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Henry smelled.
Not just smelled — he exuded an aroma potent enough to exorcise demons within a mile of Čáslav. A blend of dried blood, horse sweat, yesterday’s garlic, and some suspiciously sour cider a farmer had sold him near Vraník — the scent drove away flies, priests, and probably some minor saints.
He trudged through Kuttenberg like a damned crusader seeking not the Holy Land but a very specific rural bathtub. His body ached, his neck wouldn’t turn after that axe swing, and his crotch…
Well. Let’s just say if there had been a bellows between his legs, it would’ve burst into flames.
"Just a bath… Just hot water… Just please, no one offer me goat-fat ointment today…" he muttered, stepping into the building, where steam poured from the floorboards like it had plans of its own.
At the entrance stood the bathhouse keeper — a man with eyes like pickled plums and teeth that looked like someone had stored spare spokes in his mouth.
"Evening," Henry began. "I’d like, you know, the usual — soap, water, and a woman who’ll say I smell like a man, not like cheese from Talmberg."
The man snorted, as if he’d memorized this request years ago.
"All taken."
"All of it?"
"All of it. The girls are occupied."
"You’re kidding! What am I supposed to do, die here like a smoked boar?!"
"You could wash in the bucket behind the stables."
Henry closed his eyes. Counted to three. Then ten. Then to the existential scream of "Why do I even live?"
"And who, pray tell, took the entire floor? The Church Council crossed with an orgy?"
The bathkeeper didn’t answer. Just snickered quietly.
Henry turned away like a nobleman who accepted defeat. Took three dignified steps.
Then sharply veered down the corridor. His eyes lit up like a child who’d found not candy in a chest, but a lockpick and a list of sins.
He crept toward the staircase. It groaned.
“Sakra.”
Another step. Another creak.
“Oh come on, not now…” he hissed.
The stair replied with a plaintive squawk.
Henry was beginning to think that climbing in through the roof would’ve been quieter.
He reached the second floor — a corridor where even the air smelled richer. Frankincense, steam… and money. Somewhere beyond the walls came a burst of feminine laughter.
“Laundry,” he muttered. “They’re probably doing laundry. Loudly. As a group.”
The door in front of him was grand — carved with vines, likely not meant for someone like him. But Henry pulled out his lockpick with reverence.
“Miller Peshek, you greedy bastard… thank you.”
Click.
The door swung open.
A vision from divine revelation.
Henry froze.
First, it was warm. Very warm.
Second, it smelled like honey, wine, and something downright immoral.
Third… he saw him.
In the middle of the room sat a massive wooden tub — the kind you could baptize a duke in.
Inside it lounged a man. Naked. Steamed. Arms draped lazily over the rim, with a look on his face that read, I earned this by not killing any peasants today.
Around him floated seven women. All young. All stunning. And all engaged in activities that would’ve earned them excommunication in any monastery.
One was feeding him grapes. Another washed his hair. A third sang. A fourth played a flute. A fifth tooted into a goblet. The sixth tooted in general, just for fun.
Henry quietly pulled the door shut behind him, lest it fall under the weight of divine pressure.
He recognized the back. Then the shoulders. Then the profile.
“Sakra…” he whispered. “It’s Hans. And this looks like… the party of the century.”
He took a step inside. The water sloshed. One of the flute girls giggled.
Hans turned his head — lazily, like a pampered sphinx being oiled in honey.
And then, enlightenment.
“HENRY?!” he cried, rising from the water with such drama, a trumpet fanfare wouldn’t have been out of place.
“What?” Henry stood calm, as if he’d come in to ask where the salt was.
“I’m conducting state business here!”
Henry’s gaze dropped — below the neck, below the chest, below the foam — Henry stared at the evidence of that “business.”
“Yeah. Looks like something’s under a lot of pressure.”
One of the girls snorted with laughter. A second covered her face. The third kept tooting, as if nothing had happened.
Hans splashed in a panic.
“What the hell are you even doing here?!”
“Bathing. Like you.”
“You have no permission!”
“And you have no shame.”
“I—I’m here on official visit!”
“With seven ambassadors, apparently.”
Henry calmly closed the door behind him.
Slowly. Deliberately.
With the expression of a man entering a museum only to find the exhibit of the decade:
“Hans Capon and the Seven Sins.”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, entirely too composed for someone who’d just walked in on a small-scale bacchanalia.
“So…” he drawled, eyes flicking to a girl smearing something fragrant over Hans’ shoulder. “Important business, you said?”
“GET OUT!” Hans shrieked, lurching to one side, accidentally kicking over a wine basin. It sloshed onto the floor as one of the girls nearly toppled in after it.
“You’re not supposed to see this! Get out! Now!”
Henry blinked, unbothered.
“I am, for your information, exhausted, slightly wounded, and hosting a frog in my right boot. Do you have any idea what it’s like walking through Kuttenberg with an amphibian in your sock?”
“THAT DOESN’T EXCUSE YOU STARING AT MY COCK!”
Henry snorted.
“Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m observing the room as a whole. Lovely interior. Plenty of detail…” — his gaze swept across the women — “…though there is some duplication.”
One of the girls giggled. Another whispered,
“He’s handsome.”
“Thanks, darling,” Henry winked. “But I assume you all booked in advance?”
“THEY’RE A DELEGATION!” Hans roared, already going crimson. “We’re discussing… trade negotiations!”
“With bodies, yeah? Efficient. Very diplomatic. Cock for salt, balls for flour.”
“Get out!”
“Nope.” Henry stepped closer. “I’m part of the agenda now. Might even take notes.”
Hans shrank back into the tub like a duck surrounded by foxes.
Henry crouched down beside the edge, comfortably close.
“Be honest, Hans. Can you even handle seven? Maybe you need a… colleague’s assistance.”
“No. No! And NO!”
“Tired?”
“No!”
“Overwhelmed?”
“HENRY, I’M WARNING YOU!”
“Oh, just admit it — you wanted me to come. You were waiting. Set the whole thing up.”
Hans spluttered. The girls began drifting away — not from fear, but because they sensed this was no longer their scene.
“I—I was just trying to relax, and now you’re here, with your face and your comments and your—your unholy lust!”
Henry chuckled.
“Come off it. You wanted me here. You chose a tub with a clear view of the door. That’s a cry for help.”
“I DIDN’T KNOW THE DOOR COULD BE PICKED!”
“Then maybe you should’ve locked it with love.”
Henry stood up, stripped off his shirt — slowly, with the swagger of a peacock in heat.
“Alright. You’ve convinced me. I’ll undress—and leave.”
“DON’T UNDRESS!”
“Too late, friend.”
Trousers fell. Henry stood in his underclothes.
Hans blinked like a frightened owl.
“You wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t I?” Henry stepped forward. “My arse spent two days in a saddle. If I don’t get into hot water right now, it will fall off and live independently. Possibly with that frog.”
He placed a foot on the tub.
Hans sat bolt upright.
“IF YOU GET IN THIS TUB, WE ARE NO LONGER FRIENDS!”
“I’ll comfort you. Right here. In the bubbles.”
Hans opened his mouth to protest—
Too late.
With a loud splash, Henry leapt into the bath, sending water and foam flying, soaking Hans with shock, steam, and maybe a little hope.
“YOU BASTARD!” Hans yelped. “You’re cold!”
“I’m passionate.”
Henry sank into the bubbles, luxuriating.
One of the girls, not quick enough to leave, glanced between them, tilted her head, and whispered:
“I… I’ll just go. You two seem… occupied.”
Now they were alone. In a tub big enough for a baptism. In a cloud of steam and tension.
Hans pressed himself into the far end of the tub like he hoped a wall of soap and shame would rise between them. But reason had long since left the building — probably with the seventh girl.
Henry stretched out lazily, one arm resting along the edge of the bath, the other tucked behind his head. He looked like a man in heaven. Or a pervert at peace.
“Your eyes are darting, Hans,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Look at me. I’m gorgeous.”
“I am looking! I mean—trying not to look!” Hans ducked down until only his flushed face poked above the foam. “You’re naked, arrogant, and you’ve got that look! That devilish one!”
“This one?” Henry shifted, raising an eyebrow and letting his gaze smolder. “Or this?”
He ran a finger through the water — a slow, teasing ripple.
Hans let out a strangled squeak.
“HENRY!”
“Oh, come on,” Henry sighed. “We’ve known each other for years and you’re still acting like a maiden before her first feast.”
He began inching closer. Very slowly. Very deliberately. Until their legs brushed beneath the water.
“Stop it!” Hans yelped. But he didn’t pull away.
“What? Pure accident. It’s cramped in here. Two grown men. Naked. Steamy. Your thigh against mine.”
“Oh God…” Hans groaned, covering his face with a wet hand. “Why you? Why did you come?”
“Because it’s destiny.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
Henry was now so close their knees touched under the surface. He leaned in, noses nearly brushing.
“Do you want me to leave?”
Hans didn’t answer.
“Say it,” Henry murmured.
Nothing.
“…No?”
Hans whispered — barely audible:
“You’re a monster.”
“I’m your monster.”
Henry reached out and trailed his fingers along Hans’ neck — slow, gliding over slick, hot skin.
Hans trembled, but didn’t move away. His breathing hitched. His lip caught in his teeth.
“I— I don’t…” he mumbled.
“Shh,” Henry murmured, leaning in to press his lips to the waterdrop beading at Hans’ collarbone. “No need for words. I figured it out the moment you invited seven women but still couldn’t stop thinking about me.”
Hans exhaled. Loudly. Almost a moan. His hand reached out of its own accord — first uncertain, then firmer.
Their foreheads touched. Hands found shoulders. Chests met, wet skin slipping warmly against wet skin.
“Just…” Hans started.
“What?” Henry whispered.
“…Slow.”
And then Hans kissed him.
Clumsy. Quick. Like diving off a cliff.
Henry responded with heat. Confidence. Hunger wrapped in care. The kiss deepened. Lengthened. Became messy. Honest. Tongues met like long-lost enemies choosing to duel with silk instead of steel.
Hands roamed backs. Fingers explored ribs and hips. Henry pulled Hans closer, lifting him, settling him across his lap — and the water sloshed in agreement.
“You’re teasing me,” Hans gasped, panting against Henry’s neck.
“I want you,” Henry growled. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
They moved. Slowly. Wetly. With the kind of sensual rhythm that made the bath water ripple and the steam blush.
Hans wrapped his legs around him, kissed his throat, his ear, his mouth.
Henry held him tight — tighter — nipping, breathing, whispering nonsense like “you little noble bubble prince.”
“Henry…”
“Yeah?”
“I hate you.”
“And I filthily love you.”
Hans let out a low whimper, his head tipping back as if he could melt into the steam. His breath was shallow, skin flushed, and every muscle in his body was caught between bolting and clinging.
Henry leaned back just enough to glance down.
Then he smiled.
Not the smirk of a rogue, not the grin of a jester. This was the look of a man who had found treasure — sinful, ridiculous treasure.
He reached down, casually wrapping his fingers around Hans' erection. Warm. Slick. Proudly upright.
“Well,” he murmured with a wicked little laugh, “they really did a thorough job cleaning this. Hah.”
Hans choked on air, his whole body jolting.
“Henry—!”
Henry looked up at him, brows raised innocently, though nothing in his gaze was pure.
“I mean, really, I’m impressed,” he added. “It’s practically gleaming. Shame to waste such craftsmanship.”
And then — he pulled Hans gently forward by the hips. No ceremony. Just hunger.
Hans barely had time to protest — or rather, the part of him that wanted to protest had long since drowned in heat and longing.
He gasped, gripping the edge of the tub with one hand and Henry’s hair with the other as Henry’s mouth began its descent — slow, deliberate, reverent.
He didn’t rush.
The first touch of lips was light — too light. Teasing. Then a flick of tongue — exploratory, greedy.
Steam curled around them like silk.
Water lapped against the wood.
Hans swore under his breath in a dozen dialects.
Henry sank further, letting his mouth take him in — slowly, with dark satisfaction. One hand held him steady, the other stroked along his thigh, coaxing. Pulling him deeper with a rhythm as intimate as it was inexorable.
“You— You absolute bastard,” Hans panted. “You— You’re—Gods—”
“Mmm?” Henry hummed against him, sending a shiver rocketing up Hans’ spine.
His whole body trembled — sharp and staccato — his moans bouncing off the tiled walls in helpless little bursts. He tried to speak again, but all that came out was a sound that was part whimper, part moan, and all surrender.
Henry didn’t stop.
He didn’t even slow.
When Hans finally came, it was sudden and uncontrollable — a gasp, a jerk, a desperate cry into the steam.
He gripped Henry like a drowning man clings to driftwood.
And when it passed — when the tremor eased and the sweat began to cool — Henry rose with maddening calm, licking his lips like a satisfied sinner.
Their eyes met.
Hans, breathless and red to his ears, could barely speak.
“If you don’t kiss me right now,” he rasped, “I will kill you.”
Henry laughed, dragging him close.
“Wow. From death threats to romance in one orgasm. You nobles move fast.”
“Kiss me, you bastard!”
He did. Fiercely. Deeply. Without shame.
And Hans melted into it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
They sat in the water, breathless, limbs tangled, steam curling around them like lazy ghosts.
Hans leaned heavily against Henry’s chest, blinking up at the ceiling like it held the meaning of life — or at least a reason why he was now a puddle of post-orgasmic shame.
Henry, meanwhile, was suspiciously quiet.
For exactly thirty seconds.
Then, chin propped on Hans’ shoulder, he sighed dramatically.
“Well,” he murmured, “that was diplomatic.”
Hans let out a groan.
“Don’t you dare speak.”
“I’m just saying,” Henry continued, voice velvety with mischief, “you relaxed. Got your little... international assistance. But me?”
He sighed again, even more theatrically.
“I’m still filthy. I’ve got a full map of Bohemia on my back in sweat and dried horse blood.”
Hans tilted his head without looking. “You’re joking.”
Henry pulled away just enough to turn, displaying his back.
Hans squinted. Then blinked.
“…Is that Skalitz?”
“I think so. Possibly with a siege tower. Either way, it itches.”
He turned back, smirking. “So. Wash me.”
Hans stared at him.
“…What?”
“Wash me. Everywhere.”
“I am not washing you.”
“Well, someone has to. You don’t want me crawling into bed still smelling like Vraník’s barn and the inside of a boot, do you?”
“I don’t want you crawling into bed at all!”
Henry knelt up in the bath and turned his back again — a broad expanse of muscle, scars, and indeed, grime.
“Start at the top. Don’t use the broom. I’m delicate. And horny.”
Hans blinked like a man witnessing a very specific kind of nightmare.
“You’re serious.”
“I’m naked in your tub asking for gentle scrubbing. This is vulnerability, Hans. Intimacy. Trust.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Hans grabbed the nearest bar of soap.
Henry shivered theatrically.
“Ooh, the way you hold that soap. It’s… sensual.”
“Shut up.”
“Of course.”
He shut up — for all of two seconds.
Hans touched his shoulder. Carefully. As if Henry might vanish under his fingers.
Then he began to wash.
Slowly. Warm water and suds running down strong shoulders and the curve of a spine.
Hans’s hands moved over tense muscle and old bruises, and Henry arched into it with the pleased groan of a man being both cleaned and worshipped.
“Right there,” he murmured. “Lower… no, to the right… more…”
“That’s your arse, Henry.”
“Exactly. She needs love too. She’s been through a lot.”
“You’re impossible.”
“But you’re not stopping.”
Hans growled under his breath — not in protest, but because his face was once again flushing and he hated that he liked this. That he liked touching him. Liked the feel of Henry melting beneath his fingers.
Then his hands dipped lower.
Too low.
Henry glanced over his shoulder with a grin that was pure fire.
“Lower, Hans. That’s where the real filth is.”
“You want me to—”
“Yes,” Henry interrupted. “Now. Before I start rubbing myself on you like a desperate river otter.”
Hans hesitated only a moment.
Then he leaned in, and their bodies met again — skin to skin, heat to heat, and tension sparking anew in the water.
Henry’s voice dropped to a purr.
“You know… I’m still painfully turned on. I could take you right here if you’re too tired.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m a clean menace.”
He turned suddenly, grabbed Hans by the hips, and pulled him flush.
“Your turn to get fucked, Hansel. And I promise, this time, I won’t even pretend it’s about soap.”
Henry didn’t wait for a reply.
He surged forward with that same hungry, unrepentant heat that made everything about him feel like fire wrapped in mischief.
His mouth caught Hans’s again — hard, claiming, breathless — and Hans gasped into it, body already arching toward him like instinct had taken the reins.
“You sure?” Henry murmured into his lips.
“No,” Hans breathed.
“Good.”
He lifted him with one motion, hands gripping firm and possessive, and Hans didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Not when his whole body was already trembling, not when steam was curling like smoke around them, not when he wanted this so badly his knees felt made of soup.
Henry sank into him with a slow, powerful thrust — enough to make Hans cry out and clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, breath catching.
“Gods,” Hans hissed. “You— You’re—”
“Perfect?” Henry offered, breathless. “I know.”
He moved — deep, steady, maddeningly slow. Each roll of his hips was like a full-body promise: I want all of you, and I’m going to take my sweet, wicked time.
Hans moaned. Loud. Wanton. He wrapped his arms around Henry’s neck, thighs tightening, lips dragging along his jaw, his shoulder, anywhere he could reach as if touch was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
“Still diplomatic?” Henry growled, biting softly at his throat.
“You— you’re the opposite of diplomacy—”
“War, then.”
He thrust harder.
The water surged with them, waves smacking against the tub’s rim. Foam burst in bubbles around them. The air was wet and sticky and smelled like salt and sweat and need.
Henry buried his face in Hans’s neck, groaning against his skin, hands gripping him like he was something breakable and sacred at once.
Their rhythm grew rougher. Needier. More ragged, until it was just breath and motion and the sound of skin on skin.
Hans shook. Moaned something unintelligible. Cursed. Begged. Bit Henry’s shoulder.
Henry only growled deeper.
“Fuck— you feel too good— too tight—”
“I’m going to kill you,” Hans gasped.
“You say that every time you like something.”
Their movements grew erratic — desperate. Henry's muscles tensed. His breath came in sharp bursts. And then—
He came with a loud, shuddering groan, burying himself deep, clutching Hans against him like a lifeline, like he could drown in him and live happy.
Hans followed with a choked gasp, his whole body spasming, fingers clawing at Henry’s back as he collapsed against him in a trembling heap of overused nerve endings.
They stayed like that. Entwined. Quiet, but for the sound of water settling and their breath slowly returning.
Then Henry, ever so softly, spoke into the crook of Hans’s neck.
“…Told you I’d clean you from the inside out.”
Hans let out a strangled noise that may have been a laugh. Or a sob. Or both.
“You… you’re the worst person alive.”
Henry smiled. Kissed his shoulder.
“And yet… you’re still sitting on me.”
The water had gone lukewarm.
The foam had all but died.
Only the steam lingered, slow and lazy, like it didn’t want to leave them just yet.
Henry groaned, leaning back in the tub with a satisfied crack of his shoulders.
“Well,” he purred, “I suppose… it’s time.”
“To drown?” Hans muttered, still curled against his chest, legs tangled with his, eyes half-closed in the dumb stupor of a man who’d just been fucked into a different alignment.
“To get out. Unless you want me to start again — and you look like a soggy pastry already.”
“I’m a nobleman. Not a pastry.”
“With an arse that soft? Debatable.”
Hans groaned, rolling his eyes. Henry chuckled, then stood — gloriously naked, dripping, and absolutely unashamed. Water cascaded down his body like the gods were trying to cool him off and failing.
“Oh, for God’s sake…” Hans muttered, turning away. “Even the way you stand is smug.”
“Come on then. Out you go.”
Henry offered him a hand, barely holding back a smirk. “Try not to slip. I’d hate to catch you with my body again.”
Hans climbed out with the grace of a wet foal. Henry did not resist the urge to pull him into a damp, mocking embrace as soon as he was upright.
“You’re awful.”
“I know. But I’m warm. Come here, you noble dumpling.”
He grabbed the nearest towel — big, soft, and suspiciously embroidered with the name Margarita. He wrapped Hans in it with flourish.
“Right. Head first.”
“Don’t touch my hair.”
“Too late.”
Henry began rubbing at his head with the towel like he was polishing an apple. Hans yelped, whined, and eventually just leaned into it with a sigh of resignation.
“Gods, you’re annoying.”
“I’m affectionate.”
Henry moved lower — neck, shoulders, chest, belly — slow, deliberate, pretending to be helpful while clearly enjoying every squeak and twitch Hans made.
“You’re enjoying this,” Hans accused.
“You’re warm and wiggly. Of course I am.”
Hans flushed again.
“…My turn.”
He grabbed another towel and stepped close, eyes narrowing as he studied the droplets sliding down Henry’s thigh.
“Don’t get shy,” Henry said with a grin. “You’ve had my cock inside you, wiping me down is hardly intimate.”
Hans squeaked.
“I hate you.”
“And your hands are still warm.”
Hans began drying him — shoulders, chest, back. His movements were a little too slow, his gaze lingering just a bit too long, and Henry caught him biting his lip more than once.
“You’re thorough,” Henry murmured.
“Shut up.”
“Lower, please. I think my nobility is still damp.”
Hans huffed, but obeyed.
By the time they were both dry, the towels were soaked, the floor was a mess, and the tension between them had shifted into something quieter — softer — like warm bread between burns.
Henry leaned his forehead against Hans’s.
“There’s only one thing left,” he whispered.
“Don’t say it.”
“A goodbye kiss.”
“We haven’t even gotten dressed yet!”
“Exactly. That’s what will make it unforgettable.”
Hans sighed.
And kissed him.
Quick. Nervous.
Then again. Slower. Just a little longer.
Henry pulled him close, arms wrapping around him with infuriating tenderness.
“Promise you’ll always wash me,” he murmured.
“Only if you promise to shut up for one second.”
“Never.”