This is a writing-only sideblog for @queenaeducanâ. Here Iâll be posting or reposting things written by myself or, occasionally, my partner @theshirallenââs as we have a shared universe together. You might also know me from my Solas rp blog @theharellanâ which Iâve run since DA:Iâs release.
Several of the OCs that I will be writing about on this blog are the creations of my partner/spouse, Joly. Ian Lavellan, Cadri Cadash, and Miolvun are all theirs.
Henry and Hans arrive in Kuttenberg to find it infested with rumours of a terrible attack, which occurred some days prior.
âI canât see Vanek in the yard.â
Henry had known the words Hans was thinking before he said them. Only because heâd been thinking them, too.
The inn his father had sent them to is a well-off sort, strategically stationed between Sasau and Kuttenberg. He doesnât know if it has a name, but locals and travellers both simply called it The Crossroads, and that name suits Henry just fine. Thereâs nought but farm and charcoal burners for miles around, but thereâs coin in the place, and in adjoining stables, thatâs plain as the nose on his face.
Henry looks again at the horse yard, hoping to prove himself and Hans wrong. Vanek is a simple-looking horse, for all Hynce thinks the world of her. Bred to be well-mannered and mindful of a young boyâs brash ideas; yet Henry would know her at a glance if she were among the other horses, her brown coat turning brassy in the bright afternoon sun.
âNeither can I,â heâs forced to admit. âShe could be in the stables. You know how your boy is. Doesnât want passers-by getting any ideas.â He smiles, reassuring, and is offered a thin attempt at one in return.
âď¸ Read the rest on AO3 | Start from the beginning âď¸
Characters: Samuel of Kuttenberg, Sara of Kuttengerg, Henry of Skalitz
Pairing: Samuel & Henry, Samuel & Sara, Henry & Sara
Fandom: Kingdom Come: Deliverance
Rating: G
Words: 2.7k
Other Tags: Family, Mother-Son Relationship, Brotherly Love, Baking
Summary: A simple lesson in baking challah helps Samuel learn more about his brother, about his mother, and about himself. Written for @samkcdweek! Inspired by this art/headcanon from @pinacoladamatata.
"Can I help with anything?"
The question comes out more as a desperate plea than a helpful offer, at least to Samuel's finely tuned ears. Henry sits at the table, looking too large for the seat he'd chosen, one leg bouncing to escape his idleness.
"You're a guest here, Henry," Mame answers. "Guests do not lift a finger, unless it is for eating."
Samuel snorts, dusting his hands off on his shirt. Fingerprints of flour come away with them, which has his mother frowning and trying to brush away with a strip of cloth. Samuel bends his spine and belly back, neatly avoiding her fussing. "I think it would make Henry more comfortable, Mame, if he is given something to occupy himself with. He is a little unpractised at sitting still." Curling his fingers around his mother's shoulder, he looks over his own at Henry, adding, "Isn't that right, Bruder?"
"I just like making myself helpful," Henry answers, sounding apologetic at the fact.
Complex KCD2 portrait for @queenaeducan. I feel blessed every time I get paid to draw naked men. Special public thanks to the client for waiting for this like an angel most of this year đ
happy wednesday for everyone else but happy mednesday to me bc im going back to work :(
here is something i want to finish before sam week is over, based on pina's hc abt sam and challah
"Can I help with anything?"
The question comes out more as a desperate plea than a helpful offer, at least to Samuel's finely tuned ears. Henry sits at the table, looking too large for the seat he'd chosen, one leg bouncing to escape his idleness.
"You're a guest here, Henry," Mame answers. "Guests do not lift a finger, unless it is for eating."
Samuel snorts, dusting his hands off on his shirt. Fingerprints of flour come away with them, which has his mother frowning and trying to brush away with a strip of cloth. Samuel bends his spine and belly back, neatly avoiding her fussing. "I think it would make Henry more comfortable, Mame, if he is given something to occupy himself with. He is a little unpractised at sitting still." Curling his fingers around his mother's shoulder, he looks over his own at Henry, adding, "Isn't that right, Bruder?"
"I just like making myself helpful," Henry answers, sounding apologetic at the fact.
Mame puffs her cheeks and sighs. "You are both like your father," she says. "He couldn't ever abide empty hands either."
Characters: Henry of Skalitz, Hans Capon, Godwin Oderin, Albich Uniczow
Pairing: Henry/Hans Capon, Henry & Godwin, Henry & Albich
Fandom: Kingdom Come: Deliverance
Rating: M
Words: 9k
Other Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Medieval Medicine, Humourism
Summary: Autumn has arrived, and as their time at the Devil's Den draws to a close one of Hans's invented illnesses swiftly becomes a real one.
His Ma once told him a lie, told often enough, will begin to embody the truth.
Like much of his mother's more superstitious advice, Henry ignored it, and continued living his life as though he were the first boy to ever live.
Like much of his mother's advice, it eventually comes back to haunt him.
Autumn leaves trim the trees outside the Devil's Den; branches trail with orange and yellow and red, like the colourful train of a bride's gown. This year, rather than being a portent of a bountiful harvest, they are an omen of the encroaching winterâ and the wedding to follow.
At first it had been a game, inventing illnesses for Hans to recuperate from. A lingering cough from a siege that had nearly taken everything from them; a persistent headache sustained from an injury; a summer cold, a paradoxical illness that had infested the Den.
Rumours of some mysterious illness in Sedletz lent credence to the farce, and Hanush doesn't question why his nephew, until that point the picture of health, has suddenly become as sickly as a waifish orphan.
Characters: Henry of Skalitz, Hans Capon, Bathmaid OC
Pairing: Henry/Hans Capon
Fandom: Kingdom Come: Deliverance
Rating: E
Words: 5,914
Other Tags: Under-negotiated Threesome, Bisexual Hans, Gay Henry, Discussion of Past-Noncon, Fighting as foreplay, Frottage, Semi-public sex
Summary: When Henry can't satisfy Hans's fantasies at the Kingfisher baths their night takes a sour turn.
"Pretty, isn't she, Henry?"
Henry snaps to life. He isn't sure where he was before, but now he's in a bath, watching Hans watch some woman watching them. Hans squishes her cheeks so they fatten between his fingers, pushing her lips together as her chin rests upon the palm of her hand.
She is good looking, if you like that sort of thing. A face full of freckles and long, dark hair undone from its plait. It pools around her where it meets the water, resembling a nest of snake's tails coiling at the surface.
"You'll hurt her feelings if you don't answer, Henry," Hans warns.
Henry's eyes dart to him. His eyes, his lips, his cheeksâ rouge with wine and the heat of the bath; that's where Henry had been, before this, lost in the way Hans's teeth had been digging into his lower lip, thinking that could hide his smile.
"Aye, 'course she is," he says. "Prettiest lass in Kuttenberg."
tell me about the fic that the hail mary prayer & confession research is forđđ
hans gets sick and henry takes it personally. it ought to be done by the weekend if all goes well!
here's a snippet of the confession's beginning!
plain text under cut
His eyes itch. He pinches them again, finger and thumb coming away wet. "Do you still take confession, Father?"
"You know I don't," Godwin snorts. He stops, turning to look at Henry trailing behind. Henry can see his feet, toes pointing slightly off to the right. He looks up and finds himself looking at Godwin from behind a veil of tears which he fails to swipe away. "Although perhaps the Lord will understand if I do, just this once. Kneel, lad. I'll hear your sins on God's behalf."
Henry does so. His knees sink into the loamy soil, the tall trees and their leaves not enough to shade the forest floor from yesterday's rainstorm. Water saturates the points where his body meets the ground, soaking through his hose, welling around his kneecap. Godwin signs a Cross, which Henry mirrors, the familiar words pouring from his lips to Godwin's ears:
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession wasâŚ" He teeths his lips, worrying at the chapped skin. "Must've been⌠not since-"
The realisation drops like a lead weight in his stomach. Before he can count the days since he'd knelt in the Rovna chapel and recounted his boyish sins to Father Simon. He can't even remember what it was he confessed toâ what he would even have to say that weren't the petty crimes of an unrealised man.
Before he can falter further, Godwin offers a respite. "It's alright," he murmurs. "The Lord will understand."
Hans and Henry share a bed after the victory at Suchdol.
Hans x Henry. Fluff. 1,200 words.
After weeks of starving within Suchdol's walls, waking up with a full belly might have seemed to Hans Capon a miracle on par with those found in the Bible. Equatable to the feeding of five thousand or manna delivered from Heaven. Such a thought might well be deigned heresy, were he not layering upon them greater sinsâ committed in mind and body.
Henry is asleep beside him, his face soft in strange new ways. His cheek is pressed up against Hans's arm, neglecting his pillow for the cushion of Hans's bicep. His hair sweeps in front of his face in a way he would never abide awake, although Hans hesitates to right it for him, afraid the most fragile touch will rouse him. When he stirs (not to waking) the bristle of his growing beard pokes into Hans's skin. He does not mutter, does not toss and turn, as he had so often in their room at the Den. He does not stand, still sleeping, and test the door that he himself had locked the night beforeâ a sound that now tolls the bells of Hans's heart.
He simply sleeps, and Hans lets him.
Hans, himself, drifts off here and there as the morning grows long in the tooth. Each time he wakes, he watches Henry a while, in a manner he often had before, but always with excuse. Their lives riddled with danger, and Henry so eager to thrust himself into danger (or else be volunteered for it), it was only natural that Hans would be worried for him. And though Henry had been charged with his protection, he no more wanted Radzig to lose his only son than for Rattay to lose its heir. Now, he needs no pretence. His eyes blink open, and he drinks Henry in for the sake of it. Admiring the marriage of soft and strong features, and sleeping again.
Until Hans opens his eyes, and finds Henry watching him.
He grins at having been caught, a flush creeping into a face made pale by sleep. His eyes are blue with the fantasy of dreams, framed by dark lashes that kiss his cheek when he blinks. He smiles so wide Hans can see the hole from the molar he'd lost in Semine, a loss Henry had shrugged off in the middle of two bites of bread. 'I'll eat with the other side,' he'd said. Strange, to think the laugh that remark earned had led to this. That every moment they'd shared, foolish and fraught, had become this.
"You've slept in," Henry chides playfully. "You're usually up with the birds, you."
Hans issues a soft, breathy laugh from his nose. It's difficult to know how to respond when they're lying together like this. Beyond these walls it's easy to slip back into the routine of knight and squire, two young men who have fought in battle, and have every reason to laugh twice as hard for the deaths they've escaped. Within them, however, it feels nebulous. This feeling, this them: knight and squire; Galehaut and Lancelot; Hans and Henry. Two friends, two lovers. He hopes.
He hopes.
Hans's eyes point in the direction of his trapped arm and he opts to say, "My wing has been clipped."
He sees confusion knit Henry's thick brow, eyes travelling to the corners so Hans can see their whites. Recognition dawns like the morning they've nearly missed, and he lifts his head for Hans to retrieve his armâ only when Hans tries, he can't seem to move in.
His own brow knits, and he tries again. He can see his arm, laying there, attached to him at the shoulder as it ought to be, but there is no feeling beyond his elbow and even that is faint. He's not even sure he can move his fingers. "What have you done to my arm?" he asks.
"What?"
"I can't feel a thing."
Henry frowns, propping himself up on his elbow to examine it. With his other hand, he prods the skin, which does elicit some feeling deep beneath the skin. "Don't tell me you've never had pins and needles before."
"Of course I have!" he says defensively. He'd woken up too many times with his arms thrown over his head and a tingling feeling in his arms to tolerate such an accusation. "But you can feel those. I can't feel anything."
"Then you've never had them properly. Ma used to complain all the time when I'd roll on her arm."
"So this is a long-standing issue?" he says. "Maybe your head is too thick, Hal."
"Or your arm is too brittle." Henry paws at Hans's arm like a wild animal nosing a corpse on the side of the road. He lifts it by the wrist and watches it fall limply to the mattress, fascinated. "Christ, it really is asleep."
"You've nursed one arm just to cost me another."
"Relax, in a few minutes it'll be fine." Though until then, it appears to be the subject of Henry's mercies. He waggles the hand at the wrist a few more times, as if waving hello to himself, but before Hans can open his mouth to protest Henry threads their fingers together. He feels nothing and everything watching them knitâ his fingers like five pieces of led, but his heart jolting up into his throat. Henry seems to take no notice, but twists their wrists together, baring the back of Hans's hand to his lips.
The first brush of them against Hans's thumb seems to bring it to life. For the first time since Henry had freed him, the skin has feeling. Each finger, in turn, is nursed at the knuckle, inspiring life into the appendage. When each have been bestowed, Hans finds the strength to turn his hand to cup the flush of Henry's cheek. His newly-healed thumb strokes the smooth skin of his cheekbone, sweeping to the lines his smile has worn into his face.
"Looks like you're keepin' the arm after all," Henry jests in the moments before Hans drags their faces towards one another.
He feels Henry's breath expand against his chest, the slow draw through the nose so they need not part before they are ready. Hans makes a noise in his throat he struggles to name, and sees no need to, so long as it does not put a stop to this: to the plush of Henry's lips overlapping with his; the tender use of teeth and tongue. He feels his nose bend against Henry's cheek and wonders if it shall be put to sleep, too, before they are finished.
"Mornin'," Henry murmurs against Hans's mouth, unable to contain his smile until Hans kisses it away. They roll together, Henry flattening against the mattress, Hans on top. An inversion of that night Henry had taken his leave from Suchdol. One ear bends against the pillow, pointed tip resembling a dog with a folded flap.
Henry lays his hand upon the bicep of Hans's left arm, stroking new feeling back into it. "Sorry about your arm."
"It's alright," Hans says, kissing him again. Again. Again. Those lips have done more than give new life to his fingers, but rather have breathed it into his whole existence. They deserve to take a little, as well. "Maybe tomorrow morning, it will hurt a little less."
I wrote this this morning, inspired by my own tendency to wake up with zero feeling in my arm. You can also find this on my AO3!
The day of Radzig's departure arrives, and Hans gets his long-awaited hunt.
âCome here. I want to hold you.â
The command summons Henry, who buries his face into the centre of Hansâs chest as if he plans to make a home amidst his ribs. He breathes a sigh so hot Hans can feel it beneath the layers of his hunting clothes; he imagines his own heart chiming back and forth like a bell, moved by the tollerâs strength.
Hair that had coiled around his fingers tickles his nose as Hans bows his head to bury it against the top of Henryâs. He can feel his heart beating against Henryâs cheek, slowing to its resting rateâ not hurried by the hunt or sex. Not hurried at all, in fact.
âHow many days shall we stay out here?â Hans asks.
âHow many can we afford to?â
Hans knows itâs not their supplies he refers to when he asks that question. Theyâd both lived rough before, foraging the woods of Trosky for game and safe water. In the months before he married Jitka he imagined that being their forever. Never seriously, but enough that it comes to mind now, years later. Henryâs beard would grow to his chest and Hans would wear his hair back like a married woman.
âI donât know,â he admits. âMaybe a week? Jitka and Albrecht can handle matters that long. Longer, even.â
But he thinks of Otta, who had smiled her first smile not so long ago. And Hetty, who misses her brother more than he thinks she cares to admit.
âA few days, at least.â
âď¸ Read the rest on AO3 | Start from the beginning âď¸
* this chapter includes explicit (sexual) content)
Hans & A Cow. Hans/Henry. Written for @turbotrout. 2,286 words.
When he was a child in Pirkstein, he once told his guardian he was going to run away.
Sir Henry had ignored him. It was always Hanush's job to handle his boyish outbursts. Sir Henry had raised three sons, and likely wouldn't have chosen to raise another, had it not fallen upon him. Hanush told him to go on ahead. Quit his seat, live in the woods, see what the world does without him.
The answer, as it turns out, is that it goes on much the same.
It has been five days since Hans had parted with Henry at the pillory. Five days of eating foraged food and what he could afford off ill-gotten game. Five days of scraping the hair off his chin by his reflection in a puddle.
Five days alone.
He turns his foot as he walks through the woods between Zhelejov and Tachov, avoiding the twigs resting innocently upon the ground. There had been sign of game a few feet back, something that was not so clever-footed as him, and he has a mind to bag it. It has horns; this, he knows from the deep scars in the tree he passes, where it had stopped to scratch an itch. It has fur; this, he knows from the red hairs stuck to the bushes. It has meat; because everything does.
With every step he scans the treeline, gaze piercing through the tangle of the forest, sometimes pausing at the deceptive sight of a sapling whose slender trunk could pass for a deer's leg. He perks his ears, and hears birdsong; then wonders if it has moved on, and if he is hunting a shadow.
Until something crunches, a ways ahead.
He jumps, but keeps his feet planted, and his bow close. Another crunch, and he creeps closer, using the horrid sound to mask his steps. His fingers stroke up the arrowshaft to the fletching, ready to nock. Draws. Aims.
It sees him.
Blue eyes stare him down, placid, unable to conceive of the violence balanced upon the arch of his bowstring. It doesn't even stop fucking eating, jaw working as its ears twitch and its lashes bat against its cheeks and its tail swats a fly off its back.
"What are you doing here?" he asks. The first words Hans has spoken all day, he realises. And he's saying them to a cow.
It doesn't answer, but chews. Crunching like it's chewing up its own teeth. It's then that he sees a smatter of red on its lips. A bright red, like strawberries, orâ
There's a hare on the ground between them, half-eaten by flies and by his newfound company. More mangled than any wolf's prey, the only reason he recognises what it is at all is because of its ears, pressed pristine into the soil by a cloven hoof. It doesn't seem to recognise what it's doing, what it's eating, chewing it like it would a patch of clover. Born on a farm to pull a plough and feed a family, it won't know death until it's at its throat.
The arrow slides from its resting place, bowstring going loose as his muscles, slinging the weapon over his shoulder as he steps forward towards its would-be quarry. It blinks at him, one hoof stepping protectively towards the chewed up hare. A single step changes the shape of its whole body, it's like watching mountains part upon its back and come together again. It chews, bones crunch.
"Easy," he says to itâ to her. A pink udder swings side-to-side when she moves, and her horns are a little shy for a bull's. "I know the rules of the hunt. The killer keeps the kill."
She blinks again, blue eyes disarmingly sweet within her simple-looking face. For the first time in days Hans sees himself reflected in something other than a mud puddle, his features distorted by the round lens of her gaze. "I suppose when you're done I'll have to take you back," he says. "Someone will be looking for you."
His stomach pinches at the prospect.
As it turns out, cows are in no hurry in nearly any aspect of their lives. He stands for a time, watching her further graze upon the remains of the hare, until his legs start to ache beneath him and he finds the shade of a nearby birch. She watches him, and for a moment he can imagine they're seated across from each other at a tavern. His meal long finished, mere bones to pick his teeth with, while she savours every bite.
"I didn't eat my first kill, you know," he tells her. "I'd shot it in the liver, and it lived long enough that I couldn't find it. Never shoot the liverâ unless you have dogs, of course."
He gestures with the point of his dagger, which he then drags against a whetstone for want of something to do.
"I suppose in that respect you're doing better than me."
Lashes against her cheek, he is brought back to the woods outside Rattay. Henry's gaze looking down at the hares he'd bagged, the angle of his head not enough to disguise his smile. They hadn't eaten those, either. The Cumans had seen to that.
The sun rotates overhead, and the slant of the forest changes as the morning turns to afternoon before she raises her head and steps over the body of the hare, already forgotten. She moves on to the dandelion sprouting between some dead leaves, ripping the white heads off the stems with a sickening twist.
"Is that all you do all day?" Hans asks incredulously. "Eat and eat some more?"
She protests, mooing with a sharp flick of her tail, like he's the fly. Then, as if to prove a point, she shits. It falls in a steaming heap on the forest floor. Hans flinches, shaken suddenly back to the gates of Trosky castle.
"Of course," he says after he's recovered. "How could I forget?"
Tiring of this, he stands, bending over to pluck the last dandelion from the earth. He puffs his cheeks and blows the pale seeds towards her, where they land in her brown fur like freckles on her face. A wish flashes white in his head, so fast he doesn't let it come to words, only fleeting glimpses of wants too potent to let himself truly feel.
"There. It's gone. Can we get a move on, now? It's a walk to Zhelejov and I don't have all day." She blinks her eyes at him, and he can only assume she means 'yes,' as when he heads south she follows. "I presume that's where you're from, at least, based on the brand. I don't suppose that lisping fool of a farmer will give me a reward for your return?"
She ploughs through the underbrush with the grace ofâ well, a cow.
"No, I didn't think so, either."
They walk together, and it's almost like having company again. She lumbers more than his usual companion, and when she chews her lips don't smack as loudly. When he isn't certain of where to turn in the woods, she keeps going, and he finds himself following her. She is a certain step, ploughing through any underbrush that presents a challenge, but not always a quick oneâ likely to stop to graze on flowers while Hans leans against the trunk of the nearest tree.
"I'm starting to feel like LibuĹĄe," he says to her, as if this cow would know the name. Foundress of Prague, and wife to the legendary PĹemysl, pauper-prince of the Bohemians. "Although I suppose she placed her trust in a horse. It would be good timing if you were to lead me to the next PĹemysl. We could certainly use another⌠then Uncle could hardly fault me for all that's transpired to this point."
She moos, shaking the birds from their nests.
"You're right. I haven't been blessed with such luck thus far, but you never know! After all, it was good timing that I found you before you⌠stumbled into a ditch, or ate some nightshade, or ran into a pack ofâ"
From elsewhere in the woods, he hears something bark. A dog, a wolf. It makes little difference this deep in the trees. Hans's hand finds his hunting sword, drawing the steel an inch from its holster as four quick legs run quickly through the forest, towards them. He's fended off his share of wolves in these last five days when the only life at stake was his own.
Perhaps the townspeople will not recognise him as bellator, but Bessie here will see a shred of what he's capable of.
The barking grows closer, alerting some other member of the pack nearby, no doubt. He waits, and watches, the tension undercut by the incessant sound of chewing behind him.
At last, it bursts through the circle of trees, but it's no wolf that confronts them, no dog, but aâ
"Mutt!" Hans laughs his name, and whatever mission the dog had been on is quickly forgotten when he hears it. The focus on his face relaxing into a grin as his tail begins to wag. Something in Hans's chest swells, just to be recognised. He leans over his knees and stretches out his hand, unarmed, for Mutt to nose into his hand and sniff around his ankles. "Christ, I've been looking for you for days. You've some cheek, showing your face now. Henry willâŚ"
He chokes on the name, and swallows it.
"At least I've kept my word."
Before he can feel his luck has truly begun to turn, something else rustles in the bushes. It doesn't bark, or moo for that matter, but it does shout: "Mutt! Slow down, boy, for Christ's sake."
Hans's stomach drops, even before he's appeared. Of course Henry had found him first, of course he was only trailing in his footsteps, as he had every time he'd dared show his face anywhere but the tanner's or the butcher's. Henry emerges from the bushes with less grace than his hound, shielding his face from the clawing branches and itching vines. He's wearing yellow, like he had by the pond. Before they were partedâ before he had left.
And his eyes⌠blue, framed by lashes dark against his cheeks. They blink at Hans with a disarming look about them, processing what Hans has already surmised.
"Some PĹemysl you've led me to," he says to the cow. Bessie, he's decided. A simple name for a simple animal. Though he might have opted for Henrietta, instead. "Perhaps there is no hope for Bohemia, after all."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Henry asks, stumbling a little as a thorn snags on his hose. He yanks his foot towards him, grunting as he leans over to pick out the thorn. "And what're you doing with Olbram's cow? You weren't going to�"
Hans wishes it had been a wolf. A set of teeth in his arm would hurt less than the accusation laid less-than-subtly at his feet. "I'm not that desperate yet, no thanks to you," he scoffs. "And how would you know what that old bastard is missing, anyway? It doesn't seem prescient to our task."
"Anything with coin helps, doesn't it? Besides, if you weren't⌠y'know, then why were you�" Henry and Bessie lock eyes. Bessie, chewing cud. Henry, chewing on a question. Jaws working in equally simple ways, to similar ends. "Were you takin' her back, sir?"
"Maybe I was taking her to Tachov," Hans says, obstinate. "Things have grown quiet between it and Zhelejov these past few days, after all."
A smile digs into Henry's cheeks, dimpling it. He steps over some roots, reaching out to pat Bessie's nose with one hand. Henry seems to know exactly where to touch her to charm her, scratching up her nose and behind one long, floppy ear. "In that case, sir, you're going the wrong way." Bobbing his chin up, back the way Hans had come, he adds, "Tachov is that way."
Hans's face burns pink. Too many hours in the sun. Even in the forest, it filters through the branches. "If you know the way, you can take her, then. It saves me the trouble."
"We could go together, sir. Split the reward. It's honest work, at least. What do you say?"
In the break between Henry's question and Hans's answer, Bessie chews. And chews. Working her meal into a fine paste, every grind of her teeth strikes him with a memory. Them in the pillory, him shouting at Henry, Henry shouting back. That simple smile and those blue eyes, they can tear flesh, too.
"It doesn't matter what I say," he says at length. "What will others say, to see a noble escorting a cow back to some peasant? No, Henry⌠I'm sorry."
His smile may be simple, but his frown carries a burden he'd dragged here from Skalitz. Again, Hans longs for the wolf's bite. "'Course. Dunno why I bothered askin'." He runs his hands along the cow's back, tugging on her with a gentle "c'mon, then." Before they part, Henry pauses at the edge of the clearing, not turning as he says, "I'll come find you with your share. Seems only right, you did half the work."
"Whatever you say, Hal," Hans says in lieu of good-bye. He watches: boy, cow, and dog, disappear into the forest.
For hours after, he feels the shape of Henry's name upon his lips. How his lips hug his teeth to say them, how they will be the last civil words he will say for the remainder of the day, and into the next.
from a wip where henry evidently has something he should be apologising about- according to hans. also there's a dog.
Hans's earlier words portend the chill in the air. The sun is set, and the city hums with the sound of tongues wagging after a long day's work. In the distance Henry hears the Hole's merry makingâ and in the baths, men who had more success than he'd had. He follows the path down to the stream that runs out of the city, a patchy-patterned dog lifting his head from the pillow of his paws and stretching before joining him. Mutt is at the perfect height to force his head beneath Henry's hand. He lifts his snout, trying to facilitate a rub behind the ears.
Henry ignores it, pushing him away as he rocks off his feet. He settles by the bank, upon a dry spot that doesn't sink into his braies. He can imagine some washerwoman sitting here as he is now, settling back on her heels to watch the sky go orange.
"Hruf," Mutt noses into his lap, wet nose pressing into his arm.
"Alright, boy. You've made your point," he chuckles, curling his fingers in the soft corner of hair between the hound's ear and skull. He bounces one velvet ear, bending it to cover one eye until Mutt looks at him, beleaguered. "Sorry."
"You're apologising to him?" Comes an incredulous voice from behind. "I'm the one you ought to be saying sorry to."
tagging: @troutdraw (i warned u), @rat-spit-village, @darethshirl, @pinacoladamatata, @rowanisawriter, @by-ilmater, @ptacku, @void-slip, @ whoever would care to take part!
Characters: Henry of Skalitz, Hans Capon
Pairing: Henry/Hans Capon
Fandom: Kingdom Come: Deliverance
Rating: E
Other Tags: Docking, Penis in Penis Sex, Cringe Sex, Laughing During Sex, Fluff, PWP
Summary: Hans explores Henry's anatomy.
Relief, Hans Capon has found, can come in many shapes.
It is the first drink of spirits after a siege; the sight of the cavalry upon the horizon; the soft touch of a body after the bite of steel.
It is the sound of Henry, locking the door to their room behind him, and pulling a chair up against it. Just in case.
Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Letâs spread the self-love đ
thank yooooou for the ask! these are only a few of my faves i've written. i figured i'd try to highlight some that i'm proud of but get less attention.
Storge (Hans & Hynce, Hans/Henry) - Hans's first son is born and he struggles with feeling alienated from the child during the first few weeks after. Plus some emotional hurt/comfort at the end. Writing depression is always a difficult but rewarding experience, trying to capture feelings I've felt and apply them to different situations in a way that feels true is an aspect of writing I really love.
Fresh Meat (Hans & Butcher Baschka, Hans/Henry) - A fic mostly from the POV of the butcher Hans is selling his poached meat to, leading up to the aftermath of Hans's near-hanging. I really enjoyed fleshing out the minor characters from the game in this, and also depicting Henry and Hans from the perspective of an established adult. Highlighting how young they both are and the ways they're endearing and frustrating to deal with.
Adam's Rib (Henry x Various Female Characters) - A short multichapter fic exploring Henry's various sexual encounters in KCD1 with the twist that he's also gay in this version of himself. Mind the tags, but I challenged myself to write things I end to write around in a way that felt satisfying and rewarding. I also really loved how I managed to pull the thread of Bianca through this, and grew to appreciate her part in Henry's life in return.
Five, Seven, Five (Thora Cadash & Solas) - After an excursion into Thora's ancestral thaig she takes up poetry, an artform she has long-loved but never tried her own hand at (feeling she is unsuited to it as a Casteless). She shares her first attempt with Solas. I wanted to depict how frightening and intimate it is to share art with someone, even someone you care about, and also explore Solas's feelings and guilt about the Titans and dwarves.
Spokes in the Wheel (Mordin x Kirrahe) - A series of double drabbles depicting various moments in Kirrahe and Mordin's lives, exploring their friendship and subtle romance. I really liked what I communicated and the use of the limited wordcount in conjunction with Mordin's clipped speech patterns. Big brain move and I wrote this on a crazy writer's block, too.
A fluffy section of a smut fic that's actually a comedy fic. Tagged yesterday by @rat-spit-village â¨ď¸
Plain text under cut
Henry holds Hans's foot upon his folded leg, kissing the ankle as he pulls off the shoe; tongue darting out, like the tendon is another pair of lips that might kiss him back. Hans feels him laugh, a breath upon Hans's leg as his shin erupts in gooseflesh. No doubt Henry thinks it tickled him. And maybe it did, some.
But there's always something more, when Henry is involved.
"I used to wonder when I was young how poets seemed to find the beauty in every minutiae of life.
He waits, a pregnant silence he indulges while Henry slips him out of his other shoe. This time, kissing the soft inside that doesn't quite touch the ground, just to make it match the other.
Grinning, Henry sits back on the ground with his legs spread: cock falling on his right thigh, head falling on his left shoulder. "Is that right?" he asks, in a tone that says he thinks he knows the answer to Hans's musing, but just wants to hear Hans say it.
The day of Radzig's departure arrives, and Hans gets his long-awaited hunt.
Radzig's departure comes both too early and too late.
His men are no trouble: Borita serves as a companion for Hynce and entertainment for Hetty, and the soldiers can amuse themselves. It is the visiting lord himself that is the point of friction. Sometimes Hans wishes Radzig would simply shout at him as Hanush would have, so at least he could shout back.
Instead, Radzig plays the higher ground, forcing Hans to climb higherâ or grovel to his desires.
Take the wine, take the bread, take his son. Take everything.
Every moment he spends in Radzigâs company explains why Hal is the way he is. So eager to please a man who always seems to want a little something more than what you're giving him.
âď¸ Read the rest on AO3 | Start from the beginning âď¸
