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Hans was no stranger to spending time in the woods.
He quite enjoyed it, actually—under normal circumstances at least.
Until now, it had always been an escape for him, a fun diversion, something he could flee to whenever the walls of his castle felt like they might come down on him at any moment.
Hunting had always been fun to him, never a necessity but instead something he indulged in on a whim, and he had always been able to easily go back to the comforts he was so used to.
Back to his life as a noble.
That life now seemed so far away, unreachable as he was wandering through the woods surrounding Trosky, muttering curses under his breath.
"Fucking Henry," Hans hissed, kicking at the forest floor and sending dirt and leaves flying.
It had been about two weeks since their falling out—two weeks since Hans had stomped away in anger, not daring to turn back for fear of what he would do if he didn't see Henry scampering after him.
One would hope that after this amount of time the sting of Henry's words would hurt a little less. Instead it just felt as if they settled down more and more firmly into his heart with every day that passed where Hans didn't see his friend.
Friend.
"Pah!" Hans spat as he continued to stomp through the woods.
He had woken up not too long ago with a racing heart, the sky bright and the birds singing at an almost overwhelming volume. In his mind, he had seen lingering images of Henry, wounded and delirious and leaning heavy against him as Hans dragged him through the dark. That night had been harrowing, Hans' nose full with the metal tang of blood and the sickening smell of a stranger's sweat emanating from his pilfered clothes.
He had been so worried for Henry, begging an old woman for his life, fighting a man with his bare fists, beating and beating him until he didn't feel anymore—didn't feel the cut across his stomach, didn't feel his overwhelming grief for his men, didn't feel all the ways he failed those who put their trust in him.
Hans slumped against a birch tree in frustration and looked up at the canopy.
It was a beautiful summer's day, perfect for spending time outside and perfect for a nice hunt.
Yet all he could hear amidst the rustling of green leaves was an echo of Henry's voice.
'No one could ever be proud of you, Capon.'
The back of Hans' head hit the rough bark of the tree.
He had found this camp spot, deep in the woods and with that accursed castle well out of sight.
He had found someone to sell the animals he hunted to—the animals he hunted with his skill.
He had even managed to get himself a set of new clothes, hunting equipment, and a plan.
All on his own.
And God damn it, he would be proud of those things. Even if no one else was.
He would claw himself back out of this hole and go to that blasted wedding; he would right everything that had gone so very wrong so quickly on this simple mission.
Blinking himself out of his anger, Hans took a few steadying breaths, feeling the tree's bark press through the green wool of his new clothes.
He wanted to punch something, or to fuck something—he wasn't feeling particularly picky at the moment, just felt that itch under his skin that made him restless and agitated. But he was too deep in the forest for the first option, and had too little money to even pay for the second. So he turned himself around, bracing a forearm against the tree and running his hand down his front until he cupped his soft prick and balls in his braies.
His lips parted, eyes closing, body honing in on the fondling of his fingers as he channelled his frustrations into arousal instead.
A wank would do him good—quick and easy and leaving him at least partially satiated before he would return to wandering the forest alone.
With a sharp yank, Hans undid his braies, pulling them down and letting his plumping cock spring free.
When he wrapped his fingers around it, he could feel how rough his hand had become over the past weeks, dirty and with dried animal blood still stuck under his nails; it was no longer noble, no longer his own.
With steady strokes, he felt himself harden, watched his thumb swipe over the flushed head, hummed whenever he pressed down on it.
To any onlooker, he would look pathetic, with his pizzle in hand, leaning against a tree in the middle of the forest while feeling as tense as a bowstring.
Christ's wounds, what would Henry say, if he stumbled upon Hans like this?
He stilled his hand, tightened his fingers, and gasped. He stared at the tree in front of him, the moss that grew at its base.
Henry was not what he wanted to think about right now.
"Fuck off," he muttered, resuming his strokes and closing his eyes.
In his head, he imagined himself fucking into some woman. He yearned for the warmth, the heady smell of sex, the satisfaction of burying himself into willing flesh that wasn't just his own, dry hand.
He groaned, fingers flying over his cock at a punishing pace, chasing a quick climax and just wanting to spill his frustrations out of his body alongside his wasted seed.
'Christ, Capon,' Hans heard a familiar voice with a deep peasant's lilt in his head. 'Do you want someone to hear you?'
Hans stilled once again, gasped for breath, felt himself pulse in his tight grip.
'You're such a mess. You fucked all of this up, and now what? You think this will help fix anything?'
Henry's voice was cruel, no shred of understanding to it.
"Piss off, Henry. I don't need you," Hans pressed out, looking at the cock resting in his hand, heavy and leaking.
Tilting his head to the side, he imagined Henry standing there between the trees, judging him. He began stroking himself again, slowly this time.
He would show Henry that he was doing perfectly fine on his own, that he was having a great old time without the blacksmith's constant nagging and berating.
Even without Henry, Hans was taking care of himself, and he was doing it well.
The slower pace made him shiver, aware of how sensitive his cock was from the earlier rough abuse, and he felt every stroke run up his spine.
A moan fell from his lips as he still looked at the empty space between the trees.
'What do you want to prove here, Sir?'
A question he had no answer to.
Hans closed his eyes, tried to will away the pesky presence of his friend in his mind with gentle touches and thoughts about a woman’s cunt embracing him.
'Do you think you deserve this, Capon? To let yourself enjoy this embarrassment?'
He didn't, but the way he imagined Henry closer now, leaning in and observing him at his most pathetic, sent yet another shiver through him, caused his jaw to hang slack as he moaned against the tree.
'You really want everyone to hear this, don't you? See how desperate you are, just because you haven't fucked anything in a couple weeks?'
He imagined Henry's hand against his head, pressing him forwards against his forearm.
Another moan that he wasn't able to hold back.
'Shut up for once in your life, will you.' Henry grumbled, still in that same, accusatory cadence he had used when chewing out Hans in the pillory—back when he threw Hans' every fault at him where he couldn't flee.
Fuck, what else would Henry do? Pissed off as he was?
Press him down further?
Grab the green hood hanging around his neck and shove it into his mouth to finally shut him up?
His jaw went slack, imagining fabric sitting between his jaws, muffling the sounds falling from his mouth—stopping him from forming a name amidst his groaning.
He imagined Henry pulling at the hood, yanking him back with no resistance.
With his eyes fluttered closed, he felt lightheaded with pleasure as his head tilted back with the fantasy, a moan choked in his throat.
Hans could basically smell Henry—that whiff of dog that always lingered on him even when he had just been in the baths, mixed with herbs, leather, sweat.
A smell that had become such a comforting presence in his life, that he almost lost—had lost, maybe.
"Hngh," he choked out, heat building inside him as he picked up his speed again. "Hah."
'Let me,' Henry whispered, softer now but still holding Hans tight in his grasp. 'Let me do this for you, Sir.'
With how wrong his own hand felt to him these days, it was too easy to imagine it as someone else's.
"H'nry!" Hans bit out past clenched teeth, barely able to hold back.
His head tilted back even further with an imaginary yank and he gasped, pressure building relentlessly with the rough fingers around his prick, squeezing, stroking, tugging.
'So this is what you want?' Henry said, voice low. 'This is what you think of me? Want me to suck your noble cock as well?'
Hans' forehead hit his arm, pulling himself away from Henry. His teeth clacked together almost painfully when he bit down, no cloth to be found to soften the blow, and his eyebrows were pinched together—as tense as the rest of him.
The first spurt of his release tore from him.
"Fuck!" He gasped, eyes screwed shut and pressing his thumb against the head of his cock in an attempt to stop himself. "Fuck, fuck!" he repeated when wave after wave of pleasure gushed against his fingers and the tree in front of him.
It couldn't be over! Not like that! Not with the image of Henry on his knees in front of him.
But it was, and now his hand was slick with his seed, still desperately tugging at his wrung-out cock as Hans breathed in shaky lungfuls of air, Henry long gone.
He was alone, the leaves rustling above him and his prick softening.
Looking down, he took in the sight of the sorry thing. Hans had his foreskin bunched up around the head, one last drop of his emissions hanging at the tip, refusing to let go.
"Henry," he said. "Fuck, Henry. I'm s—" He interrupted himself with a breath that burned in his cramped up throat, his eyes watering. "I'm sorry."
There was no answer, not even a cutting remark; he was just as lonely as he had been when he woke up this morning.
Hans' breath was shallow, shuddering, when he took a step back.
Between the creases of the tree's bark sat the evidence of his depravity, slowly dripping down.
Leaves crunched under his leather shoes and he brought up a dirtied hand to his face, smearing himself across his lips and chin as he tried to understand what he just did.
"I— Shit."
He shoved himself away, tied his braies with ferocity before wiping his hands and his chin clean and turning away from the tree with disgust.
Henry had been right after all.
How could anyone be proud of him, when he just kept piling on mistakes and faults onto his shoulders with everything he did.