Baby's first hansry 🥹 learning to draw new blorbos in a new software after a drawing break is hard. Not entirely satisfied but we're getting somewhere.
Belated for @hansryweek day 7: running away together.
Of all the indignities Hans has suffered in the course of his adventures so far—from kidnapping to shit-throwing—the unending summer heat is the unfairest of them all, and the most inescapable one.
Sweat drips down his back, tickling him like the feet of an uncatchable bug. It pools in his armpits; it drops from his hairline, annoying and unexpected every time. Even liberating himself of his pourpoint does nothing to improve his situation. Instead all Hans can do is sit down on the ground, loll his head, and suffer.
And also, of course, how could he forget—endure that incessant clanging.
"Must you do this today, of all days?" Hans complains, pitching his voice high enough to be heard over the racket. "What kind of lunatic uses the smithy at the height of summer anyway?"
"It's not like people stop needing horseshoes and nails during the summer," Henry says, sounding entirely too reasonable for a man standing next to what is basically an oven, as decrepit as the rest of this Devil's tavern. His gaze is downturned, focused on whatever metal is taking shape on top the anvil. His hammer falls mercilessly even as he speaks, an endless clang, clang, clang. "It's part of the job."
"Oh? And what urgent commission are you working on, pray tell? Shoes for the king's horse? Nails to finally shove up Kubyenka's ass?"
"A sword," Henry grunts, pausing to wipe at his forehead with the edge of his forearm. In deference to the heat he's also forgone an outer layer—all of them, in fact: he's wearing nothing but hose and a leather apron, bare-chested like a barbarian of old. His chest hair is impressively prolific, spreading black and sweat-soaked over his torso—not that Hans is paying attention to it, or is envious in any way. "Commissioned by my own self—which is why I don't mind doing it, I suppose. What's a chore to do for strangers is bearable when you're following your own whims."
"Peasant wisdom," Hans says sagely, just to be an ass. He drains the last dregs of his beer—warm and even more piss-like than average, a mockery to the concept of refreshment. "Are we going to ignore the pile of swords already lying around in our room? There must be at least six or seven on that pile by the door—which is a hazard to life and limb, let me tell you! Last time I went for a nighttime piss I nearly impaled myself."
"What, those rusty old things? Nah, that's trash." Henry doesn't even sound out of breath, damn him, his arm descending like the pitiless wrath of God. "I'm only carting those around to sell them. I'm making a proper sword here, one that will slice through chainmail like it's butter, and last you a whole decade to boot."
"But why? Why now?"
Henry shrugs, not letting the gesture interrupt his rhythm. "Storming Maleshov won't be an easy task, and we don't know when Zizka will decide to mobilise. I just want to be prepared."
Hans's cup empties out too soon. He upends it in front of his spread legs, watches morosely as one singular droplet falls to the ground—Mutt descends upon it with gusto, licking at the ground in search of moisture. "Fine, whatever," Hans grouses, not caring that much anymore. "I know better than to try and talk you out of things, you stubborn mule."
A heat this infernal dries up all excess energy in a body, including any desire to argue. Or talk. Or even think. Hans lets his head thunk back against the wooden wall and briefly contemplates the meaning of existence; specifically, his existence; specifically, what the point of living is when God's earthly kingdom so closely resembles Hell. Mutt has given up the fight and is now lying down next to Hans, his head resting heavy on Hans's thigh, his doleful doggy gaze somehow even more pathetic and beseeching than usual. He whines a little, like a pup. Tell me about it, Hans thinks, and considers shooing him away—the extra weight is an uncomfortable source of warmth—before dismissing it as too much effort. He pats the dog's head in solidarity instead.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
"Henry?"
"Hm?"
"How long is this going to take?"
"Dunno." Henry takes a moment to rotate the blade—blessed silence!—before he resumes his evil hammering. "Not long, I reckon."
"How long is 'not long'?"
"Christ, Hans, I don't know," Henry sighs, finally showing a dent in his saintly patience. "It'll be done when it's done. What's wrong with you today anyway? You're even worse than usual."
"What's wrong with me? I'm suffering, that's what's wrong! I might as well expire where I stand the way things are going—and you're over there playing with your tongs and hammers, completely ignoring me!"
"Go back inside then," Henry says, cruelly untouched by Hans's plight. "No one told you to come here after me."
"I don't want to go inside," Hans mutters, uncomfortably aware of how much like a child he sounds as he does it. He can't help it; better this embarrassment than the discomfort of his tense shoulders, the coiled distress of his body when enveloped by four constricting walls. No, better to be outside, even with a heatwave. Better to be closer to Henry.
Needled by thoughts he won't allow himself to acknowledge, Hans uses that restless spurt of energy to stagger to his feet. He goes to a trough and straight up—plunges his head fully in, water stinging his eyes and sinuses as his breath leaves him in small bubbles. He keeps himself submerged for a few seconds more, pressing his burning lungs to their limit, then resurfaces with a gasp. He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead as he pants, his sense of rejuvenation already fading. Even the water is tepid, for God's sake. Mutt slurps disgustingly from the same trough Hans just used, the horrid little beast, but Hans ignores the noise.
Henry hasn't even looked at their direction. He gets like that sometimes, whenever a skill requires his full attention. Focused, absorbed, almost meditative in his labours. Except this time he's not holding a quill or tinkering with a lockpick; he's grasping a heavy tool with all the strength of his grip, causing tendons to jut out with each minute shift. His body hair is ludicrously abundant, snaking up his arm in one dark-furred line that encourages the eye to follow it. And so Hans follows it: up the forearm, over the bulging bicep, onto the twitching and muscle-thick pectoral. Bodies are not supposed to move in this way, surely? With such mesmerising, brawny grace? And yet here is Henry's, locked in an interplay of sinews that makes each strike look like the latest step in a dance. Even his skin is well-oiled, lathered all over by his hard-working sweat. He sheens in the sunlight.
Something wet touches Hans's palm. Hans yelps and jumps, broken out of his reverie with such violence that his heart pounds against his ribcage in guilty pumps. But it's only Mutt, looking up with piteous, innocent eyes. His tail is wagging. Hans frowns to compensate for his flushed cheeks—a result of the heat, certainly. No, definitely—and pushes the dog away with a careful leg. But Mutt will not be dissuaded. He twists around Hans's ankles, his curious muzzle sniffing around—Christ!—Hans's crotch.
"Henry! Your dog is demanding entertainment."
"Talking about yourself in the third person, are you?" Henry laughs, his grin a flash of white that makes something in Hans's belly squirm. "Guess you finally found your true calling."
"Shut up," Hans says plainly, feeling too unbalanced for a proper retort. He circles around the smithy, approaching in a roundabout way like an animal investigating food-or-threat. The emanating warmth from the bellows repels him like a miasma. Hans is too weak to pierce it. He can only stand to the side, cross his arms, and watch.
Henry takes up his raw, red-hot approximation of a sword and continues with his alchemy. He's turned around to use the bellows, one strong arm raised high to compress the pump. And good Lord, he pumps. How many is he supposed to do? His shoulderblades fan out with the motion, muscles whose name and function Hans has no idea of writhing on his powerful back. The daintiness of the single leather cord keeping his apron tied somehow makes his torso appear even sturdier, equally thick in waist and shoulders. A labourer's physique; and here the fruit of all that effort, the unsubtle and reliable strength of a man's man. Of Hans's saviour. Sweat glimmers, inviting as the forbidden fruit, a droplet gliding down Henry's lower back and right into—
"Surely you must be done now," Hans says weakly, his voice reedy. He coughs to unblock the dryness in his throat. It doesn't work.
"I think I am, actually, yeah." Henry spares one last, assessing look at the steel, craftsman's frown on, then plunges it decisively in water. Steam puffs out cloud-like in the air, so dense it half-obscures Henry's form. Hans lets out his own exhale, blinking mist out of his eyelashes.
Then there's the inscrutable mechanism of adding the cross guard—Henry grunts while he pushes it in, a sound that Hans very pointedly does not notice—and the sword emerges fully-formed. Henry moves the blade until its edge catches the light, its sharpness obvious even at a distance.
"Impressive," Hans admits, relieved to have a safe object to comment upon. "I must say you've improved, Henry."
Henry ducks his head to hide an endearingly shy smile. "Thanks," he says, quieter than usual, before firming his voice back to normal levels. "I picked up a few tricks in Kuttenberg, I guess." He offers the sword to Hans, his eyes dark blue and direct. "Go on. Try it out."
Hans accepts it. In his hands the blade shines clean and pure, untainted by battle yet eager to taste its first blood. A shortsword, Hans can see now, one light enough to be wielded one-handed. He gives it a test swing—then another, when it sings so cleanly in the air. Perfect weight, perfect heft, perfect reach. Hans laughs despite himself, caught in the simple joy of moving his body to the tune of a well-behaved weapon. Even Mutt seems to approve, running around in excited circles and barking.
"Well!" Hans has to exclaim when he's done, catching his breath. "A sword fit for a king indeed! You should be proud of yourself, Henry, I mean it."
Henry's attention is finally on Hans. He's been watching the entire time with a smile on his face, wiping his hands off with a rag. "I'm glad to know you like it so much," he says, nodding at the sword, "since it's yours to keep."
"Oh—" Hans stutters, surprise and—something else—making his chest feel warm. Is he blushing? It feels like he's blushing. "But I already have a sword," he blurts out.
Henry scoffs. "What, that? Not good enough," he says, shaking his head with all the condemnation of a master craftsman judging subpar work. He crosses his arms, and suddenly he looks intense, his gaze determined. "You're getting my sword. Remember what I told you? I won't let anything happen to you—and this is part of that."
Hans looks down at the hilt in his grasp, swallowing. He doesn't know how to react—he could make a joke, or play it up, or even ignore the underlying sentiment entirely, but—none of those feel right. It's time for honesty, even if it feels too paltry a gesture in comparison. "Thank you," he says, simply, sincerely.
Henry smiles again, then lowers his gaze, back to being unexpectedly bashful. Then he exhales loudly and slaps his thighs, eager to dispel the moment. "Alright then, what do you say we find ourselves a nice stream to dunk our heads in? I feel like I'm gonna melt on the spot here."
Hans jumps at this chance. "Finally, words that make sense!" he crows, and slings an arm around Henry's shoulders. His skin is too warm, wet-slick with sweat; Hans memorises the sensation and decides not to dwell on it. "We're going straight to the cool and blessed forest, Zizka be damned, and after a swim we're sparring. I need to test this blade against a proper opponent."
"Spar, in this heat? Are you mad? Besides," Henry adds, grinning like the cocky bastard that he is, "you know I'll have you beat."
"I know no such thing!"
"Well, I think it's obvious I have more endurance than you." Henry punctuates the point with a cheeky elbow to Hans's ribs. "Sir."
"Technique is more important that endurance, obviously. I guess I'll have to show you first-hand!"
Henry laughs, his shoulders shaking under Hans's arm—because Hans is still holding on to him. But he doesn't move away, and Henry's not shaking him off, so maybe it's fine. Maybe it's allowed, just this once, to be a little selfish. "Come on, then," Hans says, announcing it to the world, daring God to strike him. "Let's go have fun."
No divine signs, other than Henry's warm, fond smile. It's enough.
Between the pages of books, Henry had learned of the sculptures of Rome.
Men carved from stone, as Adam was from dust, but he doesn't need to look as far as Rome to imagine what might have inspired them. Hans may not be made of marble, but he is just as much a feast for the eyes as he lies ass-up on his bed.
"Are you ready yet?" he asks, petulant in the way that begs for Henry to quiet him.
"Have patience," Henry answers, placing both hands on his behind. His thumb circles an arrow scar, and he watches Hans's back prickle with anticipation.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Video Games)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Hans Capon/Henry
Characters: Henry (Kingdom Come: Deliverance), Hans Capon
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Henry has PTSD, POV Henry (Kingdom Come: Deliverance), Set After Exodus, set in KCD2, Hans is a sweetheart deep down, Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Angst, some description of the attack on the jewish quarter
Series: Part 4 of hansryweek25
Summary:
Something in him built and expanded, a pressure forcing through him that he couldn’t control – painful and intense like boiling water in a pot with a closed lid. His finger slipped on the buckle on his shoulder again. He threw his hands down and screamed; the frustration and exhaustion and pain exploding out of him in a howl. He drew his breath back in with a ragged sob, and the floor hit his knees. His useless hands landed stiff and half curled in his lap.
“Henry? Jesus Christ, what is happening?”
—
Henry struggles with his armour and the memories after the attack on the Jewish Quarter, luckily Hans is there to help.
Hansryweek - Day 6 - Fandom favourites day 1: Doffing armour
The cheerfully yellow garters on Hans's legs are mocking Henry.
It's a love-hate relationship he has with them. Not that there was a relationship, back at the beginning, when they'd been nothing more than part of Lord Capon's ensemble and Henry had been too much of a peasant to notice details. All he'd known then were the colours Sir Hans favours—the red hood bright and eye-catching like a finch's crest, the saffron pourpoint so emblematic that to this day Henry's heart skips a beat when he spies someone wearing yellow—and that expensive clothes are on a league of their own. The fabrics alone are soft enough to make a man weep: velvet, neat wool, linen so airy and light it feels like a different species to Henry's own. And the craftsmanship, the embroidery—each stitch is made with care, the labour of someone's lifelong talent. Henry used to be envious, then giddy at being allowed to borrow them, and finally proud to witness his lord being so handsome and so noble, wearing all manner of beautiful things. Of course Hans should have the best the world has to offer. It's only proper.
Now, though. Now Henry knows what it feels like to touch the body underneath, and those garters are conspiring to make him lose his mind. The way they make the hose cling just so, showcasing calves that are slim and shapely and perfect, just perfect, lovelier than any maid's could ever hope to be—good God above! If there is a Devil in truth then he's surely skulking inside Henry's thoughts, turning him mad with overflowing yearning. Henry feels a dutiful pang of guilt—then keeps his gaze set unapologetically downwards, watching every second of those legs' flowing motion. Hypnotic, the way one step leads to the next. The strength and elegance of well-formed muscles. The rest of the forest is a blur at the edge of Henry's vision; his empty hands twitch.
"Henry!"
Henry jumps. A few steps ahead stands Hans, looking over his shoulder, with his eyes bright blue and one eyebrow regally raised.
"Jesus Christ, Henry, focus," Hans scolds him. "Where's your mind at?"
"Sorry," Henry calls out. He makes a half-hearted attempt at catching up, settling into step by Hans's side. "Spot anything yet?"
"Absolutely nothing." Hans turns his gaze back to the forest, his blue eyes sharp as he scans the trees. His mouth curves down into a displeased little moue. Henry, familiar with all the minutiae of his lord's moods and expressions, categorises this one as not very serious—and more than a little cute. "I swear, the way things are going we'll be returning with empty hands. Not that we need the meat—but still! What's the point of a hunting trip if you don't at least earn one measly trophy?"
Henry hums in mild agreement. "Well, let's give it some more time," he says, not really caring about the outcome of the hunt one way or the other. "Maybe the rabbits are feeling shy today."
His joke lands to complete silence—really? Not even a pity smile? Hans has laughed at worse—so Henry sighs, and mentally bids goodbye to the idea of more fun pursuits. Hans is clearly in a restless mood, and Henry, as always, will follow his lead on this. Searching for game it is.
He scans the trees. It's true that Bohunowitz is a less impressive land than the forests of Rattay, scraggly instead of lush, with a dry and poorly soil. Henry remembers the mighty oaks of Hans's favourite hunting spot, their shade and earthly scent when they rested under them. Hans's skin had looked cool whenever Henry glimpsed at it, peeking out like pale glaze from his wrists, his ankles, his neck. Now the sun pieced through scarce foliage and lit it up instead, turning it golden, warm to the touch. It must be warm.
Henry has fallen behind once again, without exactly meaning to. His gaze seeks out its usual resting place: the back of Hans's head. The closely shorn hair at the base of his skull, specifically, its skillfully done gradient. Henry's palm knows the texture of that spot, from even—from even before he had reason to hold it. He was the one to give Hans a haircut after Maleshov, both of them down to their braies and sitting cross-legged by a stream. Henry had to use his sharpest dagger, and still the blade made a goosebump-raising, tactile sound, a rough and scratchy snick. Hans shivered with each pass, grabbing Henry's knee and squeezing. His back had looked too delicate as he bowed forward, too thin, too frail. The knobs of each of his vertebrae stood out in a receding line. Henry wanted to count them on his thumb.
At least he's got his weight back now, Henry thinks with more than a little gratefulness. With more than a little protective fury. Hans's pourpoint adds to the length of his shoulders, and his waist is slim but sturdy. Henry's eyes follow the path of his spine, lower, then even lower—
Hans stops in his tracks.
Henry's gaze snaps up, caution tempering his interest. There are always more troublesome things than animals lurking in a forest. "What is it?" he asks, hurrying forward until he's reached Hans's side. "Did you see something?"
Hans is still and focused, peering into the thicket. "I thought…" He trails off, then slumps with a sigh. "I thought I saw a doe, but no luck. Christ's wounds, this forest is goddamn empty! This is a waste of time," he mutters darkly, but to Henry's ear it doesn't sound too worrying.
"Come on, don't get in a mood. And with the day so bright and lovely." Henry elbows him on the side, then again when it earns him a reluctant smile. "Do you want to go back?"
"Oh, no, I'm not going back to that den of booze and vomit. It may have grown on with time, but I've spent enough time being cooped up in taverns and besieged fortresses. I need some fresh air. I need to move my body—in ways that don't result in maimed soldiers and torn-out limbs."
"Fair enough," Henry says easily, sliding a careful glance to Hans's profile. "Let's just keep walking, then. You never know, we might get lucky."
Hans nods, starts walking. His blue eyes look calm, if distracted. The sounds of the forest rush in to fill the comfortable silence.unseen birds flitting and tweeting from the branches, the foliage gently swaying. Henry keeps proper pace this time, his shoulder brushing Hans's. The backs of their hands touch; Henry knocks them together on purpose, their own secret, intimate code, and is rewarded when Hans's lips curl up.
Henry's usual patience abandons him. "You're quiet today," he breaks the silence.
"You're the one who's been quiet! I swear you've been more woolly-brained than a sheep today. Something on your mind?"
"Dunno," Henry says, suddenly a little shy. His shrug makes their clothes whisper against each other; Hans's body heat seeps through. "Just thinking, I guess."
"Thinking about what?"
"Your arse," Henry quips, to make him laugh.
It works. Hans gives a surprised bark of a laugh, white teeth gleaming in his grin as he turns to look at Henry. "Fuck off," he says, shoving Henry hard enough to bodily move him. At the same time he shoots a fleeting glance at their surroundings, a quick and cautious motion to see if anyone is looking; necessary habit turned into ingrained instinct. But of course, there's no one there. In the wild purity of nature, they can be free. "And they call me the lout. You're giving my reputation quite a run for its money."
"The famed lord of Pirkstein? With all his pretty conquests? Nah," Henry grins, "you've got me beat fair and square."
"Well, naturally. Don't feel bad," Hans says, all genteel and generous tones—as if Henry doesn't know exactly how those famed conquests actually ended. Silly man. "It's not a competition."
"No, of course not."
"Right."
"Hmm." Henry fights back his smile, looks at sun-dappled trees ahead. "We could always compete over something else, you know. If you're so eager to taste defeat."
"Ha! You're cheeky!" Hans's grin is bright, easily given. "And what do you suggest? There's no rabbits around to count kills."
"We could race."
"Our horses are tied up all the way back," Hans says, gaze turning thoughtful as he calculates distances. "But I suppose we could go out on the road…"
"Or we could race right here. Using our God-given legs." Henry taps on his thigh as if to demonstrate, then raises an eyebrow to Hans. He nods at the distance—but only for a second, eyes back on Hans's face to see each interplay of his expressions. His own fight with his smile has been completely lost. "What say you, my lord?"
Hans looks ahead; he looks back. Light dances in his eyes. "I say—you're on!" he shouts, and sets off on the spot.
"Wha—hey!"
Henry has to admit he had a more playful chase in mind, something better suited to bucolic vistas and giggling maidens who don't wander too far before they willingly fall. The actual reality has Hans sprinting, launching his full body forward with a speed and surefootedness that rivals a deer's. Henry jerks to attention—then he scrambles after him before his mind has time to catch up, pumping his legs as his innate competitiveness raises its head. His heartbeat spikes, drums loudly in his chest; his cheeks are flushed. You fucker, he thinks, because he's too breathless to yell it out loud, and runs hard enough to make his muscles burn.
Trees pass by in flashes. The forest floor is floor is hard on Henry's joints, uneven and treacherous, but Hans is flitting ahead so swiftly that Henry pushes himself to the edge, panting to fill his lungs. It's all so ridiculous, but also—exhilarating, a simple and pure exertion that reminds him of being a kid, running just for the joy of it. He grins despite the breathlessness. Hans's body is both close and maddeningly far—they didn't even appoint a finish line, Henry realises belatedly—and when his hand fails to grab onto Hans by mere inches, Henry settles for the one sure-way act to finish this: he leaps.
They collide roughly, too roughly, their speed sending them both careening until they drop face-first on the ground. Kind of an ugly landing, Henry has to admit, and some of his cheer recedes to be replaced with niggling worry. He turns Hans around and clumsily checks him for injuries, brushing his hair back to check for head lumps. "Shit, hey, are you alright?"
"Why, of course I'm alright. I won!"
"What?" Henry is aghast at the injustice. "What do you mean you won? I caught you!"
"Which means I was always ahead of you," Hans explains with a raised finger, sounding didactic and unbearably smug. "You never overtook me. Hence: I won."
"I'm going to fucking kill you," Henry says, except he's laughing as he's saying it, and roughhousing Hans into the dirt until his perfect, golden hair is tousled beyond repair. "I swear to God, Hans, I'm gonna strangle you."
"Hey! This was all your idea! How dare you—" But Hans is laughing too hard to continue, breathless and wriggling under Henry's weight. He slaps at Henry's hands, pushes at his chest, and it's all so ridiculous and playful that Henry feels half-crazed by it, all contradictory impulses stuck inside a body that's too wild, too eager. His grin hurts his cheeks. His fingers dig in too deep.
In the end one impulse emerges victorious, and Henry feels not an ounce of regret at following it: he abandons the scuffle and captures Hans's face, palms on both his cheeks, and finally claims his kiss. They both smile through it, Hans letting out laughing little huffs that Henry chases after; a continuous brushing of lips. As if to compensate for being freed Hans wraps a leg around Henry's back, then the other, locking him snug and tight in place. Just where he needs to be. Henry growls around the heat that drips molten-thick in his belly, and deepens the kiss.
He grabs Hans's hip to encourage it higher, securing its grip. His hand glides up with a mind of its own, and the slide is so smooth—soft hose hiding softer skin, slim but strong muscles flexing and trembling in his path—that he ends up cupping that glorious apex, the firm muscle filling his grip. "Fruit sweeter than a maid's," he murmurs against Hans's lips, pinching him just to be a tease.
Hans chokes on a laughing huff. "I beg your bloody pardon!" he cries out in played-up indignation he doesn't feel one bit. "Is that how you think of me, you bastard? Like I'm some a common tavern wench?"
"Not common," Henry corrects. He jerks his hips just hard enough to grind their manhoods together—then does it again, chasing after the sweet thrill. "And definitely not a wench," he adds with a cheeky grin.
Hans snorts, even as his ears redden. "Good thing too. Imagine if I were a woman! You'd have gotten me pregnant twice over."
That shocks Henry enough to stop him in his tracks. "Now, hold on—no I wouldn't have!" he protests, entirely serious, and actually a little offended, now that he thinks about it. "I wouldn't just get a girl pregnant out of wedlock like a cad. I'd be careful."
"Oh, please. You'd say that at first, and even believe it—but I know you, Hal. You lose all your stamina and patience when you scent the kill. Both in battle…" He rocks his hips upwards, making his sharp, pleasurable point. "…and in fucking. You'd spill first and ask for forgiveness later."
Henry's cheeks burn so hot they probably glow, and there's truth to Hans's words that Henry must begrudgingly admit to—but he refuses to concede the point out loud. "I'd pull out," he mumbles, mulish.
Hans's laugh bursts out of his whole chest, making them both shake. He laughs, and laughs, in his bright and lilting bird-voice, loud and free and happy. He looks so sweet lying there—gold hair contrasting with the grass's vivid green, joy dancing in his eyes and wild wide grin—that Henry has no choice but to shut him up with a kiss, and another, and one more. "I would," he insists, not even caring about what point he was trying to make. "I would, I would."
"You wouldn't. You lech. You scoundrel." Hans slips a sly hand around Henry's neck to clutch at his nape, pulling at his hair just enough to make Henry shiver. His whole body arches up, greedy for Henry's heat. "Hanush would have had me locked up because of you. He'd have sent me to a goddamn monastery."
"Then I'd kidnap you." Henry noses at the hollow of Hans's throat, rubs at the sapling stubble of his jaw. He palms Hans's slim, wonderful hips. "I'd rescue you. I'll still rescue you."
Hans stills. "What?"
Henry pulls back just enough to look him in the face, their chests still touching as they breathed. "I'll rescue you," he repeats, and suddenly they're not playing around anymore. "If this wedding gets to be too much—if you start feeling the walls closing in—" Henry swallows past the feeling lodged in his throat, worry and anger and fear all in one. "I'll put you on a horse and ride away with you as far as the horizon. If you want me to."
Hans's smile a different creature altogether now, bittersweet, and a little distant ."Rescuing is for damsels, not for lords."
"Fine. A daring escape, then. Both of us on an adventure." Henry nudges at Hans's cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth until he feels it reluctantly curl up. "Come on. What do you think? Prague, this time?" Italy?"
"Oh, Henry," Hans sighs—but the playfulness has returned to his gaze despite himself, his expression youthful and impish. "You're thinking too small. It's got to be Jerusalem—no, even farther. The edge of the known world, obviously."
"Obviously," Henry agrees. He bends down to seal the deal with a kiss. "Agreed."
Day Six - Bird!Hans
The gilded cage is broken, and Capon doesn't waste time testing his wings.
From the window, Hans watches for the signal. His hands disturb the empty seeds on the sill, picked clean by the birds he'd left them for, just for the pleasure of seeing something fly away from here.
A torch lights by the stables— too far and too dark to see the face beside it, but he imagines Henry's eyes meeting his.
"He's ready," he whispers urgently, and for once Brabant is quiet as they begin their escape.
The gates open, and Hans spurs his horse on. God may not have given him wings, but with Henry in his tailwind, he remembers how to fly.
Day Five - Missing Scenes
Hans finds his accommodations at the Devil's Den somewhat lacking.
"They expect me to sleep here?" Hans tests the bedframe with his knee, the whole thing groaning like dying old man.
"Where else?" Henry laughs. "The Devil's Den is short on goosefeather pillows for m'lord."
"Well, if Sigismund's army doesn't kill me, the draft from the window may."
"Shall I call Mutt to warm your sheets?"
"I'd sooner find a wench to."
"No wenches here, I'm afraid. Just me."
Hans finds his gaze slipping below Henry's chin, unable to help how he assesses how warm he would be— his shoulders are certainly broad enough to hold a fire between them.
Day Four - Healing
Henry struggles with the task Herbwoman Bozhena gave him to save his lord's life.
Henry swears as the purple flowers tear between his fingers, cursing the blacksmith's hands he'd somehow inherited from a father he'd shared a childhood with, but not a drop of blood. The scraps of his last failed attempt at this decoction lie scattered at his feet, but he doesn't hesitate to start again, heart in his throat as he reaches for the last of the sage flower.
He pries off the flowers with the very tips of his fingers, eyeing the sand slipping through the hourglass as though they're the grains of Sir Hans's life falling through the throat.
A super quick sketch for this day cause the lettering on the previous one just wore me out so bad. I really wanted to dance with Hans during the Semine wedding so I had to draw it for the missing scenes. They are precious when happy.
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: M/M
Fandoms: Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Video Games)
Relationships: Hans Capon/Henry
Characters: Hans Capon, Henry (Kingdom Come: Deliverance)
Additional Tags:
Porn with Feelings, Post Game, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Teasing, Sexual Frustration, Love Confessions, they're both idiots but we love them, Multiple Orgasms, Making Love, Oral Sex
Summary:
"You apparently don't understand how irresistible you looked doing it! All covered in sweat, muscles bulging, groaning every so often, making the exact sounds you do when I'm fucking you. So I decided to pay you back."
"By torturing me?"
"I prefer the term, retributive justice."
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Hans decides to pay Henry back for being too sexy when working the forge by teasing him to frustration all day.
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