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Hans Capon is completely and utterly incapable of shutting up. This is a truth acknowledged by both the man himself and the vast majority of those close to him, from his valet to his uncle, his cook to his bodyguard. Hans is positively allergic to not having the last word in any argument. He is, to put it in the modern vernacular, an absolutely chronic yapper. Henry knows this, and he loves him anyway.
But this time – the time that gets them both into all this bloody trouble – it’s because Henry is the one running his mouth.
Hans is spread out on the bed like a feast, Henry’s personal all-you-can-eat buffet; his wrists are bound above his head with his own belt, strapped to the rungs of the headboard by an expert hand, and his chest heaves as his legs tremble in a futile attempt to spread even wider. Henry’s knelt between his thighs, hand buried in him to the knuckle, four fingers deep, his eyes wide and intense on Hans’ where he’s watching him screw up his face with pleasure. They’re supposed to be indulging a fantasy of Hans’, that of himself as a virgin being mercilessly ravaged by Henry, and it’s mostly working until Henry opens his mouth.
Henry’s voice is hoarse, breathless, when he twists and crooks his fingers again with a wet noise and whispers to him.
‘Fuck, look at you,’ he breathes, leaning down to kiss Hans’ trembling knee. Hans is flushed, his hair – usually gold, now more the colour of wet sand and plastered to his scalp with sweat as he bucks and arches again – wild on the pillow, mouth hanging open as moans and pleas tumble out of it unbidden, tears clumping his long lashes together. ‘You’re so wet,’ he murmurs, another embarrassingly loud squelch coming from between Hans’ thighs as he fucks his fingers into him, and Hans howls. ‘So wet for me, darling. Baby girl. Look at that pretty cunt dripping for me.’
‘H-Henry–’ Hans stammers, because that’s not what they’d agreed on; he’s not and never has been a woman. He should be humiliated, kicking Henry off him with strong legs and demanding to know from where exactly on his undeniably male body Henry has drawn the conclusion that this is a girl underneath him. Hans should be calling this – whatever this is – to an end, picking up his things from Henry’s bedroom floor, and dragging what scraps are left of his pride back out of the door. He should be. But he’s not. Instead, he’s keening another moan, softer this time, higher in his throat; he’s keening, and spreading his legs, and Henry is making a noise like a man receiving a mortal wound and removing his hand to replace it with his cock. His hips slap against Hans’ arse loudly, rutting into him, breathless staccato thrusts off-rhythm, and Hans’ eyes widen as he realises just how close Henry himself is, lost in this absurd, wonderful fantasy.
Hans’ legs are dangling over Henry’s shoulders, bent double beneath the onslaught; Henry’s mouth pants against the crook of his knee, whimpering and pressing needy, biting kisses to the pale skin. The sound of their fucking is obscene, wet and sucking and filthy, and if he closes his eyes Hans can imagine Henry ploughing a cunt. The pleasure rises in him sharply, the tension in his gut almost at breaking point; Henry moans, falling forward to pretzel Hans under him as he grinds deeper still. Hans shrieks as he peaks, tumbling over the edge. Henry grips his hips tightly as his rhythm falters and he comes, biting Hans’ calf to stifle his groan. Hans hisses, throwing his head back on the pillow, the pain forcing another weak spurt from his spent cock.
Henry licks the blood away by way of apology.
They don’t speak about it again, but Hans sees Henry’s eyes wander, occasionally, toward shop windows when they’re stumbling home drunk from the pub again. Towards girls with tumbling falls of blonde hair over their shoulders, in short, tight skirts and heels, his throat working soundlessly as he swallows hard. Hans sees, and he remembers.
Henry isn’t due back from work for another couple of hours, so Hans has plenty of time. He is sitting on the edge of the bath, slowly drawing a razor over lathered skin. It’s almost meditative, getting lost in the repetitive movements and humming softly to himself. When he rinses off his legs again he can’t stop touching them, thrilled at how smooth they are; his skin is like silk, fingers sliding over it without snagging on any fine blond hair, and he imagines the expression on Henry’s face – wonder, arousal – as his blunt fingertips follow the curve of Hans’ calf to his knee, and then higher. Trailing his fingers up his thighs, he’s met by the stirrings of an erection, the caresses clearly having gone to his cock. He should be concerned by the amount of pleasure he takes just from shaving his legs, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it?
He shaves his chest, under his arms, everywhere, until he’s smooth and beautiful. Admires the effect in the mirrored front of the cabinet for a moment before standing up and towelling off. His bare feet leave damp footprints on the pale hallway carpet as he wanders into the bedroom, rifling through his drawers for some underwear. He wasn’t sure which size to buy, so he’d gone with the measurements supplied to his tailor. The bra and panties were filmy, see-through things, scraps of black lace; Henry’s eyes had lingered in the window of a lingerie store, right up until he’d spotted out of the corner of his eye, Hans watching, and then, with a fierce blush, cleared his throat and looked away again.
Hans steps into the panties and settles them on his hips, the flimsy material straining to contain a by now fairly impressive hard-on. He swallows, turning to admire himself in the mirror once more; they frame the subtle curve of his arse beautifully, the black a stark contrast to the pale skin. He fastens the bra behind his back, finding it much harder than expected. A flick of the fingers, and he could have these dangling from a girl’s fine shoulders. Why the fuck did they make them so bloody fiddly to fasten in the first place?
He has to dig through more shopping bags full of supplies to find what he’s looking for. The garter belt is the same deep, dark red as Hans’ favourite wine, just tight enough to create the illusion of an hourglass waist where it’s cinched above his navel. He debates, for a moment, whether it’s too much; over-egging the pudding, so to speak. But this is for Henry, will drive Henry wild if he does it right. He wants to give Henry, who has never known spoiling and excess the way Hans has been born to it, a beautiful gift to unwrap slowly, layer by layer.
The stockings glide on over smooth legs, and he clips them carefully to the garter belt suspenders. The effect is incredible. His cock throbs in the lacy panties as he gazes at himself in the mirror, the flash of white teeth biting his bottom lip, the contrast of black lace and burgundy satin against skin like cream. He can’t put the dress – tight, clinging – on over this, without ruining the smooth line. He shouldn’t, should leave this to Henry, to hungry eyes and hungrier mouth, rough hands, warm heart; he shouldn’t, but he pulls the waistband of his panties down. Gasps at the release of pressure over his prick as he wraps a hand around it, stroking slowly. Holding himself up against the wardrobe, watching in the mirror, his own stocking-clad legs parted wide, hand milking his weeping cock. It’s erotic, filthy, and all of a sudden he aches with how badly he wants.
He comes with a choked noise, streaking over the mirror, and has to stop to pant and wait for his legs to stop trembling before he can continue getting ready. He’s got less than an hour before Henry is back from work; he needs to hurry, if everything’s going to be perfect. Hans cleans his hand with a tissue before turning back to the wardrobe, unzipping the suit bag that has been hiding the main component of this evening’s costume: black velvet, open-backed and hugging the hips, slit to the thigh. He’s breathing a little heavier as he steps into it, fiddling with the fine straps and squinting at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t like the way his bra shows underneath, the band bisecting the open section on his back. Shrugging his shoulders, he unclasps the bra, drawing it off down his arms.
Much better.
He steps into his heels – grateful, for once, for the delicate size of his feet – and smiles. The final touches – a slick of eyeliner, something he’s embarrassingly well-practiced with after a short-lived emo phase in his teens, and a touch of wine-coloured lipstick, just enough to stain his mouth temptingly dark. He searches through the box of jewellery on the dresser, picking out a delicate silver ring which he slides onto his index finger, and a slender silver chain just short enough for the o-ring clasp to settle between his collarbones.
Hans settles on the bed, long legs crossed demurely at the ankle and the velvet pooling elegantly around him, to wait.
Even if Hans couldn’t practically sense Henry’s arrival at home after work, the air suddenly feeling charged, his boyfriend always announces himself with the heavy thud of work boots being kicked off against the skirting board and the clink of his keys being dumped on the hallway table. Henry’s husky voice calls ‘Hans? You home?’ and he grins to himself, shifting on the bed, feeling anticipation pooling hotly in his belly.
‘Marco,’ he calls, and hears Henry huff a soft laugh as he heads along the hallway toward the bedroom.
‘Polo.’
The bedroom door swings open. Hans makes sure to look up slowly through his eyelashes, taking it in as the smile slides off Henry’s face and his eyes widen, breath catching audibly in his throat with a noise like a deflating balloon. He’s frozen in the doorway, mouth halfway open as though about to say something; Hans feels like Sandy in the final act of Grease, having Danny eating out of the palm of his hand. He could stand up, order Henry to lie down, walk over him in these stupidly fucking high heels and rest the toe of one on his mouth; demand Henry kiss it. And from the look on Henry’s face – flushed, licking his lips to moisten a dry mouth, those bright blue eyes wide and hungry – Henry would let him. For a moment, he’s a little tempted.
Only a little.
He shifts slowly, deliberately uncrossing his legs, and his skirt slides to the side in a puddle of velvet to bare his thigh, a sliver of burgundy satin and creamy skin, miles of stockings. He shifts, and the noise Henry makes – a thin, keening whimper – sends a bolt of pure lust through his belly. It’s all the encouragement Henry needs, apparently; before Hans can even blink, he’s slamming the bedroom door behind him, falling over his own feet as he stumbles towards the bed, yanking his flannel shirt off over his head. The sound of tearing material, the patter of buttons hitting the floorboards, makes Hans smile. Henry falls on the bed beside him, kicking off his jeans, already wriggling up to claim Hans’ mouth in a bruising kiss.
Henry’s hand tangles in his hair, wrenching his head back, that hungry mouth sucking and biting down the column of his throat as Henry groans feverishly.
‘Fuck, you – you menace – you bastard–’
Hans laughs, throaty, and Henry makes another wounded noise as his other hand, trembling, trails up Hans’ leg. Hans has never known him so desperate; the aphrodisiac rush of power making him dizzy. Henry is a man enthralled. The expression on his face is like someone seeing the face of God; if Hans didn’t know better, he’d say this is the closest Henry has come to a religious experience. His gut clenches hotly, and he spreads his legs wider, encouraging Henry to settle between them.
Henry, breathing hard, lets go of his hair to slide both hands up under Hans’s skirt, revealing the ensemble in all its glory. The panties are straining to contain his erection, and Henry’s fingertip tracing the bulge makes him whimper and arch for more than just that teasing contact. Henry swallows audibly, his gaze shifting from Hans’ cock to his face, flushed, with streaks of lipstick on his cheeks where Henry’s kisses have smudged it. He looks debauched, ravaged, reflected in Henry’s eyes reduced to thin rings of blue around huge dark pupils. Hans groans.
‘What are you waiting for?’ He attempts his usual hauteur, but it comes out as a breathy plea, teetering on the precipice edge. ‘A written fucking invitation?’
Henry growls, swatting at Hans’ thigh. The slap stings deliciously where the broad palm of his hand meets Hans’ haunch, and Hans whimpers. Henry latches onto that small sound, a wolfhound on the scent of prey. He digs his hands under Hans on the bed, flipping him over mercilessly to shove his skirts up over his back and cup both cheeks in his rough hands. He presses another kiss to Hans’ tailbone, stubbled jaw rough on the delicate skin, before landing another stinging slap on Hans’ backside, groaning when Hans yelps and sighs.
‘You like that,’ he rasps, and Hans shakes his head desperately even as he pushes his hips back into those warm, wide hands, begging wordlessly for more. Henry flicks the garter belt clips open, draws the panties off. Only the panties, leaving the stockings on, tenderly fastening the suspenders again. ‘Naughty girl, filthy little cock-tease.’
Hans moans, shocked and wanton; where did his Henry go, his lovely blacksmith’s boy with his bowed head and averted eyes? Where did his shy, sweet Henry learn to talk like that?
Henry looks as shocked as Hans’ feels, but recovers quickly; hauling Hans up on his hands and knees, he buries his face between Hans’ cheeks. Lapping at the core of him, hot and wet. Hans can feel the saliva trickling down his taint, over his balls, and he should be ashamed of the desperate moan it draws out of him. Henry groans in response, his fingers kneading the firm muscle of Hans’ arse as he points his tongue, pressing into his hole. Henry eats him out like a girl, sucking and kissing his rim with muffled, eager grunts of enjoyment, and Hans gasps, fisting his hands in the bedsheets. He’s so hard he aches, the head of his cock dripping. He drops down onto one elbow, stuffing his knuckles into his mouth and shoving the other hand between his legs to fist his cock.
Henry withdraws a moment later, spit cool and slick in the cleft of Hans’ arse; he’s fumbling in the side table for the lube, messy, spilling more than squirting it over his fingers before sinking two – two, fucking hell, Christ help him, Hans wants to scream – deep inside. Hans stifles a whine into his fist as Henry crooks his fingers to rub over his prostate, spreading his legs and rocking his hips back into the sensation. It’s uselessly greedy, Henry’s fingers already buried in him to the knuckle; Hans keens, rolling his hips, fucking himself on Henry’s fingers. Henry swats his arse again in chastisement, the skin hot and tender under the palm of his hand, and Hans hears him groan.
‘So pretty,’ Henry mumbles, and Hans’ hand falters between his legs, the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him completely. ‘Such a pretty arse with my fucking handprint on it, showing who you belong to–’
Hans whimpers, his mind falling away, consumed by Henry and his clever fingers and bruising palm. He’s hot, burning; it crawls up his spine and shoots between his legs, coiling tension threatening to snap in a blaze of white light and electricity. Henry’s thick fingers twist and crook inside him again, and it’s so good he has to bite back a sob. Henry mouths at his arse and thighs, the rough pads of his fingers merciless over Hans’ prostate, and another desperate moan tumbles out of his mouth. He’s so close he’s shaking, knees weak and threatening to give out entirely on the bed. He can feel, more than hear, Henry’s panting against his back, puffs of hot, damp breath on sensitive skin.
‘Hans – sweetheart–’
Henry pulls his fingers out just as the coil of pleasure in his belly reaches snapping point. His hips are lurching forward, rutting into his fist, and he wails as Henry slaps his hand away and replaces it with his own, grip tight below the head, staving off the impending climax. He moans, bereft, legs trembling and chest heaving as he rides it out before Henry finally lets go. Summoning what strength remains to him, he glowers at Henry over his shoulder.
‘I hate you.’
Henry tsk, tsks under his breath, his grin wicked. ‘S’not a very nice thing to say to someone who’s about to make you come.’
‘I was about to come, until your fucking hand got in the way!’
Henry kisses his shoulder, leaning over him to rub the blunt head of his cock over Hans’ rim. Hans feels him smile against his back when he moans involuntarily, hips canting up to try to catch Henry inside, as greedy for him now as ever. He can never get his fill of Henry, of touching him, kissing him, fucking him; Henry is an insatiable need, an ache in his bones. Hans craves him like air. Henry teases him for a few more interminable seconds, exerting just enough steady pressure for the head to breach him before letting it slip out again, making him whimper in frustration. Hans has never hated, nor loved, him more.
‘Get on with it, Christ–’
‘Such a pushy bitch,’ Henry growls as he slams home, Hans’ retort lost in an embarrassingly loud moan as he claws at the bedsheets, knuckles white and taut and arms shaking. Henry’s weight is across his back, covering him like a blanket, as he grinds his hips; slow, deep, dirty. Hans’ groan is more a strained exhale as Henry bears down against him, crushing him into the mattress, his chin resting on Hans’ shoulder as he kisses the rim of his ear.
‘Take me so well, though, don’t you?’ Henry whispers as he thrusts again, bottoming out with a grunt as Hans sobs and arches under him, pushing back against him futilely. He’s gasping, overwhelmed with pleasure, and Henry keeps fucking talking. Filthy things tumbling out of his mouth, warm against Hans’ ear, and he’s burning alive, because Henry – his Henry, his sweet, subservient Henry – shouldn’t have thoughts like these to be able to put them into words. ‘Baby girl, taking my cock like she’s made for it. Should keep you like this – oh, fuck – should keep you like this, spread out, cunt wet and ready for me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Hans barely recognises the voice that comes out of his mouth, wanton and raw with need. ‘Oh, fuck, Hal. Yes. Yes!’
Henry makes a wounded noise, deep in his chest, and snaps his hips faster. It hurts, deliciously, perfectly; Henry is wild, animalistic, in his fury. They’re no strangers to rough fucking, teeth and nails digging into tender flesh in the heat of passion, but Henry has never let himself go like this. Hans is overwrought as Henry fucks him in earnest, breathing punched out of him in rhythm with Henry’s thrusts. Henry palms his arse, kneading and squeezing as he ploughs Hans’ cunt, and Hans wails as pleasure mounts again, so close he can almost taste it –
Henry pulls out, again, and Hans screams, furious. There are tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he shudders, thwarted once more. He’s going to fucking kill Henry, rip his bloody cock off and bludgeon him to death with it – he was so fucking close, throbbing and aching with need. Henry will be the death of him, he knows it. Hans will make sure to be the death of Henry if he doesn’t make him come, and soon.
‘Fuck! Hal, you – you bastard–’
‘Aye, my lord, that’s true enough,’ Henry – forgetting their game for a moment – laughs breathlessly into his shoulder, trembling himself. Hans can feel him, burning hot and hard as steel against his tailbone, and he whimpers, wiggling his hips to grind against him. Henry rewards him with a sharp intake of breath, hand shooting out to grasp Hans’ hip, digging his blunt nails in as he holds Hans back. Hans bares his teeth in a savage grin, vindictively pleased to find Henry as close as he is to that tempting oblivion. Henry buries his teeth in Hans’ shoulder, cock sliding along the crease of him as he ruts against him, mindless and breathless. ‘A bastard I am. But you love it.’
Hans is spinning out, losing his mind; he must be, because he murmurs, ‘Not a lord. A lady.’ Rests his sweaty, flushed face against the pillow, swollen mouth hanging open, and spreads his legs, presenting his loose wet hole to Henry. Henry makes a broken sound, reaching up to interlace their fingers, holding him down. Encompassing him as tightly as a second skin. He groans.
‘A-aye, a lady, my lady. My girl.’ He’s slurring, voice ravaged, shaking against Hans. He shifts, the head of his cock once more finding Hans’ greedy, aching hole, slipping inside easily. ‘Fuck, you’re – you’re so – open. Loose for me, wet and ready. So sweet. Such a good girl.’
Hans whimpers, losing himself in the fantasy. Henry holding him tight, fucking his cunt. His cock is lost amongst the swathes of material, hidden; it might not even exist at all. Henry groans, biting his shoulder, yanking him up; kneeling on the bed, Hans’ legs spread wide either side of his thighs, so deep in him Hans is choking on it. One hand comes up to his throat, tenderly tilting Hans’ head to the side so he can press feverish kisses to the side of his neck, the other arm bruisingly tight around his chest. Henry is trembling against him as he pants and bucks into him, Hans red-faced and sobbing, his breaths wheezing as Henry’s grip around his throat tightens, hips stuttering as he approaches his peak.
‘Please,’ he sobs, hoarse and strangled, hitching breaths with each brutal snap of Henry’s hips. ‘Please, fuck me – fill me–’
The noise Henry makes isn’t even human, barely even animal. It’s the sound of agony – pain, pleasure, everything all at once – and his back arches, bending Hans in half, as he comes and comes. Endless, merciless, frantic; ramming against Hans’ pleasure spot, pulsing inside him, shaking from shoulder to thigh. Hans is flying, coming so hard he sees stars. The dress is going to be fucking destroyed, he thinks wildly; he can’t bring himself to care, this unbearable torrent of pleasure sweeping him away on a tidal wave as Henry’s stuttering movements slow to weak twitches and then, finally, stop. There’s a low, pained sound coming from one of them, or perhaps it’s both. Who knows? Sealed together so tightly they’re almost of one body.
‘Love you,’ Henry groans, deep and hoarse, into the back of Hans’ neck, and Hans nods weakly. ‘Love you, fucking Christ, what did I fucking do to deserve you–’
‘I don’t know,’ Hans breathes, ‘but it must have been wonderful.’
‘Aye.’ Henry kisses the nape of his neck, stirring the light baby hairs there with his nose, nuzzling like an affectionate pet. ‘Aye, wonderful and wicked.’
‘That’s my Henry,’ Hans murmurs, turning his head to kiss him.