#tachov | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bansept · 2 months ago

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Martyrdom

Here's a small contribution to the Henry/Katherine ship, and I hope more will come!

If you prefer, you can find it on AO3 as well.

The incessant stops from villagers and bandits alike, some begging for help, waving at him good-naturedly or threatening him with poorly maintained weapons, the rust on their laminar armor enough to hint at their bandit status. Not a matter, he was always happy to rid the Kingdom of these pests, encumbering the good people for a fistful of groschen.

Pebbles whinnies loudly, as if urging him to get off his back quickly, the journey from Tachov exhausting for both animal and master.

Mutt was always eager to bite them off, barking threateningly at any noises, and his mare stood strong against swords and spikes.

Tachov didn’t change during the span of those long weeks. Places like that rarely do, forever molded by the simple daily tasks: wake up, work the field, gather some herbs, feed the chicken, drink at the tavern at nightfall, and repeat it all until your bones grow too weak to carry you out of your bed.

Radovan had looked surprised to see him in such company, or perhaps it was the thick, dark cuirass, intricate arm plates, and bloody knight sword strapped to his side that made the smithy shift from one foot to the other with a worried smile. A beggar turned knight, he must have thought.

Nevertheless, Henry returned to pay back his debt, thanking the man for sheltering him for the few days of his stay, and diving him back to the smell of burning coal, sweat, and incandescent metal.

The Trotsky region had other friends he visited, including the nomad camp, buzzing with tension for their great departure. True enough, Nomads don’t like to stay in one place too long.

But after a while, he knew he had to return.

The Devil’s Den doesn’t change either. Bandits, tramps, and thieves alike lounge around it, pestering each other with games of dice and drunken madness, chanting and dancing like mad men. However, this particular bunch has a good reason to celebrate: the silver from the Italian court, glittering and tingling purely, calling each of them by their names as would an exotic wench with honey dosed over her shapes.

Zizka keeps the troops well dug in until they figure out what to do, and especially, how to do it. Although it seems in the 2 weeks of his absence, Henry didn't miss much: the men are restless being around so much money, yearning for a good sacking and pillaging, as always. But they rest easy, enjoying the calm while it lasts.

Even Hans suffers in silence, with patience. The inn is nowhere close to his standards, as a noble and Bellatores, but when confronted with the burning look in the commander’s single eye, he complies, carrying the lone, small sack of flour 3 steps away, muttering about God’s law under his breath.

Henry steps down, the sensation of the leather saddle on his dear horse’s back as if printed on his buttocks. He groans in relief, feet finally on the ground, while he slowly takes off his gauntlets, the plate clinking with each movement.

“Well, there you are!” Hans exclaims from one of the tables in the shade, his mug of ale dangerously full. His face is red and his smile is drunken, but he’s genuinely happy to welcome his friend. “Where in the Lord’s name were you?”

Godwin, Janosh, and Samuel yelp at the same time, drunkenly greeting his arrival, and Henry can’t help but smile. After almost 2 weeks of traveling by himself, it’s a reward in itself to hear the raucous voices of friends.

“I’m sure I told you before I left, Lord Capon. But, let's say I had some unfinished business in the Trotsky region.” Henry sighs, cracking his neck in relief while the others stare dumbly, the booze in their veins surely rendering him with 3 eyes.

“Trotsky? Kurva, what did you have there you needed to see again?”

“A woman, of course!”

Henry's smile wavers for a second, the little clearing right outside Nebakov’s ruins rushing to his mind. The flowers, the green grass of the field, the grave he dug for an idea, for a body he couldn't find. Radovan, the nomads, he happily helped them and kept them away from his fate, where war wouldn’t catch up to them.

The same can’t be said about Klara.

He had hoped to find her, alive, if not wounded or missing a limb. But neither the ruins of the castle, nor the mill, nor even the villages miles away sheltered her.

She deserved a place to rest, so he gave her one.

“Did you manage to drink yourselves to death and keep a few barrels on the side? I’m impressed.” Henry chuckles, hands resting on his hips, while the others continue their buffoonery.

The drunks snicker and joke at him, ignoring the look of growing pain the young knight supports.

Henry winces slightly, leaning to his left to leave his right side to rest, the blood and dirt on his gambeson camouflaging the small trickle of blood from his injury. The company doesn’t need to know about it, he’ll wash up, dress up the wound, and sleep for the next few days, and he’ll be as good as new.

He waves at the men, before sighing to himself when they barely notice him stepping inside the Den. The building is as dark as night, as always, to the point he has to pick up his own torch to avoid stumbling into one of the tables. Far from him the idea to disturb Zizka or Kubyenka from their own drunken stupor.

Candles barely light the path to the wooden stairs, each step prolonging the sharp pain on his side. He can feel the blood trickle down, and drip on his clothes as if he wasn’t filthy enough already. Henry breathes heavily, biting off a moan of relief when he finally manages to climb to the first floor, the dice players of the day paying him no mind.

He was never one to live in luxury, even before all of this madness. That’s probably one thing he will always be grateful for because turning into one of those petulant numbskulls, rich to be damned and cowardly enough to pay others to do the business one could do himself would have been the most absurd strike of fate.

Thankfully, he was raised a blacksmith’s son. He was just a boy, with no dream, no darkness in his heart, and only wished to make Pa and Ma proud.

He is not entirely sure if he succeeded.

The fresh air from the balcony is a nice change, cooling his sweating brows, and he quietly stumbles to the end of the building. Henry pushes the door to one of the outside rooms open, the light from the sunny weather warming the cramped space.

The man almost trips on his feet several times before dropping on the bed given to him, moaning in relief. A small drop of blood leaks on the floor as he starts to fumble with his armor, the leather straps for the cuirass suddenly too tight, too much. After taking off the mail hood resting on his shoulders, he slowly removes the thick armor, and it feels like a horse is lifted from his worn-out body. Dents, gashes, and arrow impacts cover the metal, the blood, and rust from constant fighting, daily strain, and eternal traveling through woodlands, marshes, and fields.

He carefully takes off the gloves and arm plates from his shoulders, elbows, and forearms, shuffling the mail armor from his exhausted torso. The dull ache that he has been ignoring finally relieved.

Henry winces again when he realizes the torn-off gambeson he wears sticks to his wound. Like a sponge to water, he’s drenched in blood, old and new.

“Fuck… gotta rip it off…” He mumbles to himself, the padded material stuffing his wound close.

He’ll have to get the jacket open, pull strongly at the vest, certainly tearing at the scab that was barely formed from the constant closed space. If the clothing at least did one thing, it was to avoid him bleeding to death like a pit from a barrel. The clogged wound certainly suffered on his descent from his horse, and he must clean, stitch, and bandage himself before it gets purulent.

He carefully looks around, the bottle of Schnapps on one of the shelves calling to him like the Lord on Resurrection Day.

With a stretch that makes him grunt, Henry eagerly takes the bottle, placing it on his side. Alright. He needs to do this quickly. Helping Klara heal the wounded, and doing so himself later on at least taught him one thing: it will hurt like a bitch, but nothing a few potions here and there will not help. Fuck, he needs to get a painkiller brew. Or at least some chamomile oil to rub on his sides.

Loud stomping pulls him from his thinking, the sound of rushed footsteps unencumbered by any armor traveling to his door. Henry takes his hand off his ribs, foolishly hoping whoever will barge into his room will not notice the wound plaguing him.

The door is thrown open, and his breath catches in his throat, both relieved and horrified he’s been found out by the one person he wished would never see him weak.

Katherine’s eyes widen, the small wrinkles on her forehead tightening with the gasp coloring her face. Her hand rests on the door handle, the other bunched into a fist. Her dress is the same as the one she had when he left, the long cream-colored sleeves, the intense blue of the gown, the exotic ornate brooch, and the silver cross from the pearl necklace nestled in her cleavage.

His eyes linger on her chest for a single moment, witnessing the hurried rise and fall of her breasts, as if she had come running to see him.

In the infinite wheat fields, golden, dancing seas of sun hair, where Mutt enjoyed hiding and peaked his head out with a teasing bark, in the depths of old, silent, dangerous forests where bandits attacked him and laid dead for wolves to feast on, in a boisterous tavern filled with laughter he watched from his quiet corner, and even in the solitary prayer he allowed himself, by the shrine, on the side of the road covered by thick oak trees, Henry didn’t stop thinking of her. About her. Wondering, hoping, yearning, reminiscing.

Her determination, her fire. The hatred in her heart uncovered the fear of losing what she came to trust. People she came to depend on. Her cunning ways, how easily she’d slip past a guard and rob him blind while acting innocent as a saint.

Her smiles, rare at first, until he grew used to being the one making her laugh. Her hands, healing and tender when they once were ready to smack him straight in the gob for staring at her. Her cleavage, a soothing sight no matter the time, but also the source of a hunger she knew how to use as the sharpest of daggers.

The small mark under her eye, like a scar, the blue of her tired eyes, the softness of her hair, tied into this eternal braid.

He thought of her. Maybe even dreamed of her once or twice. Or more. Desired her. The memory of their only night together, fearing for their lives and knowing he could die any moment from then on. Oh, he would always remember the feeling of her, the vice grip she had on him, how his hands had explored her sides, traveling to her breasts before she took it upon herself to place his hands on the object of his curiosity. He remembers her moans, gasps and quiet blabbers, because he did the exact same with her, panting under her while she rode him earnestly.

Before parting, Katherine had been more at ease, the danger gone, the death rebuked yet another time. She had told him to keep himself out of trouble.

And now she stares at him with fury and worry alike.

“What in God’s name happened to you?!”

He puffs out a breath, a small smirk on his lips. Oh, he always did like women with fire in their blood.

“Katherine…”

“Let me see.” She grumbles, storming closer to him.

In an instant, she places her hands over his stubble-covered cheeks, moving his head up and down, grazing the back of his head for any bumps or cuts.

He smells of dirt and sweat, blood and shit. Her hands are clean, trained, in a way tender. She’d let him stumble in a pile of shit without regard if she didn’t care.

“Is it just the side?” She inquires, not letting go of his cheeks yet, fingers still. He stares at her, blue on blue, with round eyes before nodding slightly.

“Aye.”

“Get undressed then.”

Henry really wishes he could jest or try his luck and flirt, but he bites his cheek instead. Katherine isn't a woman who gets played. If he so much as diminishes a wound, she’ll stop talking to him for days. And that’s the furthest thing he needs now.

“I need to prepare the schnapps first. Not sure how bad the wound is.” He explains, eyeing the tarnished blue clay container by his side.

Katherine frowns, gently shoving him so he lies on his left side, grunting when she carefully eyes his wound. Her hands fly across the bloody clothing, and if he wasn’t bleeding out, he’d wrap an arm around her. A small sigh escapes her, and Henry starts to believe he might survive her ire.

“An arrowhead. I can’t see if it’s deep. Although, I doubt it went far, considering your armor must have blocked most of the impact.” She shrugs, the relief evident in her voice.

Henry takes one of her hands, gently pulling it from his wound, fingers softly tightening. Katherine doesn’t say a thing, only watches with a look of mild irritation and interest.

“Told you I’d come back in one piece.” He chuckles in the hopes he’ll be forgiven.

There’s a storm brewing inside of her, born from years of weariness, of fear, of heartbreak. How frightened she is he’ll never be back, or too battered to stand from his bed again. Of course, he understands her. But at times like theirs, with torched-down villages and power plays, bandits on all sides, and battles to be fought, they will both have to concede how lucky he is to only have been hit by a measly arrow in his ribs.

Her hand clamps in his thin, elegant fingers brushing his rough skin as she rolls her eyes.

“‘One piece’ is an overstatement, I fear.” She smiles, and the small wrinkles around her eyes appear once again.

“Would you like to make sure I still have everything to me?” Henry wiggles his eyebrows jokingly, although the thought of her palming his body is rapidly getting promising.

Katherine’s lips twist in a silent smile, one she attempts to hide but fails.

“If your mouth is running, I expect everything else to work just fine.” She lets go of him to stand back up, brushing her hand on his shoulder with a pensive look. “You’re filthy. I’ll ask a bathmaid to get a tub ready for you.”

Henry looks up, surprised, if not lost. He expected her to yell, get mad, something much more convincing for him to stay out of trouble than a mere frown. His body moves by itself, flashes of pain obstructing his vision when he reaches for her hand. The woman turns, startled by the sudden movements.

“I’ll take one later. Just…”

He rarely does, but moments like those, where words are about to stumble out of his mouth in a desperate plea, render the warmth of his cheeks and ears reddening, all the weapons in the world, all the armor he could ever gather, are stripped from him. Naked voice, naked self, naked feelings, under her interrogating gaze.

“I…” He takes a long breath. “Help me out? I need your blessed hands.”

Katherine stares, her expression unreadable.

In all his visions of her, memories and dreams, in his wishful thinking and yearning, Henry never mustered the courage to be truthful. Everything happened so quickly, only mere months ago, he was not an orphan, his bastard status unknown, his village unburnt. His thirst for blood and revenge was alien. With Bianca alive, he was promised a peaceful life, and an uneventful death, free of consequences.

But how fate is strange. And through all this suffering, fighting, torture, betrayal, and survival, he felt the nettles of regret wither. Or, perhaps it was instead the feeling of her hands, soft, warm, caressing his cheeks slowly, following the shape of his jaw, prickles of the beginning of his stubble against her palm, that brushed the fires of mourning and vengeance away.

Katherine’s smile widens with each second, showing pearly white teeth, and she steps closer, letting go of his hand to wrap herself around his shoulders. His face is nestled in her belly, his arms around her legs and she chuckles bemusedly in his hair.

“Blessed hands? Really?”

Henry turns his head to the side, cheek pressed against her dress, the smell of soap all over her. He flashes a smile, his growing stubble rubbing against the small buttons.

“Well, yes… You’ve got to be one of the most skilled healers I've met!” He can sense his eyes lighting up, although his mind is rebuking him. He knows several good healers. But she's the one he’ll always run back to.

Her hands dive into his locks, a bit longer than before, and pull slightly, a rush of pleasure sending thrills down his spine.

“Silver tongue, as always.” She snickers, fingers dancing on his scalp, and he almost purrs, the wound on his side entirely forgotten. “But you do stench. So, my dear knight, how about you make sure you clean that wound properly while I at least get a drought ready?”

Warmth, unlike the burning hatred and the charring desire for revenge. One that reminds him of the summer days they met, like the soft glow of the torch that lit their desperation, back in Suchdol. It runs through him like a river of gold, the ancient Greek king from the stories whose touch turned all things to gold resembles the sensation of loving her.

… Loving?

His heart thrums heavily in his chest, surprise painting his cheeks another shade of red, visible under the layers of dirt and smudges of blood.

“Henry?”

He blinks rapidly, gulping down the knot in his throat. The sudden realization of this woman, whom some would consider far too old for him, means more to him than even he realized, weakening the hold he has around her thighs, and lets go slowly.

“Ahem, yeah… I’ll patch it up.” He babbles, the crimson not leaving his cheeks, while his hands gently rest on top of her hips.

“I’ll come back quickly to help you with the stitching.” Katherine comments nonchalantly, letting go of his hair to caress the young beard on his face with an appreciative nod. “Makes you rather charming, that.”

“Hm? And here I was, afraid you’d think I look like a vagabond.”

“You do, but a charming one.”

Henry chuckles at her comment before standing up. She barely has time to step away and give him space before he cups her face with a mirthful look in his eyes.

“I reckon I’ll keep it a while longer then, if you enjoy it so much.”

Katherine huffs with a smirk, turning her heels with a pointed look at his side, trotting to the door quietly.

He stares once again, body aching, exhausted, but content.

Good Lord, what adventure did he get himself into this time?

Soon enough, Henry discards his armor and clothes, rubbing the spirits against his wounds to avoid any pus and other purulent plague from eating at him. Luckily enough, he hasn’t entirely used the tailor kit he bought a while ago, so he readily picks up the needle and warms it by the fire by the time Katherine comes with two other women. Each carries a heavy bucket of warm water, from the steam rising from them.

The women don’t stare, nor do they flush at the sight of a rugged warrior, almost naked on his bed as he forces himself not to yelp when sewing himself, which only serves to indicate they must be bathmaids, in other words, lasses used to nudity and men.

In no time, the empty drought in a corner of his room is halfway filled, the maids are gone, and Katherine rubs his back with an old bar of soap, humming a song he’s certain he’s heard by a pond, a few months ago.

Henry smiles at the sensation of her hands on him and gives her a smirk.

“Come with me.”

The woman snorts, passing a hand over his chest to clean off the bubbles coating him.

“In that filthy water? Absolutely not.”

“Then how about I join you on the bed?”

“Henry, you need rest.”

He glares back at her, arms resting on the side of the wooden bath, where one of her hands attempts to scrub him some more.

Days without seeing her. Weeks without… intimacy. The pit of his stomach is like burning charcoal, the fire growing warmer in his eyes.

“I don’t want rest.” His voice murmurs, deep and breathless.

Katherine looks at him, her uncertain gaze of responsibility wavering as flickers of desire dance in her mind. Of course, neither should jump on the other. One is wounded, the other is the healer. The day is still bright outside, and the tavern is boisterous. They could be interrupted at any moment by any fool in their company.

She bites her lip, and Henry extends his arm to caress her cheek, thumb grazing her lips as the rest of his imposing hand is slowly nestled on her soft cheek, in her hair.

She’s so fucking warm. Like a forge. And his only desire is to be the iron nesting inside of her, burning like lava, for her to shape him any way she so desires.

“... Did you get with any other girl?” She asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Her tone is suspicious, a thorn of jealousy in her side. Henry shuffles closer, quietly, soon enough breathing the same air as her.

“No.”

He could beat around the bush, play with words, tell her he has experience with ladies. That Klara was a sweet flower in a secret garden, Rosa a wild moment in a privileged girl’s life, and the wenches in between were good experiences. But she doesn’t care about prowess, how many he’s fucked before. The matter is now her giving part of herself to him before he rode off to Hanush and his army.

She’s asking if he betrayed her.

And God be his witness, he never did.

No amount of pretty girls, cunning women, or luscious wenches would have made him stray. Because he cares. Deeply.

Katherine bats her eyes, pondering his straightforward answer for a moment. His look of determination, hunger, and eagerness must convince her before she kisses him with a small moan.

Henry slowly opens his mouth, deepening the kiss with his tongue, toying with hers while his other hand wraps around her shoulder, languidly sliding down. She gladly shoves her face further against his, his nose against hers, his hand traveling to her collarbones with intent. Katherine moans again, separating their mouths and he jumps on the occasion, peppering hungry kisses on the skin of her neck.

The wooden tub creaks with his movement, water sploshing and spilling. Henry pulls away abruptly to sit up, the small wound in his side earning him a small wince while Katherine stays on her knees, sitting on her heels as if positioned to keep scrubbing him. Her blue gaze never leaves his body as he rises out of the tub, the last time she’s seen him in his simplest form a tragic memory of despair and hunger.

From the scarred arrow wound on his back, right under his shoulder, to the bruises and cuts of daily life, to the clean slice the flogger cut into his belly when he was tortured, his body is withered with marks Katherine frowns at. And he cannot blame her for it. If only he could have the same burning marks on his hands as his father did. If only none of the violence he delivered happened.

Her hands that were scrubbing his shoulders move in tandem with his body, lowering when he rises, lingering on his torso, then his hips, then his thighs as he stands.

Droplets run down his body, drenching the floor underneath him, and Henry enjoys the sight of his strong woman staring up at him from her knees, the same hardiness in her eyes reflecting lust as well. His jaw tightens, and with as much tenderness as his growingly agitated body can muster, he cups her face, damp fingers covering her cheeks, cheekbones, the soft skin of her ears.

He stands with might, cradling her face, growing readier by the second, yet she’s the one in power, and Henry has never known a safer jail than her blue gaze.

Katherine stands rapidly, pulling him tight against her while her arms snake around him, naked frame drenching the white apron she wears on the front of her dress. He stands before her for a moment, kissing and nipping at her skin, while she grabs his short brown hair, gripping it tightly until he feels the pull on his scalp.

Henry readily bends his knees to gather her in his arms, heavy hands covering her arse to carry her to the nearby bed. She doesn’t say a word, but her breath catches when he licks at the side of her neck, and he makes a mental note to always lap at this exact place.

Katherine is soon laid on the bed and covered by his naked body, his fingers rushing to the front of her dress, caressing the buttons at the seams, past the simple red leather belt where her dagger is attached. He eagerly fights the enemy, each patch of her underdress being revealed as a small victory. She clicks her tongue at him annoyedly, pushing him once again to the side to gain control, and soon enough he’s the one under her, panting again. The pain in his side doesn’t stop him from sitting up, mouth to her chest, pecking and kissing at the collarbones and top of her breasts. Katherine moans, nimble fingers undoing her dress quicker than he could.

With a sigh of relief, the blue dress falls off her body, exposing the simple white underdress covering her, the last obstacle.

“I was afraid…” She whispers between kisses, and Henry slowly comes to a stop, the grip of his hands on her back loosening.

He expected her to. Leaving for a mission is different from leaving to settle scores, hundreds of miles away, with no option but to wait for his return. Henry never wants to harm her, or cause her distress. But just as he needed to leave to put old stories to rest, she needed the reassurance to welcome him alive and well. Not a desire, a necessity.

He will never blame her for it.

“I’m here… And I’m not leaving again.” He murmurs back, hands itching to raise her shirt and make her feel the strength of his determination. But he remains still, his mouth only kissing her cheek once. “At least, not without you.”

She nods at his words, fingers stroking his jaw, his cheeks, his lips, his face entirely. From up close, he notices the beginning of a smile, reassurance, a peaceful acceptance. He won’t promise her that he’ll never have to leave again. Henry is bound to be Capon’s page. But perhaps there’s a place, in between battles and missions, where they’ll meet at the crossroads and latch on to each other.

Katherine nudges him back, and Henry lies back on the bed, gaping at her with a smile, palms sliding to her thighs languidly.

“I was praying you’d be back soon.” She sighs when her hands glide to his toned chest, carefully avoiding the bruises and cuts, instead focusing on his scars, stroking the one on his stomach from one rib to the other.

“Yeah?” He breathes out, his voice already trembling. A woman’s touch surely is the way to weaken every man, and he is no exception, her fingers dancing to his upper chest, resting heavily while she leans on top of him, knees parting to rest on each side of his thighs.

“Mhm.” Katherine hums, fully sitting on his hardened cock. “Another day or two of waiting… Hell, I’d have jumped on you the moment your poor horse would have stopped running.”

He groans like a hungry dog, hurriedly grasping the hem of her shirt to lift it off of her, unveiling her fully naked body to him before grabbing onto her. She laughs, her temptation enough to send a holy man into the burning pits of Hell for the sin of lusting for her. Her wide hips, her plump thighs, her flat stomach, although fuller than the ones he’s seen on younger women, fuck if he cares. He likes it well enough to rest his hand on it and slide his thumb down to her heat, where he’d read women enjoy it most.

Her breasts are in a different category, he’d need a quill and a blank book to vent out their beauty.

But he is no poet, nor writer, and instead rubs at her sensitive nub slowly, earning him a long moan from the woman, her head tilted back.

“Jump on me now.” He grins at her, his other hand sliding down to his member before slowly entering her.

Neither wastes time after that.

Katherine bucks at him rapidly, moaning and panting on top of him while he hisses, the tightness around him swallowing him whole without a way out. The movement alone makes the wooden bed creak, and Henry can only lie his head down in bliss, the pool of warmth he is buried in as the reward for all his trials. His large hands grip her hips so tightly that he’s worried he might hurt her, but nothing but moans of pleasure escape her.

Her fingers dig into his chest, sweat pooling between his pectorals, before his hands shift and slide up, cupping her breasts and twirling her nipples slowly.

His hips start bucking in tandem to hers, the minor pain radiating from his side getting persistent, but not enough for him to stop. He’s dreamt of this moment, holding her again, piling into her with abandon once more while her eyes close in pleasure and her mouth hangs loose. The sound of their skin slapping together is an aphrodisiac, and the more either hears it, the harder they go, her drenched entrance swallowing every inch of him. Henry moans loudly, his deep voice sending thrills down Katherine’s spine before she leans over to kiss him deeply, tongue invading his mouth pleasantly. She continues to rock herself on him, her legs tightening around his like the tail of a mythical dragon, his hands wrapping around her back to hustle back against his chest, her breasts jiggling slightly as they are pressed against his skin. The beautiful pearl necklace she wears scratches his skin with each thrust.

Henry pulls out of her kiss to gulp on a mouthful of air greedily, grabbing her backside with his large hands, the softness of her ass cheeks contrasting with his rough, metal yielding digits. Each movement of their hips together compels him to dig deeper into her skin, while she grips at his face, a ravenous smile on her lips. Her blue gaze burns him like the gleaming iron of his forge, her fingers tightening on his chin and jaw with intent, latching onto him desperately as if she needs to hold onto him to keep sane, to not delve into sin.

He stares back at her with the same hunger, the irrational desire to bite into her skin and mark her as his, strip himself of all puritan thought, sin himself to Hell if it means fucking her deep, fast and until no muscle in his body is functioning.

Katherine’s pace starts to weaken, and Henry shifts the dynamic with the same quick thinking he uses on the battlefield.

Breath uneven, he shuffles to the back, his sweaty back sticking to the fur of the boar skin draped on the wall. Katherine doesn’t have much time to understand his thinking, his hands twisting her around so her back faces him, separated from her twitching entrance for a moment before he delves back into it, his mouth latching onto her neck, lips curling for his teeth to nibble her skin. She gasps noisily, slapping her hand on his side, the covered wound escaping her digging nails narrowly, while her other hand catches his hand on her breasts.

“F-fcuk…” He whimpers against her ear, earning a small chuckle buried in between pants.

The grip of her cunt seems strong enough to break him, burn him to a crisp and resurrect him with one fluid movement, drenching him, coating him with the ambrosia he could dine on for ever and ever. Henry feels it dripping past her, slapped by his member before being shoved back inside.

She spasms around him forcefully, whimpering with her mouth open but her eyes shut tight, and he can’t help but lick at her cheek, tasting the sweat coating her, before sliding to her mouth and kissing her deeply.

With a few more hurried thrusts, Henry feels the familiar pull of his body, the way it signals he’s coming to a close, ready to burst. His thick hand lets go of her hip, sliding to her belly instead, gripping at the flesh tenderly, or as gently as he can.

Katherine seems lost in a world of lust and relief, a blissful expression painted all over her gorgeous face, but she still opens an eye at him.

She nods at him, and Henry smiles, the corners of his mouth pulling his cheeks with a blush. His hips quicken for the last ride, the last shoves before he stills completely, holding her impossibly tight against him, sweaty arms coddling her inside his embrace, inside his being. He never pulls out, and both of them sense him spill deep inside, the stuttering of his hips earning yet another moan. Heaven and Hell forgotten, the only peace is their embrace. A holy communion.

He pants on her neck, hand on her breasts slowly releasing his tight hold, the one on her belly sliding to her legs, the sensation of her soft skin soothing. She rests against him, slumped and exhausted, a smile on her lips. Her hand gliding to his cheek, the stubble brushing on her neck with each of his kisses.

“Am I forgiven?” Henry murmurs against her, and Katherine puffs out a laugh.

Maybe she’s a siren, the way a simple reaction from her lulls him into devotion.

“Do that every night, and you might.”

He purrs into her skin, earning another chuckle, the mere thought of another hour of tending to her privately more precious than the Holy Grail.

If that assures her a future of happiness, a moment away from the atrocities of war, of her fear of his disappearance, then he’ll gladly offer himself as her martyr.

#kingdom come deliverance 2 #kcd 2 #kcd 2 fic #kcd henry #kcd katherine #kcd henry x katherine #MY FIC!!!! LOOK AT IT #I loved writing this

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