedless of all else, and makes a god of another — feeling something not far from reverence.
Hans tightened his arms around him, holding him close while Henry still dared not move, perhaps blaming himself, as though his shoulders bore the fault. But his hand — that rough soldier’s hand — closed gently on Hans’s thigh, as if Hans were glass that might shatter under the slightest wrong touch.
He had been gentle then too. Strangely so. Strangely tender for a man so hardened by war, with hands so coarse and eyes often so cold they made men flinch. But he was tender now, and Hans had no explanation for it.
Only that it was true.
His fingers clenched tighter at the fabric of Henry’s shirt, and his legs, just slightly, closed in around his sides. The movement made Henry jolt beneath him, still pressed against the taut ring of muscle, still holding himself back.
Hans wanted to soothe him, to say there would be time — that there would be a thousand more chances, that he bore no fault.
But he had barely opened his mouth, his breath already brushing Henry’s ear, when the words came out as nothing more than a whisper:
“It feels so good with you…”
As though trembling with desire, Henry made a single, brief attempt to enter. The pressure was too sudden, too strong, and Hans threw his head back, his knees clamping around Henry in instinct — trying to stop another impossible thrust.
But they had only managed a few inches — forcing their way through the tightness, the shared tension, and the stinging discomfort — when Henry’s body shuddered.
Hans didn’t understand at first what had happened.
But then he felt it — something warm and searing flooding inside him.
Henry did not move, held utterly still, breath caught. His fingers dug into Hans’s skin as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
He had finished.
Without truly entering — without truly joining — Henry had spent himself.
He withdrew a moment later, breath ragged from the sudden release. It was… awkward? Wondrous? So wild and uncontrolled that Hans’s own body throbbed with frustrated tension. He needed to touch himself — now — while there was still time. While Henry was still dazed, gently stroking his thigh in half-conscious tenderness.
“I didn’t know,” Hans whispered, reaching downward, “that you wanted me this much.”
Henry looked up at him — not in shame, but with a gaze so unguarded, so vast, that Hans felt he had only glimpsed the peak of something enormous — the rest buried in thick cloud.
He moved his hand again, fingers curling with slow purpose, his eyes never leaving Hans’s, never breaking the moment — as though these few seconds held more weight than all that had come before.
So good.
The drunkards downstairs showed no sign of quieting. Their voices rose louder and louder, until the whole tavern seemed to echo with the coarse, wheezing chorus of some old soldier’s song.
And in some strange, shameful way, that helped.
For in the next breath, Henry — still hard, as if carved from stone — shifted forward once more, sliding into what he had left behind.
Hans furrowed his brow, barely believing this was truly happening to him. He froze, spine arching slightly, breath stolen from him — and had to bite his lip, for he already knew: if he made a sound, it would be far too loud.
Henry entered slowly — almost hesitantly — with careful, measured pressure, as though afraid a single misstep might shatter everything. And when Hans clenched around him once more, tight and involuntary, Henry stopped.
It wasn’t pleasurable. Not yet. It was stretching, pulsing, and deeply unnatural.
Perhaps, Hans thought bitterly, Henry was simply too large for such things… or perhaps he himself was never meant for them at all.
Questions flared, one after another, offering no answers. He shut his eyes, hoping the discomfort might vanish with the dark.
It felt shameful. His confidence — whatever had remained — dissolved with that first attempt at closeness.
“Hans…” Henry murmured against his lips, not pulling away, remaining near.
“Breathe… relax…”
His voice was low, rough-edged, almost trembling. He was struggling too. But he did not push. He simply stayed — fingers trailing along Hans’s thigh, gently, soothingly. It helped. Just a little. Enough to still the storm, though Hans barely understood the meaning of the words spoken to him.
“You’re beautiful…” Henry breathed into his neck — and with one slow, molten motion, he sank in fully, the bed creaking beneath them.
“Henry…” Hans clutched at him, afraid he might lose that gentleness.
But he needn’t have feared.
Henry gave a subtle roll of his hips — slight, careful, testing how his body was received. Hans shuddered.
"You’re mine…” he whispered again, moving just a touch deeper — still without thrust, simply swaying within him, coaxing his lord into the slow rhythm of their closeness.
Hans felt that voice, ragged and warm, enter him with each slow movement — how breath, and words, and touch all worked in unison to loosen what had been locked in fear.
“Does it feel good?” Henry asked — not truly asking, more sensing, as if he already knew how Hans was softening around him.
Hans gripped his shoulders tighter. His lips trembled. But the only thing he could offer in reply was a muted breath.
“I want you to feel good…” Henry whispered, giving one more deep, slow thrust — then pressing a kiss to Hans’s chin, tender and grounding.
Now he understood. Pleasure had never been the point from the start. This closeness — like the fragile feelings that had just begun to bloom between them, feelings born in doubt and pain — was never meant to be easy or sweet at first. It was meant to burn slowly, to unfold like warmth spreading through a long-starved heart. His body eased, inch by inch, surrendering to the slow, deliberate thrusts of heat that filled and stretched him, bringing a sensation Hans had never before known.
And when Henry moved with just a bit more certainty, a loud, startled moan broke from Hans’s lips — a cry of long-awaited pleasure. Madness.
He slapped a hand over his mouth, as if only then remembering where they were. He listened — the song below only swelled louder, joined by the rhythmic pounding of boots on wood. The old soldiers had begun to dance. That noise — drunken, joyous, oblivious — would drown anything. No one could hear them, not even standing just beyond their locked door.
“Haa-ah…” the sound escaped again, as Henry, perhaps sensing the same, pressed in deeper.
Hans thought he’d forgotten how to breathe. All he could do was moan softly with each thrust, unfamiliar even to his own ears. He heard nothing else, fear forgotten, his entire world narrowing to the rhythmic filling of his body. And then, at the very edge — when everything else was already falling away — came Henry’s voice, low and reverent like a prayer:
“God, I love you so much.”
Hans moaned in answer, digging his fingers into Henry’s damp neck, giving himself over as fully as he dared, opening to him, begging in every breath not to be left behind.
His voice grew louder, and from Henry’s chest came matching sounds — low and ragged, strung together with whispered confessions he could no longer hold back. Words spilled against Hans’s ear, a thread of fevered honesty from his squire, his comrade, his dear Henry.
“You’re driving me mad…” Henry was breathless, body trembling with frantic need, as though he couldn’t endure another second.
A thrust — deeper, hotter, harder. The bed groaned beneath them in time with his rhythm. Below, the tavern thundered with that drunken, off-beat soldier’s song — all rough voices and broken meter.
Words blurred into muffled moans, skin into rhythm, sound into sound. Henry’s lips found Hans’s neck again, and he pushed once more — hard — bringing them both to the brink, taking the air from their lungs.
“I love you so much it’s tearing me apart…”
Perhaps Hans would have wanted to say it back. Maybe he even tried. But he couldn’t.
All he could do was melt beneath him — dissolve in his arms, in his movements, in his voice.
And if God’s gaze did indeed fall upon this Devil’s Den, then surely — from any angle — the merciful Creator could not have seen such boundless love as a thing of monstrous sin.
Hans pulled Henry down to him, kissing him deep, exhaling raggedly into his mouth. With eyes closed, he slid his hand along his own length, feeling the end drawing near — together — under the song whose meaning they no longer understood, but which pressed onward, unrelenting, nearing its final chords.
One last thrust. The dull pounding of hearts in their ears. That aching, filling warmth. Arched spine, fingers clenched, thighs trembling. A hot, drawn-out gasp lost between another’s lips.
And then the world vanished.
And if God’s gaze did indeed fall upon this Devil’s Den, then surely — from any angle — the merciful Creator could not have seen such boundless love as a thing of monstrous sin.
Hans pulled Henry down to him, kissing him deep, exhaling raggedly into his mouth. With eyes closed, he slid his hand along his own length, feeling the end drawing near — together — under the song whose meaning they no longer understood, but which pressed onward, unrelenting, nearing its final chords.
One last thrust. The dull pounding of hearts in their ears. That aching, filling warmth. Arched spine, fingers clenched, thighs trembling. A hot, drawn-out gasp lost between another’s lips.
And then the world vanished.
Hans felt their breathing slow, felt their bodies still trembling from the storm, but already finding the quiet at its edge. He opened his eyes — and met Henry’s, breathless, wide, searching.
He looked at him with a kind of uncertainty, like a man waiting for something. A reply, perhaps. To what had been said aloud in the heat of it. A question left hanging.
"Is it thus... that you whisper of love... to all, Henry?" Hans asked, his voice unsteady.
Henry blinked, as if not at once grasping his meaning. Then something cleared in his eyes — a flicker of understanding, of shyness — and a soft, honest laughter escaped him.
He bowed his head, as though unsure of what to say, but his lips curled into a smile, and he looked back at Hans with a gaze that was meant for him alone.
"Only to you."
Hans, struck still by such candor and wearied to his very soul, could not help but smile in return.
He reached out, slow and gentle, and traced Henry’s face with his fingers — his cheekbone, his lips — lingering a moment before leaning in to press a kiss upon his cheek.
"I love thee as well... more than life itself."
Simple words — but they brought warmth. They felt… right.
And when there was no filth in it, no shame, nothing but love — so simple, so strong, so inevitable — it could not be a sin.
It simply could not.